AEIPATHY

       ara was the type to keep mireu on his toes — good or bad. for once, however, on his birthday, he did not want to suffer from high blood pressure today. it may have been years since he’d genuinely celebrated, but it was time for him to relax.

       oh. a small kitten’s head was not a gift he was expecting. though, roo’s tiny startled jump shouldn’t dare be mentioned. if ara caught that, then it was bound to be ignored regardless. his eyes grew wide, as wide as they could get.

       the box being extended to him had him reach for it with a surprising smile on his face, hari hovering beside him with curious eyes, of course. he had thought to bring home a companion for hari; a cat, to be exact. he had been so busy juggling two careers that it must’ve slipped his mind. hari deserves a friend having to spend all day with only you. obviously, he was gonna let ara’s comment slide and for his sanity, too, despite his nose scrunching at her nonsense. “thank you, ara. this was a lovely surprise coming from someone like you.” roo declared as he grasped the kitten in his hands and cradled it as if it were a child.

"And exactly what kind of gift do you expect from someone like me?" she started, but whatever biting remark she had was cut off by the arm that suddenly wrapped around her. After resisting her first instinct to take the chance to show off her judo skills by throwing him over her shoulder, Ara whipped her head up to meet his gaze, expression warping into a silent, You know I hate hugs. You're doing this on purpose, you piece of shit.

Still, she didn't break the embrace, lips pressing together to consider if his birthday warranted a free pass from an impartment of her wrath.

With a costume that could be borderline intimidating ( oh, if only he was taller ), their expressions were an absolute mismatch. There were smiles, grins and even blushed cheeks as they finished yet another dessert from the table.

Like a dog kicked out to the street, he had wandered and survived with whatever means he could find. So many odd jobs and even stolen snacks had been Lynx's way if acquiring things and going to bed with a stomach decently full. Coming back to Anchorage had felt both repulsive and comforting; they had been avoiding the place that condemned him for so long, but eventually, its cold lands called Lynx back home.

It was nonsense to think about that right now, instead, they decided to pour himself another drink and burn his throat with the expensive liquor. Lynx then wondered if the host of this event had any openings within their staff; anything to stay in contact with all the pretty things.

He roamed outside where it was still crowded but in less amounts than the main parlor. Lynx had just placed the empty glass on the tray of a passing waiter when a voice stripped him from all confidence and happiness. Lynx stayed still, paralyzed even as they tried to convince his brain that this was simply a hallucination, a mean trick triggered by the opulence of their surroundings. Lynx was about to ignore it, ask for more alcohol even, but then the next words came to drill into their ears without mercy.

They turned around and immediately went weak on the knees. "No", they muttered with a little frown; head shaking in disbelief at the ghost of his past in front of him. Little steps were taken backwards until his muscles stopped responding altogether and Lynx found himself rooted to the ground. A nickname that had once been the source of endless smiles and hopeful sighs, now made him sick in the stomach.

I've missed you.

Face contorted into a grimace full of disgust, venom pulsing through his blood gave him the necessary push to walk towards her.

"How dare you?", he muttered, less than a meter away from her. "How FUCKING dare you?", Lynx added with clenched teeth, chest starting to heave with both anxiety and fury. YEARS of friendship made him think that he was enough, that he was worth something, that maybe he had an opportunity in a world full of pretty things; time later she proved to be just one of them; putrid and a waste. Maybe they were not so different after all.

"What the fuck are you doing here? Haven't you buried me enough with your stupid fucking lies?!"

What about: you're the only one who ever accepted me for who I am and I betrayed you?

Perhaps it is said in the longing; the endless distance between them that had nothing to do with measurement and everything to do with the hands? Hands — how he'd once grasped hers as her bodyguard trailed them, a mischievous grin on his features and beam on hers. He hadn't hesitated to grab hers, and she hadn't hesitated to tighten her fingers around his grasp. Meaning, I trust you. Meaning, Don't let me go.

Perhaps if Kittiya were less of a coward, she would tell him that she regretted listening to her family. Would tell him that she should've trusted her instinct — after all, he had seen through the glitter and carefully practiced false pretenses; he had chosen to be her friend not for her family nor her wealth — but simply because it was her. Wasn't it the bare minimum that she would do the same? Her fingers curled around the flute of champagne, if only for something else to hold onto.

Perhaps if she were less of a coward, she would say this: I haven't felt like myself ever since I betrayed you.

I don't know what to do with my hands when they're just hands.

"Lynx." There was a pleading in her tone that her family would've frowned upon, his given name sounding unfamiliar on her lips when she'd only ever used his pet name during their friendship. Once, she'd been afraid of going against her family; of what they would say if she defended him. But now? The hatred in his eyes; the poison in his words. Whatever her family could have said — it wouldn't be worse than this. "All those years ago — I was young. I was scared. I shouldn't have listened to them, but—" Kitty choked on the words, gaze moving to the ground in front of them. "What can I do to fix this?" Or am I eight years too late? Please don't say it's too late.

Going back to paperwork and printing his assignments out without the use of wireless was a pain in the fucking ass, and it was times like these that he realized how much technology had impacted his life — growing up without access to it and in the early days of internet, he thought it wouldn't be so bad. Currently, the contents of his desk resembled a tornado wreaking its way through the office space, and he was hunched over it with his glasses precariously clinging onto the bridge of his nose. He should be knee-deep in planning for his anniversary, but finals had to come first. The quietude shared between he and his personal assistant was comfortable — in fact, he'd sort of lapsed focus after an couple consecutive absence seizures and forgotten what he was doing.

"— Huh?" Sheepish, the palm of his hand touched the crown of his head and he looked up as she brought him the file... which, was what he was looking for in the amassing of disarray, actually. "Oh. Was it that easy to find? Fuck."

Do you think... that it's safe here? Duck-young paused, giving her his full attention without ask, and he looked back to her expression. Empathic tendencies often aided in reading other's emotions, but working alongside Mirai, it didn't take a rocket scientist. Kind hearts didn't build fortitudes as thick. Shaky gaze absorbed her fidgeting, and he pushed his chair away from his desk, a pencil in hand tapping against the denim-clad thigh. "Yeah... When I would visit Fal all the time, she called it liminal space. You know... uncanny." That should have been word of warning, in retrograde. Shifting his gaze to the desk, he frowned uncharacteristically. "Sera and I have been talking about New Orleans. For Crash's sake. But..."

The topic dead-ended every time they acknowledged how many credits he'd lose in his post-graduate if he bailed out now, among other factors. Monetarily, they weren't struggling first-time parents anymore, but they weren't yearning to cling to Sera's coattails. Thumbing the writing utensil in his hand, working stiff fingers, he couldn't help a dry chuckle, fessing, "I kinda wonder if there's a joke I'm not in on, sometimes." It left his chest womby with paranoia, unfettered.

But she stilled when he mentioned Bit, a sudden tightness in her chest at the sound of his name. In the weeks following Bit's departure, she'd avoided thinking too much into things, keeping herself busy with work and distracting Masaru with any number of activities — perhaps in the hopes that he would forget his father's brief presence in his childhood.

"No, that's not the reason." Mirai paused, softly nibbling at her bottom lip as she considered the extent to which she was willing to confide in another. But one quick glance up at her boss and she relaxed, usual bright expression dimming slightly; becoming something much more genuine. Although they'd only known each other for a little more than a year, Dustin had always been forthright about his life. Perhaps if anyone deserved to peek past the calm, unfettered façade she wore, it would be him.

"Bit left because," Mirai trailed off, pressing her lips together. Even she didn't know exactly why he skipped town. A soft sigh indicated the derailing of her train of thought. "He and I — it's like when you have a favorite book when you were younger. It was good, but had a tragic ending that broke your heart. A couple years later, you pick it up again. You already know the ending. You even know most of the words by heart. But you still read it; you still get pulled in. Maybe hoping that this time, you can find something between the lines. Something that makes all the pain worth it." A small, sad smile, fingers wiping at the tears that rolled down her cheek. "But the book has already been written — it's only your stubborn heart that still hopes for a happy ending. Even as you turn the page and read the words that have never changed."

Kael was not in a good mood. But could you blame him, after the morning he'd had? Oh, sure, he'd heard about the pileup earlier that day but, elsewhere in town, he'd driven his motorbike straight into a hot, steaming pile of reindeer shit. Unwilling to make a mess of the gang bike shop by cleaning it himself, he'd been forced to take the bike down to the Elephant's Trunk and pay to get the job done (although he was not convinced any amount of washing could clear away the smell that was still trapped in his nostrils). He'd made his stance on the stench clear to the employees, the specific argument being something to the effect of 'if you keep me in here a minute longer, I'm going to be sick all over the floor', and marched outside for a smoke. He'd only just gotten the cigarette carton out of his pocket when he crashed into a stopped vehicle and tripped over it. Kael managed to land on one knee but half the cigarettes had scattered into a pile of snow on the curb and he'd caught his lip on one of his rough metal rings. As if to rub salt into the wound, he had also drawn the attention of some unsuspecting customer who'd just been waiting their turn. Hoisting himself up, his weight on the vehicle that had committed this heinous crime against him, Kael snapped his attention to this undeserving soul. "What are you looking at?"

She had been waiting for her turn at the Elephant's Trunk ( did they fix cars? she wasn't sure, but the car that blinked alongside their sign was unmistakable ) when a stranger crashed straight into her vehicle.

Curiously, Kitty stepped out of the driver's seat; just in time to hear the acid dripping from his tone.

"I'm looking at you." Her reply was cheerful; airy, even, and without any trace of sarcasm. What was it people often said? Kill them with kindness. But no — her approach was more along the lines of kill them with blindness — in which she pretended not to notice the stranger's sour mood altogether. Kitty shuffled around in her bag, expression only brightening further when she managed to fish out a pack of wrapped bandages whose neon color could be seen even through the packaging. "Bandaid?" Winnie the Pooh bandaids, to be exact.

𝙰𝙽𝙳 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙲𝙻𝙾𝙲𝙺 𝚂𝚃𝚁𝙸𝙺𝙴𝚂 …

 happy 30th birthday dearest KITTIYA SAELIM  ,

In the overgrowth, he sat half-hidden, crouched low and in silence save for the scratching of his ballpoint pen against a tattered paper bag. He was sketching the tree in front of it, its leaves long since lost to the cruelty of Winter. The bark of it was gnarled and twisted but it spoke of a free life lived out in the open, something to which a much younger Karam could have never related. At this time of year, this part of town was not much to look at. Unlike the Spring, when the road was dressed in lush greens, all that survived now were the plants hardy and wretched enough to survive the cold. Still, Karam liked it. He often came here on his days off, just to be alone, for it was usually quiet while the sun was up. What happened after dark, he did not care to look into; he had his suspicions about this place and was happy to leave it alone.

The deafening snap of a twig cleaved in two echoed out into the clearing and Karam snapped to attention. He shoved the bag and pen into his pocket and pulled himself to his feet. Time seemed to run away from him out here; although the snow had taken on a cool peachy glow, he had only just noticed that dusk was falling. Peering through the branches of a dying bush, Karam saw that the intruder was nothing more than a regular person. That likely wasn't a good thing.

Karam slipped noisily out from behind the overgrowth. He could have chosen to be silent and run off without a trace if he'd wanted. A part of him did want to, it was about time he left this place anyway. But, because he needed to catch their attention, he had no choice but to make his presence known. Once he was back out in the open, he pulled himself up to his full height. Karam had never been tall or physically imposing but, with his hair littered with twigs and grass, but he stood with purpose. One might even mistake him for some sort of strange spirit, bound to guard the trees. "You shouldn't be here," he said, words sharp but not quite hissed, before looking up at the dimming sky. "It's getting dark."

She had been heading into the outskirts when the branches rustled and a stranger emerged from shrubbery, and for a moment Ara thought that nymph was a more apt description than person. The setting sun filtered between the leaves and left a rosy haze upon him, nature's halo; the sun's whisper of a kiss against his skin. Almost uncomfortably ethereal, and it only made her tense more; made her more untrusting. Because through the sunlight and the trees, there was a certain contained energy he seemed to emulate; a sudden tensing of muscle that was innately human; innately violent. Like a drop of blood in a corner of heaven.

She found she didn't quite mind it.

Still, Ara stuffed her hands into her pockets, cool metal of a pocketknife meeting warm skin. He didn't seem hostile — tone notwithstanding — which was almost disappointing. Previous near death experience or not, she would always enjoy a good fight.

( Because when a wolf defends — isn't it the same as an attack? The beast's innate need for violence dressed up in society's excuses and asked to dance. )

"And should you?" Ara tilted her head as she studied him, coquettish grin upon her lips as she stepped closer. Because if this stranger was a drop of blood in a corner of heaven, then she was the last sliver of light in the Underworld's perpetual darkness — the fleeting warmth in which one could not make a distinction between real and imagined; hope and mockery. "Or does the sun really shine brighter where you're standing — so that the darkness does not apply to you?" Another step closer, features still arranged to be a caricature of innocence. "Should I find out?"