Young Writers Society

Burying that small flicker of uneasiness from Alan's performance became a hell of a lot easier when Cyrin invited them to join for a dance number. Their song choices had grown increasingly random and absurd throughout the night, so Lyall found himself not-so thrown when 'Single Ladies' was suddenly thrown onto the big screen at the back.

Cyrin had taken center stage, already dancing with the intensity of a professional, yet smiling and laughing freely when Alan quickly and effortlessly fell into the routine beside them. Lyall at first stood back, grinning wide as he mentally tracked their footwork. Slightly inebriated as he was, he felt he still caught on fairly quickly.

It felt truly ridiculous, dancing to Beyouncé like there was no tomorrow. But the absurdity of it couldn't match the sheer amount of fun he had with his friends. And seeing Hild smile and laugh, even if it was partially at his own expense, was entirely worth it.

When Lyall felt himself starting to lose track of the footwork in the middle of the song, Alan conveniently broke from the routine at that moment to drag others from the audience up to the stage. First it was Clanny, then Shay, then Mel. And somehow, the three of them were given the microphones to sing so that Lyall, Alan, and Cyrin would dance instead.

Even though the dancing was no longer part of the Single Ladies choreography.



New dance moves included, but were certainly not limited to: Cyrin suddenly picking up Lyall to spin around-- Lyall helpfully extended his legs so that Alan could jump over his feet as if it were jumprope; Cyrin rolling on the floor like a ball to knock over Alan who stood up straight like a bowling pin, while Lyall slid in to make the throw; and finally, at the end of the song, Cyrin and Alan picking up Lyall up until he was horizontal like a coffin, marching together at the beat of the song-- it was silly, but Lyall played the part and crossed his arms like a corpse.

Instead of dropping Lyall by the end of the song, however, Cyrin instead tucked him under their arm, effortlessly holding him up like a log. Alan laughed at the sight, but then yelped when Cyrin did the same to him, having to hold him up higher since he was taller. Before they could take another step, though, the music and lights cut out.

There was a second of unsure silence, before Shay cackled and yelled out, "Yooo, you literally killed it!"

As everyone erupted in laughter and filed out, Cyrin leisurely walked off the stage and set Alan down first, per the musician's playful complaints and cat-like wriggling.

Personally, Lyall was fine with hanging there, after the initial shock of it. Once back on his own feet, he immediately lost sight of Cyrin in the migration to the out of doors. Over the darkened tops of others' heads, he quickly found Cyrin already a distance away with Mel hanging close by him, speaking enthusiastically.

Before Lyall could call out, a hand unexpectedly bumped his face. Sputtering a laugh, he batted it down. "Alvaro?"

"Can you take out your phone's flashlight? I honestly can't see anything, and I'm not going to ask Cyrin to pick me up again," Alan said with a slight laugh.

"Sure," Lyall said, huffing in amusement as he flicked on the light. "Cyrin's got his arms already full, anyhow."

Taking Alan by the arm, he set the phone in his friend's hand. Alan flicked his eyes between Lyall and the phone, smiling in appreciation.

There was awkward coughing from off to side, and Caspar from staff timidly called out, "Please, calmly make your way to the exit. The bar is in need of some repairs."

Shay was quick to help direct everyone, as well, wheeling an arm toward the door as she counted heads.

Bumping shoulders with Alan, Lyall tucked his hands in his pockets and fell into step with everyone else. "Another flawless performance," he said with a grin. "I don't think you mentioned you could dance like that."

Alan flashed him a teasing grin, panning the flashlight under his chin so it illuminated his face from below with stark shadows. He innocently shrugged as they made their way to the door. "What can I say? I'm full of surprises."

Indeed. Truly. Verily.

Quickly stamping down the resurfacing uneasiness from before, Lyall cast an easy grin. "Oh, mysterious muse," he said playfully, "how your ways do astonish me. You never cease to surprise."

Once they were all through the door, everyone fanned out. Lyall hung by Alan, unable to find Cyrin again.

Back outside under the dusk sky, Alan offered the phone back to him, tapping it against his arm. He smiled warmly, interest piqued. "Am I really your muse?" he asked.

There really was no better way to describe the halting of Lyall's brain activity, other than as a record player scratching to an abrupt stop.

"I mean." Taking back his phone, Lyall glanced off as he pocketed it. "I was...mostly joking. I suppose I do find myself rather inspired by our friendship, though."

Staff was leading the group out somewhere, but if they said where they were going earlier, Lyall missed it. They were simply following along.

"It is inspiring, isn't it?" Alan said distractedly with a smile, idly peering up at the sky as they walked. "I don't think I've ever met anyone like you before."

A silent beat passed as his words slowly sank in. The simple sentiment melted away any lingering hesitance, and warmed Lyall's chest in an unprecedented way.

He finally looked back to Alan with a small, hopeful smile. "Really?"

"Yes," Alan said as he glanced back at him, his own smile widening upon seeing Lyall's expression. "Really. I hope we remain friends for a long time. You bring out the best version of myself every day."

Huffing a laugh, Lyall briefly dropped his gaze down to their feet. "Likewise, Alan," he said, lightly bumping shoulders with him again. "You've become very important to me in such a short amount of time." Quieter, he added, "I'd count it an incredible loss if we couldn't be friends anymore."

Alan was quiet for a moment, watching Lyall despite him still being distracted by their steps. He then gently patted Lyall's shoulder, saying with a smile in his voice, "You don't need to think that way. I'm right here, and I'm not going anywhere."

Lyall found himself unable to respond to that. Alan's words, though entirely sincere and wholehearted, gave something deep inside quick pause. Like Lyall couldn't simply believe it. Especially not given the patterns. of his life up until now.

Still. He musterd a touched, truly appreciative smile.

He managed some lightness as he added, "I don't believe anyone's quite brought out my absurdity to such an extreme the way you do, either."

"Really?" Alan sighed, pulling his hand away as he kept his attention on Lyall, not reciprocating or matching the lightness in his tone. "That really is a shame. I think your absurdity, even if silly, is a fun spark of light that the world ought to see more of. I won't take that for granted. I won't take you for granted. That's a promise."

Lyall felt himself...not quite deflate, but he couldn't keep up the breezy front if it wasn't played into. So he had to simply drop the small act.

How did Alan keep doing this? How did he cut straight through his sillies and social etiquette and defenses like they were nothing? And so quickly? They really had only known each other for a few weeks. Relationships couldn't just be built this quickly and last.

No, stop projecting. This was Alan Alvaro, who'd only ever been sincere since literally day one. He hadn't given Lyall any reason to doubt what they had.

It occurred to him that another long second had passed. But, by that point, it felt too late for Lyall to say anything more. Even just to acknowledge that he'd heard Alan, and truly treasured his words.

"What would be the perfect way to end a perfect night?" Alan asked in the silence instead, smiling. "For Mister Lyall Ashlund, of course."

Blinking to shake himself loose from his own wretched thoughts, Lyall looked back to Alan. He mirrored Alan's smile. "Personally," he started slowly as he thought, "I'd love nothing more than to--"

The small crowd in front of them parted, revealing that they'd been lead all the way to the hub pool.



No one had given a warning. Why hadn't anyone told Lyall they were headed here? He would've turned around! He would never have--

"Lyall?" Alan called when Lyall had frozen for too long, staring at the water.

"Ayo, Alvaro!" Shay suddenly yelled from off to the side. "I've watched you doggy paddle. Bet you can't keep up in the water with a real swimming champ!"

Alan loudly scoffed, frowning as he narrowed his eyes towards her. "Swimming champ?" he repeated indignantly. "Is that a challenge?"

"You catch on quick, Cupid!" she said with a barked laugh, voice growing distant with the pattering of feet toward the water.

The space where Alan stood beside Lyall was suddenly empty. And he felt...so very small as he stared unthinking at the wide expanse of water. Every muscle in his body grew tense, and his hair stood on end.

The open pool of the island hub had no lobby to hide away in like the mansion had. No confrontations with a pretentious arse, nor an Alan with friendly conversation to distract him from the water.

As he felt himself fixate on the sharp fractals of light in the choppy waters, he only vaguely registered others rushing past him to jump in.

This was fine, this was supposed to be fun. He couldn't ruin this too.

Laughter echoed off the walls of the natatorium. But-- No, weren't they outside right now?

Jeering voices filled his head, his thundering heart drowning out all rational thought.

This wasn't fine, they were laughing at his expense.

He needed to get out.

Lyall unsteadily backed away from the edge. He bumped into someone, much taller than him. Breath hitching, he flinched away, tightly crossing his arms to make himself harder to grab.

Where he expected to face Anton's mocking smile, he suddenly faced a worried Cyrin. The warmth in their eyes was almost startling.

"Hey, it's okay," Cyrin said gently, holding up their arms as if to show they meant no harm. Their expression was sincere and focused as they met Lyall's eyes. "It's just me, Lyall. Are you alright?"

Lyall let out a sharp breath and mustered a laugh. "Never better," he answered, with more force than intended. "I'm just--"

There came a harsh-sounding splash behind him, followed by a bright, loud laugh. Lyall leapt away, bumping into Cyrin once more. Immediately, Cyrin put an arm in front of Lyall, guiding him back a step while shielding him from the pool. They didn't glance at whatever had caused the splash, instead remaining focused on Lyall. The concern in his eyes only turned softer.

"Do you want to step away?" Cyrin asked gently, searching Lyall's face.

Lyall hid his face behind his hand, forcing himself to take deeper breaths. His heart was still hammering loudly in his chest.

God, no, he was ruining this with his stupid...emotions, or whatever. He thought he was over this!

"I can go," Lyall eventually said, voice far smaller than he would've liked, "you enjoy--"

He couldn't bring himself to finish his thought. The sounds of the water breaking against the pool's sides set him so on edge, he lost his voice.

Cyrin shook his head, his expression remaining gentle. "If you need someone with you right now, I'd rather be there for you than stay here. I'd feel better knowing you weren't alone with this."

He found their voice helpful, grounding. Maybe if he just stuck close to Cyrin, he could just. Ride this out.

Someone's booming voice echoed over the water. Lyall flinched again, curling in on himself.

This was fine, he could ride this out. This was fine, there was no reason to be tense. This was fine, he could get over it.

He shouldn't be feeling like this. It happened years ago. But it felt like the harder he fought to control this irrational response, the harder it became to get a grip.

This wasn't fine. Anton could ambush him any minute. None of this was fine, Lyall was the freak, the subject of everyone's sneers. And he was grossly outnumbered. But he couldn't defend himself, he'd just burn down the building again, and they threatened to hurt Lily instead if he fought back--

"You'll be safe," Cyrin promised softly, cutting through the panicked haze. "I'll keep you safe. No one's going to hurt you. Okay? We'll put some distance between here and ourselves."

Swallowing thickly, Lyall nodded. "Sounds good," he managed to faintly answer, delayed and voice breaking.

Cyrin nodded, his attention still completely on Lyall. "Do you want me to put my hand on your shoulder or something as we walk?" he asked gently. "It's completely okay if not. You could also just lean against me, if that sounds better."

Slowly, Lyall nodded again, focusing intently on the stitching of Cyrin's jacket. "That. Leaning. Yes."

Cyrin nodded, stepping to stand next to Lyall, allowing him to rest his weight against his side. They seemed to have no problem holding him up, not budging when Lyall hesitantly leaned against them as a test. Finding enough sense now with Cyrin's stabilizing presence, Lyall finally remembered to start timing his breaths.

"I'm going to start walking now, okay?" Cyrin asked. "If we're going too fast, we can slow down. It's alright."

"Okay," Lyall said, leaning his head on Cyrin's arm, "yeah."

With that, Cyrin started walking at a slow, steady pace, and Lyall was able to follow along while resting his weight on them. He heard Cyrin call out some goodbye to the group, with maybe a quick explanation of their situation. He wasn't sure. The words were muted, like everything was being spoken underwater.

Nope, couldn't have that. This was fine, he reminded himself, they were walking now. Lyall doubled down on listening to Cyrin's voice, trying to better decipher the words. Something about the drinks. Someone-- Kaz-- wished Lyall better as they went.

The sounds of pool happenings steadily grew fainter behind them. The plaza buildings were soon replaced by trees as they hit the trail back to the beachside. Lyall's mind became less muddled, to the point of him being able to focus on the sand crunching beneath their feet.

At some point, Cyrin softly asked about their pace. Lyall was able to more-clearly answer this time, that it was fine. It wasn't too fast. The rest of the walk was thankfully silent.

It felt both like an instant and an eternity at once until they reached the front steps. Lyall mindlessly followed Cyrin inside, and let himself be led to the couch in the living room. A glass of water appeared in his hands. Lyall murmured a sincere "thanks" before slowly drinking.

He set it aside on the coffee table to pinch the bridge of his nose. He...very much wished that hadn't happened. The evening was going so well! He should've quit while he was ahead, excused himself before the sudden scene change could bamboozle him.

"I'm sorry," he blurted out when Cyrin came back again. "I didn't mean to..." Nearly have a panic attack? No one ever meant to have those, don't say stupid things!

Lyall waved vaguely with great frustration. "I fucked it all up, I'm sorry."

"Please, don't apologize for that," Cyrin said softly, sitting down on the couch next to him, with sadness and empathy in his expression. "You didn't ruin anything, and it's all going to be okay. This isn't your fault."

Setting his head in his hands, Lyall nodded dumbly. Logically, he knew this. But deep down, he couldn't help but feel guilty...

Don't overdo it, he told himself, don't make it all about you.

Nothing else came to him. So Lyall was resigned to let silence settle over them instead.

"Do you want to talk about anything?" Cyrin said softly after a few moments passed. "I don't want you to feel like you've got to explain anything to me, but if you need to share, I can be a listening ear."

Lyall thought about it.

Despite Cyrin's insistence that no explanation was owed, Lyall felt like he deserved that much anyhow.

Still, it was hard to delve right into.

"Did anyone else notice?" Lyall asked quietly instead, feeling very small and exposed as he looked to Cyrin.

"I don't think anyone saw," Cyrin assured him. "They were all pretty distracted."

Lyall nodded, somewhat relieved by that. With a heavy sigh, he leaned against Cyrin again. He absently noted again just how sturdy his friend was. It was...very much a comfort.

"...It feels like there's no easy way to say it," he mumbled, "without sounding... I don't know, overly dramatic?"

"That's okay," Cyrin said gently. "Not everything is easy to say. However you want to talk about it is alright."

Cyrin's words, spoken with such warmth and understanding, helped put Lyall even more at ease. Now he just felt...majorly tired. Probably due in equal parts to the drinking and all the performing.

Ah, yes, the pool didn't help much either.

Lyall brought his knees to his chest. Slowly and quietly, he said, "No better place to start than with the straight facts, I suppose." He scrubbed his face with both hands. "You probably figured by now it had something to do with a swimming pool."

Cyrin nodded gently. "I guessed that was the issue," he said softly.

Lyall couldn't bring himself to say anything more for a long moment.

Eventually he scrounged up the courage to speak up again, but could only manage a murmur as he said, "I was almost drowned in a swimming pool. Senior year of high school."

Then snapped his mouth shut, because even the weight of that short phrase felt too heavy. He hoped the implications were enough. He hoped the implications weren't too much. Rampant worry brewed storms in his mind, and he was ready to regret saying anything.

The dread of a response compelled him to quickly add in a poor attempt at a joke, "Quite the memorable parting gift."

And now Lyall needed to shut up, because that added absolutely nothing.

"Lyall," Cyrin said softly, with sadness in his voice. "I'm so sorry. It makes perfect sense why you weren't comfortable there, that sounds terrible. I'm sorry I couldn't get you out of there faster."

"No, please," Lyall said, looking up at Cyrin again as guilt formed knots in his chest, "don't... You didn't know. I mean, you could tell, of course, and I'm. Immeasurably grateful for you stepping in at all."

Cyrin offered him a faint, sad smile. The concern in their eyes was still warm with empathy. "I'm glad there was something I could do," they said quietly. "It's good to know why, so that I'd know what's happening if it ever took place again. I don't want you to feel alone and trapped in a dark state of mind, and I want to be able to help however I can."

Lyall blinked dumbly at him, momentarily too overwhelmed by...something to respond to the logic in their response. Endearment? ...Affection? He couldn't even find the thoughts.

Cyrin was the first person he'd ever told about this. Lyall wasn't sure how to say that much too, but even if he could... Cyrin would never know just how much their support and companionship meant to him.

"...Thank you," Lyall said with all the sincerity he could muster.

He opened his mouth to say something more. A meaningful 'thank you', after all, was only made more complete with specificity. So said the Mum still living in his brain. But nothing else came to him. So, wordlessly, he leaned on Cyrin again, tucking his head against them as he wrapped his arms around their middle.

Cyrin hugged him back comfortingly, and Lyall felt the strength in their arms as they held him in a tight but gentle bear hug. Letting out a shaky breath, Lyall held on tighter. He hadn't been held like this in... Not since he was little.

"Thank you," he repeated, voice growing unsteady.

"Of course," Cyrin said softly, rubbing Lyall's back soothingly. "Are you feeling any better?"

He still felt...off. A slight tightness in his chest remained. But. Yes, actually.

Lyall nodded, only slightly since he'd tucked his face against Cyrin's chest. "M'tired," he admitted quietly, slowly withdrawing from the embrace.

After such an action-packed day? Who could've foreseen this.

"That's very understandable," Cyrin said, with the same slight sad smile. "It's been quite the day. Do you want to get some rest? Or I can stay around and keep you company, if you want."

Lyall smiled back with deep gratitude. He could buck up from here, so he shook his head slightly. "I'm alright now, thanks. You're probably tired too, right?"

"Vaguely," Cyrin admitted. "The last song might've been what did it."

Huffing a laugh, Lyall hid his face behind his hands again when the absuridty of it hit him full force. "I cannot believe I did that..."

Man, they all went hard for karaoke night.

Then that flash of...weirdness from that moment in Alan's performance struck Lyall out of nowhere. He didn't even know how to begin unpacking that. So he opted not to altogether. Not right now, anyway.

Lyall warmly patted a hand to Cyrin's shoulder. "Well," he said, now sighing with exhaustion, "I'll bid you a good night then."

"You as well," Cyrin said, with a hint of a real smile. "Rest that talented voice of yours."

Lyall laughed, feeling a little lighter for it. "Yes. Yours too. Your talented..." He gestured broadly at Cyrin. "...everything. Except the maths side of your brain. It's well-rested enough as is, apparently."

Cyrin huffed a laugh. "The math part of my brain has been laid to rest, alright. I think it's been dormant since junior high."

Lyall snorted. "You've made it this far without it," he offered playfully.

"And I have no plans to wake it up, either. Good riddance to that," Cyrin said, elegantly waving a hand in dismissal.

"Hear, hear!" Lyall lifted his water glass. "We do away with maths entirely."

"I would say I'd second the motion," Cyrin said, with a slight joking grin. "If I could count past one, that is."

"Oh, god." Lyall breathed out a quiet laugh through his nose. "That's alright, we can just sign a petition. No counting required."

"Perfect. If it's to get rid of math, it doesn't matter whether it gets one or a million signatures. That's besides the point," Cyrin said, like the two of them had landed on something genius. "We're doing it so we don't have to care about numbers anymore."

"Yes!" Lyall nodded, grinning a little easier now. "A perfect solution, if I ever saw one."

Cyrin seemed to grin a little wider when Lyall did, like it made him happier to see it. His own amusement taming, Lyall made to get up, now that they'd bid each other goodnight.

But he was curious... how Cyrin seemed so familiar with an oncoming panic attack. Some people just exuded comfort and compassion. But Cyrin knew just the right things to say and do, in the way only someone experienced with it in some shape or form knew how to.

Tired and still suffering from the side-effects of his own poor choices, Lyall felt compelled to ask aloud, "How did you know?"

Cyrin's expression softened again.

"Know that you needed to be guided out of there?" he asked.

Lyall hummed. "Yeah. Though. Now I'm tempted to guess you've the hidden magic of mind reading."

Cyrin let out a laugh, but they sobered again, tapping their fingers on the small space of couch between them.

"No, not that," they said, expression a little distant at first before they refocused and looked back at Lyall. "You know how people say it takes one to know one?"

Lyall tilted his head, his own expression now melting with understanding. He only nodded quietly in response, to give them room to further the thought if they wanted.

"You're not alone," Cyrin said finally, a little quieter. "There are things that will cause me to freeze up and lose track of the world around me, too. Quite a few, if I'm being honest. I don't witness it in other people all that often, but I know it when I see it. So I recognized it with you."

That made sense. A part of Lyall vaguely figured.

The unspecified nature of it all felt like it was something they'd weren't ready to delve into. That, or Lyall was reading too far into it. Better safe than sorry.

Mustering a sincere, if slightly tired smile, he instead offered warmly, "And it's made you that much more of a compassionate human being." He rested a hand on Cyrin's arm and added, "I'd like to extend the same to you, my good friend. A listening ear, if ever you need it. A... someone to find comfort in. Whatever you need. I want to be there for you, too."

"Thank you," Cyrin said, and Lyall could tell he meant it sincerely too. "You're a good friend, Lyall."

Before Lyall could say anything, Cyrin looked like he was about to say more, brushing some hair away from his face absently.

"I don't think I... really have talked about anything much," he said distantly.

Lyall felt his heart sink at the implications that Cyrin likewise hadn't found opportunity or even the will to overcome reservations about sharing...anything much with their own family.

"The night is young yet," he offered, somewhat ironically since it was decidedly not. "And I'm ready to make good on my promise. Only if you want."

Something that simultaneously looked like relief and hesitation flashed over Cyrin's face.

"Are you sure?" he asked, more softly.

Lyall nodded, resolute. "Anything for you, my friend," he murmured encouragingly.

Cyrin smiled faintly at that again, but the smile slipped away rapidly, and his gaze fell to the ground between them.

"I assume you've heard of my brother's accident the winter before last," he said finally after a long moment of silence, before adding, "My older brother, I mean. That's who people usually assume I mean, but I've spoken more about Magnus to you."

"I've heard, yes," Lyall quietly confirmed, sadness flashing in his eyes.

It had been well-known enough. Casper Bridger had been driving along a winding mountain highway too fast, too late at night, in too heavy a snowstorm. All of it hadn't added up well, culminating in the car crashing through the steel barrier on the edge of the road and falling twenty feet down off the side of the mountain. Casper had made it through, albeit with many injuries-- including a torn ACL that a lot of sports fans claimed had ruined his chances in the Oolympiks of the following summer.

Cyrin nodded. "I had the feeling it was global news," he said distractedly, before pausing and going on. "The reporting really wasn't accurate, though. I was also in the car."

Oh.

"Oh, god, no..." Lyall uttered, rubbing a hand over his mouth as the weight of this settled heavily on him.

Cyrin was in that car, when it spun off the road...

But? How could they not have both incurred injury?

"Were you hurt?" he asked quietly after a long, stunned silence.

Cyrin let out a sigh, rubbing his face.

"Yeah," he said quietly. A pause. "More than Casper, actually."

"Shite," Lyall breathed out.

So how did--? Then it hit him.

"...Your magic," he murmured conclusively.

Cyrin hummed.

"I don't even remember that part," he said. "We tumbled into a glade, and Casper left me there. I... passed out, I think, and when I woke up, I was fine, but three trees around me were dead."

A beat.

"They were evergreens," Cyrin said simply.

Just when it couldn't get worse. Cyrin's brother just...?

"The fffff..." Lyall bit back the vulgarity, trying to stamp down the intense mix of rage and horror broil in his chest. Before he involuntarily burned anything for it. "God, Cyrin, that... That shouldn't have happened. I'm...so sorry."

"Sorry" felt so. Severely inadequate, though.

...In a terrible way, it made complete sense that Cyrin's presence in the crash was never noted in any articles. Their rat turd of a brother certainly wouldn't have said anything, and Cyrin had no reason to want to bring it to light.

Or. Well, they had every reason, but they wouldn't.

Cyrin sighed quietly. "It was a mix of good and bad luck," he said, pinching the bridge of his nose. "It happened, but we both made it out alive. Maybe it shouldn't have happened at all, but... Fate's a bitch."

A beat of silence.

Then Lyall huffed a wry laugh. "Tis a bitch, indeed."

Letting his hands drop to his lap, he studied the side of Cyrin's face. There were hints somewhere in their habits that might've pointed to...something related. Words. Tired brain.

Cyrin never shut his door all the way.

A smashed-up car was a prison, a death box.

Enclosed spaces, then? No point in making assumptions.

"What's..." Lyall shook his head, feeling entirely inadequate for this. "How has this...followed you into the present, then?"

Cyrin drew in a breath, staying silent for a few moments.

"I... have only set foot in a car twice since then, if you don't count the goolf carts here," he said. "Haven't gone to a forest like that, either. Even though they used to be my favorite places in the world."

Utterly heartbroken for his friend, and at a loss for words, Lyall silently rested an arm around Cyrin's back. Hoping there was some comfort to be found in it.

Cyrin's shoulders slumped a little, and he moved closer to Lyall again like they had been before, shoulders touching. Lyall lightly leaned his head on his arm again, letting out a breath. It did little for the tension still wound up inside of him.

Eventually, he broke the weighty silence with a hesitant, "For what it's worth, I always hated water." Trying to...somewhat lighten the mood. But probably failing.

Cyrin looked up, his distant gaze softening again.

"Even before you were nearly drowned?" he asked quietly.

"Not to the same extent as now," Lyall answered. He shrugged a shoulder. "I barely made the trip here, honestly."

Cyrin shook his head. "They really put you on a boat to put you on an island, didn't they?"

"There are about a hundred ways they could've made it worse," Lyall offered. Looking back up to Cyrin, he offered a small, sincere quirk of the lips. "For instance, they could have denied me the opportunity to make the kind of friends that... I've never had before. That I could only ever dream of having. And yet, here you are."

Cyrin's expression melted into a touched, surprised look. Their dark eyes were softer and warmer than ever, and it looked like Lyall's words had found their way to their heart.

"I'm really glad you're here, Lyall," he said softly. "And even more glad you're my friend."

Heart spilling over with adoration and elation, Lyall silently bumped his head to Cyrin's arm once more. Wanting nothing more now than to simply be close to his dear friend Cyrin Bridger.

Cyrin smiled again, wrapping an arm around Lyall's shoulders. It seemed like he wanted that too.

Alan couldn't say no to a challenge, especially if it came from certain people. Hild was one of them. So was Shay. Something about the two of them made him so much more prideful.

He froze, realizing Shay had already taken off her shirt. Which meant that Alan was already off to a slow start. When it came to swimming, every second counted.

For a moment, he considered bypassing stripping away any clothes, but then thought better of it, practically tearing off his shirt and pants (while internally cursing that he had to undo his belt first). Shay had a few seconds ahead of him, jumping in the water with a big splash.

"Nice! That's fair!" he groaned loudly, having the foresight to set his glasses down on the chair before finally jumping in without any turbulent splashing.

Admittedly, Alan was rusty at swimming. He was decent at it, but it wasn't like he competed in a sports team. He lifeguarded once, when he was a teenager... and it was for toddlers.

So, was it really that much of a surprise when she made it to the other side with Alan lagging behind? He wondered if he'd even beat her if he got the head start. Maybe not.

Although, he'd like to think he would. That eased his pride, just a little.

Alan was almost embarrassed by how sloppy his backstroke was in comparison to hers, but he played it cool as he slowed to a stop at the other wall, squinting beside her. He couldn't see very well, but he could still make out her cheeky grin with loose strands of hair sticking all over her face and neck.

"Slow poke," she teased, sticking her tongue out at him.

Alan half-rolled his eyes, slicking his wet hair back from his forehead. "At least I didn't doggy paddle," he said, still hung up over those words.

"Sure," she said, voice pitched in an unconvinced manner, "yeah. 'A' for effort."

"Are you actually a professional swimmer?" he asked, changing the subject.

Shay snorted, pulling herself out of the water. Sitting on the edge with her feet still in the water, she reached back for her jacket on the ground. "As in, by profession? Nah. But I surf a bit."

Alan turned his back against the wall so he stood by her side, even though she wasn't fully in the water anymore. Still, it looked like other people were jumping in. He noticed Clanny, Hild, and Shane in the pool, and then it dawned on Alan that Lyall was nowhere to be seen.

Hm. Maybe he went home? Cyrin wasn't around either. Still, Alan wished he could have said bye, but perhaps that was a silly thought considering he lived with them.

"Surfing is an impressive hobby," he said, turning his attention back to Shay. "Do you live by the ocean?"

Shay turned back toward the water, pulling her hair back from her face and tying it there. "Yeah," she answered, "I live along a cape now, since I've moved out of my dad's place." Hopping back down into the water, she floated out to the middle of the pool on her back. "You know, that's how I got my job here," she added with a grin.

Alan pursed his lips. "And yet, I haven't seen you surf once."

She snorted. "You're too busy in Alan land to be around when I am."

Alan scoffed, flicking pool water at her face. "What is that supposed to mean?"

Laughing, Shay splashed back with her whole arm. "It means, you're busy, dummy!"

Alan stood there, unamused and wet. Again. "You're staff," he said like it was obvious. "Aren't you supposed to do staff things?"

Tilting her head at him, she likewise looked unimpressed. "Dude, yeah. But it'd be inhumane to make me work all day, every day. I get time off."

"So what do you do in your time off?" Alan pressed.

He didn't even know why he was asking, honestly.

"Surf," she said cheekily.

Yeah. Okay. He walked into that one.

Alan groaned, bending his legs to go underwater, crouching down at the pool floor. He had to hold on to a bar below to not let buoyancy completely float him away, and it took a second for him to find a comfortable balance, but he eventually found it.

Ah. Peace underwater. Where he couldn't hear Shay's annoying quips, because the water drowned it all out.

He wondered how long he could hold his breath. Last time he did this, it was three minutes. Maybe he should start counting to see if he could beat his record.

One... two...

The water dully sloshed in his ears, indicating someone was swimming closer. Alan hesitantly opened his eyes to see Shay sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of him, cheeks puffed out as she smiled up at him. When their eyes met, she waggled her brows.

How... what...

How could she not float away? What was this sorcery?

Alan pressed his lips together even tighter, narrowing his eyes his eyes at her. Well, now the stubborn part of him didn't want to swim up to the surface. That would mean accepting defeat.

But could he hold his breath longer than a surfer? Well, one way to find out.

Feeling stubborn and foolish, Alan lifted his hand, trying to write a message underwater. With exaggerated pointing, he poked at the water in front of him, then did it again a few inches to the right, then a slow, exaggerated upwards arch below that, then a V-shape above the dots.

With his lips pulled back into a sort of stupid smile, he watched her reaction as he imagined the ">:(" face drawn in front of him. With a wider smile, she let out a big puff of bubbles as she kicked off the pool floor to surface.

Feeling victorious, Alan basked in his glory for a few more moments before he resurfaced as well. Not because he wanted to, but because his lungs demanded it. It had been too long since he pushed himself to his limit for lack of breatheable air.

"Fair enough," Shay conceded, still laughing. "Stupid, but fair."

"Not stupid," Alan said with a grin as he wiped the water from his face and eyes. "But yes. Fair."

She snorted. "Hey, you should go up against my buddy. He's got insane lungs."

"Your buddy...?" he asked, trying to put a face to a nameless name.

"At the bar," she clarified. "Cas."

"Ah." Alan nodded, remembering the gruff man at the bar after he sang Santa Baby. He also recalled him being one of the cameramen whenever they filmed live. "I don't think I've ever talked to him before."

"Yeah, you did," she retorted.

"I... well, that didn't count," Alan barked back. "I don't consider quick, meaningless exchanges as talking."

"Well," Shay said with a snort, swimming back to the pool's edge, "now that you've defined 'talking'. Give it a whirl, I invited him over."

Alan sighed, slowly paddling over to join her at her side. "What is this, a play date?"

"Only if you want it to be, Cupid," she said lightly.

He gave her a flat look. "Why do you keep calling me that?"

In turn, she grinned with deep amusement. Then shrugged and sincerely offered, "I can stop. But I needed something since 'Cover Girl' is off the table."

Alan sighed again, pulling away from the edge to lean his head back and partially float in the water as he gazed at the view over the edge of the pool. It oversaw the island, which oversaw the ocean. It was a little ironic, being in a pool that overlooked the ocean, but he supposed the water here was warmer, calmer, and overall more comfortable.

"I guess I'm just tired of people calling me nicknames that skew the perception of myself," he thought out loud.

This had been a thought sitting in his mind the last month, but he hadn't really had the time to give it any consideration. At least, until now.

"There's Cover Girl, sure. Even though that makes no sense to me, but whatever," Alan continued. "There's Mister Romantic, which I've heard endlessly at this point. And now Cupid, which seems related. I don't know, I just wonder if this is how people perceive me - like that's all I'm good for. It's not like I'm a walking love potion. I know I'm a romantic, but I'm more than that, too. I'm getting tired of always pretending to be someone I'm not."

Shay nodded, her expression turning thoughtful now. "Yeah," she said, tone softening a little, "I get that. Look, man, it is a fine line to walk. The people who see you fully, though, are the ones who are worth really listening to and investing your time in."

Alan straightened his back, floating more upright so that he could be under the blanket of stars that peeked through the darkening sky. He vaguely heard some laughs and conversation, but dulled it out of his senses.

"Yeah," he said tiredly. "I know."

After a long moment of sitting with that, Shay hummed in thought. "How about this? A nickname that isn't misleading in any way? Nothing to do with you as a person, but still fun and kinda related."

Alan kept his gaze up at the sky. "Why not just call me by my name?"

"I'll do that too," she said agreeably. "Mostly for the real moments, probably. I just think nicknames are fun and can be personal. Like, I don't know. An inside joke."

"I guess I'm not really a nickname guy." He shrugged despite being partially in the water. "Names are special and hold so much meaning. It's what defines a person, after all. I think calling someone by their name has less to do with respect and more to do with honoring the person that they are. And what better way to do that than recognizing and acknowledging the unique name that warmly defines their existence in this otherwise cold, vast world?"

Shay snorted at that. "Dramatic, much?" she murmured. Then added, "I don't know. I guess names are just more labels to me. The only way that they really matter is how they're received." She lifted both hands out of the water. "So, since you're not a nickname guy, I really can just call you 'Alan'. No biggie."

Alan turned his head to offer a smile. Figuring this really was no way to hold a proper conversation, he sunk back to his feet, swimming to the edge again to properly ask her a question and give her his full attention.

"Shay," he sounded out, elbow over the edge as he perched his head against his arm. "Is that your full name? Or a nickname?"

In contrast, she leaned back, resting her arms along the tiled ledge. "Nickname," she answered with a silly grin. "Full name is Shaniece Knowles. Nice to meet you."

Alan hummed in thought. "Yeah. A belated 'nice to meet you too,'" he said with a smile, then added, "What do you prefer to be called?"

She shrugged. "Doesn't really matter."

"Do you like being called Shaniece?" he asked instead.

"Meh. It's my name," she said simply. "I don't mind."

It was strange. It was like she had little to no opinions about her own name, even though Alan felt quite strongly about a name being tied to identity.

"What if I called you some random name? Like Stephanie or Joey?" he challenged instead.

She scrunched her nose. "Well, that'd just be weird. But I could get used to it."

He furrowed his brows. "It really doesn't bother you?"

Turning now to fully face him, Shay maintained that breezy grin even as she studied him closely. "Why does it bother you so much? I mean, you said identity and existence and stuff. I just don't see the problem. I do it all the time."

Alan shook his head. "There's no problem, and it doesn't bother me. I think it's just two different ways of thinking." He weakly shrugged. "I've met others with your line of thinking. I suppose I'm just trying to understand."

She slowly nodded her understanding. "Tryin' to pick my brain apart a lil." She looked up at the sky, tapping her chin in a show of deep contemplation. "Wow. Being studied with such interest is strange, new... Never thought I'd see the day."

Alan huffed through his nose. "I'm not trying to study you. I'm curious and interested, but if you don't want to talk about this, then we don't have to. Whatever floats your boat."

"Dude, I'm messing with you," she said with a laugh. "It's fine. Flattering, even."

Alan slowly turned around, back against the wall again. "Yeah. Okay."

"Okay, indulge me, then." She tilted her head with a mixture of genuine curiosity and mischief glinting in her eyes. "You got a thing against guys with beards or something?"

Alan shot her another flat look, confused. "No. Why would you think that?"

"4 outta 5 guys," she said like it was a fun fact, whilst holding up three on her hand, "that you seem kinda squirmy with, have beards."

Alan couldn't even hide the offense in his face as he scoffed. "I don't know what you mean. I'm not squirmy."

"Right," she relented, "not squirmy. Stiffer than a nun."

Alan didn't think it was possible to give her any more of a flat, weary stare. But apparently not.

Shay laughed aloud in response. "Judging by your face," she said, reaching over to boop his nose, "I'm not gonna get very far with this line of thought." She settled back again. "I'll keep it to myself."

Alan felt his face heat up. First, there was recognition that he felt warmer. Then there was the delayed thought of: was he seriously getting embarrassed over this stupid tease that had no merit whatsoever?

He had no idea what to say, and that hardly happened, especially when it came to trivial subjects he normally defended without thought.

'Oh, no, beards don't scare me. You scare me.'

No, that was dumb.

'Maybe I'm scared of their muscles because they can literally squish me?'

No, that wasn't true.

'Well, maybe I'll grow a beard too, then. Therefore, your logic is false.'

No, Alan didn't want to do that.

Although... he could...

He did diligently shave everyday. What if he stopped? What did he even look like with facial hair, anyways? He couldn't even use Alistair as a reference because he also shaved more regularly, but mostly because he said he didn't look great with a beard since he had patchy spots.

Damn, did Alistair not take any pictures? How had Alan not ever asked him about this? Maybe they'd both look like their dad. Or maybe... uncle? Or....

"Oh, speak kind of sort of, of the devil!" Shay said suddenly, casting a smile past him.

Frankly, Alan was relieved for the change of subject and distraction. He whirled around just as Cas the cameraman approached with a small smile and wave. Alan couldn't help but note that he had a beard.

"Calderson!" Shay said, pitching her voice lower like in a sports chant. To Alan, in a normal voice again: "This is my buddy, Caspar. Caspar, Mister Alan Alvaro."

Alan peered up, nodding once as a greeting. "Nice to meet you, Caspar."

Caspar nodded with a soft, "Hullo."

For a moment there, Alan stood stiffly in the pool, racking his brain to say something else. And then it dawned on him: he was just proving Shay's point, wasn't he?

He slowly turned to her, meeting her gaze. She had a knowing look and an even cheekier grin, lips pressed together like she was trying to hold back laughter. Alan slapped his head against his face, quietly groaning and feeling the embarrassment return. For no good reason.

"I can..." Caspar slowly began, glancing between the two of them, "...come another time?"

"No no no," Shay said, urgently waving him down, "I wanna see this." She nudged Alan's shoulder with her elbow. "Alan lungs versus Cas lungs. Go!"

"I'm good," Alan said quickly, mustering a smile, but it came out forced. "We don't need to do that."

She pouted at him. "Alright, fine."

Suddenly Alan felt like he had to say something, even though his brain had literally never been any emptier. So he just said the first thing that came to mind.

Which was... nothing.

"So..." he began, hoping the sentence could complete itself.

But alas, it did not.

"So," Caspar agreed with a slow nod.

"Get in, buddy," Shay said brightly, "the water's great!"

"Yeah," Alan agreed, nodding quickly. "Do you want to get in?"

There was a second of hesitation on Caspar's end. "I don't...want to intrude--"

"Dude," Shay cut in flatly, "it's literally a public pool."

"But--" Caspar shrugged helplessly. "It seems like a...rather private corner..."

"It's not. Definitely not private," Alan said as he began to increase his distance away from Shay.

Caspar tilted his head with confusion. Then realization visibly dawned on him. "I-- I didn't mean it like that," he hastily amended, face and ears faintly reddening. "Just. You two seemed to-- You know, it was a pre-existing conversation, and I interrupted."

Oh, god. Alan didn't think of it like that either. He just... he didn't even know what he did. Just went with the first thing and action that came to mind. It was a miracle he didn't feel any more embarrassed than he already was, and he tried to play it cool as he leaned his elbow against the pool's edge again, a respectable distance away from Shay. Even though he avoided eye contact with her.

"It's fine. We were done talking anyways," he said casually.

Next to him, he could hear Shay's barely contained laughter.

That didn't seem to reassure Caspar. He started to back away from the pool. "It's really fine," he said, lifting both hands in surrender. "I seem to...make people uncomfortable a lot around here, and I don't blame them. I can...swim in the ocean."

Alan wished he could process words faster than he could, but it felt like his brain was lagging. "That doesn't sound very pleasant," he said, practically on auto-pilot.

Twisting away, Shay barked a laugh at that. Alan ignored her, pretending she didn't exist in this very serious conversation he was having with Caspar right now.

"It's..." Caspar shrugged, looking askance as he mumbled self-consciously, "I find it refreshing..."

Alan nodded. "I do too, actually. It's like an infinite ice bath."

Caspar nodded his agreement.

"So are you going to get in?" Alan asked, masking the uncertainty in his voice as an open invitation instead.

Caspar looked down into the water. "I do like swimming..." he contemplated.

Alan nodded. "Pools are good for that."

With her forehead pressed to the pool's edge, Shay smacked the tiles as she wheezed. Alan, once more, pretended she didn't exist.

"'Pools are'..." she started to echo, but couldn't finish the thought. It was lost in another fit of giggles.

"Don't worry about her. I think she lost her mind somewhere in the water," Alan said, mustering a friendly smile towards Caspar.

Eyes starting to light up a little with amusement, Caspar nodded slowly as he looked from Shay to Alan. "...We should help her find it, then," he said tentatively.

Alan sighed, clicking his tongue and shaking his head. "I'm afraid it's lost forever, for her sanity has never existed in the first place."

"I'm--!" she cried, still fighting to recompose herself. "You guys!"

"So, anyways, if you want to get in the water," Alan said casually as he gestured around the pool. "Be our guest."

Caspar flashed a small, quick smile and nodded once more. "Since you insist," he said, some warmth and confidence creeping into his voice.

"Beeeee our GUEST!" Shay sang at the top of her lungs, slinging an arm around Alan.

"Oh my god," Alan deadpanned, staring at her as realization then seeped in. "Are you drunk?"

She shoved his shoulder as she treaded back to the middle of the pool. "Nope! Just insane!"

She was... so weird. But at least she was fun. Ish.

Shay waved them both along, then dove below the surface with another loud splash.

Caspar had stepped back farther, to quickly shed some layers and his boots. Alan turned away, trying to find Shay in the water. Where'd she go? It was like she really just... disappeared under the water.

Behind him, he could hear Caspar hop in from the side with a quieter splosh.

Oh. There she was. Shay resurfaced, but beside her friend instead of the other side of the pool. She leapt out of the water and wrapped herself around him to drag him under with her. Caspar went down with a shocked laugh, leaving Alan by himself above the surface. He slow-blinked, processing.

After a short underwater wrestle, Shay extricated herself, then kicked off the wall to grab for Alan's legs. He barely managed to let out a surprised yelp as he then submerged under water. Alan quickly snapped out of it, whirling around underwater and trying to kick Shay away when she still held on to his legs. Even when underwater, he couldn't stop giving her the incessant flat looks.

He didn't want to just kick her and risk hurting her.

So he instead he swung his legs back and forth, wriggling himself from her looser grip. Just as she was about to grab him more firmly again, Alan lept forward wrapping his arms around her belly so that he could grapple her just enough so that he could lift her up and lift her up into the water.

By god, she was dense. He had to suppress a grunt from lifting her back up the surface, thankful that they at least had buoyancy supporting her weight.

"Any last words before you meet your pooling demise?" he said drmatically with a grin, trying to lift her up as high as he could, even though he was well aware that she could easily get out of his grip.

"Yeah," she said, laughing, "don't hurt yourself on the way down with me."

Alan scoffed. "Don't make me make a 'you can fall for me' joke."

Shay straightened, leaning the weight of her upper body over his head. "Oh noooo," she said with feigned despair, "anything but the corn!"

Strained under the new weight change, Alan felt himself lose his balance as he fell backwards with Shay on top of him. He sputtered out his last breath as he fell in, but quickly regained himself as he whirled around underwater, grabbing her shoulders and shaking it as they re-emerged above the surface.

"You are such a brat!" he said with a laugh, aggressively shaking her shoulders.

Slipping an arm around his neck, she quickly grabbed him in a headlock and noogied him. "And you take yourself way too seriously!" she growled playfully.

Alan groaned, wrapping his arms around her chest again so that they both fell underwater. And then re-emerged, at the same time, peering in close so he could squint and make out more of her face.

Hm. She had soft brown eyes and a scar over her right eyebrow. That oddly fit her.

"You are so weird," he murmured, trying to insult her, but not able to hold back a teasing smile.

"And you're so fucking blind," she cackled, "that you have to stand this close to see me."

"Maybe I just want to stand this close," he mumbled, stubbornly unmoving.

Blowing a raspberry, Shay laughed again. "For the record, you're weird too." Then she clicked her tongue and poked his chest with a wink and a finger gun. "And I mean that as a good thing."

Alan half-rolled his eyes, releasing his smile as he pulled away-- but not before he flicked away a leaf stem that was stuck in her hair. "Yeah. Being weird is a compliment. You're welcome."

Picking up the stem from the water, she poked both his shoulders with it, as if knighting him. "You are hereby inducted to the Weirdos Club. Welcome aboard!"

Alan gasped, hand over chest as he feigned great honor. "Really? This is my greatest accomplishment. When and where do you meet?"

"Wherever and whenever the hell we want!" she answered with passion.

"After work," Caspar helpfully supplied from a distance, "preferably."

Ah, right. Yes. He had gotten so preoccupied with wrestling Shay, he had nearly forgotten that Caspar was here.

Alan hummed. "How about the ocean after work? So I can finally see you surf." He gestured towards Caspar. "And so Caspar can swim."

Tilting her head with a playful pout, Shay said, "Awh, how nice. Newbie wants to invite vice-president of Weirdo Club." Then yelled, "Cas, how does that sound?"

Now at the far other side of the pool, Caspar gave a thumbs up.

Shay beamed. "Noice! We're free next Tuesday. Be there, Alan, or I'll haunt you for the rest of your natural life."

Alan thought about saying something equally silly, but he was too hung up on Shay calling him by his first name again. He smiled warmly and nodded.

"I'll be there," he said confidently. "Shaniece."

Once Clanny and Hild had left the pool, Shane realized-- a little belatedly, as he waved goodbye to them-- that it was now only him and Alan.

That left him feeling some way that he wasn't quite sure what to make of-- except, of course, for the familiar burst of anxiety.

Turning away from where Hild and Clanny had gone, Shane turned back to Alan, feeling himself smile, almost nervously.

"It's certainly been a day," he said with a bit of a laugh.

"It has, hasn't it?" Alan said with a smile, leaning his head back against the water so he could peer up at the night sky. "And the night's only begun."

Shane smiled a little wider. "So you're staying?"

Alan hesitantly glanced at him, matching his smile. "Are you?"

Shane gave him a bashful shrug. "If you are."

Unless Alan wanted to be alone. In which case, he'd take that back somehow and take his leave. But at least Alan didn't seem to be making hints about that.

Alan playfully elbowed his side underwater. "Now, now, Shane. What did I say about being a little more selfish?"

Shane raised his hand to cover his face with a laugh, sending some drops flying back into the water from his fingers. "Okay, okay. Rephrasing. If you don't feel like you're done for the day, I would like to spend more time with you."

Alan hummed, smile widening and turning warm as he kept his gaze on him. "Are you sure your magic doesn't involve reading people? Because it's like you just said my thoughts out loud."

Shane chuckled, shaking his head and smiling again as he removed his hand from his face. "I'm sure. People are too vivid and complex to be read the same way I could read any other item. It's pretty fortunate, really. It makes people, especially certain ones, a lot better company."

Alan slightly tilted his head, still smiling. "I'm interested to hear what makes these 'especially certain ones' better company."

Feeling encouraged, Shane hummed, tapping his fingers on the edge of the pool deck.

"It's nice to feel listened to, rather than merely heard," he said. "Seen, not merely observed. Wanted, not merely needed. Not everyone's going to achieve that effect in the people they interact with." Shane paused, glancing at the reflection of the dark sky in the pool, before turning back to Alan with a soft, shy smile. "But other people just know how to make others feel welcome in their presence."

"Shane!" Alan said with a playful and accusatory tone, grinning. "You're doing it again. You read my mind when I think of you."

Shane laughed, shaking his head. "I didn't think I was."

"Well, you did it anyways," Alan said as he craned his neck back against the water again, smiling up at the stars. "Being thoughtful, caring, and contemplative, as usual."

Shane smiled as he watched him stare up at the sky. He'd seen a lot of smiles from him this day, and each one warmed his heart.

He was happy to just look at Alan being happy for a while. But he eventually said the first thing that came to mind.

"I'm glad you're one of those certain special people," he said softly.

As the words sunk in, Alan slowly moved his gaze back to Shane, his smile and eyes turning soft with sincerity. There was an air of melancholy to him, however, as he stood up straight again, turning so that his back was towards the wall. He turned his head to smile softly at Shane, expression bittersweet.

"I'm sorry that it's not your norm to feel listened to, seen, and wanted. You of all people deserve that," Alan said, voice gentle.

Shane's expression softened as well.

"As much as I don't feel that way all that often..." he started. "It means that it matters all that much more to me when I do feel that way, thanks to someone."

"If you don't feel this way often," Alan said slowly, "does that mean the list of certain special people is small?"

Shane hesitated.

"It's... fairly short," he said. "Which makes everyone who makes it all the more important."

This felt like a crucial admission of sorts.

Although Shane had insinuated a few times now that Alan had made this list and was therefore special and important to Shane, it was like he was too hung up on the fact that the list was sparse. His smile slowly faded as he idly stared over the shimmering water.

"I'm sorry," he apologized softly. "I've been presumptuous. I thought being an heir would put you in the opposite position, but if this isn't the case, then it sounds like an awfully lonely role."

This felt close to home. Almost too close.

"There's not a lot of room built in up there for others if you're placed on top of the world," Shane said quietly at last.

"But you're an important person in the world. Doesn't your happiness matter too?" Alan asked, invested and serious.

Shane had to spend a second inside his head and think about this.

Technically, anything he said here could be used against him. It would be no stretch of the story to take a conversation about how he was unhappy in his role and turn it into a narrative of one of the Aphiran Heirs proclaiming that he wanted nothing to do with his power. And those things couldn't just be said. He'd look like a deadbeat ruler, and Aphirah's image would suffer for that.

But honestly, he was past caring about that. Flint could make his life hard if he ended up too far on his bad side, but Flint had already shown just the day before that he was willing to cause him problems anyway. And Flint was on Shane's bad side, too. It was about time that should matter.

"That's all secondary," he said finally, before he let out a rueful chuckle. "If I can't find happiness in that role, I'm just expected to be satisfied with it. And if I can't manage that, either, I'm expected to only be sad about it in private."

Alan frowned, brows pinched together as he took in his words with deep sadness. "I'm sorry," he said quietly. "That sounds awful."

Shane offered him a sad smile. "Maybe," he said softly. "But some people really do make it better."

That didn't seem to uplift Alan too much, though, since he stood still with somber silence.

"Alan," Shane said softly, meeting his eyes a little more intently as he inched a step closer. "It's okay. Really, it's okay. I don't want you to be too sad for me."

"I know," Alan said as he kept his gaze on him, smiling ever-so-slightly. "But I am anyways. And I don't think that's a bad thing."

"It's not," Shane agreed in a quiet voice. "It's because of your compassion and empathy, which I love that you have. But..." He let out a soft sigh, shoulders sinking a little. "I'd rather be grateful for those I have than wishful for people I don't. No one would ever be happy that way."

"You're right," Alan said with a more confident nod. "That's a good way to think. I certainly want you to be happy."

Shane offered him a faint smile. "You do make me happy," he said with a soft, sincere tenderness. "That's all I'm trying to say."

Finally, the main message sunk in, and Alan's smile returned. He stepped in closer to be by his side, leaning his head against his.

"You make me happy too," he said softly.

Shane felt his smile brighten too as his heart warmed. He could feel the tension from the earlier topic fading away, turning into a weightless feeling that felt a lot more like peace. It felt easier to breathe against the water pressing around him.

The peaceful silence sat comfortably between them, but eventually, Alan spoke first, pulling his head away to instead turn towards Shane, standing very close as he gave Shane his undivided attention.

"I know I haven't given you a proper response about yesterday," Alan said, scanning his eyes. Shane didn't need to ask which part of the day before he meant. "I needed some time to think, but I'm done thinking now. I can tell you now, if you'd like."

Shane nodded, giving him his full attention. "I'd like that," he said gently, as he felt his heartbeat get louder.

"I know I was a mess," Alan began, voice gentle, "and maybe I still am, or always will be. But through it all, you managed to cast light into my heart when I thought all was dark. You moved me. Inspired me. Cherished me. And I think I needed to hear what you had to say, because like I said earlier, you are always so thoughtful, caring, and contemplative. You have this quiet intensity about you, Shane. Like a small flame of hope that never goes out, no matter how unrelenting the storm."

Shane felt a smile spreading over his face at the same time that his cheeks felt warm from a soft blush, and he couldn't keep from beaming at Alan.

Alan smiled warmly, reaching out to rub Shane's forearm even though they were both underwater. "I'm getting carried away," he continued. "I was thinking I'd say my true message in a fun way. Do you want to play a game?"

Shane laughed softly. "Sure. What's the game?"

Alan's hand slid down Shane's arm until it found his hand underwater. "Two truths and a lie. Ready to guess the lie?" he asked as he brushed his fingertips against his, all the while not breaking eye contact.

Shane nodded, wondering how difficult this was meant to be. "Ready," he confirmed, still smiling.

Alan nodded, smiling back. "I adore spending every second in your company. I want you for all that you are, too. And: I love cheese."

Shane let out a laugh, now grinning at Alan. Alright, the difficulty had been set to easy on that one.

"You know, I have to say, I've never had the hope that someone doesn't like cheese until now," he said teasingly.

Alan grinned victoriously. "Luckily for you, I'm not a cheesy man."

Shane barked another laugh, raising a hand-- the one that wasn't just brushing Alan's-- to cover his mouth. "That was a terrible pun. Or perfectly timed, possibly. I'll have to decide on that sometime."

"Terrible. Definitely terrible," Alan said playfully, watching him with a smile. "Because it's a cheese pun."

"You really don't like cheese," Shane said, removing his hand from his face so his grin was visible again.

Alan shook his head. "I'm admittedly not a fan. I'd eat it. Just... begrudgingly."

"We can make a deal," Shane said. "Any cheese that comes your way, you can hand over to me. I'll be sure to get rid of it."

Alan hummed, smile growing. "Deal. You can be my little lab rat."

Shane laughed again, gaze shining as he kept looking at Alan. "Well, with that sealed," he said. "Do I get a turn at this game?"

Alan tilted his head in curiosity. "I didn't anticipate there being turns, but now you have my attention," he mused.

"Two can play at this game," Shane said, still smiling as he watched his face. "Alright. Same rules. One, I can't get enough of you. Two, I truly meant it when I said you and what's in your heart matters to me. Three, I think pumpkins are great."

That last one was painful to say, but thankfully, it was the obvious lie.

Alan grinned, muffling a laugh as he then gently took Shane's hand, guiding it up with both hands so that he could set his palm flat against the left side of his own chest.

"Do you feel that?" Alan asked teasingly. "That's my heart breaking when it learned that you don't like pumpkins."

"I'm so sorry, but I would really like to say it again," Shane said, with a groan that was really a laugh. "If you want to keep your heart safe, don't let me get started on the affront to coffee that pumpkin spice is."

Alan chuckled with amusement through the grin, still keeping Shane's hand against his heart. "If what's in my heart matters to you, then for both our sakes, let's never mention that again."

Shane heaved a dramatic, forlorn sigh, even though he was still grinning. "Deal. I shall keep my lips sealed."

At the mention of his lips, Alan flicked his eyes down at Shane's lips, just for a moment, like he was asking for permission. He let go of one hand against Shane's on his chest, instead reaching over to graze his knuckles against Shane's cheek, all the while smiling as he kept his tender gaze on him. Shane smiled back softly, feeling overtaken by shyness as he gave him the slightest of nods.

Alan seemed to savor the moment, however, since he stood still, hand still tenderly grazing his cheek as he looked into his eyes with a slowly fading smile. But just as the hesitation started to feel too long, Alan then pulled away, letting go of Shane as he turned his back towards the wall again, attention back up the sky with a slight hint of a smile.

"That was really nice of you to share. Thank you, Shane," Alan said, voice soft.

Shane watched him, still smiling softly. He hadn't been expecting Alan to move away, but he found it didn't bother him. There were plenty of reasons Alan might've changed his mind-- a big one being the cameras, but not the only one-- and whatever the reason for making the choice, he understood it.

"I learn from the best," he said softly, watching Alan with gentle adoration.

Alan smiled a little more, but otherwise didn't react or say much else, getting lost in the stars instead.

Shane joined him by the wall, looking up skywards as well. It was always surprising, how bright the stars could get away from the city lights that outshone them. It was even stranger to know this was how the sky was meant to look.

"It's strange. The stars look different here," Alan commented.

Shane turned his head to him, glancing at the side of his face. "Different hemispheres?" he guessed.

Alan mulled this over, letting out a soft hum. "That does change the view of the sky, doesn't it?"

Shane nodded. "Wherever you are in the world, there's actually stars below you that will be overhead for someone on the opposite side of the globe. No one can actually see the full map of charted stars in one sky. Which means for every part of the world, there's constellations that can't be seen from there." Shane waved a hand around. "There's seasonal differences in what stars we see, too, thanks to us going around the sun and having better views of different parts of space. But where you're standing on earth might make the biggest difference."

Alan's smile faded as he gazed up at the sky, taking in Shane's words. "That's a bit sad," he said after a longer pause.

"Why's that?" Shane asked gently.

"I've always thought the stars connected us no matter where you are in the world. It's sad to me that isn't the case. Once we leave this place, the stars I see will be completely different from the ones you see," Alan said.

Shane watched his face sadly, feeling his heart sink. He hadn't given thought to that. Most of the places he had connections with people in were close enough that their skies weren't too different, but he didn't need to spin a mental globe in his head to check that Aphirah and Argentia were on near-opposite sides of the planet. He almost felt like he should've anticipated this.

"I'm sure there's got to be at least one that'll be visible from our separate skies," he said quietly. "What I'm even more sure of, though, is that we'd see the same moon. And that's impossible to miss, no matter how bright our environments might be."

With a slight tilt of his head, Alan asked, "Do you know the time zone difference between Argentia and Aphirah?"

"For my part of the continent?" This question actually required Shane to visualize a globe and mentally spin it around. He paused. Spun it again. He didn't like what he was seeing.

"It's far, isn't it?" Alan said, voice somber. "Opposite in stars, opposite in night and day. I don't think we can even see the moon at the same time."

"It's far, but it's not... absolute," Shane said softly. "Not a full twelve hours, at least. That should mean that no matter the season, there should be at least a couple hours where the world is dark where we both live. And that means we could see the moon together."

Alan mulled this over before he tore his gaze away from the sky to smile at Shane. "I like that. Whenever I look up at the sky and see a full moon during that time window, I'll always think of you."

Shane smiled back, feeling warm inside again. "I promise I'll do the same."

Alan smiled warmly, keeping his gaze on him for a drawn moment before he angled his head up towards the sky again, head lost in the stars. Shane followed his gaze upwards again.

"Do you have a favorite constellation?" he asked, then added, "Even if it's not in the sky right now."

Alan took a moment to think through through before shaking his head. "Admittedly, I don't know what to look for, nor really know any constellation names. But whenever I do gaze up at the night sky, I'm drawn to the brightest stars." He paused. "I don't think they're the same ones we're seeing now, though."

Shane hummed, squinting upwards. "I'm not sure I'd know whether they were or not," he said. "Aphiran astronomy names are widely accepted as the standard nomenclature, but I wouldn't assume everywhere follows it. We could be seeing the same cluster of bright stars, but think of it as very different things."

Alan tilted his head back. "If something has two names with two different perceptions, is it really the same thing?"

Shane grinned faintly, liking the thoughtfulness of the question. "Ah, that's a good thought experiment." He tilted his head back as well, feeling it bump the pool deck. "If it's within a creative lens? I'd argue that it's two different things-- or even multiple, for as many perspectives as there are. And the way constellations get named is very much a creative process, with the interpretation of abstract shapes and the assignment of culture and stories to each one. And if there's two perspectives that give a different story to the same thing-- something neither side can fully claim, as it's just a bunch of very distant stars-- it would be missing half the story to call it a single thing."

Alan watched Shane speak, his smile growing wider with open fondness. He squinted up at the sky again. "That's an interesting take. Two different names and perceptions of something doesn't make it the same thing, nor does it make it two. It's split into as many sides as there are ideas. It's only when the pieces are put together that the true story becomes revealed."

"Yeah," Shane said, glancing at him with a smile that waned slightly as he looked back up again, pointing at a familiar corner in the sky-- familiar to him at least. "There's an example of that here, actually. Do you see those especially bright stars above that palm tree? There's... seven of them, I think."

Alan followed gaze, squinting even more and nodding. "I think so, yeah. I see them."

Shane nodded. "Aphirans call that constellation of seven stars the nightingale. But if you asked Cyrin what it was, they'd probably say it was the Ren constellation of a mountain climber-- the same constellation they got their name from, in fact."

Alan let out a quiet hum, fixated on the constellation. "I can't say I see the nightingale or the mountain climber," he murmured.

Shane cracked a smile. "Then you could give it your own meaning," he suggested. "What it represents in your eyes. No one would be able to tell you that you were wrong, either. It's like art that way."

Alan nodded slowly, still staring up at the sky with great focus. "I see an amoeba," he dead-panned.

Shane nodded approvingly. "Fabulous. You're now an honorary astronomer."

Alan grinned. "Awesome. Now it's time to pursue my degree in astrophysics."

Shane's brain spazzed out for a little bit there, and it took him a moment to decipher why. James had claimed Alexandra was an astrophysicist, whoever she was.

Damn. Was she going to be watching this?

His heart felt heavy with guilt all of a sudden, even though he didn't know what he was guilty of.

"They'll be lining up to have you," he said instead, still smiling. "You've already proven your level of cosmic interpretation."

"Mmm. Yes. One can even say my divine interpretations are out of this world," Alan said, feigning deep contemplation.

"And into the next," Shane agreed.

The island search yielded no results thus far. There was of course a fair amount of common plants that could potentially lead to dire consequences, but only if consumed in truly absurd quantities. And Aaron wasn't about to ask the chemist for the use of her lab just to extract these qualities in a more readily-available form. No, the fewer people involved, the better.

That said, the potential threat of immediate extermination at the hands of anyone else on this island, it seems, had passed by now. Survival was no longer the only goal. So Aaron allowed himself to begin to entertain the thought of reprioritizing how to get ahead over merely living another day.

Which brought him to the matter of his own magic. Particularly, how exactly the DMV even knew about it, and how they could possibly even 'test' it. Especially since it wasn't an innate ability, nothing he'd been born with. He never even registered himself as infected by magic of any sort. It wasn't something he'd trust the state with.

Aaron figured it was a reach, but he tried checking the television in the cabin at the far other end of the row across from his-- the one with the small werewolf and the two terrifyingly ginormous fellows. Theirs was the only fully functional television set in the contestants' area, so he hoped to potentially mine any DMV information made available through it.

Came up empty; the TV switched to static the instant he managed to sneak in successfully. Go figure.

Then he decided, there was an even more roundabout way. Maybe. And even then, it was highly unlikely to actually yield anything insightful.

The mind reader from the bush.

Once night fell, and Aaron was sure that Tula and Alex were asleep or simply not present at all respectively, he slipped out the back door. Since exiting through the hallway window on the second floor clearly wasn't working in his favor.

It was some...strange blessing in disguise, he supposed, that the mind reader's home was stationed right next to his own. Though, he was already second-guessing this optimistic assessment ever since noticing that the front door was bolted on the outside.

With a grimace, Aaron hesitated as he reached for the handle. Then froze, blood running cold, when he caught sight of a singular, watchful eye fixed on him through the slats of the front window. Upon making eye contact, the blind fell back into place, and the eyeball disappeared.

Eugh.

...At least he knew the mind reader was home at the moment.

Unbolting the door, Aaron kept a firm grip on the handle as he eased it open. Just enough for him to fit through. Eyes closed as he braced himself for an assault, he quickly shut the door behind himself.

But instead of an assault, he found that the mind reader was crouched below the window in disheveled rags of dirtied clothes, staring up at him with huge, bulging eyes.

"You came back," he said with a wavering voice, then a howl of laughter. "You came back!"

Wilting back against the door with a deep, unsettled frown, Aaron muttered, "You're worse up close and unobstructed by foliage."

"You hear the voices, don't you? Don't you? You're just like me!" bush man said with more uncontrollable laughter, rolling on the floor now. "But I've never eaten anyone! Yet!"

Aaron flinched back and weakly started, "So you can..."

No. He needed to take control of this conversation. Otherwise the mind reader would just take them in aimless, endless circles around Aaron's subconscious.

Standing as tall as he could while the mind reader laughed uncontrollably, Aaron raised his voice to sound bolder than he felt. "I need you to focus. I'm here to ask a few questions, nothing more, then I'll--"

Instead, the mind reader laughed some more. "Your mom is dead! You're a monster because of her!" he howled.

Aaron stared wide-eyed at the man, dumbstruck for a second from just how quickly and intensely the mind reader made him absolutely livid.

In the blink of an eye, he slammed both hands down on the floor as he towered over the mind reader. His flesh literally crawled and bubbled as his limbs elongated, and he bared teeth that were no longer human. Stravos was quick to stop laughing, instead staring up at him with widened eyes, morbidly fascinated.

"Don't ever speak of her," Aaron growled lowly.

"Kill the disrespectful wretch," the Monster hummed in the back of his mind.

"How would you kill me?" the mind reader said with a warbled voice, still on the floor, staring up with impossibly larger, bulging eyes.

There was a long silence where even the Monster didn't know what to say.

"You're telepathic," Aaron slowly concluded, "not just a memory reader."

"You can hear voices," the man said as he suddenly crawled closer to him, almost slithering since he hardly picked himself up. He grabbed on to Aaron's ankle, staring up at him. "I hear voices too. We're the same. We're the same!"

Baring his teeth, Aaron snarled at his touch, ready to lunge.

"On second thought," the Monster said suddenly, saccharine tone stopping Aaron in his tracks, "we should explore this."

...Shit. Aaron knew where the Monster was headed with this. And hated that he himself had to be the means of communication for it.

With an irritated huff, Aaron simply shook Stravos off.

"What's the...scope of your magic?" Aaron asked lowly. "Are you limited by range at all?"

"Stravos is my name," the man said instead, still laying on his stomach on the floor. "And your name is Constantine."

There was a smile in the Monster's voice as he replied, "Yes. Astute one, you are."

Stravos grinned, the manic glint returning in his huge eyes. "What are you? You're a monster."

"I'm simply a guide," Constantine answered with fake modesty, "for lost souls such as yourselves."

"We're not the same," Aaron cut in darkly.

"SHHHHHHHHHH!" Stravos violently hissed at him, snarling. "I'm not talking to you."

Aaron snapped his jaws mere inches away from the mind reader's face, who hardly flinched or even blinked. Which only made Aaron want to legitimately bite the man's head clean off.

"Clearly," the Monster in his head agreed diplomatically, "yes. You two are...built quite differently. And it's here where I see an opportunity. Stravos, was it?"

Stravos scrambled up to his feet, breathy laughs whimpering out of him, but he looked and sounded more like a panting dog. With a crazed grin, he wrung his dirtied, bony hands before gesturing to the living room.

"Would you like to sit?" he asked, still practically giggling from the crazed pants.

Aaron peered over the top of the mind reader's head. Then felt his jaw slowly drop as he completely blanked at the sheer amount of... Gods, what was one supposed to even call this abomination?

There were many... many... photos hung on the wall. And they were all of Tula. Some of which he wished he could unsee by bleaching his eyes.

"I'd rather not," Aaron answered.

"Please," Stravos insisted, hunching over and barely bowing his head, a thin and bony hand extending out towards the couch. "Get comfortable. Sit."

"Don't deny him the chance at being a good host," the Monster urged him.

Well. Of all the worst-case-scenarios, this was by far the very worst.

With a put-upon huff, Aaron begrudgingly followed the mind reader. As they drew closer, he found hismelf unable to tear his eyes away from the Tula wall. It was easy to filter out the cursed images since they were all black and white photographs. There was only one picture with color, and it was a self-photograph with Tula and Maeve Trieu, Director of the DMV. Considering they were smiling and both wearing bikini tops, they must have been close.

Next to that picture was a black and gold plaque with the engraving dated three years ago:



Constantine hummed thoughtfully. "My dear Stravos, it would seem you are grievously overlooked and under-appreciated."

As much as Aaron hated to even mentally acknowledge it, the Monster was right. The mind reader was a potential wealth of secret information, turned out.

Stravos shook with more laughter, practically foaming at the mouth as he patted down the disgusting couch, encouraging Aaron to sit.

Aaron recoiled as he studied the tattered corners, and the grime stuck in the fabric. "I will not," he said plainly.

"Sit down," Constantine hissed at him.

"This is absurd!" Aaron retorted, turning an indignant look up at the ceiling.

"Would you like anything to eat? Some... hors d'oeuvres?" Stravos asked, hunching over with more stifled panting. It then dawned on Aaron that this was just how he breathed.

...Was it a medical condition? Did no one teach him how to breathe properly? Was that something one even needed instruction for?

And what food could this dirty, deranged man offer? ...With a slow nod, Aaron supposed something severely suspect was better than nothing at all.

Pleased, Stravos skittered to the sad excuse of the kitchen. He opened a drawer, taking out a small plate before scurrying back towards Aaron. Fully bowing his head, Stravos offered the plate to him with extended arms.

On the dirtied plate was a lump of disgusting cheese, blackened by mold, crumbs, and dead ants.

"For you," Stravos squealed, sounding like he couldn't contain his excitement. His heavy breathing resumed, louder and wetter now.

Well. This was...somehow far worse than Aaron could even imagine.

The Monster's hold on his mind loosened, allowing Aaron to slowly change back. He bit back pained noises until he was on the floor, staring at Stravos's feet.

"Eat," Constantine told him.

"Eat!" Stravos squealed, echoing him. He crouched down, shoving the plate towards Aaron's chest.

Heaving a long, tired sigh, Aaron muttered, "Fuck me," as he reluctantly took the filthy plate. He stared long and hard at the dead ants poking out of the cheese. Then picked it up and shoved it into his mouth before he could think thrice about it. He barely managed to swallow it.

With a growl, he whipped the plate at the nearest wall. "I ate his shit," Aaron barked, "now what? What could you possibly gain from bringing me this low?"

Constantine hummed innocently. "It's not about what I could gain. Think of how you could benefit from this new partnership."

"You're just like me. I'm like you!" Stravos said through a grin with bulging big eyes, his voice wavering from hardly being able to contain his excitement.

Glowering up at the scrawny mind reader, Aaron visibly bristled.

"Another vessel," Constantine furthered. "He's another you. I know our agreement can oftentimes feel like a burden after awhile. He could help lighten your load."

Aaron blinked at the floor.

"Yes. Give it to me. Give me your load!" Stravos panted out.

Aaron grimaced, but couldn't deny that that was a tempting proposition.

Maybe... If this worked out, he could eventually rid himself of the Monster. Be free of his influence once and for all.

"Do we have ourselves a deal?" Constantine hummed.

Aaron pushed himself to his feet and stared as evenly at Stravos as he could. He couldn't help but deeply grimace again, meeting the insane man's protruding eyes. Lips pulling back with disgust, Aaron lifted a shaking hand. With giddy, wet breaths, Stravos offered his own bony, disgusting hand to shake. Aaron closed a loose, hesitant hand around Stravos's, which was cold, grimy, and wet. Giving it one, erratic shake, Aaron then recoiled to wipe off his hand on his coat.

"There," Aaron said, visibly shuddering and trying to shake the crawling feeling from his skin. "Are we done here?"

Already he could feel the Monster's presence in his mind beginning to wane a little. He wasn't completely gone yet, though, so Aaron refrained from breathing out any sighs of relief.

"For the time being," Constantine said, and Aaron could see his shark-like smile glint in the back of his mind. "I look forward to our partnership, Stravos. Please stand by, I will need you in the near future."

It was late. Books were stacked high on Lyall's desk, and notes and drafts of poems scattered across what little free space remained. The square clock at the corner ticked loudly, filling the dead silence.

With his knees drawn to his chest and his forehead propped on his hand, Lyall stared vacantly at the incomprehensible writings. Overwhelmed by all that needed doing, and not knowing where to begin for it.

His assignment was due in a couple hours. Yes, he did pull the classic "wait till the very last possible second" tactic, because, truth be told, his best work was always accomplished in the very last possible second.

His heart began pounding in tandem with the clock. From dread. Maybe also an excess of caffeine.

Lyall feared none of this was useable. It felt like half the time he was only drawing all the wrong conclusions, and the half he was simply pulling things out of his ass. He'd have to scrap the whole thing, rewrite the entire essay.

He sighed. What he needed was a break. Just a short one. Or maybe just another coffee.

He hadn't heard from his family in a week.

Unplugging his phone from its charger, he leaned back as he mindlessly pulled up the messaging app. It was only after he hit send that he realized he was texting Mum.

The last messages she'd sent, which was months ago, were uncharacteristically filled with sparkly hearts and smiling emojis. She'd then signed off with a simple "Miss you, love."

The words carved out a hole in his chest. Lyall tossed his phone aside, then ran both hands over his hair with a long sigh. Because, right, he still needed to give Alan his "daily mail", as Lyall had been calling the barrage of family texts.

The sounds of the clock and his beating heart filled the room. Then the light overhead flicked off, which left the desk lamp the only source of illumination. The rest of the room fell into complete darkness.

Lyall lifted his head from his hands with confusion. "Alvaro? It's late, what're you still awake for?"

"Lyall!" Alan said frantically at the same instant. He said something else, but their voices overlapped like jankily-cut together audio clips.

He had barged into his room without a shirt again, expression conflicted and panicked. His hair was a mess, and he wasn't wearing his glasses. Maybe he had just woken up.

"I need you right now. Can you come with me? I really need you. Please. I don't have time to explain," Alan said with desparation in his voice, reaching out to take his hand.

Sitting heavy in his desk chair, Lyall found his own reaction time delayed. Alvaro had pulled him out of his seat well before Lyall finally answered, "We already called your brother, though?"

"It's not that. I need you for something else. Do you trust me?" Alan said as he pulled him out of his room, fumbling down the stairs with rushed panic.

Lyall stumbled after, heartrate spiking with the urgency in Alan's entire demeanor.

"I did," he heard himself say, but that was wrong. That was what he'd told Brandt.

Alan only cast him a backwards glance of confusion and hurt.

"I trust you," Lyall tried again, despite the uneasiness in his empty chest.

"Come with me," Alan said as he led him out of the dorm.

Instead of a row of beachside cabins, they made a hard left out the front door to walk along the pier. Lyall glanced over the rail. Something heavy settled in the pit of his stomach as he caught sight of the dark, churning ocean.

"Alan," he said nervously, tugging back on his friend's hand. But Alan didn't respond or let go, still hurriedly walking without ever sparing a backwards glance.

The end of the pier quickly came into view. Still trying to dig his heels in, Lyall stumbled after Alan. They stopped right at the edge, and that was when Alan finally let go.

Lyall frantically looked out over the choppy waves. "What're we doing out here? Why couldn't we tell Hild?"

"Lyall," Alan said lowly as he finally turned around, face dark due to the lack of lights around them.

Swallowing thickly, Lyall forced himself to look straight at Alan. But he didn't like how he looked in the shadows.

Alan suddenly wrapped his arms around Lyall tightly, squeezing him to the point that it was hard to breathe.

"I'm taking you down with me," he whispered harshly in his ear.

And they plunged into the icy sea below.

Lyall weakly fought Alan's hold as the saltwater stung his throat, flooded his lungs. His desperate cries to be let go were drowned out by his heart thundering in his ears.

Through the turbulent waves above them, light flickered across their faces.

Instead of Alan, however, Lyall was forced to face the dark, determined expression of someone he'd called a friend. Someone he'd trusted.

Then the stormy ocean spat Lyall out on his bedroom floor.

He scrambled back against his desk. The drawer handles dug into him as he fought to regain his bearings. He blinked the room into focus.

Plants. Books. Armchair.

Breaths short, he reached with shaky hands to grab hold of the desktop, and hauled himself up.

No books, just scattered poetry by his laptop.

The island cabin. Twisting around, he dropped into the chair to take stock of his personal miniature jungle a second time.

There was no reason for Anton to be here. They hadn't spoken in years. Lyall insisted on it.

Alan.

He stumbled to his door. Then paused after opening it.

The hallway was pitch black. Blinking, Lyall forced his eyes to adjust.

Cyrin's door was left open, by just a little. Alan's door was closed.

Lyall refused to walk in uninvited a second time. And didn't want to further bother Cyrin with his problems. So, after fumbling with his desk lamp until it flicked off, he checked out the window.

It was the island beach, moonlit and serene. Just the row of cabins across the way, instead of the brick dorm. Lush trees instead of iron street lamps. Soft, sandy beachside instead of a long pier over a deep sea.

Lyall leaned on his elbows on the window sill, slowly counting out his next breaths as he quickly scrubbed his face with both hands.

What the hell? Where did that...even come from?

He hadn't spared Brandt so much as a second thought in literal years. There was no reason for him to just...be there in his subconscious now.

And why was...

A storm of emotions brewed in his chest as he glanced back at his door.

Why was it Alan at first? He trusted Alan-- Alan was trustworthy, without a doubt.

Clearly, Lyall's subconscious was in severe disarray.

Huffing a perplexed sigh, he turned his gaze back out to the dark ocean beyond the cabins.

Then...suddenly caught sight of an oddly-shaped speck in the sand by the shoreline. Was it a beached animal? It looked like a turtle, maybe. Though...it wasn't round enough, actually.

Squinting, he leaned out a little.

Oh gods, that was a person.

Maybe the scenario before him was fine enough, and he was just still rattled by the dream. He just couldn't help but assume the worst had happened, and tore out of his room with nary a thought for shoes or whether his cabin mates were asleep.

He dashed down along the row of cabins toward the beach. The closer he got, the clearer the figure became. James.

Lyall slid in on his knees beside the prone man. James lied facing up, a vacant look turned to the stars. His hair clung to his sweaty forehead. When Lyall checked for his pulse, he was both alarmed yet somehow unsurprised to find that he was completely burning up.

"Hey," James slurred at the touch, flinching away with a sloppy, heavy movement. His arm flopped over his stomach as he turned away.

He was trying to get up. Instead he fell back into the sand, this time on his side. James let out a low groan.

Sharply exhaling with some relief, Lyall hastily mumbled as he lifted both hands in a placating gesture, "Sorry, sorry. I just... You looked..."

Gone. Like the ocean had taken you.

Lyall thickly swallowed it all back down.

"Can't be dead," James retorted Lyall's thoughts. "I can't die. Can't be dead if I can't die."

James attempted sitting up this time, but he swayed once he was upright. He reached out for his own knees to try and steady himself, but ended up crumpling forward. His legs propped up his rather limp upper body, and he let out another groan.

"'S late for you," James mumbled into his arm.

Lyall watched all this from his spot in the sand. Now no longer concerned that James could quite escape. Far more concerned, rather, that he wouldn't be able to wrangle the man of steel bones inside if need be.

"'M fine," James said, answering a question Lyall hadn't asked.

"A blatant lie," Lyall shot back.

"I'm..." James tried again. "Here."

"You're not well," Lyall expounded helpfully. "You feel as though you'll spontaneously combust any minute now, and you've looked dead on your feet for... basically the entire time I've known you."

"That's what you do," James said after a delay. "Allegedly."

"It's..." Lyall frowned. "...really not?"

James covered his face with his hands.

"Okay," was all James said as he curled up.

The man was covered in sand. And lacking a shirt and shoes. His pajama pants were more sand than pants, which Lyall couldn't imagine being comfortable.

But Lyall also noticed, now that James was upright, that James's hair was... far shorter. Like it'd been chopped sloppily from some kind of ponytail. The man's judgement and decision-making skills were severely impaired, then.

Just earlier that day, Lyall had seen him with his normal bun. What happened?

Then he thought, no, he knew what happened. Or, rather, what hadn't.

"When's the last time you actually slept?" Lyall asked. Then firmly added, "A full night."

James shook his head in his hands.

"You won't like the answer," he mumbled.

"Tell me, anyway."

There was a very, very long pause.

"A full night... not since before the island," James admitted lowly.

A pause.

"No. Day two. Day two of the... this."

Lyall stared blankly at him. The answer managed to be far worse than he imagined it would be. So James managed a full night, but only the once since arriving here. And...

"Before the island," Lyall said. "How...?" Trying to shake some coherence into himself, he tried again, "For how long have you had sleep troubles? Really?"

James slowly dragged his face across his hands, turning to look at Lyall. Or perhaps, the approximation of Lyall, since James's eyes were far from focused.

"Years, now," James said quietly. "But 's worse when... since... you know."

Lyall wasn't about to try and fill anymore blanks on his own. "Since what?" he gently prompted.

"Everyone knows," James muttered. "Whole goddamn world knows."

The whole world...? Why?

Lyall scrounged his memory for past article headlines relating to Nye. Of which there were many, but one was not like the others. He landed on the whistleblower case that sent their government into a tizzy in the last couple of years. They were still a bit of a recovering dumpster fire, but were able to for the most part sweep it under the rug. Especially with Aphirah's magic-related issues now beginning to visibly fester as well.

Oh, wait. That was...

"Oh my gods," Lyall uttered, looking back down to James, "that was you?"

James stared at him.

"Yeah," James said emptily.

How had Lyall not seen it sooner?

No, refocus. This man was on the brink, and in need of bed rest. Now.

"It's been worse... since being here," James mumbled again. "Worse nightmares. Worse everything. Worse sleep. It's just worse."

There was a shimmer of light caught in James's eyes. Tears. Starting to glisten.

"Can't escape it in life. Can't escape it in death. Can't escape it when I close my eyes, either."

Lyall studied the man with open empathy.

So it seemed James was caught in a viscious, self-perpetuating cycle. Where, likely to avoid being haunted by his subconscious, he deprived himself of sleep. And in doing so, only made it more likely for the nightmares to return when he did inevitably crash again, even if it was only in too-short increments.

Given the man's military background, there was no shortage of stressors to be found that would once again only feed this cycle...

Shit, James had missed out on literal years of sleep.

A treatment plan could be drawn up later. Right now, Lyall needed to figure out a way to get the man at least back inside. Lying prone out in the sandy open like this was certainly not conducive to a good rest.

More than that, though, Lyall realized, there were clearly some...he'll call them lingering side-effects, from James's career, as well as his time spent in prison.

He was clearly still in survival mode, even now.

"You're awfully quiet," James said after some time.

A beat.

"Unlike you."

"I'm shocked you're conscious enough to even notice," Lyall mused.

James pursed his lips into a faint frown of disapproval.

Lyall settled back in the sand, and folded his hands together. "What is it exactly that you're trying so hard to escape?"

He wasn't sure how much progress they'd make, considering... Well, Mister James was practically half-dead.

James's expression turned sour. "What are you, my shrink?"

"Given the shortage of those on this island," Lyall said flatly, "you're going to have to make do." And, with that, he lifted both arms expectantly.

James glared at Lyall for a moment, and there was more heat behind it than expected.

It took a long time before James finally spoke. Almost a minute. It was agonizing, really.

"I just want my family to be okay," James said, barely audible.

Lyall nodded with full understanding. Maybe his own fears relating to Kaya and Vik weren't quite as extreme, but he feared for his family's safety as well.

"It would probably help if you were able to contact them," he mused.

"I bet they thought of that, too," James murmured.

Lyall blinked. "The who now. What?"

James looked down, brows furrowed.

"Nothing," he said.

"No," Lyall sternly cut in, "no take backsies. You started a thought. Please explain."

"This isn't fair," James said. "I'm... I can't think right now. I shouldn't even be talking to you. I need to go home. I need to... to go..."

James began to stumble to his feet.

"Where's that, then?"

James had been clear from literally day one that he refused to see any part of this island as 'home'.

Standing as well, Lyall lifted both arms in questioning. "Home-home, you mean?"

"The only home I have!" James spat back, wobbling forward towards... well, it was too soon to say where. The man was half-dead.

But Lyall was also here, instead of sleeping like either of them should. Still trying to shake the unsettling alternate reality he was living in just moments ago. So, it with the hope that an outsider might understand when Lyall bristled just a bit at James's tone.

"Well, you have my deepest condolences, then!" Lyall said sharply. "Because there's literally a whole damn ocean between us and anywhere else in the world."

But James didn't respond to that this time. He seemed focused on walking. Somewhat remarkably, it seemed he was walking towards his cabin, but they had a ways to go at this pace.

Lyall let his arms drop to his sides. If James was headed back to his place, then there was no need to pursue the conversation. Lyall's only goal here was half-accomplished by now. So he followed in silence, to personally ensure that James didn't pass out on the way.

James walked for a minute or so, slowly persevering until he was passing Lyall's cabin and approaching his own.

"Don't follow me," James said.

"Don't tell me what to do," Lyall retorted half-heartedly.

James picked up his pace a little. Lyall barely adjusted his stride to keep up with the unsteady man.

In trying to shake his own irritation, Lyall focused on the fact that this was a strange mirror of their first night on the island. Sleep-deprived ambling about the island, to drop James off at his cabin.

When James made it to his porch, he'd carved little valleys in the sand, marking the path where his feet were dragging their way along.

James shakily went up the stairs, but instead of going to the door, he went to a... window?

James ripped the window open with force, and Lyall heard the latch pop. Leaning over, James began to crawl in through the window.

Before Lyall could think to protest, James fell inside with a horrible, heavy thunk.

Well. Mission accomplished. However, it really didn't feel like much of a success.

New note: sleep-deprived James could in fact be annoyed into defeat.

A tactic Lyall tried to use sparingly, but. Desperate times, desperate measures, and whatnot.

Hesitantly, Lyall peered in through the forcefully opened window. "Did you forget your key again?"

"Can't trust doors," James said from the floor.

"You...?" Lyall frowned, quite troubled by this new conviction.

Shuffling back to the door, Lyall tested the handle. Unlocked, the door gave way. He slowly opened it up to... the living room. Big shocker.

Though. What was a surprise was the fact that nothing was where he remembered it being. The living room had been rearranged entirely. Maybe they got stir-crazy one day too. But instead of a cleaning frenzy, they opted to lean into their inner-interior designers.

Shutting the door, Lyall padded over to where James lie on the floor. Also a familiar arrangement. He frowned with concern.

"If it's any consolation..." Lyall began quietly, but trailed off.

James, face-down and prone, partially got up and began to crawl away from the window. He dragged himself to the nearest couch and climbed up, face in the cushions as he laid out.

Alright. Fair enough.

Lyall glanced back at the window. Did the island have...anyone in property management at all? Someone for repairs?

Ah, wait. Dante was the grounds manager. Though. His given job description sounded more like HR work. Squinting at the window, Lyall tapped his chin in thought.

"...I'm sorry," James said quietly after an awkward moment of silence. He'd turned his face to the side so his voice wasn't muffled.

Lyall bit back a snarky response. Drew in a quick breath and shrugged.

"You're severely sleep-deprived," he said reassuringly, silently stepping into the living room. "And that's a grievous understatement. Not to mention a brewing illness. Think nothing of it."

"I'm sorry you have to... deal with me," James clarified.

Standing by the couch where he lied, Lyall felt his mild irritation further dissipate. "Though you're for sure a unique case, I promise you I've dealt with far worse, in less dire situations. Please, Mister James, put any worries about me out of your mind at once, and let yourself rest now."

James stared out into the living room, his eyes half open. Now in the light of the dim overhead lamp that was on, Lyall could see just how bloodshot James's eyes were, along with just how sweaty he was as well. Out of the corner of James's eyes, there were the begginings of tears, rolling out and puddling against his nose.

"I can't fall asleep," James said.

"Because of the..." Lyall pursed his lips and waved a vague hand "...inescapable. Ah... unmentionable things?"

Something he didn't expect to delve into right now.

James sniffed.

"I'm -- you can go home," James said. "It's late."

Lyall glanced at the stairway past the living room.

"I feel," he said slowly, "that I cannot in good conscience leave you in this state. And I'd rather not wake your cabin mates."

"I'll just stay here," James said. "I'll stay and -- lie."

"Well," Lyall said, taking in a breath as rounded the coffee table and tucked himself into the armchair, "it'll probably be all the same to you, in that case. I don't anticipate finding a very restful sleep tonight myself, and could use the silent company, anyhow."

James sniffed again, and there was another long pause before he quietly said: "Okay."

Lyall nodded, satsified with the end result. Well. His compliance was enough, yes.

Wait. What was Lyall doing sitting? His friend needed tending to.

Just as he turned his attention to James again, he realized James's breaths had begun to slow to a steady pace. Though the man's eyes were half open, Lyall could hear the faintest hum of snoring. It was a tame snore, but a tell that James was asleep all the same.

Still, it was creepy that James's eyes were open. How did he do that? Did he...train himself to do that?

James's immediate flailing earlier when Lyall checked for a pulse prevented him from getting a super accurate read on his body temperature.

Rolling back his sleeve as he knelt down by the couch now, Lyall very carefully reached over to touch his wrist to James's forehead. The man didn't even stir.

Had it been anyone else checking, Lyall was fairly sure they'd incur actual heat damage just from a singular second of contact. Touching James felt like standing barefoot on tarmac in the middle of an intense summer heat wave.

Bending down just a little more, Lyall squinted at his friend's forehead, trying to see if he was visibly throwing off heat the way a car baking for hours in the sun did.

He didn't see anything there. James's eyes were too distracting. While open, Lyall could see them start to move rapidly, somewhat rolling back into his head.

Well. Watching a sleeping person very visibly enter REM was a first. Lyall didn't care for it.

Then James's face began to twitch. Namely, his brows and mouth. His former restful breathing quickly picked up with jagged inhales.

Ah. Probably one of those nightmares of The Inescapable.

It occurred to Lyall to maybe try and disrupt the dream before it got too bad. But, he wasn't sure when else he'd have the opportunity to closely observe James's sleeping patterns like this. Since the man seemed to have his heart set on severe sleep deprivation for the foreseeable future.

From what Lyall gathered, the dreams could be technically categorized as night terrors. With that level of intensity, paired with...so many other intense features of the man, waking him in the midst of a night terror could potentially be dangerous. Fatal, even.

Waiting for it to ramp up then probably would only make that worse.

Folding his hands as he rested his elbows on his knees, Lyall sat back on his haunches. Tense and bracing himself for...anything, as he watched closely.

At first, James was only stirring in his face. Then, he let out a faint grunt, and began to lightly jostle.

James's arms shot out to push himself up on the couch. But more disturbingly, giant, metal claws rapidly came out of James's knuckles, like out of sheaths.

Lyall stared silently with wide eyes, uncomprehending.

The claws punctured deep into the couch, and as James's eyes opened wide, he stared down at his own hands in alarm.

He didn't move for a good ten seconds. Just staring, and breathing shakily.

Looking dazed and unaware of Lyall's presence, James slowly lifted a set of claws out of the couch, revealing that they were at least two feet long.

James stared at his own hand for a moment before flexing his hand with a tremor. The three metal claws slowly receded between James's knuckles, disappearing into what Lyall could only assume was his arm. But? What?

Completely bewildered, Lyall mentally measured the length of James's forearm. Where did they go?

His other pair of claws receded as well, freeing his hand from being stuck in the couch. Slumping back down onto the now-tattered cushion, James hid his face in his hands.

Muffled, Lyall could've sworn he heard James say: "Fuck."

Maybe Lyall shouldn't have been sitting so close. Or maybe he should have at least moved once the hand daggers made their first shocking appearance.

"Holy shit," Lyall uttered, still unmoving, "you never said you could literally impale someone."

The moment Lyall's words left his mouth, James spun like a torpedo in the air above the couch, landing back down on his side. He flew back into the couch, gripping the cushions tightly as he stared at Lyall in clear shock that Lyall was even there.

"What the-- wh-- I thought--" James stuttered, sinking deeper into the couch as the tension in his body slowly released. "You're... still here."

Looking down as he patted himself, Lyall nodded. "In one piece, too," he muttered. "Miraculously."

James stared wide-eyed at Lyall, clearly still processing as if he'd woken from hours of sleep instead of one minute.

"I don't... I don't mention it," James said after a few seconds.

Lyall snorted. "Maybe there's no way to naturally fit it into everyday conversation, but it wouldn't hurt to try."

James melted back into the couch more. Exchaustion seemed to win over the short spell of adrenaline.

"I don't like to," James admitted in more of a mumble. He began to curl up, drawing his arms up over his chest and tucking up his legs as he laid on his side.

Lyall let out a quiet sigh as he pushed himself up to his feet. "No worries, my good man. I had the opportunity to find out in a far more interesting way."

James frowned at that. There was a twinge of sadness in his eyes as he looked away.

With another, slower exhale, Lyall let go of the breezy facade and let his sympathy melt through. He knelt down again to try and catch his friend's attention.

"I'd like to try to help you," he said gently. "Would it be alright if I ask you questions about yourself? Just so I know what I'm working with here."

James curled up a little tighter. It occursed to Lyall that he might be experiencing chills from the fever. James didn't meet his eyes.

"Can I choose not to answer?" James asked softly.

"Of course," Lyall said reassuringly. "Only answer if you're comfortable doing so."

Depending on what James chose not to share, though, it could make this a slightly more precarious guessing game when it came to a treatment plan.

"Okay," James said a little more clearly.

Lyall nodded. "You've got a wicked fever. Like." How to say this without making James self-conscious... "Unprecedented temperatures in a living person. Thus, I'm not entirely sure if regular doses of over-the-counter medications would survive in the hostile ecosystem of your body long enough to have any meaningful impact."

"It won't," James said quietly. "When I get sick, which isn't often... I had to get medicine from a specialist."

As Lyall suspected. "Would you happen to have anything on hand that could help?"

"I didn't anticipate... this," James said.

"Fair enough."

Lyall scanned the living room. There was one of those storage benches off to the side by the wall. Hopping up, he padded over and peeked in. Blankets.

Hm. Would it catch fire if he put it on James? Lyall seriously wondered how the couch hadn't gone up in flames by now. This was a legitimate concern, especially since Lyall probably wouldn't be able to control any accidental fire should one break out.

He grabbed one anyway. They'll just start small. They could manage if something did go wrong.

Unfurling a teal knit-throw blanket, Lyall shook it out as he walked back and draped it around James's shoulders. James took it and pulled it around himself, curling up beneath it.

Miraculously, the blanket seemed unaffected. Lyall let out the small breath he'd been holding.

"Thank you," James said.

Lyall nodded. "Anything for you, my friend," he said warmly as he ventured out into the kitchen area.

It took some careful poking around until he finally found the medicine cabinet. Going by the incomprehensible logic of this island, Lyall wondered if the cabin possibly came stocked on anything useable to James.

He found mostly the standard household medications. In fact, he found only the standard household medications. Well, that figured.

Maybe he could consult Clarity for another home-made remedy, in which case...

"Lyall?" James called out softly.

Lyall stopped himself short of calling back-- it was still late. Or. Early?

He padded back into the living room. "Yeah, mate?"

"I'm still cold," James said.

"I'm sorry, it's really just a byproduct of the fever. Which is likely the response to whatever it is your body's fighting." Lyall frowned. "Real quick: what about is your usual body temperature?"

"Normal," James said with a squint. "97. 98."

"Alright." Indeed, not at all an abnormality. Which made his absurdly-high fever that much more alarming. "And... have you run a fever before? What was your internal temperature then?"

James's response was delayed.

"Never had a fever. Before," James said.

Dammit.

...Interesting.

"Not once?" Lyall pressed, trying not to sound too perplexed.

"That's what never before means," James answered.

"Alright, alright," Lyall muttered. "So this is new territ'ry for both of us."

"I norm'ly get better faster. Before it gets bad," James said.

"Well, I think it's safe to assume your body hasn't hit such a low before now." A short pause. Lyall added to clarify, "Chronic sleep deprivation. It's stacked up significantly against you and your immune system by this point."

James hummed a grunt as acknowledgement.

There was no knowing what temperature James's body would actually need, or if this extreme fever was simply a disproportionate response due to the overall intense nature of James's biology to begin with.

They should at least bring down the Fourth of July-high fever just a little. Keep it within a, uh, probably safer range.

Lyall filled a glass of water, then stared at the acetaminophen label while he jumped mental math hoops.

Would it just...burn off?

James's body had an overly efficient self-regulating system. It could probably take multiple meds at once, right? Because they really shouldn't under-medicate.

Over-medicating could be much worse, though...

He grabbed an arm-full of medications and brought both the water back out to the living room with him.

There was the creaking of footsteps from upstairs, and Lyall paused, listening. It could either be Connie or Shane. Dammit. Who had he woken up?

Just as he heard the footsteps moving to the stairs, there was the sound of a thunk, and then the unmistakable noise of someone tumbling and sliding down the stairs all the way to the bottom.

There was no scream, not shout of surprise. In the panicked silence that followed, Lyall heard a very heavy, tired sigh.

"Ow," Shane groaned.

Lyall stood frozen in the kitchen like a deer in headlights. Then quietly and hesitantly called, "Are you hurt?"

A pause.

"Is that God?" Shane muttered finally.

It felt...inappropriate at the moment, but Lyall couldn't help but snort. He peered around the corner to find Shane Hawking lying face-up at the bottom of the staircase. Looking miserable, but otherwise uninjured.

"I'd make for a very poor excuse of a deity," Lyall answered, "so it's for the better when I say, no. Not God."

"Cool. Because I was about to chew God out for allowing me to tumble down the stairs." Shane paused again. "You were my second guess, anyway."

"A solid second guess," Lyall said. With a second's hesiation, he inched closer and leaned into Shane's field of vision. Quieter, he asked, "Do you need assistance?"

Shane kept looking up at the ceiling. "Anything you can prescribe for wounded pride?"

Lyall huffed a faint laugh. "Sadly, no." He looked down at all the bottles in his arms. "I have plenty of options for head or body aches, though."

Taking a moment to set aside the meds on the coffee table, Lyall padded back to Shane's side and held out a helping hand.

Shane took it, pulling himself up with a grunt. His other hand went to the side of his head, applying some pressure to it.

Resting a hand over Shane's back, Lyall gently nudged him along toward the living room. "Are you hurt at all? Aside from the wounded pride?" he gently prompted. He leaned just a tad closer to assess Shane's eyes.

Shane's gaze moved over the living room, scanning the meds on the table, then the gash in the couch, then the sleeping, sand-covered James.

"Uh," he mumbled. "Is James... okay?"

Lyall followed his gaze. "He's..." Very Not Okay. "... alive?"

Shane crashed into an armchair, watching James with a tired worry in his eyes. "That's reassuring."

Taking a spot on the floor, Lyall began poring over the medications on the coffee table. Then paused, and twisted around to look back at Shane. "You took quite the fall back there," he pressed again.

"It was just a disagreement with gravity," Shane mumbled.

Lyall glanced back to James. He was snoring faintly again, his mouth slightly agape as the side of his face squished against the couch. He was fine for now, then.

Deciding to switch gears momentarily, Lyall fumbled with his pockets for his phone as he made his way back to Hawking. He flicked on the flashlight, then asked, "Would it be alright if I checked anyway?"

"Checked?" Shane echoed, frowning.

Lyall knelt down by the armchair, pointing small circles around Shane's forehead. "For any potential damage. Can't let even a mild concussion go unchecked." He held up his phone and gave it a wiggle. "Just a quick eye assessment."

Shane reluctantly nodded after a moment. "Okay."

With a quiet word of warning, Lyall briefly shone the light in each of Shane's eyes. Shane winced slightly, squinting into the light. Then Lyall asked, "Can you count down from 13 to 6 for me?"

"Thirteen, twelve, eleven, ten, nine, eight, seven, six," Shane said slowly.

Lyall nodded once with a small, reassured grin. "You're fine. Thank you for indulging me. I'll grab you a cold compress, though."

He patted Shane's shoulder lightly before standing. Then quickly returned and handed Shane an improvised ice pack (consisting of a plastic bag of ice cubes wrapped in a kitchen towel).

"Thanks, doc," Shane said quietly, taking it and applying it to the side of his head.

Lyall grinned faintly. "Of course. What brings you down at this ungodly hour?"

He leaned over James once more to observe his sleep cycle as best he could. Eyeing the man's knuckles, he thought better of his proximity and backed away to a slightly safer distance.

"Oh, just... downstairs noise." Shane had been watching James, but suddenly he frowned in confusion, looking back to Lyall. "Wait, how did you get here?"

"The door," Lyall answered simply, tucking his hands in his pockets. "I considered following him through the window, but." He shrugged.

Shane turned his head to the window-- demolished-- and the floor below it-- slightly dented, now that Lyall was looking too. A shard of stubborn glass finally gave up and clattered to the floor in that same instant.

"Did he... jump through it?" he asked.

Lyall snorted at the mental image. Before he could answer, though-- James woke up with a leap, catching about a foot of air off the couch before he toppled onto the floor like a startled cat. Lyall leapt back and out of the way, taking a low defensive stance on the coffee table.

He landed on his face with a heavy thud. Two seconds later, he let out a groan.

"James?" Shane asked urgently, standing up quickly. Too quickly. He wobbled and had to catch himself on the armrest of the chair he'd been sitting in.

Lyall hopped from the coffee table to stand protectively in front of Shane. "No, wait! Stay out of range!"

Shakily, James began to lift himself up off the floor. Sand had scattered all over the carpet, falling off of him like snow off a shaken roof.

"...What?" James grunted, sitting up and looking over through deeply squinted eyes.

Unmoving, Lyall blinked at him.

"Shane?" James asked. "When did you get there?"

"It was..." Shane glanced at Lyall, still holding the cold compress to the side of his face. "Two minutes ago? Yeah. Two minutes ago."

"Sounds about right," Lyall said, nodding in confirmation. He dropped his defensive stance and approached James, silently ushering him back to the couch. Of course, he could do nothing to lift James, but James understood. He clumsily heaved himself back onto the couch, this time lying on his back like a normal person. He grabbed the blanket, looking a bit confused by its existence before he awkwardly pulled it back over himself. The stiffness with which he lied back made him look somewhat corpse-like, actually.

"So..." Shane started slowly. "What's happening here, really?"

"I have a fever," James said, sinking deeper into the couch. Some stuffing fell out the side from the gashes when he did.

"There are a lot of underlying problems," Lyall added in a murmur.

"No there aren't," James retorted. "I'm just... sick. Sick and tired."

Lyall pressed his lips into a thin line. Okay. Fine, he could abide by patient confidentiality, no problem. No sharing of vital information that could spare Shane the trouble of accidental dismemberment. T'was fine.

"Yes," Lyall said, somewhat flatly, "that's all it is."

Shane didn't look convinced.

"And the... couch?" he asked, as though it was also a patient suffering from an ailment. Which it sort of was. It was bleeding out its stuffing.

There was a long moment of dead silence. Lyall turned an expectant look straight at James. James stared back at him with dead eyes, his face giving nothing but exhaustion and an underlying reluctance to answer. It was a long, tense five seconds of neither budging even a millimeter, all while Shane looked progressively more uneasy.

Instead of saying words, James lifted his arm out from under his blanket and looked down as he raised his fist.

Lyall instinctively backed away, standing by Shane again.

After a split second, three long blades came out from between James's knuckles with a shing. Shining in the moonlight through the window, the blades looked even more deadly now that they weren't hidden in a couch. Good god, he literally had a steel skeleton.

"It was an accident," James said in a low mutter.

Flexing his hand, the blades disappeared back into James's hand like in a sheath. Now that Lyall could see more clearly, there were slits in James's skin left behind, but once the blades were gone, the skin began to heal itself over.

Now that the shock of it had worn off with their second appearance, Lyall watched closely with a fascinated head tilt.

To his credit, Shane hardly flinched, looking too tired to react with surprise. He nodded, rather distantly.

"It's okay," he said quietly. "I think we have a sewing kit around."

"You're taking this remarkably better than I did," Lyall said with a gentle pat to Shane's arm.

"I..." Shane took in a deep breath. "I am running out of shocks on this island."

"Fair enough." To James: "My good sir--" Lyall swept an arm out to the coffee table. Where he'd knocked all the bottles askew, admittedly. "--shall we proceed to run a highly questionable at-home biology experiment?"

James stared at Lyall for a moment, still holding his fist aloft for a moment before he drew it near to his chest.

"What kind of test?" he asked.

"We'll call it, uhm..." Steepling his fingers, Lyall glanced up in thought. "...Operation: Cool Down." He pointed his folded hands at James. "See which meds in what doses help. If any. With great discretion, of course."

James's eyes drifted over to the table, staring at the collection of various pill bottles.

"Fair warning, however," Lyall went on, "a peek into your medical history would greatly help. You'd have to collaborate with me on this."

James hesitated for so long that, for a second, Lyall thought he'd fallen asleep again with his eyes open.

"And if I don't?" James finally asked.

Staring at the intensely feverish man, Lyall swore he could feel the sheer amount of heat being thrown off. "There's always the option of a sponge bath," he said plainly. "Or--"

Before Lyall could suggest more, James shook his head fervently.

"No bath," he said firmly.

...An oddly strong response to an everyday matter.

Shane slowly nodded to that. "Maybe that isn't in order here."

Lyall blinked. Then looked questioningly at Shane's understanding tone.

Was there some secret knowledge about baths that no one had informed Lyall on? Some new memo in the world of pseudo-medical fads he missed?

"What do you need to know?" James asked.

One would think that sleeping pills combined with all of the acetaminophen known to man would knock someone out for a few days. Unfortunately, for James, that was not the case. He could tell that it hadn't been long the moment he felt consciousness returning because he could still hear Lyall's voice somewhere in the room - which meant he hadn't left, and James didn't think he'd be the kind of person to stay all day.

Then again, if James didn't wake up for a day, maybe Lyall would stick around. Just to make sure James hadn't died or gone comatose.

Trying to dull the sound of Lyall's voice in the background, James slowly opened his eyes.

And to his surprise, he was staring directly up at Hild.

When did she get here?

"God," she uttered, then turned to look over her shoulder. "what did you do to him?"

"I didn't--" Lyall growled with exasperation. "I was helping!"

James continued to stare at Hild, not quite fully awake. He noticed that she was dressed like she normally would be for a run. Her hair was pulled back, and she had activewear on. It occured to him that she probably came by expecting to find him ready for their usual run. Instead she found James asleep.

Well, unconscious. Something in-between the two, maybe.

Hild stepped away. Leaning over the coffee table, she picked through the various bottles scattered across the surface. "Did you feed him the entire cabinet?" she asked sharply.

"With incredible discretion, mind you!" Lyall huffed defensively.

She cast him a hard glare. "So you did?"

"The man was practically melting the couch beneath him!" Lyall shot back. "What was I supposed to do, just let him melt his own flesh from his bones?"

It took James a moment to realize they were talking about him.

"My skin would regenerate if that happened," James said unhelpfully, embarassed when Hild and Lyall's heads both collectively whipped around to look at him.

James felt a little embarassed. He pulled the blanket further over his chest, up to his neck, only to realize it didn't budge at first. He looked down onto his stomach, and Shrimp was curled up there, fast asleep.

Okay, so he wouldn't move the blanket then.

"That is far far beside the point," Hild muttered.

"Mister James!" Lyall greeted in the same instant, brightening a little bit. "You live! Spectacular!"

"You seem surprised," James said.

"Pleasantly so," Lyall chirped. Then turned back to his sister with a vindicated raise of both brows and said, "It seems my quick thinking and sharp wit has once again saved the day."

"Don't flatter yourself," Hild muttered darkly. "Clearly, this was not your victory."

"I must not be scorching anymore," James noted. "Since Shrimp is able to bear close contact."

The cat flicked an ear in his sleep, otherwise still and comfortable looking.

Wordlessly and with a careful, assessing glance over, Hild simply bent down and touched her wrist to his forehead. James hoped he wasn't too sweaty. Her expression didn't indicate any level of discomfort or distaste. Just glancing up in deep thought.

"Definitely feverish," she murmured, "but not to the extent my brother described."

Lyall threw his hands heavenward in defeat.

"The couch is probably a little... deformed now, though," James mumbled, looking down at his side where the three gashes were mostly covered by his blanket, but some stuffing was still spilling out like an open wound.

Pulling a hand out from under the blanket, James felt a chill run down his body. Even though he was clearly warm, he felt cold and clammy. He reached out and pet Shrimp's head lightly. The kitty let out a faint, happy mrrrp, peeking an eye open.

"Have you been here all morning, Lyall?" James asked.

"Someone had to make sure the couch didn't catch fire," Lyall said with a nod with an amicable grin.

"Could just throw me in the ocean," James suggested idly.

Lyall's amused grin morphed into a grim one. "I'd rather not," he replied, oddly serious.

James looked up at him, not sure what earned him that level of severity. But maybe he'd missed something.

"...Bad joke," he mumbled.

"He's just grumpy," Hild said dismissively, but casting her brother a very pointed stare, "because, according to Shane, he hardly slept."

James looked between the two Ashlunds, wondering how long they'd caught up with one another and were standing around him like this.

"Oh," James said absently. Shrimp pushed his head into James's hand, asking for more pets. James relented.

"Which makes me wonder," Hild said, raising her voice as she turned her gaze elsewhere, unseeable to James from his vantage point, "how much Shane slept as well, that he would know how not-well rested my brother is?"

Weirdly, there was silence following her question. Which Hild probably wasn't meaning to receive.

"Earth to Nurse Hawking," Lyall helpfully butted in, tone more chipper than his sister. "We beckon thee to the conversation. The patient has awoken."

"Oh," Shane's voice said, sounding startled, before he poked his head out of the kitchen, waving at James with a kitchen spoon. It looked like it was about to fall out of his hand. Actually, Shane looked like he should probably be using the kitchen counter as support to stand.

There was a faint bruise on the side of his head, actually. Maybe he'd already fallen.

"Hey, James," Shane said, still waving the spoon, and James could see it had traces of what looked like chopped carrot and a noodle on it. "Welcome back."

"What happened to your head?" James asked.

Shane's gaze flicked to the staircase. "Gravity declared war on me."

So he did fall.

"I'm sorry you loss," James said.

"Nay!" Lyall cut in, "for Nurse Hawking is still standing, isn't he? Gravity waged war, but emerged the loser."

Shane gave them all a thumbs up with his free hand, before suddenly fumbling and reaching for the counter in what looked like a brief loss of balance. "Yep, standing," he said brightly.

James flicked his eyes to Hild with worried skepticism. She met his gaze with a similarly concerned look. Lyall likewise lost confidence in his own declaration.

Briefly moving out of James's field of vision, Lyall headed for the kitchen and warmly offered, "I can take over, Shane. You've been at it for a bit."

Shane blinked. "Hasn't felt that long," he muttered.

"Time certainly flies," Lyall agreed with a light laugh. "Please, have a sit, though."

Shane's expression went blank for a few moments, looking around the kitchen as if searching for guidance. Then, before anyone could offer it to him, he set the spoon on the edge of the counter and lowered himself to sit on the kitchen floor, disappearing out of view.

Apparently Shane was going to rest right where he was.

Lyall barked an endeared laugh. "A viable option, sure, but. I meant in the living room. On proper seating."

"Oh." Shane sounded a little disappointed, as if he was going to miss the floor. "You probably did mean that, didn't you."

Picking up the spoon, Lyall nodded with another warm grin. "I normally wouldn't object to the company, but you should be kinder to your body. Especially after defeating gravity."

"I try to be nice, all things considered," Shane said, a little hurtfully, clearly misunderstanding Lyall's meaning.

Lyall quickly cast an almost pleading look up to the ceiling. "You are an amazingly kind person," he reassured him wholeheartedly.

"Maybe I should go back to making that soup," Shane murmured. "I thought that would be nice."

"Very much so," Lyall agreed. "But now it's my turn to be nice, and take over for you. Watching you stumble around the stove is giving me grey hairs."

Shane was silent for a few moments. "Maybe gravity is getting the upper hand."

Nodding, Lyall waited patiently, as if for Shane to now make the next natural conclusion. Which was to still to sit in the living room. But he seemed to... like the kitchen floor by now.

"Which is better to use, 9.8 or 10 for the value of g?" Shane muttered under his breath.

Turning another grin skyward, Lyall looked unable to contain his fondness. Then he bent down behind the island counter too, gently nudging, "Alrighty, up we go, my good man."

With a humph at being dragged away from the floor and his physics ponderings, Shane stood up slowly. There was a slightly glazed look in his eyes that James could see now, and he really did look quite sleep-deprived as he carefully made his way over to the living room, sinking down into an armchair. Like James, this was not merely one missed night of sleep.

After hanging close by Shane for the short walk, Lyall nodded victoriously before turning back to soup-making happenings. But not without quickly tripping on his way back to the kitchen himself. Hild let out an audible sigh as she glanced up at the ceiling.

Dazing off in her direction, James wasn't sure if he nodded off for a second or if he'd merely spaced out. When his eyes finally snapped back into focus, he was met with an openly concerned look from Hild. James wished he could assuage some of her anxieties, but he couldn't deny that between him, Shane, and Lyall - the three of them all seemed worse for wear.

Shane, however, he may have expected. Lyall was a surprise, though. He realized only just now that Lyall had been up at the same ungodly hour as he, and that seemed out of character for him. What had kept Lyall up?

It felt like everything James touched - well, everyone - was losing sleep.

Except Eve, who he knew was "immune." Or favored.

But there was also... Hild?

James squinted up at Hild. His head was starting to throb.

"Please," she said, finally moving now to tidy up the living room, "refrain from trying to have 'thoughts'. You look like it's causing you legitimate brain damage--"

"Why aren't you sleepy?" James blurted.

Mid-pillow fluffing, she gave him a confuse head tilt. Then set the pillow back on the armchair. "Because I slept," she answered simply. But there was the slightest hint of 'that was the stupidest question I've ever been asked' in her tone.

She stood at the end of the couch, by his feet, setting the pillow back on the couch, tucking it behind James's legs. James felt like Hild didn't understand where he was coming from. But he also hadn't explained to her why he hadn't been sleeping... right? Now he couldn't remember.

He turned his head, looking past Shane on the armchair and into the kitchen, where Lyall had disappeared.

"He was up at 3am," James said faintly.

Now bending down to pick up the knocked-askew pill bottles, she cast him another funny look. "Who was?"

"Your brother," James answered.

Shane rubbed his eyes. "It's... kind of weird that all three of us were."

Hild nodded her agreement. "What kept you up?" she asked, tone curious but also indicating she indeed had no deeper knowledge of their sleep troubles.

James looked over to Shane, expecting him to answer first. Shane, with seemingly the same thought, looked over at him at the same time. Curious expression quickly turning flat, Hild cast a distant stare at some undetermined point past them.

"Hawking," she tried again, tone pointed, "what kept you up at such an unholy hour?"

"Oh," Shane mumbled, before he sat up. "I got back late, so I wasn't on track to have a normal night's sleep anyway. Then..." He waved a hand back and forth. "The usual," he finished, seeming to forget Hild didn't know what that meant.

His response was met with a hard, searching stare from Hild.

Shane seemed to notice it, looking up and blinking at her.

"...Did you say something I missed just now?" he asked half-heartedly.

"I find," she said, tone indignant, "the three of you in utter shambles, and none of you will give me a straight answer--"

"I owe you nothing!" Lyall called helpfully from the kitchen.

Hild glared in his direction. "Out of some ill-timed humor, or--"

"Connie said someone's messing with our dreams," James blurted again.

Shane's head snapped over to him so fast that it sounded like his neck cracked.

"What?" he asked incredulously.

"Shane and I's dreams," James clarified. "I don't know about anyone else's. Connie hasn't... looked into that."

He hadn't looked into much of it at all.

Hild stared blankly at him, silently processing. Just past her, James could see Lyall's head slowly poke back out from the kitchen.

Shane slumped back in his armchair, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"It... explains a lot," he said weakly. "But also raises far more questions than I had before learning it."

"What does Falco have to do with your dreams?" Hild asked, looking straight at James.

James realized he'd opened a can of worms he couldn't un-open. He felt a pinch of regret, but was in too deep to turn back now.

"His magic," James said a little quieter. "He dreamwalks. So he could sense that something was off. Interfering with our dreams."

Lyall disappeared back into the kitchen.

Hild folded her arms, eyes narrowing as she turned this information over.

"Both of us have been having unusual nightmares for some time," Shane said quietly. "But when did Connie tell you it was due to meddling?"

"How long has this been going on exactly?" Hild added.

James couldn't answer for Shane. But he knew his answer.

"Day two," he said.

Shane swallowed. "Day eight for me."

She looked between the two of them. "...Since those days?"

"Yeah," James said. "Connie only told me about the interfering today."

A pause.

"I think it was today. Or yesterday. What day is it?"

Hild looked concerned again. "Friday."

James squinted. "Then... yesterday. I think."

She narrowed her gaze once more. Slowly, she further pressed, "So have you been...purposely keeping yourself awake these past weeks?"

Well, the way she asked that just made him feel embarassed.

"Not on purpose," he said quietly. It wasn't like he was trying to be an insomniac.

"He would sleep if it were more of a reasonable option," Shane said softly. "This isn't like a kid rebelling against their bedtime. If someone is giving us nightmares, then they're trying to mess with how much rest we get, and by extension, mess with our well-being."

"Of course," Hild relented, expression softening a little with understanding. "I don't mean to be stern or overbearing with either of you. It's simply the fact that this has been a persisting problem that could've been helped sooner where I... with which I take some issue."

Turning, she took a seat in an armchair and added, "Again, not with you two. But, now that I'm aware, I'm here and willing to help as I can."

Shane's expression turned a little distant as he nodded, slowly and absently.

James felt his own mind lag in reply. He stared off into the room, letting out a small sigh.

"...Lyall?" James called out.

Leaning back again to peer around the corner, Lyall flashed a light grin. "Myes?"

"Did you have a nightmare?" James asked.

Lyall's grin fell slightly at his bluntness. "Something...vaguely unpleasant, that I don't quite remember." He shrugged noncommittally. "Probably less likely to be caused by meddling, I feel."

"You were up at 3am," James said plainly.

"This doesn't mean you need to provide details," Shane said quietly. "I think all we want to know is... whether that was normal for you, or not."

"I mean..." Lyall frowned slightly. "I sometimes stay up that late to talk with my fiance. It's not entirely out of the realm of possibility."

"Was the dream bad enough to wake you up and draw you outside?" James asked more directly this time.

Lyall briefly glanced his sister's way, as if tense with her very presence. She stared back, gaze sharp and expectant.

"...I suppose," Lyall eventually admitted in a mumble.

Shane's expression softened with sadness.

"Then it's not impossible," he said quietly.

Then it was settled. When Connie helped James determine who was torturing them in their sleep, James was going to find them and strangle them. Or put the fear of death in them, at least. This wasn't just personal. This was affecting his friends. This was affecting other people on the island.

Quietly making that promise to himself, James had no more questions to ask.

"Resume your cooking," James said, dismissing Lyall from his brief interrogation.

"At your command," Lyall said with a small bow of his head and hand-flourish, then quickly disappeared from view once more.

"I thought he was going to salute there," Shane murmured, like he was thinking out loud.

James huffed through his nose. That seemed to mildly disturb Shrimp from his sleep, and he lifted his head, crawling up closer to James's face. He stepped over James's chest and sat down right in front of James's face, beginning to knead the blanket, and in turn, James.

James lifted his head briefly, just enough to reach Shrimp's head. He gave the cat a small kiss on the head, and then let his head fall back onto the couch with a thump. It kind of hurt, actually.

"I asked Connie to enter my next nightmare to see if he can find out who or what is causing them," James said. "So we'll see if we can get answers soon."

Hild nodded resolutely. "Good. Let me know what turns up."

"Will do," James said, patting Shrimp's head as his chest turned to dough.

Shane nodded, but he was frowning slightly.

"Did Connie know all along?" he asked quietly.

Oh. Right.

James felt a bit tense at the question. It felt like a truth he shouldn't admit to on Connie's behalf, but at the same time, maybe it was better for any initial anger and grievances to be aired out now while they had time to process so that Connie didn't bear the brunt of it. Connie wasn't very empathetic, and he didn't seem to have the patience for bearing with someone's emotions and still have a conversation.

Hesitating, James eventually nodded.

"Yeah," James said faintly.

Shane's expression was a little hard to read. But James thought he saw the faintest flicker of hurt in his eyes. James understood. He'd felt the same way.

"Okay," Shane said neutrally, looking down.

James wished he could offer words of comfort, but he'd run out of words to say a while ago, and he was still processing it himself. He fell to silence, quietly watching as Shrimp's kneading turned a little... urgent?

James's head was feeling more foggy, and a fresh wave of malaise and chills ran through him, making him feel nauseous to boot. Shrimp, formerly comfortable, seemed a little antsy, and suddenly hopped off of him, wiping his paws on the carpet.

"Shrimp?" Shane asked anxiously, making a soft pspsps sound in a gentle beckoning.

The cat shuffled around on the carpet for a moment longer before jumping onto Shane's lap. Shane petted Shrimp's back, examining him with a concerned frown and a furrowed brow.

"...He's very warm," he said hesitantly, looking up.

James turned his head, looking at Shane and Shrimp. His head was still hurting, but now it felt like his head was heavy.

"Probably because I'm warm," he said.

Hild's brows furrowed as she studied him. Her ever-present concern morphed into mild alarm as the seconds passed. Before she could say anything, though--

"How's your appetite?" Lyall asked, stepping back out into the living room with a steaming bowl in each hand.

"I could eat," James said, even though he wasn't sure if that was true. For the first time in a very long time, he actually didn't have much of an appetite at all.

Setting one bowl down, Lyall untucked a kitchen rag from his pocket to wrap the one still in his hand, before passing it off to Shane. Shane accepted the bowl with a grateful murmur. Then Lyall wrapped the other in a similar manner as he stood at James's side, waiting.

Taking in a deep breath, James mentally prepared himself for sitting up. He took a second before he shifted, lifting his head and sitting upright, leaning back against the couch. The couch creaked under his weight. His blanket fell to the side for a moment, revealing his still sandy chest and also the semi-warped semi-melted couch beneath him. He looked down at all of the grains of sand stuck in his chest hair and idly brushed it for a moment, realizing it was a bit of a lost cause.

How deep in the sand had he been? He couldn't remember. When had he even been in the sand?

With a small sigh, he looked up at Lyall and extended his hands. He felt another wave of nausea, but knew he needed fuel to get better. With an unreadable brow raise, Lyall carefully set the wrapped bowl in his hands.

Taking the bowl, James lifted it to his lips and sipped from it like it was a cup.

With a nod, Lyall began to take his leave. As he passed her, though, Hild grabbed the back of his sweater and yanked him back.

"Go to sleep," she demanded.

"No, my god!" Lyall whined as he stumbled back. "Leave me to the soup happenings in peace!"

"Stop being such a child!" Hild shot back, now getting to her feet with determination.

James stopped paying attention as the two of them bickered. He got lost in the soup. It was warm, and the steam hit his face like a blanket. He sipped on it slowly, letting it soothe his throat and hit his stomach. Once he'd tasted it, his stomach made known to him how empty it was, and he picked up the spoon he'd only just discovered, consuming quickly.

After a long few moments of their usual back and forth, Hild managed to successfully wrangle her brother onto the couch opposite of James. Lyall accepted his fate, but not with a few more loud complaints and a pout as he burritoed in a blanket himself.

"Just an hour!" he said firmly.

"Just an hour," Hild agreed diplomatically, trying and failing to suppress an amused grin.

Sensing the presence of a new warm blanket burrito, Shrimp left Shane to hop onto the next couch, trying to worm into Lyall's blanket.

"No," Lyall mumbled in warning to the cat.

In misunderstanding, Shrimp purred as he kept trying to snuggle.

"He's very nice," Shane promised. "He's just after cuddles all the time."

"I'm..." Lyall wrapped his blanket tighter around himself. "...allergic."

"No, he's not," Hild cut in helpfully.

Lyall just whined incoherently again, but seemed otherwise resigned to his fate furthermore as Shrimp persisted. Loosening a corner of the blanket, he set it over the cat's back. "There," he said grumpily. "Happy now?"

Shrimp did indeed seem happy, purring softly again as he curled up in the blanket.

"Glad to have appeased the cabin overlord," Lyall muttered, already drifting from wakefulness.

While the Ashlunds finished settling the cat issue, James finished inhaling his soup. While Lyall began to drift off and Hild took a turn to flit into the kitchen, James leaned forward to set his now-empty bowl on the coffee table with a sigh.

Feeling dizzy, he laid back down and pulled the blanket back up over his shoulders. He wasn't sure if he should take more medication, but he really did feel like he was burning up again. Moments ago, he'd been cold, but now he was sweating. Fumbling with the blanket, he threw it off with a huff, rolling over to his side.

Lyall said getting the fever down was the biggest priority, and James didn't think he should argue. Reaching out to the coffee table, James grabbed the nearest bottle of meds. Tylenol, it looked like.

Pushing himself up with one arm, James screwed the lid off, and the plastic cracked. Tossing the broken lid to the ground, James shook several pills out into his hand, and then realized he should bypass his hand and go straight to his mouth.

The plastic bottle was starting to melt under his fingers, and the pills were melting in his hand. Tossing them into his mouth, he proceeded to treat the bottle like a cup, throwing it back to toss more into his mouth. Trying to save the plastic from complete destruction, he set it back down, having to peel his fingers away from it because it was sticking.

Sighing, he flopped back onto the couch.

"You know it's been a long day when you can see that happening and only experience about 3% of the concern you probably should be feeling," Shane murmured.

James was confused for half a second, then realized Shane was talking about him. Oh.

"It burns in my blood," he said, only realizing after seeing Shane's expression that apparently that was unhelpful.

"Okay, it's more like 7% concern now," Shane said with a frown.

"Lyall let me... told me..." James said, trying to form a sentence. It felt like his brain was shutting down. His eyes were closing.

Shane pressed his lips together, nodding. "It's okay. Do what you need to do."

Too tired to say sorry, or really any words at all, James only managed what he thought was a nod. And he thought that, maybe he managed to say something after all. But he couldn't remember what it was before he fell asleep.

Lyall had had it with this tropical island prison.

So far, every left turn for anyone was a very purposeful, targeted attack on each contestant. Or, so it felt. But really, who could in good conscience deny that the place dripped with malicious intent?

From literally day one, with the ridiculous 'detention' episode and the constant watchful set of cameras on every corner, there was a constant, consistent breaching of their agency and dignity as grown people. And every 'incident' grew more offensive, aggressive. The most obvious example being Mister James Hawke.

As he witnessed small interactions between James and several other friends (Hild and Shane, primarily), Lyall got the sense that he didn't even have he fullest picture of James's plights. But, given the mandated Stravos jail time after decking the narcissistic prima donna Trieu brother, as well as the hostile environment created during Ooktoberfest, Lyall could easily extrapolate what data he did have and make a fairly solid guess. Things were looking to only escalate leaps and bounds for the worse, for everyone.

The ever-growing pile of the DMV's sins had been festering in the back of his mind for their entire stay; it was just easier to consciously stew on it now since waking up groggy and grumpy from what was supposed to be an hour-long nap at most. Instead, Hild allowed him to sleep away basically the entire day after promising him she'd wake him after that singular hour!

Marching up the hill to the mansion, Lyall cast a rueful look over his shoulder to the horizon. The sun was already sinking for the ocean below. So much daylight wasted on sleeping. On sitting around, waiting for the next bad thing to plow over them.

No more!

The wrought iron gates of the hilltop mansion came into view. Eyes ablaze, he strode up to them with determination, ready to melt them down if he had to--

Just for the gates to simply. Glide open, seemingly of their own volition.

Immediately disarmed enough to no longer desire storming in dramatically to announce himself, he stared blankly at the opened up yard ahead of him.

No one was around. No filming crew, no security, not even a gardener. No...anybody.

Lyall practically tiptoed down the stone path to the front door. Hesitating, then pivoting from one stepping stone to another if the first seemed the slightest bit suspicious. The trapdoor thing thus far only happened to James-- to Lyall's knowledge. But one couldn't be too careful.

Before Lyall could even raise a fist to pound demandingly on the door, it gave way. The foyer was lit, but likewise devoid of life.

The whole thing reeked of a trap.

Drawing in a steadying breath, Lyall squared his shoulders and ventured into the belly of the beast.

The foyer was bigger than he remembered. Probably just because it was empty now. Lyall scanned the space, already at a loss for where to go.

Simultaneously, the front door clicked shut behind him while a different one down the hallway straight ahead opened. Which was more than a sign-- it was an open invitation. Keeping alert of his surroundings, he padded silently down the hall. The door led to a winding stairway. He descended, noting the ornate crown molding and pristine conditions of the foyer extended even to this transitionary space.

"Lyall Ashlund!" a cheerful, feminine voice said in the room below. "Finally, you found me. Why don't you join me for a drink?"

Lyall froze dead in his tracks, hesitating for just a second. There was a small voice screaming from the back of his mind, that he turn around and walk right back out.

Resolutely ignoring the pit in his stomach, he slapped on a breezy facade as he stepped fully into the moody lights of the room.

There was another millisecond of pause as he took in the sheer indulgence of the space. Everything was tall, golden and ornate, a tasteful mix of Rococo and sleek modern. In the center of it all reclined the head of the island herself, in a dazzling night gown and glittering jewelry. Two glasses of dark, glistening wine were already poured.

Standing straighter and with one arm behind his back, Lyall offered a formal bow and greeted, "Miss Trieu. Forgive my intrusion, but there are some pressing matters that need immediate addressing."

Maeve smiled, tilting her head as she cordially gestured to the velvet loveseat across from her. "I know. Why don't you join me so we can talk, Lyall? I also have pressing matters to discuss. It's very important."

Even with a polite smile plastered on, he couldn't help but arch a brow. He knew he was stepping into the ring with a viper, but there was no benefit to backing out. Worst-case scenario, he walked back out with no more than how he entered.

Lyall took the loveseat across from her with a polite nod in thanks.

"Do you like wine?" Maeve asked as she watched him with intrigue, holding up her wine glass and swirling it in her hand. She grinned. "Oh, why do I even ask? Of course you do, you silly little gentleman, you. You'll love this bottle." She beamed, holding her wine glass up higher. "Because it's your favorite. I specifically brought this one for you."

With a huffed laugh, he picked up the other glass and studied it closely as he himself swirled it experimentally. "You've certainly done your research," he said lightly, then took a cautious sip.

"Of course, darling," she said with an innocent shrug. "I'm Vice President of the DMV. I basically rule this island."

He wondered how much authority she had over the world outside of the island.

After another sip, he set aside the glass. He needed a clear head for this conversation.

"As much as I revel in the small talk and niceties," he said, leaning back as he crossed an ankle over his knee, "and find your wanting my company quite the pleasant surprise, I shan't insult your intelligence by beating around the bush--"

"Let me guess," Maeve cut in, voice more strict as she held her wine glass up next to her face, leaning an elbow against the armrest as she studied the wine. "You demand answers. You demand change. You demand action." She turned back to him, quirking a brow. "Three out of three?"

Well, sure, if they wanted to be vague about it.

"I request," he said smoothly, trying to take back the reins of the conversation, "at the very least, reprieve from your brother's pettiness, and an iota of some productivity. Or to be sent home, if all the DMV has in store is needless hell. Not everyone can afford to suddenly funnel three month's worth of all their time and energy into an endeavor where their lives hang in the balance, with seemingly no returns for it."

"Oh, tell me about it," Maeve groaned. "So many employees have been so incompetent. Fools, all of them are. I can't trust anyone here to do a good job! Everyone is complaining that they can't do this, they can't do that, too much time, too much energy, blah blah blah. Does anyone know how to work hard anymore? And I'm being so generous, too, giving all my employees ample opportunity. Money. Power. Luxury. What more does a person want?" She sighed. "Wasted opportunity, I tell you. It's too bad I don't have the manpower to ease your concerns."

Lyall nodded his understanding.

God, he remembered now why he hated rich people. Festering in their entitlement, whining about the absence of good workers while they themselves idly drank away their days in their ivory towers.

He beat down the urge to visibly bristle. Because it was the entitlement that also reminded him that the Trieus could literally afford to do nothing but whine about other people all day. Maeve wasn't even trying to be subtle in flaunting her wealth and power for the simple reason that she didn't need to.

Folding his hands, Lyall shifted to get more comfortable in his seat. Tapped into the 'wearied manager' persona-- dredging up all the nights he spent working overtime on busywork, like lab work or transcribing Geoff's notes, just because they couldn't afford to hire anyone...yes, competent enough to just do it themselves, or mature enough to simply grin and bear it. All this, to offer a sympathetic, "Some truly don't know when they've got it made. One's good graces can only extend so far."

"Exactly! You understand," Maeve said enthusiastically, pausing to take a sip of her wine. "Mm! Excellent wine choice, Lyall. You've got exquisite tastes."

He mustered a flattered smile, taking up his glass again. "Takes one to know one, hm? You are a likewise a woman of refined palate." He gestured to the lavish room with an easier smile. "Through and through."

"Finally, someone who recognizes good taste," she said with a grin. "I knew you'd be a special one. You should have heard my idiot of a brother." Maeve rolled her eyes, scoffing. "He called this the ugliest room he's ever seen in his life. And I bet he hates your wine."

Lyall scoffed in exaggerated offense. "Well, it's truly personal now," he said playfully into his glass.

Never mind the constant invasion of their privacy, and the targeted attacks on everyone at the festival.

"So personal," Maeve agreed, nodding. "Oliver is a menace, but family is very important. He may not know it, but I'm always looking out for my brother. Protection is a valid form of love, too."

"Protection," he agreed, lifting his glass, not about to begin speculating on the sincerity of it. He was in no place to assume anything; it wasn't like he was ever nominated for the 'brother of the year' award, either.

Shifting again to rest an arm on the side of the loveseat, he took a second to look her over with a slight grin. Then leaned forward just a bit to put on the appearance of taking a sincere interest. "You know, I'm quite relieved to find you and I are of one mind, Miss Trieu. Please, indulge me for a moment: are you the elder of the two?"

She shook her head. "Younger. My brother may be older and thinks he needs to protect me, but if only he knew that I am protecting him. We both try to hide it, I think. It is what it is."

"Well, so long as there's appreciation of what you do for one another," he said with a hint of something sad and wistful in his smile.

Maeve nodded. "You understand. Perhaps Hild does the same thing, actually. She may be protecting you. But are you protecting her?"

Oh, how Lyall wished some days that Hild knew the lengths he went to provide for their family. Maybe she wouldn't be so cold toward him, then.

He allowed his smile to fade a bit, and his eyes darken at Maeve's insinuation. "You couldn't have it more wrong," he answered politely.

"Oh?" She tilted her head, crossing her legs. "Do indulge me."

Lyall didn't want to. To give away something so sincere of himself, when he could hardly tell past appearances what was and wasn't with the Trieus. It would be too much of an imbalance from the start.

Though... he had to remind himself, Maeve already knew anything there was to know about him. She already had the upper hand. It didn't make much a difference if he tried withholding anything.

"I believe you and I are the more kindred spirits in this scenario," he eventually obliged.

Maeve hummed. "And is it working? Your kindred protection."

Holding her gaze, Lyall took another sip. "Swimmingly," he lied.

She pursed her lips, maintaining eye contact. "Aw. Too bad. Then you probably don't care to hear my proposition."

The hook. The reason for rolling out the red carpet upon his entry.

At the prickle of intrigue, he actively suppressed a sigh. Shit.

"Unfortunately," he smoothly pivoted, looking down into his wine, "my protection doesn't quite extend to my new companions." He looked back up to her, debating, then took the bait: "I don't suppose this proposition would make any room for that?"

Maeve shook her head. "Nope. Just your family, their security, and your future."

Lyall nodded in understanding. Benefits never did quite extend as far as friends, because that would be a steep slope for corporations, so he knew that was a bit of a reach anyhow.

He reflected on his own family then. How Viktor rarely really indulged in leisure throughout all his youth thus far, and only asked for things less than he knew they could reasonably afford. How Hild slaved to earn her scholarship overseas. How Geoff in his lasting grief never truly did step up as head of the house after their mother's passing, leaving Lyall to assume the role in his stead. How Lyall, out of desperation, built for them a house of cards in the middle of the frozen fucking nowhere, just to ensure all of their safety in an otherwise hostile corner of the world.

He didn't dare assume the best of Maeve's intentions. But he couldn't deny that her offer to lift some of this weight from all their shoulders was so incredibly enticing.

"You've certainly piqued my curiosity," Lyall answered lightly. "What's your proposition entail, exactly?"

Maeve smiled, gingerly setting her wine glass down as she leaned her weight against the arm of the chair again, legs still crossed. "I need an assistant," she began, voice light as well. "As you know, everyone here is incompetent. I need someone I can trust, who can actually listen for once and be grateful for the opportunity I'm giving them. In return for following a few simple tasks, you'll gain immunity for your time on the island, and you'll also be graciously rewarded. Whatever you want, you've got it. Protection? Money? Power? Fame? Honey, I've got it all. If you can think it, you can get it. All you have to do is agree and name your price."

Line, and sinker.

He had to overlook the implications that he was decidedly not incompetent in her eyes. It was to deliberately stroke his ego, of course, which he couldn't indulge in.

Lyall angled his chin up slightly, a truly intrigued grin on his face. "'Simple tasks'? Miss Maeve, you and I both know the devil's in the details. I cannot simply agree without knowing in full what I'm agreeing to."

"Of course not! We're the DMV. The devil is the detail." She grinned, flicking hair over her shoulder. "Look under your chair."

He arched a brow at first. What was this, a give-away segment on a morning talk show? Still, he obeyed and pulled out a white box. Ornately and delicately carved, and with little clawed feet.

"It's locked until you are alone in your room," Maeve continued. "Inside is a contract for a job offer. Everything you need to know is inside. Should you agree to the conditions, you are welcome to sign it. You have one week to decide."

Pursing his lips, Lyall nodded slowly as he contemplated the etchings on the sides. He then stood and flashed Maeve another easy grin. "Fantastic. More than enough time to weigh all my options."

"Absolutely. Do take all the time you need around such a decision. And if you want to come back to drink wine with me..." With a devilish smile, she tilted her head and winked. "Please do."

Closing the space between them, Lyall slipped a hand under hers. He bent at the waist as he brought her knuckles to his lips. Then flashed another smile. "I shall thoroughly contemplate this prodigious opportunity, and get back to you within the week. Just know until then that you, Miss Maeve, have my eternal gratitude."

A voice came through distantly, but James couldn't understand what they were saying. James turned his head away, trying to shake it away. When it didn't work, he tried to roll over, but his body felt stuck, refusing to move when he wanted it to.

Then something touched his shoulder, and that came through clear as day.

Eyes shooting open, James shook awake, throwing his arm up and gripping the side of the couch to keep himself from falling off of it. The couch itself audibly sizzled under his hands, and he could feel the fabric melting under his skin.

Wide-eyed and bleary, James had no idea what was going on. He stared up at Clarity, utterly bewildered at her presence. She seemed almost equally bewildered, leaning away and apparently startled. There was a slightly singed oven mitt on one of her hands, but if she was burned, her face didn't show it.

"Woah, sorry," she said, holding up both hands to show her hands were otherwise empty. "You were out like a light. I didn't mean to startle you, but I had to try something."

James blinked slowly, trying to process where he was. What day it was. Who was here.

Glancing around the room, James spotted Hild on the couch where Lyall used to be. She had a book out and was reading, but she did look to have glanced over briefly. Shane was at the kitchen counter with a book of his own, two mugs of coffee, and Shrimp on the counter beside him.

Both of them looked to be in the same clothes they were in the last time James saw them, so he could assume it was the same day. However, the room itself looked... well, cleaner. Tidy.

Someone must've cleaned while he was out.

He turned his attention back to Clarity.

"What's... uh," was all he got out.

"You're sick," Clarity said. "Concerningly so, from what your friends have described, and I didn't understand what the problem was until I got over here. You're basically a walking exothermic reaction." She paused. "Well. A... lying exothermic reaction."

James only stared at her.

"That's the process that releases heat," Clarity offered. "The opposite of endothermic."

James wasn't sure he fully understood what she was getting at, but he waited for her to elaborate. She seemed to understand.

"Anyway, the point is: you've got a pretty serious fever, and I was asked to help," Clarity explained. "I already have helped with that on this island, for someone else who had one. I made them a vitamin shot that worked, and I made another just earlier today when Eve came by and said you were sick. It seemed like the dose was too low when you took it, though, so I'm here to figure out how much to give you so that it works this time."

It took James a hot minute to realize he'd apparently forgotten all of that had happened. He supposed he'd thought it was a fever dream, and now he felt somewhat regretful for being as out of it as he'd been prior when Eve stopped by. Had he said anything coherent? He couldn't really remember much besides waking up, his head throbbing, and taking... something. The medicine, he guessed.

"Oh," he said faintly, not sure what else to say.

Was Eve still around? He didn't see her. He figured she was probably worried, too...

"Can I sit?" Clarity asked.

James glanced down at the couch he laid on. He wasn't sure where she meant to sit, but he assumed she wouldn't sit close enough to get uh. Burned.

"Yeah, yeah," he said. "Sure."

At that, Clarity sat down on the coffee table, taking out a notepad and pen, scribbling the tip over the paper to get the ink flowing.

"Alright," she said, looking up at him again. "There's about to be some questions. Obviously, don't answer whatever you don't want to. It's a free country. Island." She shrugged. "You get the point. The more I gather, the better I can help, of course."

All of this suddenly felt strangely familiar.

"...Okay," he said.

Clarity hummed, leaning over her notepad.

"Do you already take any medications?" she asked.

James fumbled with his hands, patting around the couch until he found his pocket. Swaying at he sat up, he finally remembered the sleeping medications he'd put in his pocket, and he pulled out a partially melted and warped orange bottle, looking at it in dismay.

"Yes," he said.

Wordlessly, Clarity held out a hand for it.

James looked down at it, then over at her.

"It's hot," he said.

Clarity paused. "Oh, yeah," she said, holding out her non-dominant hand, which was still gloved.

He dropped the bottle into the oven-mitt, then pulled away. It was then that he noticed some steam was coming off of his hand. Intrigued, Clarity leaned forward slightly to observe it, then waved the steam away magically, like she had done for distilling the ocean water.

"Maybe the exothermic reaction wasn't so much of an exaggeration," she said.

Clarity looked down at the bottle, squinting at the slightly melted label and saying the name of the medication under her breath, then turned the bottle to the active ingredients. With a satisified nod, she set it on top of a coaster, then jotted down some notes. From the short time she'd spent looking at the bottle and the small amount of information it provided her, it seemed like it'd given her plenty to write, including some lengthy chemical formulas that her pen sped through.

"Next," she said, once more looking at him, "this might be a bit of a curveball. But do you know why you're..."

She held up her gloved hand.

"...A human furnace at the moment?" she finished.

James blinked a bit, slowly processing the question.

"You mean my fever," he said.

Clarity nodded. "Well, your extreme fever. It's a fever that makes me wonder if I have a fever, and I'm several feet away."

Was it really that bad? James frowned, leaning back into the couch as he sat up straighter.

"Some plastics have got melting points of 473 Kelvin," Clarity said. "I don't know exactly what type that bottle is, but it should not be sludge from being in your pocket."

James looked down at the bottle in Clarity's hands, swallowing a bit as he drew his hands together. Now that he was awake, the heat was getting to him too. He was dying to cool down.

"I normally generate a lot of heat," James said. "I run... hotter than the average person, I guess. But it's not normal for me to get feverish, or even sick in general. When I do it's only because a lot of things are..."

Ugh, it felt like his brain was lagging. He closed his eyes rubbing the bridge of his nose.

"Hellish?" Clarity suggested.

That was sufficient. He nodded, still holding his nose. Even his own breath was unpleasantly hot.

"The only time this happens is if I don't... if..." he struggled, but tried to push through and string his words together. With a small huff of frustration, he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and held his head.

"My powers are strongest when I'm healthy, well-rested, and well-fed. If either of those are lacking, my self-restoring process slows. It never stops, but it can get over-worked and strained, leaving my normally resilient immune system vulnerable. But it's... when it's vulnerable, it's really vulnerable. Doctors use other words. I just know it's dramatic," he said.

Clarity attentively took notes, focused on her writing. Despite the speed at which her pen flew over the paper, her cursive was surprisingly neat.

"So whatever you're sick with isn't alarming in itself, just your response to it is," she concluded, checking her understanding. "And while it might be dramatic, it's to be somewhat expected."

"I... yes," James hesitated.

Again, Clarity looked up from her notes, but gave him a longer look with a frown this time.

"Shane, can you open that kitchen window?" she asked.

Shane raised his head, looking confused, but he hopped to his feet and opened the window above their sink. Clarity waved her hand in a circle, and James suddenly felt cool air blowing over him, circulating around the room and out the window in a sort of... magical air conditioner system.

Oh, that felt nice.

Sinking his face a little more into his hands in relief, James let out a long sigh.

"Does that help?" Clarity asked hopefully.

"Immensely," James said. It was the most comfortable he'd felt in 48 hours.

A flicker of a smile passed over Clarity's face before her gaze went back to her notes.

"Maybe when I head back to the lab, they can find you a box fan or something," she suggested, tapping her pen again. "Okay, just a few more things. I asked Eve what your height and weight were for the dose, but she had to give me her best guess, so it might've been off. Do you have a rough idea of those?"

Ah. This again. Why did his weight keep coming up? He felt like it'd been at least four or five times now. No one ever asked about anyone else's weight. He knew he was an unusual phenomenon, so it was more likely to come up, but it was still a pet peeve of his. He hated feeling like a science experiment.

But it didn't make much sense not to answer. Clarity was a chemist. She was trying to help and find a cure so he could recover, and if he was difficult, he might be bedridden for... well, a long time. Which wouldn't be great for anybody.

Having an internal wrestle with his own stubbornness, James didn't answer right away. He decided that he needed to lie back down, because even though the wind was helping, his head still hurt.

"I'm 5ft8," he answered first. That was the easy part.

Lying down, he let out another sigh - this one more apprehensive.

"And I weigh 542 lbs."

To the side, Hild audibly stopped mid-page turning. Shane's head didn't move up from his book, but he frowned very slightly, and James was fairly sure it wasn't the Industrial Revolution that was causing him confusion.

Clarity's pen, which had been recording his height, slowed a little at that.

"Five, four, two," she said calmly, obviously double-checking the unusual value.

"Last I checked," James said. "But that was before I came here. I don't think there's been any major fluctuation, though."

Clarity nodded. "That'll do. It doesn't need to be an exact science. I mean, it does, but--" She waved a hand. "Leave that to me. Thanks for answering."

James nodded faintly.

Clarity made to stand, tucking her notepad and pen away.

"I should have it ready in forty-one minutes," she promised.

James didn't know why that was so exact, but he didn't think to question it. Would he be awake in 41 minutes? He could try to be.

"Is there anything else I can do for you?" she asked.

"No," James said. "Thank you. It seems you've been my savior twice this week. I now owe you doubly for your generosity."

The faint smile returned to Clarity's face as she stood up from the coffee table. "Nah, you don't owe me anything, double or not. Just glad to help."

James huffed.

"Well... thanks, then."

And after another polite acknowledgement, Clarity left, and in her wake, the breeze left with her. It didn't take long for James to fall asleep again, but when he woke up again, it was to the relief of a new breeze, but this one from a box fan that had been placed beside him, blowing in his direction.

He rolled over, eyes peeling open just a tad as he let the air blow over his face. He could hear someone moving around in the kitchen, but he didn't process much else until there was a knock on the door.

Hild got up to get it, and Clarity came in.

Had it already been... 40 minutes, she said?

"Hello, hello," Clarity said, holding up a volumetric flask of something orange. "I've got the goods."

Shane lifted his head, flipping over his phone screen. "Huh. You really were gone for exactly forty-one minutes."

"I said I would be," Clarity said with a shrug, going back to the coffee table to perch on it once more. "Alright. Sorry, James, but this is going to taste reeeeeeeally bad. I haven't gotten around to changing the flavor yet."

James forced himself to sit up again.

"It's fine," James said. "Of all the maladies I endure a poor taste is inconsequential."

"Very brave," Clarity commended him, handing over the flask. "It's lucky you must've forgotten the last time."

The last time? Well, James wasn't going to question that right now. He took the flask from her hand, careful not to touch her skin, and quickly downed it like a shot, not giving himself time to think over the taste before swallowing.

Regret hit soon after as his mouth filled with the hideous, chemical taste of something askin to gasoline - which he'd never tasted, but it this tasted the way that gasoline smelled. Having to force back a gag, James knew he'd made a face of clear disgust as he forced a swallow and shook his head.

"...Damn," he muttered.

Clarity winced sympathetically. "Yeah, I know. Sorry. If there's a next time I'll work on making it taste like orange juice."

The taste still lingered in his mouth, and James opend his mouth, quietly clicking his tongue to the roof of his mouth and back down before he stuck it out briefly, trying to rid himself of it to no avail.

"Can I get some water?" he asked.

"Yes, you can still have all the water you need," Clarity said, about to stand, but Shane got up from where he was in the kitchen, already starting to pour a glass from James' water supply.

"Throw the glass," Clarity said simply.

Looking baffled, Shane stared down at the glass, then back up at James and Clarity. He looked like he had no idea what she meant, but he held it up looking ready to toss.

James blinked, looking at Clarity.

No. She wasn't... was she?

"You're not going to baby-bird me," he said.

"I'm not," Clarity said. "Just toss it as if you were hoping for me to catch it, Shane."

Shane still looked incredulous, but her confidence must have been enough to make him decide that he was willing enough to try it, because he pitched the glass across the cabin to Clarity. She snatched the glass out of the air effortlessly with one hand, directing the water that would have splattered everywhere into the glass so that not a drop was lost, holding it out to him to drink normally.

James stared at the spectacle, impressed, but not sure why all of that was necessary. He raised a brow.

"Faster," Clarity explained. "You don't want to tasting that for a moment longer than necessary, I'm sure."

Huffing, he reached out to take the water and the oven glove she removed from her hand. With the glove as a barrier, he held the glass and chugged the water quickly. It helped mildly, but it was better than nothing. He offered the glass back to her, which she set back on the coffee table. He tossed the mitt beside it, which was already looking more scorched.

He stared at the blackened fabric with a sigh.

"Today is... weird," Shane said, still staring at the glass.

James looked up at him, leaning back into the couch.

"This whole week has been weird," he said.

"At least it's hard for it to get weirder from here," Clarity said, knocking on the wood of the coffee table.

James shot her a look. She shouldn't say such things. Knocking on wood was only a superstition, and he knew things could get much weirder.

"Hey, sorry," Clarity said, holding up her hands in surrender. "I see we don't need to be jinxed right now."

"Ideally not," Shane said.

"My whole life is jinxed," James said with a pleading motion of his hands towards her.

"I'll refrain from spiteing fate any further," Clarity said, as though as it was a serious promise.

"Thank you," James said, just as genuine.

With another faint smile, Clarity started to rise from the coffee table, giving him more space. "I figure that should break your fever within a few hours at most. If it doesn't, or you have any concerns, feel free to send someone over. I'm not doing anything else more important than this."

Somehow, James doubted that, but he didn't want to pry for that answer. Clarity seemed to be working on plenty of projects on the regular, right? What made this one more important? Well, besides the face that he was sick...

James nodded, but doing so made him feel a bit nauseous. The taste still lingered in his mouth, and the cure hadn't kicked in yet.

"Okay," he said, trying not to look like he could puke if he tried.

On her way out, Clarity turned the box fan up a notch, seeming to notice he could use it, and called out a farewell to all three of them before she left the cabin, the door closing behind her a little more noisily in the fan breeze. When she was gone, James leaned his head back, staring up at the ceiling.

"Feeling better?" Shane asked, seemingly to have finally snapped out of his surprise over the glass.

"Not yet," James said faintly. "But... hopefully soon."

Shane nodded. "We'll be around for you until you do."

James nodded, and let silence fall between them once more. He closed his eyes, and he didn't remember lying down or what he did next.

True to Maeve's word, the box only unlocked itself once Lyall locked himself in his own room.

He drew the curtains closed first, blocking out the lingering pink light of dusk. Cleared his desk, tidied up as he rewound the confrontation mentally. To process the door he'd opened up. Then finally sat down and opened the box.

To find an. Impossibly long contract. God, studying law must have been utter hell. He was certainly grateful, at least, that his mother never pushed that profession on him. Once past the initial "eugh" of it all, he was actually fine with the sheer level of attention to detail. Admired it, even.

After a thorough read-through the thorough document, the parchment started to feel like a block of lead in his hands.

It was binding on a completely new level: it declared itself in clear writing a magically enhanced document. There was literally no way back out once he signed on, since signing it meant he was agreeing to an entirely unbreakable bond. That was, unless he was willing to face consequences that included but were certainly not limited to: bankruptcy, Hild and Vik losing any opportunities at a higher education, raking his family name through the mud, and so on and so forth and what have you.

Felt fairly standard, as far as deals with the devil went. But, make no mistake, the weight of it was not lost on him. This was risking everything any of them ever worked for.

He wanted Hild to weigh in on this. She was sensible when it came to weighing pros and cons. But, the more he considered calling her over, the more it felt like she'd respond with a flat "no", completely dismiss anything from the DMV out of pride.

So he didn't.

After several page-lengths of meticulously defined terms and disclaimers, he finally reached the promises of greater, and the job details.

To keep it concise, it would require of Lyall to secretly step into the role of pseudo-admin of official DMV testing. He would essentially act as a recruiter, then manager of a group of lower-level admins. Or assistants, basically. As Lyall understood it, he'd liken all of their roles to that of a teacher's assistant at uni.

Then it finally opened up to the good stuff. The only reason why he willingly walked into a trap in the first place. It listed everything Maeve already promised: Safety, financial security, social influence, etc. Vik could have his choice of college, and career path. Maybe if Hild found the courage to break from the family practice, she could have the same.

Lyall even dared to consider the possibility of a more open future for himself.

With the job description came a list of the island resources at his disposal. Which Maeve hadn't mentioned, and Lyall found himself rather intrigued by. He just figured he'd have to Frank Abagnale it again, forging documents and signatures in order to pull this off. But that was apparently an unnecessary measure. Made his job easier.

On a separate card with intricate patterns of gold leaf along the edges, her other promise of immunity for the upcoming event was detailed. The premise of the event was left unclear, but one stated challenge he found deeply disconcerting: everyone's magic was to be switched for the day.

He could smell the smoke of an accidental explosion, see the charred bones of a falling building as a result of someone carelessly flinging about his pyrokinesis.

Shaking the terrible vision, he pored over the card again.

The gift of immunity came into play with the magic he was meant to receive. According to the DMV, it was one of the most highly sought-after powers. He'd suffer no direct consequences of its use, too-- the card also distinctly clarified that it didn't protect him from the aftermath of it though.

Leaning back in his desk chair, Lyall scrubbed both hands over his face as he paged through everyone's profiles in his mind.

Hild's, though certainly valuable, was a rather obscure and largely unacknowledged power. No one ever wished, upon being asked the "any superpower" question, "Oh, yeah, a perfect memory would be just the thing for me!" No one thought that, it wasn't reaching high enough.

Cyrin's ability to transfer wounds was also valuable in its own right. And likewise lesser known, regardless of his celebrity status.

There was that catch of only being able to shuffle physical traumas around, which could have been the to-be-suppressed consequence. Though...that was the main feature of his power, wasn't it? So. Suppressing that would be to cancel it out entirely. Hm...

Lyall found himself ultimately contemplating the abilities of James and Alan.

The exact extent of James's magic was still somewhat unclear to Lyall, and he wasn't sure whether steel bones would be included. Sounded unpleasant, to say the least, if someone was otherwise unaccustomed to the weight. Maybe that was the "consequence" they promised to bar?

But the rapid regeneration was an incredibly valuable innate ability. More on the blue collar level. It was mostly sought out by militaries, experimental pharmacological organizations, and basically any industry with generally more-hazardous-than-normal environments.

Which made Lyall next wonder: what the hell was the DMV tossing them into next? That he may or may not require James's rapid regeneration?

Alan's ability to magically sway another person's thoughts and choices was another indispensable power, but in an entirely different way. There was an infinite amount of theoretical applications, from having the final say on...where to eat out, for instance, to even influencing the deciding vote on legislation that could rock the foundation of an entire country.

...And Alan never even used it. For the better! It rather encroached on the intrinsic, most basic rights of mankind, so it wasn't an ability to use lightly in the least.

So. What dire situations-- or even long-term games-- might come up that Lyall would need to override someone else's free will?

Before he could start running potential scenarios for the uses of either magic, there was a knock on his door. Sweeping up the papers and stuffing them back in the box, he silently hid it away in the desk drawer. Through the crack in the curtains, he noted darkness had already fallen as he padded to the door. Then unlocked it to find none other than Alan Alvaro himself, holding a white box of leftovers.

Alan smiled upon seeing Lyall, holding the box up higher. "Hey. Are you hungry?"

Lyall blinked, then felt himself laugh with an appreciative grin. "God," he murmured, a little embarrassed to have lost track of time, "how late is it?"

"It's not that late," Alan assured, smile widening. "But definitely past dinner time."

Lyall inclined his head in warm thanks. "You are too kind, Alvaro." More playfully, he added, "What ever would I do without you?"

"Not be entertained, probably. And stay hungry," Alan said with casual playfulness. His smile softened a bit as he said more neutrally, "Do you care for company right now?"

Lyall fought the urge to look back at his desk, where the unsigned contract was burning a hole through the drawer. The split second of hesitation was probably still noticeable, though, so he had to lean into it and let out a grateful sigh.

"Honestly," he answered, opening the door wider with a sincere smile, "that would be more than appreciated. I slept away the day, and thus missed my chances to hang out with my usual companions."

Namely Kaz; they hadn't had much opportunity in general to spend time together, beyond their first two gaming sessions.

Alan stepped into the room, gingerly setting the box of food on top of his desk. "Did you just wake up?" he asked.

"A couple hours ago, I think," Lyall fibbed.

Pulling himself up onto the desk, he tucked his legs under himself as he curiously opened the box to find a pile of small meatballs and golden diced potatoes all covered in gravy. On the side was a generous spoonful of cranberry sauce. Everything was still warm. The comforting aroma of the food brought on a sharp, loud reminder that Lyall indeed missed two meals, and would've missed the third had it not been for his saviour.

Alan pulled up the armchair to the desk to join Lyall's side, watching him stare down at the food. "Oh, right," he said as he sat. "I was in the plaza for the majority of the day. We ate at a restaurant that served Fjelstad food, and I knew I had to bring a dish back to you. Hopefully it's authentic enough that it reminds you of home."

Already tucking in, Lyall hummed confirmation with his mouth full. "What did I ever do to deserve a friend like you?" he said. Mostly playful, but also meaning it far more than he intended.

Alan smiled, leaning back on the chair. "Absolutely nothing, considering you slept all day today. Now you're going to be up all night."

Lyall snorted, then feigned despair by heaving a woeful sigh. "Alas, such is my lot in life. To live in darkness forever more." He pointed his fork at Alan. "But not without good company, so I accept my fate." Then took another two bites.

Alan huffed out a laugh, watching him eat with clear amusement. But the worry in his voice shone through anyways. "Did you eat anything today?"

Oops. Did he appear that starved?

"You said it yourself," Lyall answered with a noncommittal shrug, re-enforcing the half-truth, "I literally slept all day."

Alan hummed. "Well, maybe I should drop by more often with food, then. The delicious smells will wake you up and force you to start your day so you can spend it with your usual companions."

Lyall laughed. "I won't say no to a personal food delivery service."

Alan tapped his fingers along the arm of the chair. "What are your favorite foods, anyways?"

Alvaro was always very intentional about inquiring after small things such as favorites. Very open and obvious about being observant in this way. But his timing was always impeccable, so he still managed to make a pleasant surprise of it later on.

Lyall grinned with open fondness for the man as he demonstratively stabbed another meatball. "This is always a solid fallback," he answered.

Then seriously considered the question and went on, "The snobbish side of me wants to lie and say, one of the high-class, formal dishes that are served in courses." He took another bite of potatoes-- they were perfectly crispy. "But you've got me dead to rights. I'm a simple man at heart. The honest answer would consist of the comfort foods. Like, a good meat stew, cinnamon buns, blood pudding--" He waved his fork. "Which, off-putting as it sounds, is really quite tasty."

Alan nodded, taking this in as he let out a soft hum. "There's certainly nothing odd about enjoying the simple pleasures of life, and that extends to preferring comfort foods as well. Everything you listed sounds comforting and delicious."

"I've found there's, on occasion," Lyall said, setting aside the now-empty takeaway box, "a vague expectation as a medical professional to not indulge in such things." Leaning back on his hands, he nodded to Alan and asked with genuine interest, "What about you, then? Please, enlighten me on the innermost wants of Alan Alvaro."

Alan idly rubbed the side of his jaw, clearly thinking this over. "I can name specific dishes, although they're mostly traditional Argent dishes that my family makes, so saying the name doesn't quite describe it. More generally, I'd say I'm drawn to nostalgia. Foods tied to special memories make them more memorable and dear to my heart. Somehow, nostalgic foods taste better. Strange, isn't it?"

Smile turning warm, Lyall shook his head. "Not at all," he answered wholeheartedly. He leaned his elbows on his knees. "Indulge me, then. What's a particularly special food-evoked memory to you?"

With a light in his eyes, Alan smiled brightly and leaned his head back over the chair, reflecting. "When my youngest cousin Sofia was born," he began, then shook his head and dismissively waving his hand in front of him. "Don't get me wrong, I love her dearly, but I have a lot of cousins. I swear, as a young teenager, I was hearing about the birth of a new cousin every year from my aunt and uncles."

Lyall suppressed an endeared laugh at Alan's almost exasperated tone in merely mentioning extended family. How big was the Alvaro clan?

Alan sighed, dropping his hand. "Sadly, back then, I didn't understand how special it is to be present for a birth. It's an innocent soul's grand entrance to the world, but I found it to be tiring." He paused, adjusting to sit more upright. "I'm not sure what happened-- well, actually, I have my guesses, but they were a series of decisions. But when I was 14, everything just... clicked."

Alan smiled, shrugging lightly as he fixed his attention back on Lyall. "It was like I saw the world through a different lens. I held baby Sofia in my arms the day she was born, and I knew she was going to be special. My whole family is. But it was like, just for one day, everything was good in the world. There was no fear about how cruel others could be, no uncertainty about political and economic environments, no worries about what the next day would bring. Appreciating the life of someone new helped me live in the present."

Alan paused again, huffing out a laugh and shaking his head. "Anyways, that was a really long answer to say that the food that day tasted really good," he finished.

Lyall grinned wide with open affection. "It's... That's really beautiful, Alan," he said softly. Then he hummed his own amusement. "Two follow ups, if you don't mind?"

Alan smiled, intrigued. "Sure," he said with a loose gesture of his hand. "I'm an open book."

He certainly was. Selectively.

"Alright. One: you neglected to mention any particular food," Lyall said in gentle teasing. Then, with more warmth, "Two: what's little Sofia up to now? Do you get to visit often?"

Alan laughed through his nose, intertwining his hands and setting them on his lap as he kept his gaze on Lyall. "Aji de gallina, pollo a la brasa, papas a la huancaína," he answered effortlessly in Argent, then shrugged. "Like I said, they're traditional dishes. But those are the names."

Lyall nodded, trying his best to take mental note. It did briefly occur to him to perhaps practice pronunciation, aloud with a native speaker while he had him, but he wanted to hold off on the reveal. For perhaps a bigger-than-food moment.

"And Sofia," Alan continued with a brighter smile, excited to move on and talk about her. "She's eleven now and just entered middle school. Between my two uncles, she has four other cousins around her age, and they all get along. For the most part, anyways. The boys don't like the girls. You know how it is." Still smiling, he shrugged. "My mother and I used to coddle her more, but my oldest cousin has two kids of her own now, so they steal all our attention. I do still visit and see Sofia and the others when I can, though. But tween girls are so hard to connect with. She hasn't quite gotten there yet, but I'm mentally preparing."

It really warmed Lyall's heart to hear about how close and full of love Alan's family was.

"People are right when they say 'savor the younger years'," Lyall agreed. "But having such a large support system, and a love like yours especially, should really help as she begins navigating the broader world more."

For a fleeting second, that wishing for a likewise lighter relationship with Hild resurfaced.

"I'm sure Sofia will never grow out of a loving relationship with you," he went on softly.

Alan smiled warmly, not hiding that he was touched by his words. "Thank you, Lyall. Hearing that means a lot to me."

Lyall simply inclined his head, holding his gaze with rapt attention, even in the ensuing beat of comfortable quiet.

At age 14, the harsh realities were not beyond Alan's understanding. In fact, his tone implied an intimate familiarity with an unfeeling world.

Not a new thing-- Lyall knew of others, and was himself, quite well-acquainted with hardship from youth. There was something so deeply...tragic, though, about having that kind of a paradigm shift at such a young age. But, more than that, something profoundly admirable about clinging to Alan's level of optimism, despite the world and its cruelties.

"The joys of family is unmatched," Alan went on, falling back into a spiel as he sunk into deeper contemplation. "I know I'm quite lucky in that way, to have a close family who would do anything for each other. I feel quite blessed to have them in my life."

In a rare moment of having nothing to add, Lyall could only grin faintly as he watched Alan with fondness.

Alan seemed lost in thought for a moment, but upon the drawn silence, he returned to the present and slowly met Lyall's eyes. Caught a bit off guard, Alan matched his level of observation, smiling back.

"What?" he said with a laugh in his throat.

Lyall raised both brows in amusement, and feigned innocence as he echoed, "What? I'm simply...enjoying the present."

He felt a small sense of accomplishment in turning the tables on Alan.

Alan let out a faint hum. "It's a good gift, isn't it?"

Lyall snorted. "God, please, no..."

"Don't make me quote Lion Queen," Alan playfully threatened.

"I shan't give you the chance," Lyall said emphatically, unable to imagine what Alan could be thinking of, and mostly not wanting to. "Since I missed most... all of today, what have you been to?"

"Ah." Alan nodded, bouncing his knee. "I spent the day with Clanny." He paused. "Well, not the whole day. I stayed out really late at the pool yesterday night, mostly with Shane. I was still committed on going on the morning run though, so I did that too. I slept a bit since I was running on fumes. Then was inspired by music again. I wrote half a song before I realized that I never got around to giving Clanny piano lessons. So, I finally followed up on that. She's been making good progress, even if our lessons are silly most of the time. We hung back and stayed in the plaza for the majority of the day. We ate, and I took food back with me. And now I'm here, with you."

Lyall was listening. Honest to god, he was. But Shane's name in particular stuck with him, even as Alan detailed his day with lovely Miss Clanny.

There were moments in the night prior after Shane tumbled into the waking world to join the half-dead company of Lyall and James, where Lyall wanted to ask if Shane and Alan had landed on a more certain status. But the timing never felt right, and Lyall didn't feel they were close enough for it.

Now seemed as good a time as any to finally ask about it, since Alan was right here and not having an Utter Crisis over it, and Lyall was thinking of it.

"Alright, one more time," Lyall said, huffing a light laugh through his nose with a joking, slightly apologetic grin, "bear with me as I continue to interrogate you."

Alan raised a curious brow. "About my day?"

"About you and Shane," Lyall clarified.

Alan seemed to blank for a second, smile slowly fading. "Oh." He nodded. "I don't know about an interrogation, but... I suppose I haven't really followed up on you since last we talked about this."

"Just the one question," Lyall amended, softening his voice and lifting both hands in a reassuring manner, "I'm not trying to pry. I just... want to know if you two ever came to an agreement, yes."



Alan rubbed the arm of the chair, quiet for a moment. "No... Not really an agreement. At least, not one said out loud. I think we have a silent understanding to rebuild what we have and appreciate each other in a new light first. The heart doesn't always know what it wants." He paused, expression growing more introspective. "At least... mine doesn't. These things take time, and that's okay. I think the joys of discovering a person shouldn't be rushed, but I know this is something I need to get better at doing. I can only own up to my mistakes and learn from them. At the end of the day, that's all anyone can do."

So. Still undefined. But Alan was at least aware it wasn't an ideal situation. Probably.

The ambiguity surrounding what Alan wanted remained, steadfastly. Which was fine, he was right. The heart oftentimes did not know what it truly wanted. However, it made for a shaky foundation for...whatever it was he was trying to build with Shane. Which wasn't a very promising start.

And the fact remained: the issue at hand was never resolved. Only put-off.

"How do you plan on moving forward, then?" Lyall gently pressed.

"By looking ahead, not backwards," Alan said with a more playful smile. "One day at a time. Nothing is perfect, but if it was, then it wouldn't be real, and I don't want it."

Well. That was a bit of a long leap, going from the bare minimum of at least "clearly defined" to "perfection, which doesn't exist".

Which, it didn't. So Lyall allowed himself an endeared grin as he agreed with a playful tsk, "Perfection is indeed nothing more than a ruse, a mask." Softer, he added, "I wish for you only the sincerest things life has to offer, imperfection and all."

He just hoped Alan was prepared for the messier, even uglier side of this "imperfect authenticity" as well.

Alan was quiet, expression softening as his smile faded. He stared at Lyall for a few moments, processing. There was a second of internal hesitation for Lyall as he legitimately feared he went too far.

Until, finally, Alan found the words to speak again.

"Thank you, Lyall," he said warmly, smiling fondly. "I appreciate it. The sentiments goes both ways, though. Sincere imperfections are the essence of life, and I'd say this extends to our friendship as well. It's what makes us, us-- and what makes you, you." Alan paused, meeting his eyes to display even more open sincerity and warmth. "I wish you a long, fulfilling life that's as beautiful and as messy as the person you are."

Lyall had to turn his eyes down to the desk beneath him as he forced a light huff of air through his nose. The sheer audacity of this man. To offer encouragements and affection with so little discretion, as if he didn't know fear.

They'd only known each other a few weeks, but Lyall deeply treasured their friendship. Beyond words. Which left him without a proper response entirely, unfortunately.

So, looking at the empty takeaway box, Lyall did the next best thing. Or, was about to--

"Oh, I've been meaning to ask," Alan said just as the silence started to feel a smidge too long. "How are things with Kaya? Did you end up writing her a song?"

"Ah." Lyall blinked, processing. "Ah! Yes! I mean. Another draft, but basically yes."

Sliding off the desk, he pulled open the topmost drawers in search of the lyrics. "I simply haven't composed a melody--" Looking back up at Alan, Lyall jabbed a finger his way. "And, no, I will not be playing it to 'hot cross buns'. That one's for you."

Alan grinned, intrigued as he craned his neck to watch him rifle through the drawer. "Good thinking. Play the cliches for me so that you can exert all your love for your love." He looked up at Lyall, smiling appreciatively. "I don't think it'd be right for me to hear or read it, anyways. That's a special song only to be shared between you and her. I was only inquiring about progress, so I'm glad to hear you're making strides."

Lyall cast him a sillier grin as he finally located the paper. "Nonsense. One can only benefit from a peer review or two."

Alan raised a brow, amused. "What ever happened to striving for imperfectionism?"

Lyall tilted his head. "Perfection, no. But that doesn't mean I want to play her nonsensical garbage." He offered Alan the paper. "Besides, I want to know if someone of your musical talents can see any plausible musicality in my meter."

Alan stared at the paper, not taking it. He slowly turned his focus back on Lyall, more serious. "Did you write this from the heart?" he asked.

Letting his hand holding the paper fall to his side, Lyall studied him curiously. "...Yes?"

Alan frowned, almost looking offended. "Then your song isn't nonsensical garbage."

Lyall hummed in thought, idly folding up the paper again.

A romantic who took his romanticism...quite seriously.

"Very well," Lyall said simply in acceptance, trying not to deflate.

"I'd love to hear or read any of your other songs. Truly," Alan said with a small apologetic smile. "But it doesn't feel right to critique a work where your intention is to inspire the love of your life. A song like that doesn't need critique. It's already perfect."

Arching a brow, Lyall mustered enough amusement to appear noncommittal. Breezily, he offered, "Imperfect, you mean? Perfect imperfection. A paradox, if I ever heard one."

Alan huffed a laugh, loosely waving his hand in front of him. "Right. Yes. Of course. It's already perfect with its uncritiqued imperfections."

Lyall still believed Alan to be a perfectionist, as much as he vehemently denied it. Just not in the usual, high-achieving sense of the word. He still had very specific visions of what life was supposed to be like-- Fate-ordained, mysteriously orchestrated, and everything.

Lyall relented, though, with a genuine grin. Stepping back, he rifled through the top drawer again for a proper spot for his fifteenth draft. Once the drawer slid shut again, though, his eyes landed on the bottom-most one, where the contract still hid.

Consequences... Alvaro had mentioned consequences of his magic before, right?

"Alan," Lyall began, idly tapping the desk as he watched Alan pick up and rifle through a nearby book, "does it ever strike you as...odd, that the DMV hasn't done anything so far?" He pursed his lips, thinking back to Ooktoberfest, then clarified, "Testing-wise."

Alan peered up from the random page flipping, hesitating before he shook his head. "Not really. We were told beforehand that everything is more lax since we are being recorded, so I don't really have any expectations."

Resisting the urge to sigh aloud, Lyall simply nodded, having figured as much. He tilted his head for a moment to read the cover of the book in Alan's hands. Something on the cultural characteristics of Renvara. In tiny text below the title, it was noted Cyrin T. Bridger had written a foreword. Lyall made a mental note to reread the book soon after Alan had gone.

Dropping back into the desk chair, Lyall leaned back as he watched Alan. "What do you think testing might look like, though?"

"Hmmm." Alan continued to flip through the pages, pausing only briefly to take in any pictures or headers. "I haven't really thought about it, but I assume we will eventually get asked a lot of questions about our magic and also get chances to apply our magic, testing our limits. Perhaps this is done in a controlled environment? I'm not sure."

Lyall hummed. "As the brochures promised," he mused with a slight grin. He folded his arms and tapped his chin as he searched for the words. "Alright, let me rephrase then: what do you think testing might look like for you specifically?"

Alan closed the book, setting it to the side of the chair as he peered up at Lyall with a quirked brow. "For me?" He shrugged. "I'm not sure. Isn't that the DMV's job?"

Nonchalantly spinning the chair around to look in the vague direction of the Trieu mansion, Lyall hummed again. Technically? Yes. And evidently it was within their rights to simply offload the job as well.

He spun back around to face Alan. He spread his arms in a sort of shrug and grinned. "Humor me, please? We haven't had much opportunity to discuss our abilities, and I've been rather curious."

Alan met his gaze, clearly confused, but not defensive or curious about the subject. He picked up the next book on his desk, rifling through the pages again.

"I honestly don't have a clue what their methods are, but I'm sure the DMV has their ways," he said with a weak chuckle. "It's fine if you're curious about my magic, though. I don't mind sharing if you want to know more, though I don't know how helpful I would be merely speculating what the DMV will do to test everyone's abilities."

Lyall leaned forward then, elbows perched on his knees. "Are you sure?" he asked out of hesitation.

Alan nodded, smiling reassuringly. "Positive. I don't mind." He tapped the book on his lap. "I'm an open book, remember?"

Lyall nodded with a gentle smile. Of course. Alan Alvaro in all his sincerity, how could he forget?

"Alright," he murmured, idly rubbing his hands together-- but also to warm them. "You mentioned... 'unintended consequences' of your powers, right? How would that look?"

"It's like..." Alan started, then trailed off as he tilted his head towards the ceiling. He closed the book and set it to the side of the chair again, positioning himself to sit at the edge of his seat, turning his attention back towards Lyall. "Something can't come from nothing, right? I think power and influence is more than empty words. And changing someone's mind... well, it's a cause and effect. If I change someone's mind, then it's like I absorb whatever thought it is I'm changing. So, it's not like their thoughts disappear completely. It only moves."

Looking off to the side, Lyall hummed as he contemplated this. "So...you essentially swap thoughts?"

"Essentially. But it depends on the thought." Alan loosely shrugged. "Some thoughts don't really have any repercussions at all. Consider them low impact suggestions."

Lyall gestured a hand toward Alan. "For instance...?"

"It depends on the person. They're things that don't misalign with their character," Alan said.

"So, if you were to..." Lyall scrunched his nose in thought. "...try to influence me, for example."

Alan stared at him for a moment before slowly saying, "Is that... something you want me to do to you?"

Lyall cracked an intrigued grin. "I was actually presenting a mere thought exercise. And am curious what you'd think would 'align with my character', but a demonstration actually isn't a bad idea."

Alan nodded slowly, processing. Slowly.

"And," Lyall added, tone playfully diplomatic as he leaned back in his chair, "in the spirit of fair and equal exchange, you are free to ask me anything about my magic."

Alan chuckled, shaking his head as he relaxed his position, leaning his elbow against the arm of the chair. "I don't need our friendship to feel fair or equal, Lyall. I'm fine with telling you whatever you want to know. Although, I don't think anyone has ever asked me to demo on them before." Alan's smile faded as he met his eyes more seriously. "Are you sure you want me to do this on you?"

Lyall in turn softened, but was no less serious as he nodded in confirmation. "I trust you."

"Hmm. Alright," Alan murmured with a nod. Grabbing the underside of the chair, he scooted his way closer to Lyall until their knees touched. He offered his hand out to Lyall. "Give me your hand."

Lyall quirked a brow at the unexpected physical closeness, but wordlessly obeyed. He quickly noted Alan had the hands of a true artist as well. Soft-skinned, slender, and with calluses on the tips of his fingers. There was a curved scar on one of his palms in particular that momentarily drew his attention. Then he looked back up to Alan expectantly.

For a moment there, Alan sat there, holding his hand in close proximity while holding a serious gaze. He was closely studying Lyall, as if the answers laid in his eyes. Then he smiled playfully and softly clapped his free hand over his, sandwiching Lyall's hands between his own.

"Give me a hug and tell me how much you cherish our friendship in the most theatrical way possible?" he said, smile turning into a teasing grin.

Finding himself deeply endeared by the request, Lyall broke out into a warm grin. "My most beloved friend," he said grandly, "is this all you could think to ask of me?"

Standing, he tugged Alan out of the armchair by his hand, into a tight embrace as he spun them. Then stopped and abruptly dipped Alan, who let out a yelp of laughter as he grinned.

"Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?" Lyall went on, his own smile turning silly. "Nay, for a summer's day cannot match thine warmth!"

He pulled Alan upright again and lead him into a spritely waltz away from the desk. "Whatever life brings-- from indeed those sunny days, to imperfection's messy discordance-- I foresee a long-lasting friendship between the two of us. Something that stands the test of time, the way the earth withstands the beating sea!"

Coming to a stop in the middle of the room, Lyall spun Alan once more, then dropped to one knee as he closed both hands around Alan's. "But only if you'll do me the honor," he said, smiling brightly up at him, "of officially being my best friend."

There was a beat of silence.

Blinking, Lyall huffed a slightly out-of-breath laugh as he let go of Alan's hand. Tilting his head, he eventually asked, "Seriously, was that it? Did you even...do anything?"

Nothing felt out of the ordinary. So... 'low impact suggestion' it was.

Oh, god, Alan thought that that was 'in character' for him. Lyall fought the urge to hide his face in his hands.

Alan snapped out of his daze, releasing a soft laugh as he smiled down at Lyall. And then he bent down, first on one knee as well, but then crouching on both knees so he could be at Lyall's eye-level. He offered his hand for Lyall to take again.

"Why don't you take my hand again?" he asked with a smile, clearly up to something.

Openly intrigued, Lyall lightly clapped their hands together once more.

"You don't always need magic to influence someone," Alan began warmly. "In the spirit of fair and equal exchange, you are welcome to suggest anything that aligns with my character."

Quirking another, fainter grin, Lyall gave it some thought. Contemplated what made Alan Alvaro indeed Alan Alvaro.

"Tell me," he said slowly, glancing down at their hands, "three of the best things that have happened to you, in the past...let's say five years. Whilst..." He shrugged, recalling Alan mentioned a lack of inspiration for composing lately. "...composing an Alan Alvaro Original?"

Never had a simple C major chord sounded so heavenly.

Alan let the chord ring, glancing at Lyall by his side on the bench. "Are you sure you want to listen to this? I'm coming in with absolutely no preparation whatsoever," he said with a faint laugh.

With a somewhat smug smile, Lyall tilted his head at him. "Messy imperfections, remember? Embrace the process, my friend."

The night was ripe, not quite ready for a new song. Maybe it was because he played one too many beginner songs with Clanny today, or maybe it was because he found himself struggling to think of good answers for three of the best things that had happened to himself in the last five years.

Although, Alan would be lying if he said he had no inspiration at all. Lyall had joked that Alan was his muse, but it made Alan wonder how much truth there was in that. Lyall was fun, compassionate, loving. He had a gift with bringing words to life and being sincere with silly theatrics. Hild had told him that he made Lyall happy, and so it made Alan wonder how much Lyall made him happy too.

But five years was a much longer time span. Had Lyall requested to hear what made him happy the last three weeks, that would be easy. But five years? The inspiration he had now in the present paled in comparison to the sinkhole of the looming past.

Messy imperfections. Yeah. He could do that.

Alan let his musical inhibitions take control of the keys, starting with a soft melodic opening. He kept the tone and speed of the song relaxed. Light. Airy.

"Some say songs are meant to be shared," Alan said, still focused on the keyboard. "I'd like you to join my song. Partake in it, whenever you see fit. Think of it as... a conversation, but with music." He glanced up at Lyall, offering a small smile. "Only if you want to."

Lyall's grin turned playful. "If the inspiration strikes me," he agreed with laughter in his voice.

Alan nodded, transitioning the song to a more upbeat tempo as he said the opening words, loosely singing so it would feel more like a lyrical conversation. "Funny how we go from magic to song. There's poetry muse in here, or maybe you're just the ruse. Who's to say, it's all about the pinciple, since this is an Alan Alvaro Original. So here goes: three of the best things to happen to me in the past five years."

With a grand glissando transition, Alan retained the upbeat tempo, this time with a staccato as he continued to talk while matching the beat of the song.

"Number one. As you probably know, the Alvaro family runs big. Gabriela, bless her heart-- she's the oldest of us all. She married Leo five years ago, up in the mountains, in the snow. One year later, little Anthony was born. He's a bit of a rascal now, but there's always room for another. Camila was born three months ago now, and I can't wait to return home, to give her my love so forlorn."

Alan ran his hands up the keyboard again, playing the main melody once more as he glanced back at Lyall with a smile.

Grinning back, Lyall lightly bumped shoulders with him. "I'm starting to think the Alvaro clan is beyond counting," he hummed with amusement in his eyes.

"Maybe you'll just have to visit one day and count them yourself," Alan teased as he playfully elbowed him back.

"Maybe I will," Lyall said, sincerity in his voice.

Alan finished his transition, drawing out whole notes with harmonic thirds and fifths in the major scale.

"Number two. This one also involves family, but with another special one. Isabel is 18 years old now, and I'm so proud of the woman she's become. We may have lived in the slums, but she's really not dumb. She's in her final year of school, applying for colleges, applying herself. She wants to be an engineer, and for that, we've conquered our fears. She has immense support and an insanely bright future, and I can't wait to hear about her future years."

Alan transitioned to the melody again, pausing here for now as he reflected on what his third and final happy moment could be. He glanced at Lyall again, noting his now-tamed but still attentive smile.

The piano filled the air with music that was driven by the unknown source of inspiration in Alan's heart, and soon, he found himself entering the minor key. It was erratic with some discordance of unharmonious notes, a mix of staccato and long notes. The melody didn't particularly sound too pleasant, but it felt right.

"Number three," he announced, more seriously this time. "The final answer is a bit different, as this one relates to a different kind of love. In the past five years, I learned more about my heart. I've learned that I'm only drawn to mind and soul, but that line of thinking can leave a hole. I've learned that love can be adoring, but it's not always worth exploring. Love can you leave you broken, and I've certainly learned my lessons. Heartache is the third best thing to happen to me in the best five years, because without it, I'd never understand my tears."

In an almost jarring way, Alan rode another happy glissando up the keyboard, back to the positive upbeat melody as he began to close out his song.

"But you know, things aren't so bad," he went on with a smile. "I'm surrounded with so much love throughout the years. Even now, my best friend is less than an inch away. I can almost scream this song in his ears."

After a second's delay, Lyall huffed a quiet laugh and bumped shoulders with him again. "Not bad at all, Alan Alvaro," he said softly. "Imperfections and everything."

"Could be the name of the song," Alan mused as he slowly came to a stop on the piano. He let the final chord ring out. "Or, it could be unnamed and never played again, like 95% of my other songs. We'll see."

Lyall hummed as he nodded. "Kaya tells me approximately 86% of her works never see the light of day. So I suppose that tracks."

Alan huffed out a laugh, pulling his hand back as he turned to Lyall. "We should collaborate. We'd simultaneously get everything done and nothing done."

Meeting his gaze, Lyall grinned with his brows furrowing in slight confusion. "Who? You and Kaya?"

Alan slowly grinned, lighting up at the unsaid thought. "Why don't we collaborate? You and I, I mean. You write songs, and so do I. You play piano, and so do I. What's stopping us?"

Raising both brows, Lyall shrugged. "The mere fact that the thought hadn't occurred to us until now," he answered with growing excitement the more he considered it.

"Well, we live in the now, don't we?" Alan said with a bright grin.

Lyall turned his eyes down to the piano keys, visibly trying to refamiliarize himself with them. "You certainly help me stay in the present, yes," he agreed with warmth.

Alan hummed, hands back on the keys as he played a major chord. "That's a good start."

Lyall nodded, smile fading a bit as he thought. Alan could see the gears turning.

"Shall I compare thee," he began with a quick grin, "to a vast expanse of sea? Temperate and lovely on a good day. Refreshing-- you refresh me, bring me back to a more pleasant reality."

Lyall truly was a poet, reminiscent of classical poets of olden times. Alan kept this in mind as he continued to play the piano, matching Lyall's mood, tempo, and message behind the words.

"I find joy in your company," he went on, casting Alan another grin with his usual playful fondness shining in his eyes, "and how you endlessly indulge my sillies. Though, not unlike that vast sea, your complexities are not lost on me. My current theory: what lies beneath your temperate, lovely surface, I daresay is unexplored. A travesty, surely, that needs remedying."

Alan was focused on the inner-working of the song, optimizing the melody to the lyrics. The process included analyzing some of the words spoken, and soon Alan found himself getting lost in the translation completely. It occurred to him that Lyall was talking about himself, even referencing the word "unexplored" from the speed dating weekend. Alan glanced up at Lyall, intrigued and curious to see where he was taking this.

"Some would say you are naive." Lyall briefly took on a teasing tone. "Who am I to fully disgree?" Voice softening again into something more thoughtful, he went on, "But I can see that you're familiar with how happiness is...quite fleeting. You take the moments as they come, celebrate triumphs of loved ones. You're a good man with a deep kind of love. You, my friend, are someone with a rare quality to be admired. So I mean it when I say, how could I not be inspired?"

Alan found himself unable to keep up paying close attention while composing a melody. In the middle of the measure, he pulled away, giving up so he could give Lyall his full attention, full focus fixed on him.

There was a long moment of unfilled silence.

Lyall glanced sideways at Alan, looking completely self-conscious. "Was... was it that bad?" he asked with an awkward laugh. "The music stopped."

"What? No," Alan said quickly, offering a smile. "I just... stopped to listen. I didn't want to be distracted."

With another quiet laugh, Lyall looked firmly at the keys of the piano again, in a rather rare moment of bashfulness.

It wasn't Alan's intention to embarrass him, though.

"Odd subject you chose," he began slowly with a lighthearted tone, "but still sincere and insightful nonetheless. You have a gift with words. Like a true artiste."

"The subject at hand," Lyall said, quickly matching Alan's breeziness-- and notably glossing over the compliment, "I'll blame on overexposure to said subject. But better you than me."

Alan let out a soft hum. "Maybe I want to hear a song about you."

Lyall scoffed at that. "I can assure you, you do not."

Alan couldn't help but grin, sitting a little more upright as he set his hands back on the keys, playing some happy, upbeat chords.

"Well, you know what they say," he teased as he kicked his foot. "If the beautiful lyricist won't make a song about himself, then you just have to do it yourself."

Lyall loudly groaned, playfully despairing his predicament.

Which only made Alan pour more energy and enthusiasm into the song, running his hand down the keyboard in an over-the-top dramatic motion.

"Lyall, you're in denial. Five-foot-six with a bag of tricks, you never cease to amaze me. You know, I think I'm an adventurer. No-- an explorer. I beg you: please, Lyall Ashlund, will you give me the horror to adore you? Don't worry, I won't abhor you. But maybe I will if you keep clicking that pen you use when you're writing something down because you're overthinking every little thing and feel the need to write it because you're going to forget it seconds later."

Leaning back now with the brightest grin, Lyall laughed aloud. He playfully leaned his full weight against Alan's shoulder, as if trying to throw him off as he played. Alan playfully fought back, especially since he played a few wrong notes in the process. But he managed to presevere with a grin, continuing on.

"Oh, but the drama! The theatrics, the karma, the llama! Do you believe in love at first sight? Hah, I don't, but I believe in friends who write intimate songs about one another. Yes, this song is intimate. After all, we've spent a night together. Don't worry, my friend, I'll always let you drool on my shirt, as long as you let me steal your warmth. Next time, though... can you wear a cozier sweater?"

Still snickering, Lyall leaned against him again. Lighter this time, for what felt like the pure sake of simply being close, even as he now shook out his hands and started adding flourishes to Alan's instrumentals.

"If I recall correctly," Lyall joined in, "t'was you who drooled on me. But my offer still stands: just for you, I'm a happy space heater. So long that you, however, don't give me flowers. Only laughter to last me for hours. Even it's at my expense, you're free to roast to your heart's desire. I'll only ever toast to your good health. Because no one bakes bacon this side of the isle just as well. Not for miles on this island hell!"

Lyall pounded two deeper, emphatic notes on the piano that ground higher notes and chord to a complete halt.

"So please, ruin my good reputation at your dastardly discretion! 'Cause, despite the llamas and all the drama, I put my trust in our good foundation."

Alan smiled, holding back a laugh as he moved his hand away to let Lyall take over the music and words. It was nice to see him improvise on the spot and get involved in the heat of the song. Despite Alan's silly lighthearted roasts against Lyall, it was sweet to hear him respond with sincerity... even if they were lightly roasted.

"Theatrics, you say? Pbt, nay! Can't be me," Lyall sang on, repeating the new aggressive instrumental pattern as if it were punctuation to each, increasingly-silly line. "I should like to crown you the real llama drama king! Nary a thought in that fuzz-topped can. A man without a plan! But I assure you, it's for the better. 'Cause then maybe you can help me make that new cozy sweater."

Alan found himself grinning. This time, it was his turn to bump shoulders with him. He returned his hands back on the keys, running it down so that he could swat Lyall's hands off the keyboard. With a chuckle, Lyall relented and sat back to happily watch again.

It was fun to speak in song. But sometimes, sincerity was lost in translation. Alan was someone who didn't mind giving and receiving messages through song, but he'd rather be direct and express his sentiments without any doubts. That way, Lyall knew for certain how he felt.

He held some chords, slowing down so that the rhythm would be sparse. No lyrical timing, no upbeat tempo. Just words.

"Sure. I wouldn't mind being a llama drama king," he began with a smile, gaze focused on the keyboard. "I also don't mind helping you make a new cozy sweater, or laughter for hours. At the end of the day, I don't think it matters what I do, where I am, who I am. What does matter to me, though, is who I'm with. I rather like spending time with you, but maybe that's a given, since we called each other best friends."

Alan pursed his lips, looking up at the Baethoven sheet music on the stand, which he took out just this morning. He wasn't planning on playing that music right now, but he read the notes anyways.

"And I don't say that lightly," he continued. "Friendship, I think, is also based on the feeling of the heart. You just know if you click with someone, and you're drawn to them in a way that feels unexplainable. I don't think it's silly or unheard of to declare a close friendship with someone you're still discovering. In fact, I think it's beautiful that we both feel the same way. Like an innocuous fate or destiny that changes your life for the better."

Lyall went quiet at this shift in tone. Gaze turned down to the keys, he looked contemplative as he listened intently.

"Thank you for... everything, really," Alan went on, moving to a different chord. He felt like he should stop playing, but wanted to presevere a little longer. "For entertaining me. Listening to me. Being with me. Putting up with me. Singing songs with me." He pulled one hand back, softly playing out a last, high-pitched hopeful tone. "I'm also looking forward to exploring more with you." At that, he pulled away completely, turning to Lyall with a soft smile. "That's all. I just wanted to make sure that was clear to you."

There was a beat of quiet then as Lyall seemed to turn over Alan's words in his mind. Eventually, he cracked another small yet deeply touched smile as he finally looked back to Alan.

"I don't know that I fully believe in the guiding hand of fate," he said with a light snort, "or destiny. But, I'm not about to question it too deeply, honestly. I'm just...beyond grateful for what has resulted. And that it's a mutual feeling."

Alan beamed, also grateful to be sharing this moment with Lyall. Maybe he was right. There wasn't fate or destiny that led them to this path. Just pure, stupid luck in this chaotic world. But if that was the case, Alan was only happier and more grateful to be here, next to him, calling him his best friend.

Because, if Alan was being perfectly honest, he never really had a best friend before. He was used to listening and being there for others, but... it felt nice.

To be on the receiving end. To be heard, even if it was a quiet song. And to be cared for, equally if not more.

Not everything had to be said, and not everything had to be explored right away. But Alan was patient and willing to take the slow path-- especially with someone who was just as patient, loving, and forgiving.

He cracked a grin, gesturing his head back to the piano.

"You said you're rusty on the piano, right? Well, are you in a learning mood today?" he asked.

Lyall grinned easily back. But hesitated for just a second and asked, "Isn't it getting late for you, though?"

Alan played a jazzy rendition of major scales, still grinning. "I want to stay up with you, since your sleep schedule is a little out of sync. Now, how well do you know your major scales?"

Shane tiredly spun his mug around on the kitchen counter, glancing to the side to check the oven clock again. 5:58 AM. Connie should be down any minute now.

He'd been sitting in the kitchen for a half hour already, and the only reason he hadn't shown up earlier was because he was certain past a shadow of a doubt that Connie would leave the cabin at 6AM, no earlier, no later. The artist had a very regular schedule-- leave at 6AM, return for lunch at 11AM, then leaving again until dusk to return for dinner, then going to bed at 9PM. Shane hadn't been trying to memorize it, but it hadn't taken him long to notice the pattern, and it had stayed in his head since then.

There was no point in showing up too early, even though he'd woken up sometime around 3, because there was no way Connie would break from schedule that much. And yet, Shane didn't want to take the chance of accidentally missing him. So, a half hour early it was.

Plus, if he didn't sleep, he couldn't be plagued by whatever sadist was crawling around in his dreams. It really was a perfect plan all around.

It did not mean he was happy about doing this, though.

Shane glanced at the oven clock again. 5:59 and something seconds. Any moment now.

Right when the clock moved to 6:00, he heard light footsteps emanating upstairs. Predictably, Connie was seen bounding down the stairs, slinging his art supply bag while wearing his usual white linens. Frankly, Shane had never seen him wear anything else. Maybe his entire closet consisted of white linens.

Connie made his way into the kitchen, only glancing at Shane. He hardly gave him more acknowledgement as he started to fill a thin cloth bag with fruit.

It was tempting to let Connie slip out the door like he'd done any other morning they'd bumped into each other. He could hardly believe he was starting a confrontation when he tried to dodge those at every turn. But Shane had thought about it for a day, and he figured that if he still felt like doing this by now, it was what he actually needed rather than a brief emotional impulse.

"Good morning, Connie," he said, business-like, watching Connie reach for an orange.

Connie didn't even falter in his movements or even look up at Shane. "Good morning, Shane," he replied back.

Okay. Greetings had been made. It was weird to think that that was the easy part, considering they sometimes didn't even get that far.

"I know you've got a schedule to adhere to," Shane said. "But if you can spare the time, there's something I'd like to talk about before you head out."

Connie placed a few more fruits in the bag before tying it up and finally turning his head towards Shane, giving him his attention. It was hard to read him, but it always was. Connie was a stoic.

"I'm listening," he said.

Honestly, Shane had hoped Connie would presume the topic and say it for him. There was a high chance he did know. But Connie was leaving it for him to bring up.

Resisting the urge to sigh, he turned around on the stool to face Connie, taking his mug with him and holding it just above his lap.

"A few days ago," Shane said. "You told James someone was messing around with our dreams, as well as those of other people on the island."

"I did. Yes," Connie said after a short silence.

The silence didn't feel like hesitation on his end, though. More like he was waiting for Shane to get to the point.

Fine. He could do that. Shane folded one leg over the other.

"You shared that on Thursday," he said. "But it's been happening since the day after we all first set foot on this island. And I would really like to know why it wasn't earlier, when it could've spared us a lot of grief."

Connie gave him the barest of nods. "I apologize for upsetting you. I believe that your dreams, though disturbing, are your own battles. My silence was not one of indifference, but of respect. I realize now that this approach may have seemed uncaring. Balancing the weight of larger issues with the intricacies of personal matters is a challenge I am continually learning to consider."

Shane slowly nodded.

"It does feel uncaring," he said quietly. "I understand you had our privacy in mind, but the two of us were already aware that our dreams weren't entirely private to you. Informing us wouldn't have been intruding on that battle any further-- we didn't even know someone was waging war in our heads against us. Ignorance isn't always bliss."

There was a beat of silence. And then Connie simply said, "Understood, thank you," with a nod.

Shane felt himself advertently scowl at that. It wasn't that he found the sentiment to not be genuine, it was that it was... lacking. There wasn't any more effort behind it than Connie had spent in belatedly telling James about their harasser.

It would've been easy to let the conversation slip through his fingers at this point. But Shane found himself still looking at Connie's face intently.

"If you aren't uncaring," he said, more softly, "then why don't you ever act the opposite? Where's your sympathy?"

Connie stared at Shane. Just when the silence started to feel too long, he spoke again. "Shane," he called evenly, "would you like to accompany me for my morning hike?"

Shane felt briefly caught off guard by the idea. It made sense, though. He was intruding on Connie's schedule, but he didn't want to back down now either. It was a sensible, if not efficient, suggestion.

"Sure," he said, taking the last sip from his mug and setting it down. "Thank you."

Wordlessly, Connie finished gathering his supplies, glancing at Shane so he could follow him out the door. Without another word, they both readied themselves and exited the cabin.

There was a wolf sitting attentively at the door, which Shane had to remind himself wasn't out of the ordinary. Robin.

"Robin," Connie called as Shane closed and locked the door behind him. "I apologize for keeping you waiting. Shane will be joining me this morning instead. Let's resume our walk in the evening."

Robin only nodded, and with a swish of his tail, turned and trotted away.

Shane wasn't expecting Connie to start talking immediately, and he didn't. Instead, he silently led Shane across the beach first, then towards the lush, craggy cliffs along the coast. Shane knew Connie went here often, since it made a frequent occurence in his paintings, and it occurred to him that it might be the part of the island that looked the most like Talia. It was no wonder then why it was a favorite of Connie's.

The two of them took a narrow upwards path that Shane found better suited for goats than humans, but Connie walked up the hill with confidence, his steps sometimes causing gravel and stones to dislodge and roll over Shane's shoes, as they couldn't walk side by side for this stretch of the hike. Just as the scratching of overgrown bushes against his legs was starting to become unpleasant, and Shane nearly broke the silence to wonder aloud about how they'd be able to keep pressing forward, Connie slipped away to the side, sliding through a thin gap between two tall shrubs. Dumbfounded, Shane stood there for a second before following along, wincing as twigs raked through his hair and closing his eyes halfway to avoid getting poked.

All he'd wanted was to say he wasn't very pleased. He had not signed up to be a goat.

Once he pushed through the bush that didn't have a great concept of personal space, he had to stop short of a cliff that was closer than he expected. Below him, terraced cliffs and ledges hung above the blue ocean, with rocky stretches spaced out few and far between the thick greenery. The wind up here was strong enough that it nearly did the work of sweeping stray leaves from his hair for him, although Shane still had to quickly run his fingers through his hair to straighten it out, scanning the landscape as he did.

"It's very beautiful up here," he said faintly at last.

"It is a lovely sight," Connie said as he admired the view as well, who had been hardly fazed by the hike thus far. He finally turned back to Shane. "We are halfway there. Would you like to keep going?"

Shane had to squash a feeling of being deceived about their destination.

"Let's keep going," he agreed, internally kicking himself.

Without any further waiting, Connie kept walking along a trail that was just as narrow and steep as the last, but was now completely exposed on one side. Shane had to redirect his thoughts from the drop that was to their right, instead looking straight ahead. That view wasn't very comforting, either, since he could see that it looked... like the trail would get even steeper in just a few minutes.

He wasn't even all that tired yet, but he felt like groaning. Was this really an everyday morning hike to Connie? He would've stopped at the part where he'd had to get sandwiched between two bushes.

The two of them endured the uphill trek-- although, Shane would say that while he was hardly hanging in there, Connie remained unbothered. He had to wonder if Connie was used to this trail alone, or if he was a frequent hiker. Either way, it impressed Shane, and it was only his own pride that kept him in the game.

Still, his relief was tangible when the trail suddenly flattened, and Connie slowed to a stop. Shane saw that they had reached the peak of the hill, with the land going down on all sides and with another cliff facing the sea. This one was quite a bit higher than the last, and from this height, Shane's view of the land below was blocked by the cliff. It seemed like ahead of them, there were only the tops of the tallest trees below and the vast, blue expanse of the ocean.

It felt thrilling to be here, in quite a few ways. The view was more impressive, he felt proud he'd managed to make it this far, and perhaps most of all, he was glad the way back would be all downhill.

Next to him, Connie took a moment to appreciate the view as well. But after the moment had passed, he set his bag down, pulling out a canvas and art easel. He was setting up to paint.

Of course. After that hike, Shane had almost forgotten what they were here for. Or rather, what Connie was here for.

Feeling a little awkward, he took a seat on a large flat rock that he hoped was out of the way of the view Connie seemed to want, letting his sore legs get some rest. For the last seven years, Shane had relied on walking to get most of the places he needed to go, otherwise biking or taking public transit, so it wasn't like he didn't walk long distances. But the last couple moments of keeping cooped up in the House palace must've left him unused to this.

He silently watched as Connie finished setting up his canvas on the easel, expecting Connie to set up his paints next. But instead, when he reached into his bag again, Connie took out a second canvas and easel, setting them up next to the first.

Did Connie normally finish two paintings in one morning? Shane didn't think so, given the number of paintings he'd seen from Connie, how long they'd been here, and how he also painted some of those paintings in the afternoon.

Shane blinked, a silent question in his eyes as his gaze went to Connie. Though Connie hardly paid him any attention, dabbing acrylic oils of assorted colors onto the pallette between them, right next to the line of paintbrushes. With a paintbrush in hand, Connie studied the vast scene in front of them, glancing at the empty canvas on the easel every once in a while, like he was translating the view into art in his head.

And Shane really had nothing to do but watch Connie start to outline the painting. Connie started with the areas the sea met the cliffside, using lots of blue and green for each respectively, until the painting started to take shape on the canvas. After a moment, Shane turned his head to watch the landscape instead of the painting process.

Well, this wasn't bad. He was better off here than being sad back at the cabin. But he couldn't help but feel like he couldn't enjoy this as much as he should.

"The canvas is for you," Connie said after about a minute of silence. He continued to dab his paintbrush against the canvas, focused. "Paint if you feel inspired."

Shane sat up as he turned his head back to Connie, feeling surprised.

"Oh," he said softly.

He had to suppress the urge to ask Are you sure? If Connie said it, Shane was pretty sure there were no doubts on his part.

Slowly standing, Shane reached for the paintbrush that was resting on the easel. A feeling of peace-- Connie's peace-- rushed over him as he took it, and he felt some double vision at seeing a brief glimpse of this same cliff, being painted by this same brush.

"Thank you," he said quietly.

Connie didn't answer, and Shane flicked his gaze between the blank canvas and the view, wondering how to start.

...When was the last time he'd painted? Some undergrad art class, maybe? He didn't remember feeling very good at it.

He held onto the paintbrush, trying to channel that same peace that Connie had felt through it. This was for fun. Not some kind of competition.

Still, it was with a shaky hand that he dipped the paintbrush into a shade of cerulean blue and started to trace the line of the horizon. He caught a flash of Connie doing the same in an earlier painting, but adding a tree over it. Shane left space for that, painting down into the sea.

It felt like a haze for the next half hour or so, where he wasn't even sure what he was painting. Connie's voice snapped him out of it, and he realized he'd started painting waves.

"Sympathy is not always expressed through overt actions or words," Connie suddenly said as he continued to paint, breaking the long silence. "My ways of showing concern may not be conventional, but it exists. I have learned to view the world and its myriad of issues through a lens that often requires detachment-- but that does not mean I lack empathy. Rather, my expressions of it are more subdued, hidden beneath layers of pragmatism and responsibility. I understand this may be difficult to see or feel, but I am learning to bridge that gap in my own way."

Shane glanced at Connie out of the corner of his eye, watching him add a halo of light in the sky.

"I'm sorry if I misjudged you," he said, meaning it sincerely. "I've never been great at seeing the best in people. And I think when someone puts on an act, I'm often no wiser to what's underneath."

"It's a common human trait to judge based on what we see and experience," Connie replied, brushing in more whites in the sky. "We are all navigating through our own perceptions and understandings of the world. I don't fault you for it."

Shane hummed a sigh, swirling some indigo for waves into the sea. Indigo. That was what he was painting in here. It felt weird to be doing this on autopilot, honestly, half-guided by the memory of the brush.

"And my perception's faulty, I guess," he murmured. "I can't seem to distinguish anything on this island. What's up and down, what's right or wrong. And now, even my memory isn't reliable. No wonder I can't judge anything accurately."

"Your perception is being challenged in an environment that is constantly shifting," Connie said, voice steady and calm, as usual. "Of course you may feel disoriented when even basic truths seem to waver. This is a test of resilience, not of judgement. The pursuit of clarity becomes a journey rather than a destination."

Shane rubbed at his face underneath his eye, hoping there wasn't paint on his fingers.

"How do you do it?" he asked quietly. "Not lose sight of the way ahead here?"

Connie took a moment to reflect, pulling away from the canvas for a moment. Or perhaps he simply needed the time to admire and contemplate his work done so far.

"I focus on the broader picture," he said. "Think of the long-term goals, rather than getting entangled in the fleeting confusion of the present. It's about anchoring yourself to a vision or a purpose that transcends the immediate chaos. The world has far too many problems and predicaments to involve yourself in everything. To bear the weight of it all is impossible. Stepping back in the present to imagine the full picture of the past helps dictate my decisions for the future. With this perspective, I can navigate uncertainty without losing direction, no matter how unpredictable or fragile the environment may be."

Shane nodded, setting down his paintbrush to try mixing purple on the palette. "That makes sense," he said. "I just wonder if it's really the present that's the problem for me." He pursed his lips as he then added a dab of white to the acrylic paint. "I tend to get caught up in the past most of all. Maybe because it's the one that feels the most inescapable. You can drown out your present, you can attempt to steer your future-- but as much as plenty try, the past can't be outrun. Having a history is pretty much the only thing a person is guaranteed in life-- not everyone gets a future. And if that future is murky, and the present is too out of control for you to make choices about your fate, the past can become the only place for your mind to live in."

Connie returned to painting, this time stroking delicate clouds with his brush. "The past is indeed inescapable and often a refuge when the present is tumultuous and the future is uncertain," he began. "It's true, we cannot outrun our history, as it shapes us to be the person we are today. Yet, dwelling too long in what has been can cloud our ability to act in the now. The past should be a teacher, not a prison. We learn from it and carry its lessons, but we must live in the present and apply these learnings to make sound decisions about the future. It is a delicate balance, acknowledging the past's hold on you while not letting it tether you from moving forward."

Once he was satisfied with the shade of lavender he'd gotten, Shane used that for the foam on the waves he'd already painted. "And if the past feels like the stronger force?" he asked.

"Then it's a signal to self-reflect and examine why its hold is so strong," Connie said.

Well, Shane felt like the answer was obvious in his case.

"Cutting loose from it might not feel like the liberating thing to do," he said. "Not if it's all someone thinks they have."

Connie moved on to painting hues of whites and blues against the waters, adding depth and shimmers. "Loss can anchor you to the past, turning the act of letting go into something seemingly insurmountable and even painful to do. The challenge lies in honoring the memory while gradually finding ways to step forward and look towards the future with hope."

Shane nodded distantly, hovering his brush over the crest of a wave.

"Hope," he murmured, half to himself. "That sounds like it would be great to have right now."

Connie basked in the silence for a moment, focused on the specific detailing of the ocean. When finished, he pulled away, circling the paintbrush in the cup of water to washing away the paint. "Hope," he began as he mixed greens on the pallete, "is a quiet light in the darkness. It is a reminder that, despite everything, there is potential for change and healing. Hope does not need to be a grand vision. Sometimes, it is simply the belief that things can get better, one small step at a time."

There it was again, the urge to dampen the optimism of a moment with a sad truth. Even knowing he shouldn't, Shane wanted to say that even faint, undramatic hope was too far a stretch for him. Not if it lasted beyond a brief, shimmering moment.

"I don't believe in that right now," he said instead. "But maybe eventually."

"By saying that, you have already expressed hope," Connie said, then started to dab in leaves on a barren tree with a fine paintbrush.

Shane felt his lips twitch in a faint, dry smile. "Have I?"

"Do you not believe that maybe eventually things can get better?" Connie asked instead.

Shane shrugged, sighing quietly as he finally went on to the trees. The trees here were all deciduous, but he wasn't sure how to go about painting that, so he opted for a pine tree in a blackish green instead. "Not really-- whoops," he said under his breath as a brushstroke went too far. "It's not looking that way."

Connie still focused on making delicate brushstrokes for the leaves. "Perhaps, for now, it is enough to be open to the possibility of hope, even if you don't believe in it now. Being open to the idea can be a small step towards eventually, maybe, finding it."

"It'll have to do," Shane said, half-distracted by the fact that although he had a very good idea of what pine trees looked like, he was not turning out to be particularly skilled at painting them. "It's all I can do for now."

They lapsed into silence again, with Shane getting slightly better with each tree and Connie moving on to the cliffs. While Connie added detail to the sea, Shane painted in the sky and clouds, opting for a stormier look like he'd seen on that cliff with Alan. He realized when he was nearly done with it that he hadn't left any room for a sun, so he did his best at painting faint lines of light filtering through a gray cloud, suggesting at a sun underneath.

Shane was adding in the reflection of that light on the waves as Connie set his paintbrush down, finished with his own painting. He seemed happy to admire the view, so Shane took his time with the final brushstrokes. When he couldn't think of anything more to add, he set the brush down, then slowly reached to touch an edge of the canvas where the paint was dry.

Like he'd half-expected, he felt a wave of weary hopelessness sink over him heavily, accompanied by a brief vision of himself standing in front of the canvas, knuckles white from his clench on the paintbrush. Had he really been frowning the entire time? It looked like it.

Shane stepped back from the painting, as a way of indicating he was done. Done with yet another thing he'd made depressing.

"I think I've finished," he said.

Connie finally glanced at Shane's canvas, though only for a few seconds before he turned to put away the art supplies. "The canvases still need to dry. We can leave them if you'd like," he said.

"Sure," Shane said, taking a final look at their paintings. No one had any reason to come up here and take his, at least.

To be honest, it wouldn't be a problem with him if someone did. He didn't hold onto depressing things anyway.

Unless, of course, it was his past.

The cabin was half-empty. The two freaks, Tula and Alex, had left for the evening, conspiring to torment others with nightmares, and Jay was relieved that they were gone. He'd accepted that the safest hours he had to himself in his allotted living space were in the odd hours of the night. It didn't bother him to be nocturnal. Everyone seemed to assume he was by nature of his powers, anyway.

The only downside to Tula and Alex being gone was that Aaron was also home. He certainly took a shared sense of shelter in staying at the cabin while they were out, but it meant that they had to share space. They would both venture out into the kitchen at similar times, and that meant they had to actually... live together.

In fairness, Jay was learning to tolerate Aaron's weirdness. Even though he was still very much a freak of nature (they all were), and his personality could be grating, they'd seemed to come to an agreement.

They tolerated each other more than the others, at least, so that made being in the same room bearable.

Even if Aaron still freaked Jay out a lot. Mostly because he had an insatiable hunger that made Jay worry, and Aaron had still done very little to explain it.

While they were in the kitchen, Jay worked on stirring a large pot of stew he planned on sharing with Aaron, only because he... well, he wasn't being nice. He wasn't. He was just being practical, was all. It made sense to cook in bulk.

Aaron, meanwhile, sat at the counter, lurking.

Watching.

Jay looked over his shoulder several times before he finally broke the silence, feeling like he was the one being watched more than the stew.

"Is something on your mind?" Jay asked diplomatically.

Blinking, Aaron seemed to actually focus his attention on Jay just then. He half-heartedly shot back, "Wouldn't you like to know."

Jay made a face, scrunching up his mouth and raising his brows.

"I was just asking," Jay said. "Your 100-yard stare through my skull is unnerving."

"I'm sure you've faced worse," Aaron said, waving dismissively. "Retail, and such." He steepled his hands on the counter. "So, the only drawback," he said, tone conversational, "to the mild poisoning, was that it led directly to an unintended overexposure to our... dear cabin mates."

"Unfortunately so," Jay said.

Over the past week, Alex and Tula had been 'sick' after eating a meal together. That was because Jay slipped some poison into the ingredients while they weren't looking, and Aaron had finally perfected procuring a poison for them. They did something more mild this time, so the effects were more akin to food poisoning. But that was only because they didn't want to risk death.

At least, at the time. Now Jay was actually beginning to reconsider murder. Tula and Alex were even worse while sick. They were dramatic on a regular day, but up that to 200 when they were being whiny and useless.

"Maybe next time... we do something more long-term," Jay said vaguely.

Drumming his fingers together, Aaron's expression darkened just a bit as he hummed his agreement. "If only..."

"Right," Jay said quietly. "Hard with all these cameras around."

"Perhaps we could revisit the concept, post-island," Aaron suggested in a mutter.

"That would be the smart thing to do," Jay agreed.

And then he returned his attention to the stew, stirring it idly.

There came more idle tapping on the counter behind him. Aaron sounded semi-restless. Jay looked over his shoulder again, this time, silently expectant. Aaron, instead of saying anything at first, awkwardly looked askance. Jay waited. Another long beat. Aaron's stiff, blank expression turned bothered as he stared at the wall.

"You should know something," Aaron said, suddenly and voice needlessly loud. Then he coughed, and amended by lowering his voice as he went on, "About me. Since..." He gestured to the big pot of stew by Jay.

Jay stared at him.

"Continue," Jay said.

Aaron idly-- nervously-- drummed his hands on the edge of the counter to fill another quiet beat. "My magic," he tentatively started, "effects my...appetite. I'm not sure how familiar you are with wendigos, but it's not too unlike vampirism."

Jay stirred the stew again. The moment Aaron mentioned he was a wendigo, Jay had deeply researched them on his own. He was well informed of what they were, and how they operated, but it was a bit of a surprise that Aaron was actually initiating this conversation about it.

Something must have happened. Aaron was not the kind of person to open up for vulnerability's sake.

So who'd ruffled the wendigo's feathers?

"Insatiable," Jay said. "I'm familiar."

"Ah. Excellent." Aaron nodded. "Then, you're aware that it can lead to feeding indiscriminately on any nearest living organisms if neglected."

Of course, Jay knew what Aaron was really reffering to; not just any living organism, but a human. Much like vampirism, that was how then infection from the host spread. The past weeks Jay had been keenly aware that there was a possibility Aaron's hunger could overpower him if left unchecked.

However, if that happened at night, Jay found he wasn't so worried for himself. He always had the defensive ability to go ghost. It was hard to fear a monster if the monster could never get a hold of him unless Jay wanted him to. As for their other cabin-mates, Jay could care less.

They were collateral damage. The DMV knew what they were doing, placing Aaron nearest to them. Either Tula and Alex had a means to defend themselves or they were disposable. It was a cold reality either way, but one Jay would never set the DMV above. He knew what they were like. They thrived on power. And Maeve, particularly, on chaos.

"How do you manage it?" Jay asked. "Apart from your disproportionate appetite?"

He was being diplomatic about this only because he knew Aaron was like a scared animal at all times. If Jay asked what he wanted to ask right away, Aaron would skitter away and this whole conversation would be rendered useless.

"Isolation," Aaron answered. "Normally."

Well that wasn't going to work here, obviously.

Jay lifted the stew pot off the burner and set it in the adjacent hot plate. It needed a minute to cool, but otherwise, it was ready.

Jay turned around, more sternly meeting Aaron's eyes. He understood Aaron's fear. Even though Jay contemplated murder, he understood that it was a world of difference to be enslaved to a hunger that was not your own - made into an unwilling participant of a carnal desire that turned you into a cannibal, which any reasonable human would acknowledge was a horrific reality to face. Jay was sure that Aaron had already faced this horror more than he'd ever wanted to. Isolation was a reasonable solution, but never a permanent one. People would always be found, and monsters would always awaken.

What Aaron needed to learn was how to control it. Or, if possible... how to cure himself of the curse altogether.

Jay had been doing research quietly in his room ever since he heard. "Wendigo" was not a power someone was born with. It was a condition. A disease. A parasite given, not acquired. Little research had been done on the issue because of the mythical nature of it, and many people of the world still believed it to be just that: an old wive's tale. But anyone who'd had a touch with the supernatural - of which he was sickeningly familiar - knew that all tales came from truth.

If this could be given, it could be taken away. Jay was convinced of it. They just had to find a way to remove it without killing Aaron.

That was the tricky part. All known attempts to cure people of the "curse" resulted in death... or death was considered the "cure." Which was a grim, unfair fate if you asked Jay.

Standing with his arms folded, Jay held his evaluating stare for some time before he spoke.

"This, then, must be the test for you that the DMV has created," Jay said. "Isolation is not an option, and you cannot give yourself over to madness. So you must find another solution."

Aaron stared long and hard at Jay. Not in disgreement, but looking somewhat puzzled. Still trying to figure Jay out.

Jay raised his brows expectantly.

"I may have... found a potential solution," Aaron eventually answered, idly pushing his glasses up.

"Elaborate," Jay egged him on.

That only elicited hesitant mumbling under Aaron's breath as he looked askance. Good god, this man was so easily deterred from anything with the slightest form of pressure. He was practically spineless. Jay waited for Aaron to answer, but instead his mumbles turned into a stubborn silence, as if Jay's curtness had managed to kill the conversation entirely.

Please. Was Jay going to have to actually... be nice? Ugh. That was what he was worst at. The only form of niceness he knew how to muster was entirely fake. That was what he got from working customer service.

Pursing his lips into a tight frown, he bit back a sigh as he stared at the shut-down wendigo in front of him.

Fine. Fine. He'd try.

Unfolding his arms with an awkward stiffness he didn't know how to allieve, he inclined his head to Aaron, trying to muster up something he hoped looked like... empathy. Or something. On his face.

"Sorry," Jay said, the word feeling disgusting in his mouth. "I only... want to make sure... you're..."

Why was this so hard?

"... okay," Jay painfully finished.

Face completely blank, Aaron blinked at him. "Was..." Cracking the barest of grins, he actually snorted at him. "...Are you[/] okay? That was... the most painful thing I have witnessed since arriving here."

Jay's whole body ignited in ghostly flames, and he turned semi-transparent in turn. Jay felt his dreads deft gravity as they flew up over his head and his eyes lit with a bright pale light. Holding his fists at his sides, he snapped.

"I'm trying to make sure you don't eat anybody on this island goddamnit!" he spat, his voice overlaying with those of his ancestors without him meaning to.

Dousing his own anger and embarassment, he forcefully dispelled the manifestation and fluttered back to the ground, becoming solid once again.

Ugh. He'd scared Aaron on accident. The man had ducked down behind the counter completely. Jay folded his arms again. This time he let out a long sigh.

"...Just. Just tell me this solution of yours," Jay said more quietly.

"[i]Potential... solution," Aaron quietly corrected him. He carefully peeked up over the counter's edge with only the upper half of his face visible.

Jay winced. More at his own display than Aaron's response.

"Potential solution," he amended. "What is it?"

"...You recall the mind reader?" Aaron asked, slowly retaking his seat.

Dear god.

"Yes," Jay said neutrally.

Aaron folded his hands on the counter, keeping a still-mildly wary look fixed on Jay. "I paid him a visit recently. It was horrible, but he might be of... some assistance."

Why did Jay feel like this was a bad idea? This reeked of bad idea.

"I asked-- admittedly, indirectly-- how familiar you are with my condition," Aaron went on, tone turning serious, "in part because I want to be sure that you'd be prepared for the worst. Should my plan to... offload the problem to the mind reader, work. Since he has declared himself a willing recipient."

Jay stared at Aaron intensely, using all of willpower not to erupt in flames again.

"Come again?" Jay asked, apalled at the stupidity of the notion.

Aaron shrank back-- not in fear, but now with some embarrassment. He raised his hands in a defensive gesture. "I know it's a reach!" he shot back, "But I can't completely dismiss it as an option--"

"Aaron, your condition is not transferrable," Jay said. "All you would be doing is setting the curse upon a man who doesn't even know how to brush his teeth. Stravos has only declared himself willing because he is mentally ill. You, at least, have the capacity to fight this. Stravos wouldn't stand a chance. No. You're not doing that. If you do, you doom us all to consumption. Stravos would have no will or power to even bother holding back the beast. But you care enough to try. Otherwise you wouldn't be here."

A series of different emotions flashed across Aaron's face; from open irritation as he bristled, to deflated defeat as he considered Stravos's mental state, to... more visible confusion for another long moment after.

Jay stared back. What?

"...I would like to say," Aaron finally said with the reasonability of an attorney, "that was never my first choice of action, anyhow. More of a last resort." Pausing, he stubbornly added, "I'm keeping the idea on a back burner."

"Better be the burner on someone else's stove. If you resort to that I'll be forced to interfere myself," Jay muttered. "We explore every other option first."

"...'We'?" Aaron echoed blankly.

Jay felt like Aaron, as stupid as he was, was becoming too perceptive for Jay's liking. He bristled, looking off to the side.

"...Yes," he said stiffly. "Because if we're working together of course we share the responsibility."

Ugh, even that sounded too soft to him.

"Burden," Jay corrected, trying to make it sound less... touchy-feely.

Aaron narrowed his gaze slightly as he tapped his hand to his chin in thought, like he was now studying Jay. "...Sure," he said slowly, tone unconvinced, "fine. Share the burden."

Eugh. He didn't like how that sounded coming from Aaron, either. Best to change the subject, now, lest Aaron get any wrong ideas.

"Get some stew before it gets cold," Jay said curtly. "Sate the hunger inside you."

Dropping his curious posture, Aaron nodded stiffly. "Yes. Thank you."

Gah. Jay hated thank-you's. He threw up his hands in the air in frustration, gesturing for Aaron to help himself as he slowly disappeared, fleeing by backing into the wall. He was done with this conversation.

Was it the weekend already? Alan was losing track of time.

Time. A human construct, a unit of measurement to quantify the day and nights. If Alan were more disiplined, perhaps he would be sticking to a rigid structure of time.

But alas. He committed to staying up late with Lyall, and he was committed to getting up early to run with Hild. It was kind of poetic, really. He was with one Ashlund with the rise of the moon, and he was with the other Ashlund with the rise of the sun.

Though, his lack of sleep didn't find his poetic musings very amusing.

This time, Alan was right on time. At least, he was sure he was. It was hard to tell since he didn't have his phone and also didn't bring his wristwatch. Regardless, he hurried to meet Hild at the base of the trail-- after waving at her from a distance, from her.

He noticed that she was by herself again.

"Good morning, Hild," he said with a smile as as he slowed to a stop in front of her. "You know, you're the first person I see every day during daylight hours, now. I think that's quite beautiful."

Hild arched a brow, lips quirking in the barest of smiles. "Please save the romantic poetry for at least after the run," she said flatly.

He arched a brow, feeling a grin tug his lips. "Are you finally giving me permission to serenade you?"

She huffed. "If it's a serenade you want, then forget it altogether."

Alan let out a low hum. "But romantic poetry is fine?"

Gesturing to the path ahead of them, Hild beckoned him along as she replied, "I'll allow it. It feels like something that requires some release, to keep from building pressure and... exploding." Lifting a hand, she mimicked a bursting effect in demonstration.

Alan smiled with intrigue and curiosity. Frankly, he didn't anticipate Hild relenting so easily. Or to mimick fake explosions, which he found endearing in a humorous way.

"I'm not sure I understand," he said directly. "Is the release of pressure for you or me?"

"Purely for your sake," she replied easily, already breaking into a quick and even stride down the path. "Use it sparingly, however."

Oh, he will not.

Alan matched her pace by her side, jogging beside her. "Are we not waiting for James again?"

"Unfortunately, he has fallen ill," she explained.

Oh no. James was sick? Maybe he should pay him a visit soon.

"Aw. That's awful. It's good that he's resting," Alan said softly. Then after a few moments of quiet, he added, "Maybe we can pay him a visit. Unless... is he contagious?"

Hild hummed. "Perhaps he'd appreciate a small check-in, yes. He isn't displaying any symptoms that could spread any potential disease, so I'd say it'd be a fairly clean visit."

Alan got absorbed in his own thoughts after that, not really thinking of any one thing in particular. It did occur to him a few times that they really should visit James, though. Having others supporting you while sick was always a good feeling, and James was a friendship that Alan was still trying to develop. Showing up and being present during a time of need was the least he could do for a friend.

Plus, this gave him an excuse to see Shane again... Not that he needed an excuse. Alan knew he could see Shane whenever he wanted. Still, it was nice. To have an excuse. Drop by. Conveniently.

The run with Hild went well, like usual. It was a refreshing way to start the day, and now that this was a new consistent habit, Alan felt himself regaining his stamina. Slowly but surely, he could build his endurance again.

Shouldn't he be eating more to keep up with this?

It was too bad James was sick and couldn't make it, but at the same time, Alan was glad that he could have the time with Hild. It was interesting that this was how he was spending more of his time with her now, considering that it used be via string practice. But he certainly didn't have any reservations. It didn't matter what they were doing; any time spent with Hild was time well spent.

Alan kept this in mind til the end of the run where they both ate breakfast together, already forming his romantic poetry that she gave him permission to say.

They both sat down for breakfast, with Alan ordering a platter of food. The tray consisted of an array of fruit, a bagel, muffin, and bacon. It was a bit of am ambitious meal, but it occurred to Alan that maybe he should eat more everyday if he was burning off more calories from endurance runs.

"How underprepared were you," Hild began suddenly, "when you were summoned from the mountains of Argentia?"

Alan looked up after a bite of a honeydew melon slice, frankly a little caught off-guard by the random question. Though, at the same time, this didn't really surprise him because this came from Hild... who remembered everything. And seemed to hold on to random questions for random times.

"I'm doing fine now, so I don't think I was that underprepared," he huffed.

"Most people remember their only means to communicating with human civilization," she countered flatly, "if only for the event of an emergency. At the very least, when the opportunity is provided to rectify said negligence."

Alan shrugged, plopping a grape in his mouth. "Maybe I'm not most people."

She huffed a dry laugh, looking back to her own food. "No one's 'most people'. You certainly stand out more than most, though." After taking a bite, she pointed her spoon at him. "Anyhow. This to say-- ask, if it was the island staff who provided your wardrobe."

Alan couldn't help but look down at his shirt. Was there something odd about what he was wearing?

"I guess so. I don't know, it was in the closet of my room," he said, lightly shrugging again. "I hadn't thought about it, but it makes sense that staff would pick this."

Hild hummed, lightly resting her chin on her hand as she studied him. "So, would it be an accurate guess to say, as we've seen you thus far, wardrobe-wise, is not quite...you?"

Ah. Hild was a fashion apparel designer at heart. Alan found it endearing that she'd even be paying attention to what he was wearing and make this connection herself. He nodded, smile growing.

"You can say that. I don't normally wear such loose clothes in lighter natural colors," he said. "I don't mind it, though. It's comfortable and fitting for a tropical island. Feels like... vacation clothes."

With a faint grin, Hild let her hand drop to the table. "And this island, good sir, is no vacation. Not really." She poked at her oatmeal again. "Shall we sometime root around the plaza for apparel that says--" With a sweeping motion of her hand, she gestured broadly to the middle distance. "'the real Alan Alvaro'?"

Alan grinned, dropping his fork back down on the plate. "Are you asking me to go shopping with you? Now that sounds like the ultimate vacation. I accept this proposition."

Hild smiled, close-lipped but with an excited spark in her eyes. "Excellent."

Now it was Alan's turn to spring a random question to her.

"What's your favorite fruit?" Alan asked Hild out of the blue.

Hild looked up from her bowl of oatmeal. "Should I have one?" she asked, quirking a brow.

"Only if you allow me the privilege of obtaining the profound knowledge of your favorite fruit," Alan teased with a smile.

She cast him a bemused grin. "You're presuming I have a favorite fruit to begin with," she replied cryptically instead.

"Well? Do you not?" he asked, more curious than anything.

She hummed as she turned back to her food. "I suppose I haven't given it enough thought to have one."

"No better time than the present," Alan said with a smile, picking up a strawberry and loosely waving it in front of him. "Why don't you give it some thought now, then?"

"Very well." She poked her spoon at a blueberry in her bowl. "Blueberries are fine. And, given the frequency with which I consume them, which is daily..." she said, contemplating this as one might with life's greatest mysteries. Then shrugged and reiterated simply, "They're fine."

Alan hummed, admiring the strawberry in his hand. "Not just fine. More like... divine." He grinned, glancing up at her again.

Her expression quickly turned flat as she glanced back at him. "No," she warned.

"Oh yes," he went on playfully with a big grin. "Fruits have so much symbolism, do they not? With strawberry skies, it's so easy to get lost..." Alan began, reaching over to extend a hand towards Hild's face-- but not after he discreetly picked up a green grape. "...in your blueberry eyes."

Smoothly, Alan then slid the grape out from his palm, holding it with his thumb and forefinger in front of Hild's eye. He slightly squinted, studying her eye color against the grape.

"Hm. I stand corrected. You have grape eyes," he finished with a silly smile, pulling away.

She snorted with a sudden, surprised grin. "You're ridiculous," she muttered.

Alan plopped the grape in his mouth, chewing it with a proud smile. "That's high praise coming from you."

"Of course you'd take it as praise," she said, still unable to hide her amusement.

Victory. He got her to grin and show genuine amusement.

Alan was tempted to push his luck further, but he'd rather quit while he was ahead. He picked up the muffin next, unpeeling the paper.

"Oh, by the way, Hild," he began lightly. "What do you think about visiting James later today? I think it could be nice to stop by, since he's sick."

Hild hummed her agreement, mouth full at the moment. She quickly swallowed. "I fully intended to, yes. After Miss Clanny and I visit with the alpacas." She lightly scraped the bottom of her bowl, trying to catch a stray blueberry.

Right. Yes. The alpacas. Alan had to visit them too. Well, he did yesterday-- briefly, with Clanny. But he really ought to go back and be a better caretaker like he said he would.

"Considering we haven't even received any tasks yet, you've been quite busy," she commented, eyes still turned down to the food but tone genuinely interested. A bit mystified, even. "How do you do it?"

Alan ate through a big bite of the muffin, slowly processing her words and piecing together why she seemed so surprise. There wasn't really any secret here.

"I'm not sure what you mean. I don't know if there's any secret," he said with a faint laugh. "Though, I don't even think I'm that busy."

Hild shook her head slightly. "Lilly laments your absence," she disagreed with a slight teasing in her voice. "Feels like, outside of our new morning routine, I hardly have a chance to talk with you either." She lifted a hand before he could say anything. "I'm not demanding more of your time, make no mistake of that. It's just an observation."

Alan couldn't help but feel guilty. He took Hild for granted. Alan was usually very good at managing time between many different people with different needs and interests, and he took a calculated risk in assuming that Hild was fine with this. Fine with only spending time with her in the morning, even if it was every morning.

Of course she wouldn't be. It was a natural human desire to spend time with people you care about, after all. And after spending so much time with her playing violin and cello the first two weeks, Alan really felt like he dropped the ball on her, shifting his priorities from her to others.

She said that she wasn't demanding more of his time, and Alan knew that. But he vowed to change this anyways. He wanted to be better for her.

"I'm just curious how you do it," she went on, sounding unbothered. "You've somehow...intricately woven yourself into the lives of practically half the island already." A quick pause. "It's confuzzling."

Alan poked the fruit around his plate, forming a proper response in his head first. "I think you give me too much credit," he said after a short stretch of silence. "There are only a few people on this island I spend most of my time with, and you're one of them. But I'm not trying to weave myself into their lives. I just find them interesting and want to spend time with them. That's all."

She tilted her head, studying him again. Visibly trying to puzzle it out still. "Perhaps that's all it is, then," she agreed simply.

Alan recalled an earlier conversation he had with Hild, which felt like a lifetime ago now. She said she had a hard time making friends. Hild was genuinely trying to understand and learn how to connect with others.

And Alan was more than happy to offer his insights, if she found them helpful.

"I'm certainly no expert in human connection," he began, attention fully fixed on her again. "But I do think connection is an intrinsic human need. Humanity thrives with other people. It is not one mind that innovates ingenuity and perpetuates ideas that outlast history-- rather, it is the collective minds of many. I think, to find that harmony and unity that connects us to others, you have to look into their heart. What makes the person unique? What makes them happy? Sad? Angry? What do they love? Who do they love? What hardships have they experiened? What successes have they had? There are infinite questions to explore in your discovery of a person, and everyone has a different answer to each and every question. Since we are always growing, I think this is a process that never ends, and I find that beautiful: to connect with others, keep them in your memory, and see them blossom over time."

Hild nodded once, glancing sideways now. Silent, but not unhearing. She seemed to be carefully taking in his every word.

Alan shrugged, stabbing a slice of watermelon with his fork. "At least, that's what I've learned over time with my big family. I had the pleasure to see this happen quite a few times by now."

She hummed, focusing fully back on him, warmth in her gaze. "How big is your family?"

"Immediate family, or entire family?" he asked.

Hild quirked a curious brow. "Yes," she answered with a light laugh.

Alan huffed out some air, taking in another bite as he looked out the window, gazing up at the sky. One would think he'd memorize this answer by now.

"Immediate family, there's just my mom and my brother. My dad's side of the family is a lot smaller, and I only keep in touch with him. I have a lot of other family members on my mom's side, though. To sum it up, I have three uncles, three aunts-- all are married. And..." He had to pause to do a quick recount. "Nine cousins. Two second cousins now. And my grandparents." He turned back to Hild with a breezy smile. "So, what's that in total? Twenty?"

"Twenty-two," Hild said, "is a very large clan, indeed."

Ah. Twenty-two.

"Maybe. I think it's a perfect amount," Alan said.

"Yes," she agreed with a sincere smile, "of course."

"How big is your family?" he asked as well. "You have Lyall, obviously. And Viktor, and Geoff. Are there others in the Ashlund clan?"

"An aunt on our mother's side," Hild answered. Folding her arms, she leaned back as she gave it more thought. "I believe she had at least one child of her own, which makes... at least one cousin. They've been an estranged side of the family, though, since my mother and father married. And, on his side, there's only his father. Who, if I recall correctly and assuming nothing's changed in the past four years, is still living on his own in Talia. So, assuming there aren't any secret cousins, we all tally up to a grand total of seven."

Alan nodded, absorbing all of this slowly. Family often held a strong influence over a person, and he was glad to hear this side of her personal life. It was all a part of the discovery of learning about Hild.

"It's always hard," he said, folding his arms on top of each other on the table, "when a family is split. Knowing that you have a family nearby but not being able to talk to them due to constructs made up over matters beyond your control... it's difficult and sad."

Hild paused. "...It was rather a loss," she conceded softly. "We were very fond of Alva. My half-brother especially. I think they were kindred spirits."

Alan loved hearing people talk fondly of others, and even better when it was about family. But it did make him sad that this fond rememberance was one stemmed from loss of unity.

"Can you tell me more about her? What is she like?" he asked.

Hild cracked a fond grin. "In a word: wild. In the most technical sense of the phrase, anti-social; in that, she cared not for social norms." Glancing off, she hummed in thought. "Had a very strong sense of right and wrong. Incredibly proud, though, as well as...short-sighted, as my mother would lovingly phrase it. Both characterstics sometimes clouded her judgement, but Alva was a thoroughly warm and loving person.

"I believe it was her untamed nature that Lyall connected best with," Hild said conclusively, nodding more to herself as she pondered aloud. "To live in such freedom and confidence... I suppose I could benefit from a small dose of that, too."

Alan smiled softly, listening attentively as he imagined Alva in his head. A carefree spirit, living life freely in her own world.

"Alva sounds like a lovely woman," he said sincerely. "I can see why Lyall would be drawn to her."

Meeting Alan's gaze once more, Hild quietly nodded her agreement.

"And you too," he added. "Since you said you could benefit from being around someone like her."

She grinned faintly. "She is lovely, yes. I hope she's been alright." Tilting her head, she seemed to study him again, like she had something in particular she wanted to ask or comment on. But she ultimately kept it to herself, and instead reached over and helped herself to one of his grapes.

"What is it?" Alan said with a soft laugh, watching her with mild amusement. "You gave me a strange look. What's running through your head of yours?"

Shrugging, Hild picked out a strawberry wedge next. "I'm simply curious about why you're not in contact with your father's side of the family."

Ah. He didn't fault her for being curious. Considering he was so close to his family, it was no wonder Hild was wondering why he didn't talk to his dad's side of the family.

"Well, my dad's family is a lot smaller," he began, also picking up a strawberry, but to wave it in his hand while he talked. "I have an aunt, and I looked up to her a lot, but she died when I was 14. It's nothing that tragic. She was an alcoholic, so she basically drank herself to death."

He paused, realizing that was still... kind of tragic. At least, on words.

"Anyways," Alan continued, "I have grandparents on my dad's side too, but I only met them once in the funeral. I don't know, my parents are separated, so there isn't a lot of unity between both sides. My family doesn't really talk to my dad, but I try to keep in touch with him when I can."

"Due to..." Hild scrunched her nose a little and glanced off in thought. Then tried again, "Does he live far from your family, then?"

Alan nodded after eating half the strawberry in his hand. "He lives in the Annexed States, actually. I lived there for early childhood as well." He flashed her a more lighthearted smile. "So, hey, who knows. Maybe your university isn't so far from the old Alvaro household."

Hild hummed, now seriously considering the possibility. "Where about was the old Alvaro household?"

"Good question," Alan said with a chuckle. "I don't know. I haven't gone back since then, and seven year old me didn't really keep track of these details."

"Fair enough," she said with understanding. Resting her chin in her hand, she glanced off again as she delved deep back into thought. "What remains of the Alvaro footprint in the States?" she eventually asked.

Alan moved on to finally eat the bacon, which had gone cold by now. But he didn't particularly mind, since it was crunchy. He tore off a piece, watching as some bits crumbled on his plate.

"Well, my dad still lives there," he began. "He owns a violin shop named Cadeza Violins and also lives on the upper floor. It's quite cozy. As you may have guessed, he's a violinist and luthier. He made my violin for me as a gift, actually."

"An impressive trade," Hild said with a faint grin. "I'll keep Cadeza Violins in mind."

Alan raised a curious brow. "Why? Are you going to finally take cello lessons?" he teased.

She scoffed with mock offense. "Certainly not, I play just fine."

He playfully narrowed his eyes at her. "Why even keep it in mind? Are you going to visit one day?"

"Maybe," Hild said, shrugging noncommittally, "maybe not. Mostly depends on his skill level as a luthier. Would you recommend his works?"

Alan kept his suspicious stare on her for a bit, still not convinced that Hild wouldn't randomly drop in one day. For what and for why, he didn't really know, but Alan wouldn't be around for that anyways, so he supposed it doesn't even matter.

It was just... kind of... weird. He never brought friends to his dad's place before. Hell, not even the rest of his family visited his dad. On that matter, Alan hadn't visited his shop for years. So it was weird to think that Hild would waltz in and start a casual conversation with him, even if it was to legitimately make a purchase.

"I'd say so, yes," Alan said after some hesitation. "He mostly specializes on violins and violas, but he works with another luthier who specializes in cellos and basses, so they're also sold in his shop. He can do all kinds of repairs as well. He plays all four string instruments and gives private lessons for all of them. The instruments are also made with the highest quality. I recommend it."

"Excellent," Hild chirped. "I might consider it, then. Something for my younger brother, since he expressed a vague interest recently."

"With the violin?" Alan asked hopefully.

"I think he said a viola," she answered woefully.

"Ah, the violin's close cousin who doesn't get enough love," Alan said with a smile. "Still a good choice. You now have enough for a proper quartet."

Hild tilted her head in slight confusion. "But there's..." Then it dawned on her, and she nodded slowly. "You'd be the fourth?"

"Of course," Alan said proudly. "That is, if you'll have me. As an honorary Ashlund, I mean."

Smiling warmly, she shrugged. "What's one more brother for the lineup. I'm sure Lyall and Vik would love to fold you into the family."

Alan beamed. "I've always wanted to have a sister," he mused.

Flicking her gaze down to the table, Hild's smile turned somewhat touched. Jokingly, she added, "So have I, but that doesn't seem to be in the cards for me at this rate."

It was silly, but Alan felt a little sad for her.

"You know--" he began.

"No," she cut in, still grinning as she held up a finger, "stop it. I wouldn't trade any of my brothers for the world."

Alan smiled warmly at her, endeared by her open display of affection. It was rare for Hild to be serious and sincere, so he wanted to relish the moment.

"I know," he said gently. "I was just going to say that, originally, my mom was going to name me Alison. She was told she'd have fraternal twins: a boy and a girl. Obviously, that didn't happen." He smiled, shrugging. "Don't read into it this too much, but if you really want a sister, then just for you, I can be one name removed from one."

Hild arched a brow, and he could tell she was mentally poking holes in his fragile logic anyway. "It's really fine," she said gently. "I just want you to be Alan Alpaca Alvaro Ashlund, alright?"

Alan barked out a short laugh, touched by the sentiments. He playfully beamed at Hild again. "How many more names am I going to adopt on this island?"

Hild hummed her own amusement. "Ah, forgive me. Alan Alpaca Alvaro Ashlund of Argentia."

"I need to start thinking of better alliteration for you," he murmured, still grinning. "But yes. For you, dear sister, I can be Alan Alpaca Alvaro Ashlund of Argentia."

Smiling fully at him again, Hild tilted her chin up. "A worthy title for one of the most ridiculous men I've ever known."

Alan scoffed. "Hey now, no need to call Lyall names."

She narrowed her eyes at him. "He is, of course, among that number," she agreed.

"Of course," Alan said with a smile. "But that only makes him more lovable."

Her grin turned flat. "Not quite my choice of adjective."

"No? Then what would it be?" he asked.

Hild tilted her head with a playful hum as she thought. "Insufferable," she eventually answered.

"Insufferably fun," Alan mused.

"No."

"Insufferably loveable?"

"No, just--" Sitting straighter, she emphasized with a chopping motion of both hands, "--insufferable."

Alan maintained his smile despite feeling it fade when he remembered Lyall's saying Hild didn't like to hear affirmingly loving words from him. With her stubbornly saying he was insufferable-- even if Alan knew she didn't really mean it-- he could begin to understand what he meant by this.

"Surely you don't mind that," he said softly but with a gentle voice, not wanting to make this a bigger deal than it was. "I know you care about each other. Surely you don't actually think he's insufferable."

Her own breeziness fading, Hild tilted her head the other way, gaze suddenly piercing as she studied him more closely. This didn't intimidate Alan, though. He didn't have anything to hide.

"What has he told you?" she eventually asked. "About us as a family?"

Alan hesitated. "Nothing big, really... I mean, we've talked about family plenty of times, but..." He trailed away, unable to maintain the smile now. "Is there something I should know?"

With a slow nod, Hild hummed. "Seems about right," she said under her breath. Then, aloud, went on, "He certainly has his good qualities. I could never seriously deny that. It's just..." She glanced off and shrugged. "We haven't fully... moved past certain issues."

"No relationship is perfect, and bonds can take years to grow and flourish," Alan said, voice gentle and understanding. "You can love someone with your whole heart but not be close to them. Though-- and this is only my humble opinion-- love is so much more fulfilling when you are close to someone. The feeling of mutually shared, open love is warm and inviting. But I'm sure you already know that."

She folded her hands on the table, expression softening slightly once more as she took in his words. "You really are...squishy-hearted," she mused quietly.

For a moment there, Alan doubted he heard her right. He stared at her, slowly furrowing his brows.

"Squishy-hearted," he repeated slowly, processing.

Waving dismissively, Hild looked ready to say more. She stopped herself short to glance just past him.

"I would like," she said slowly, meeting his eyes once more, "to confide in you. Honorary Ashlund that you are now. But not here."

Alan nodded. "That's alright. I'm happy to listen to whatever you want to say, whenever and wherever."

With a slight quirk of the lips, Hild inclined her head. "Thank you. For understanding."

"Of course, Hild," he said with a smile. "That's what friends are for."

Alan was glad to return to the cabin after breakfast. He wasn't particularly tired, but he figured a long shower could make him sleepy. Had he ever had a lazy day on the island yet? Maybe today could be that day. Maybe.

This was only a fleeting thought as he entered the cabin, immediately hearing his cabin mates voices.

"But I can't be a goat!" he heard Cyrin exclaim upon opening the door. "Could a goat do this, Lyall?"

The rhetorical question was promptly followed by Cyrin hitting an operatic high G.

Lyall laughed, lifting both hands in surrender. "I'll concede, you can surely best a goat, any day. By a landslide! But Twooter has spoken. Who are we to disagree?"

Alan had already slipped off his shoes, listening in the conversation with a smile. "Hello, friends. Don't mind me," he said as he slipped into the kitchen to grab a glass of water. "Please carry on with your normal dosage of goat bleating."

"I would," Cyrin said, with mock indignation and offense as he pointed at Lyall, "but I find myself accused of the highest falsehoods! Affronted on all sides by the grand Twooter jury! Accosted by my own dear friend who now lowers the gavel on my sentence!"

With a loud gasp in a similarly offended manner, Lyall lamented, "The accusations! Tis you who slanders my good name, for this is verily a just and warranted sentence. All evidence suggests you are indeed as the Twooter jury finds you: a goat! If not in the traditional sense of the word, then at the very least the G.O.A.T. of our hearts!" Then added to Alan: "And I do not bleat. As you well know by now, my voice is like that of a songbird."

Alan hid his smile by slowly drinking a glass of water. There was something so funny about hearing Lyall say modern slang words while also saying 'I do not bleat' as the next sentence.

"All evidence is a mere--" Cyrin gave his phone screen an exaggerated squint. "--six point two percent margin! I request-- nay, demand-- a fair and speedy recount!"

Lyall snickered. "Perhaps the third time will be the charm. However, you may be disappointed to find the verdict to once again remain unchanged."

Cyrin heaved a heavy sigh. "If it is, I'll have to pick a higher note to sing."

Lyall hopped up onto the coffee table behind them in order to rest his chin on Cyrin's shoulder. Reaching around them, he tapped the edge of their phone. "Tell me, what about this comparison aggrieves you so? I see hardly any cause for such offense. It's a great likeness!"

Alan quietly set the empty glass on the counter, tearing his attention away from his friends to make his way towards the staircase instead. He should shower. Change. Maybe sleep? Or maybe inspiration will come, and music will hit him. Or maybe not. The day was still beginning.

"Oh, Alan!" Lyall suddenly called, waving him back with a bright grin. "Before we part ways for the morning, please weigh in: is Cyrin Bridger more akin to an opossum, or a goat? T'is apparently the big question of the day on Twooter."

"There's a right answer to this one," Cyrin said.

Alan hummed, tapping his fingers on the base of the railing. "I don't know if either option fits. Maybe a panther?"

Lyall glanced up at the ceiling in deep contemplation. "Ah, yes," he said, now basically hugging Cyrin to thoughtfully steeple his hands under their chin, "the secret third option."

Cyrin let out a puff of laughter. "How did anyone even think of the first two?"

"In which case," Lyall agreed, laughing as he warmly patted Cyrin's shoulders, "you have every right to be offended. The better options would have been a panther and a peacock."

"No, no, no," Alan said, butting in. "That's definitely you, Lyall. You're the peacock."

Lyall tsked. "I cannot deny the glaring similarities," he conceded. "They are quite the handsome variety of avians."

Alan rubbed his chin, feigning deep contemplation. "Male peacocks impress their mate by strutting and ruffling their vibrant feathers." He looked up at Lyall. "Perhaps that's all you need to do for Kaya."

Scoffing, Lyall hopped down from the coffee table. "Impressive in appearance though I may be, I'll stick with my original plan, thank you very much. Play to my true strengths: ballads!"

"I'm fairly sure peacocks have a not-so-nice squawk," Cyrin said thoughtfully. "Take care that you don't serenade her with that."

Lyall hummed. "In which case, perhaps you should lend your bleating to the song."

"Bleating? No," Cyrin said. "But I could help out with a strut." At that, he turned and walked fancily in a straight line through the living room with a toss of his long hair, like a model on the runway.

Alan didn't really want to disrupt his friends' conversation, and he did want to freshen up, so he quietly slinked up the stairs. But he only managed to go up a few steps before his name was called again.

"Oh, if you're not too busy, Alan," Cyrin said cheerfully, "I was thinking I'd show Lyall the ropes on climbing today. Would you like to make a third?"

Lyall looked curiously between the two. Though, his gaze turned a little pointed when he raised both brows at Alan. Though Alan didn't know what he did to warrant that. Maybe his offense towards the peacock joke came in late?

"Oh. Huh," Alan murmured, stopping in place as he contemplated this. He only needed a second to think.

Climbing. He hadn't really climbed rock walls. Do buildings count as climbing experiences?

"Sure," he said with a smile. "Thanks for the invite. I'd love to come along. I feel like we haven't done a lot together, which is kind of insane, if you think about it. That should change today."

There was a flash of concern in Lyall's eyes, but he stayed quiet. Alan made a mental note to ask him about this later.

"When are you leaving?" Alan asked.

"The two of us were just about to when we got scandalized by the Twooter poll results," Cyrin said. "Need to do anything first?"

Alan glanced up the steps. He was going to go up to shower and perhaps rest a bit, but that could be postponed. He was already wearing his black track pants and blue sweat-wicking shirt, which was admittedly only one out of two sets of exercise attire he brought with him, considering it was all he brought on his backpacking hike. So... hm. Guess he was already ready.

"Nope," he said with a smile as he turned away, going back down the steps again. "I'm ready. Let's do this."



Cyrin led them to a rocky stretch along the beach, where large boulders were stacked over the sand, their surfaces still shining from the high tide earlier that morning. There were cliffs in the area too, but instead of heading there, Cyrin stopped them at the foot of one of the boulders. Alan scanned the surface, taking notes of the crags, ledges and holes to be used as holds, while Cyrin dropped a bag of chalk to the ground.

Hm. This wasn't... too bad, actually. It was doable for him. Barely.

"So, Alan, I've heard this is a first for Lyall, but have you done any climbing before?" Cyrin asked, grinning warmly his way as they reached up to tie their hair into a braid. "All kinds count."

"Not since..." Alan began, but then trailed off as he squinted up at the top of the boulder. "Not in nature, no," he answered instead. "So, this would be my first time too."

Cyrin tilted their head. "Urban climbing, then?"

Alan shook his head, scanning the boulder for possible touch points. "No. Not unless you count amateur scaling of buildings as urban climbing."

Cyrin grinned wider. "Do I count that? Oh, that's the most fun type of climbing in my opinion."

With a fascinated grin, Lyall quietly looked between the two.

Alan didn't really think there was much to be fascinated on, especially since he didn't have any fun stories. He didn't really know how else to explain himself besides saying, 'Ah, you see, I really only climbed in and out of the townhouse I was in so I can sneak out as a teenager. And run away from cops.'

"Hopefully this is just as fun, though," he said with a small smile, loosely gesturing ahead. "Building or not."

Lyall flashed a broader smile and quick wink. "Certainly. And, if not for the lovely setting, then for the lively company." He swept an arm toward Cyrin. "As arguably the most experienced in our number, please lead the way, my good friend!"

Cyrin finished with their braid, letting it fall over their neck as they picked up the bag of chalk with a smile. "You're going to want to get some of this on your hands," he said, pouring some chalk out on his palms and rubbing them together, before passing the bag to Lyall. "There really isn't such a thing as too much chalk, so don't worry about whether you've got too much, or whether you're applying it too often. Think about it this way: moisture is the enemy, and it must be defeated."

With a nod, Lyall accepted the chalk bag. "Counterintuitive in my line of work," he said breezily, liberally dusting his hands with the powder, "but something we can train out of me." He next handed it off to Alan.

Alan wordlessly took the bag, mirroring their actions and dipping his hands in to fully submerge his hands in the chalk. His hands were clammy to begin with, so he was liberal in rolling the chalk pieces around his palm.

"Consider ourselves chalked," Alan said with finished, offering the bag back to Cyrin.

"I sure do," Cyrin said with an approving nod, dropping it at his feet, before he stood back to examine the boulder. "As rocks go, this looks like a good beginner climb. You might notice that there are easier and harder sections, though." He indicated the side of the boulder to their left with a sweeping gesture. "See the surface there? It's been smoothed over more, and there's a bit of a backwards incline, which makes that route harder to climb if you're trying to get to the top." He then walked a few steps the other way, gesturing at a different part of the boulder. "Over here, though, you'll notice there's lots of helpful ridges to hold onto, and the angle is forwards instead of backwards. Even though both routes would get you to the top, one would be significantly easier to take." Cyrin smiled, looking back at the two of them. "The fun part is that this means there's something for everyone here. There's no shame in taking the easy way up, or in failing at the harder routes. No matter what, I guarantee you'll find yourselves getting better at this, just by trying it out."

Nodding slowly, Lyall tapped his chin in thought as he considered Cyrin's words, and potential paths upward. "I might err on the side of caution," he eventually said with a small laugh. "Start small, feel it out."

Cyrin nodded. "Cautious is always better. We'll be climbing one at a time for that reason."

"Thanks for the info, Cyrin," Alan added, even though there was quite a bit thrown all at once, but he figured he'd just... figure it out. "Let's do it. Are you going to go first to demonstrate?"

Cyrin hummed. "Would that be helpful?"

Alan found himself slowly looking at Lyall for an answer. Delayed, Lyall glanced back at Alan.

"I can go first?" Lyall offered, raising a hand. "If it doesn't make much a difference."

"Sure," Cyrin said, smiling encouragingly. "Whenever you're ready for it."

With a bow of his head, Lyall stepped up to the bottom of the boulders first. Idly swinging his arms, he stared up to assess them once more. Then started feeling about the rocks for a comfortable starting point, looking very small as he did so, what with the distance and the scale of the boulders. With a small, "Aha!" he slowly started to climb.

Alan watched Lyall scale the boulder, and it occurred to him just now-- perhaps because he had been staring at him for a bit now-- that this was the most casual attire he'd ever seen Lyall wear. With a t-shirt and joggers, Alan could almost forget that Lyall was a classy posh man who wore sweaters everyday.

"How long have you been climbing?" he asked Cyrin, finally turning his attention away from Lyall when it looked like he was making good progress.

Cyrin's expression turned thoughtful, although he kept his gaze on Lyall. "Maybe twelve years?" he guessed. "I've been at it for long enough that I'm not terribly confident in that answer, I guess."

"Oh, wow. That's quite a while. This must be easy for you, then," Alan said with a soft chuckle.

Cyrin let out a humble laugh. "Maybe, but that won't mean it won't be genuinely fun. It's more exciting to climb with friends."

Alan nodded, smiling. "Definitely. Thank you for inviting us."

Eventually, Lyall paused, looking to be at a crossroads. Or just stuck. He awkwardly tapped a toe on a ledge to his left. Then thought better of it and carefully returned to his original position.

"Just to the right and slightly below of where your foot was, there's a larger foothold," Cyrin called.

Lyall scanned the space to his right. "Ah, yes! Thank you!" he called back, and resumed his careful shimmying.

"It's nice to have the chance to spend time as a cabin, outside the cabin," Cyrin added, once he'd verified that Lyall was making progress again. "Don't get me wrong, the brunches are a highlight, but I think it's great that we're extending our time together to different activities."

Maybe it was because Alan felt slightly delirious from lack of sleep, or maybe it was because he was readying himself for another intensive workout, or maybe it was because he was still thinking of the conversation with Hild this morning... but he couldn't help but read between the lines and feel like he had been neglecting Cyrin for a while.

When was the last time Alan spent time with Cyrin outside of the expected brunches? Or really had a deeper conversation with them? And to think that he even lived with him. Alan was almost ashamed that this only occurred to him now.

He had to do better.

"I completely agree," he said, pushing away these thoughts for now. Now wasn't the time to think about this deeply. "We ought to do more things together, both as a group and also just the two of us. When was the last time we watched the sunrise together on the roof? It's been too long."

Cyrin smiled again. "That was fun. It's been a couple weeks, but you're free to stop by and mistake me for God anytime you find me up there."

Alan cracked a grin. "And how often is that, your grace?"

"All the mornings until kingdom come," Cyrin said with grandeur. "A deity must never lose sight of their domain, after all."

Alan hummed. "Maybe I'll answer your prayers and keep you company. Tomorrow morning, perhaps?"

Cyrin made an exaggerated show of thinking. "I can squeeze you in between splitting the sea and granting the forgiveness of sins."

"Oh, thank you, you're too kind," Alan teased, still grinning. "And this is all between the hours of being a divine celebrity and a godly gymnast."

"Perhaps I'm just a god of multitasking," Cyrin said, returning the grin. "It doesn't overwhelm my schedule that way. My biggest accomplishment only took seven days, after all."

"Ah. Explains why the week is seven days long. You can certainly accomplish a lot in one week," Alan said, glancing up at Lyall again. He was making good procress, albeit slowly.

"Certainly." Cyrin paused, his expression turning more serious. "It's hard to believe we've been here for three, and even stranger that we haven't been thrown into an event, even though it's been a week since the last one. Why skip this day?"

That was right. Today was supposed to be an event day, wasn't it?

"Maybe there isn't one this week?" Alan offered. "Or maybe it's starting late."

"I have the feeling they wouldn't skip it lightly," Cyrin mused. "Not when they're probably the most-- engaging episodes."

"I guess we'll have to wait and see. Whatever the reason, I'm glad that it didn't take over our mornings so that we can do this together," Alan said with a small smile.

The uneasiness in Cyrin's eyes slowly faded as he smiled faintly back. "Me too. It's far better than whatever else they would have with us."

"Do I come back down?" Lyall called from a distance, having perched on a ledge halfway up. "Or are we all to meet at the top?"

"Whatever you feel comfortable with!" Cyrin called back. "If you want to keep going to the top, feel free to hang around up there as long as you like."

"May as well go all the way," Lyall said brightly with a thumbs up. But notably did not resume climbing right away.

"Are you okay?" Cyrin asked concernedly.

"Yes!" Lyall answered happily. "Simply catching my breath a moment. Not to worry, my friend!"

Cyrin smiled, giving him a thumbs up. "Wonderful. Take your time before you proceed."

"You're doing great, Lyall! Keep it up!" Alan cheered as encouragement.

Flashing them both an appreciative smile, Lyall then rallied himself and resumed his climb. With more confidence and vigor.

"It's nice to see him shine," Alan said idly to Cyrin, watching Lyall climb. "I think he just needs someone by his side, cheering him on. Believing in him. Supporting him. Being there for him. He shines bright when there are people by his side."

Cyrin nodded. "I think so too," he said, still smiling fondly. "I think you're quite good at being that sort of supportive figure for him."

"You think so?" Alan said with a soft huff through his nose, glancing at Cyrin with a smile. "I'm glad. Although, I can't say I willingly stepped into that role. I think he's fun to be around, and I like spending time with him. That's all there is to it, really."

"All the same, I think even that much is a good help to him," Cyrin said with a lighthearted chuckle. "He seems to do you some good too."

Alan nodded, watching Lyall confidently reach for the further ledge. "I think so too. I think he makes me a better person." He turned to Cyrin with another smile. "At the end of the day, that's what we hope to gain from other people, right? To grow and become better people."

"Right," Cyrin agreed, smiling back. "And it's nice when life throws those people your way. Maybe fate isn't always a bitch."

Alan playfully scoffed. "Far from it. Fate can be a friend, if you honor it."

Cyrin laughed. "Well, whatever I did to get here, I'm glad for it."

"And for what it's worth, Cyrin: I'm glad to gotten to know you too," Alan said with a light bump of his elbow against his side. "Now I can say I've gotten to know the real Cyrin Bridger. And I've got to say, they're a lot cooler than the celebrity everyone knows him as."

Cyrin grinned, gently elbowing him back. "And I can say I'm one of the lucky people who got to meet the one and only Alan Alvaro. Who knew he was hiding his fun self out there all along?"

Alan grinned back, openly admiring Cyrin. "Oh, you haven't seen fun yet, my friend. Our time together has only just begun."

Cyrin laughed. "Is that so? Well, I have more to look forward to then."

Both of their attentions were caught by Lyall's triumphant arm waving from the top of the boulders.

"I have staked my claim!" he declared, taking a seat on the edge. "The sky is now my domain!"

"Congratulations on your conquest," Cyrin said with a grin, clapping his hands. "You did it!"

"How's the weather up there?" Alan yelled with a teasing voice.

"Come on up and find out!" Lyall shot back.

"Do you want to go up next?" Cyrin offered. "You can also choose a different route."

"Oh, sure, yes," Alan said with a brisk nod, glancing up at the top again. Only Lyall's feet were poking out over the edge now. Maybe he laid down to rest. "I can go next."

Cyrin nodded. "Whenever you're ready."

Alan stepped up in front of the large boulder, reaching out to feel the rough, textured ridges. The ocean breeze pulled at his shirt, like it was beckoning for him to go up. Or perhaps run away. The morning sun shined brightly in the sky, momentarily blinding him, searing its rays against his open skin.

A little distantly, Alan climbed. The motion felt familiar. He could recall the hushed voices of adolescence, when things were simpler, when he was more naive. His hands were tougher, rougher, lacking the gentle softness of art. Back then, Alan would escape into the night, impulsive and reckless, chasing whatever gave him the latest rush of excitement.

It was surreal how much he'd changed from that lifestyle. He had carved his own path with bloodied knuckles, determined to have his way despite the rough outlines that fate gave him. And here he was now, climbing the same rough wall.

His problems often shifted over time, and Alan mostly cared about the here and the now. They were the most relevant and pressing.

And right now, he felt like he had to do better.

Alan glanced below him. He already make it ten feet off the ground. He was halfway there already, making fast progress. He had to keep going, no matter how tired he was.

Who should he prioritize on this island? He was aware that he had limits. It was impossible to be with everyone, everywhere, at the same time, all the time.

In no particular order, Alan knew he wanted to focus spending time with Lyall, Hild, Shane, and Cyrin. Though, this list kept changing. Maybe he wanted to spend more time with Clanny, Shaneice, and James. Then there were others he considered to be potential friendships, had he invested more time into getting to know them. Clarity, Dante, and Eve were people he were curious about.

But he had to prioritize, especially since his time on the island was limited, and he may never see anyone again by the end of the summer. Who did he want to spend the most time with? Whose time did he value the most? What did he want to accomplish this summer?

How could he spend time with a select few without disappointing others?

Alan had barely begun to think of solutions when suddenly he felt his grip on his right foot wobble. In a panicked frenzy, he moved his hand and foot to the next nearest ridge.

He was so close. He was only two more strides away from being able to reach Lyall's foot. He just had to--

"Oh, fuck!" was all Alan managed to hiss out when he simultaneously felt the ridge crumble beneath him.

And suddenly, all the worries and problems and predicaments floating in his head totally disappeared, replaced with the thought: oh, shit, I'm falling, aren't I?