flying solo

For all his talk of romance, Lennox has never been particularly skilled at putting it into practice. The stuff of his stories - grand gestures and sweeping lines that were crafted over days and weeks in his own mind - is not the stuff of reality, especially not with Solo sitting across from him in a loud and dingy pub. Lennox had wanted to do this properly; a dinner and wine and candles and good food that’d live on in their sensory memories for years to come. The start of something good, something real - but it wouldn’t undo the things that had come before. There was no wine so good as to make them forget every push and shove and punch, the pain of each blow to Solo’s flesh or Lennox’s ego, nor any candle so bright as to dim the stain of blood that must now permanently mar Solo’s lips or fleck Lennox’s knuckles. He knew all that, but he wanted to try. A stab at happiness, a chance at forgiveness, a roll of the dice on redemption.

But the moment Solo started speaking, keeping up their ruse easily, rolling off of Lennox’s fumble like it meant nothing, Lennox understood that it wouldn’t be so easy. When had Solo ever been involved in the debate nights? Or, better yet, when had Lennox ever heard of these debate nights? He knew the Ravenclaws were into that, and he might’ve heard mentions, but he didn’t know they were a thing. Despite the fact that the common room was a dozen steps from his dorm, Lennox hadn’t known debates happened, nor that Solo was apparently so good at them. He’d just… never paid attention; never cared to look away from the book he was reading or the thoughts that circled his mind, focused on his home. When did Solo develop so many thoughts on things beyond what pleasure he’d inflict upon his body that day? Lennox couldn’t remember ever speaking to Solo about things like wizarding society, politics, the Ministry. He hadn’t even known that Solo cared. Lennox shifts uncomfortably in his seat, feeling particularly like he’s being choked or suffocated, very slowly, finger by finger tightening around his wind pipe. He lifts a hand to pull at his collar, trying to listen, but it didn’t let up. The duelling club? Politics? Languages? Lennox’s heart was racing in his ears, and he didn’t know if he should cut Solo off or let him keep going, because he feared either prospect.

Lennox grabbed his pint and downed the rest, palm slippery with a mix of panic sweat and condensation, before grabbing the fresh glass that had been levitated to them. 

“Yer a busy man,” Lennox said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand when Solo took a break from rewriting himself in Lennox’s mind. How was he ever going to go back from this? When he looked at Solo now, he saw all these tiny little secrets - nights arguing bullshit with other Ravenclaws, or muttering German to himself. He imagined Solo proud in the duelling club, breathless but excited, or lazy summer days down by the lake, tossing rocks at the squid til it surfaced. Lennox felt like his mind was splintering, and drank more. “But I’m not bored, just… overwhelmed,” he said when he surfaced again. “Yer’ve got a lot going on that I, uh, hadn’t realised.” 

Despite his size and his pride, not to mention his more than thoroughbred Scottish ancestry, Lennox was, for better or worse, a lightweight. He’d made a conscious choice as a teenager growing up around rowdy boys to not drink or do drugs; it just wasn’t who he was or how he wanted to be. So whenever he decided to let down those walls for a night, it took a toll on him quicker than most, and already Lennox can feel the edges of his vision go slightly fuzzy, like Solo has a halo. He tries not to let it show, clearing his throat.

“Aye, I bet you do tan up nice though,” Lennox continued, eyes shifting to the peaks of skin that show around Solo’s neck and hands. “Which country would you want to go to? Australia? South America? I dinnae know where the tropics begin and end,” Lennox admitted brashly, cheeks pink, either from the alcohol or a burst of shyness that made him feel eleven all over again. At Solo’s proposal of coming to see the other, Lennox couldn’t help the smile that wound its way onto his face, cheeks reddening further. “You don’t have to come, I know you don’t like it,” he said, but he did - he did want Solo to come, and he would win the game. Lennox imagined the scene he’d write of it: scoring a goal, zooming over the stands, pointing at Solo, who’d grin back at Lennox. That would be romantic. “But, uhm, with the debate, I don’t… I don’t think I’d get it. I don’t even know what the Wizengamot really… does,” Lennox said, stiltingly, not looking at Solo as he picked up his glass. “I dinnae want to embarrass you.”

Which wasn’t easy to admit, and Lennox drained his pint again, reaching for the fresh one that seemed to periodically appear on the table, courtesy of the bartender. Lennox’s thirst was never-ending, but his tolerance had a clear limit that he was fast approaching. 

“What I mean is,” Lennox continued quickly, “I dinnae want to embarrass you now, or even then, ye ken? There’s been– times, hasn’t there? Before– before this, I mean. What happened in the bathroom, with Lana, I dinnae… I feel awkward sometimes, aye?” Lennox looked up at Solo earnestly. “Out of place around ye, like– like I’m not right. You’ve got all these things, a whole life, and now I’m this, and you– why would you keep sitting here, after everything? After everything I am?” 

It wasn’t what Lennox had meant to say, or even planned to say for another decade; there was not a bone in his body that wanted to talk about Lana or feelings or their dirty past, but there it was, Lennox’s mouth running away with him at the mere sight of alcohol. But it felt like the corner of a weight had been lifted, a peek at what life without it might be like, and he waited to see if Solo would drop it back down on his shoulders or maybe, just maybe, help him lift it up.

Solo smiled to himself; a cryptic little thing.

There were both pleasure and heartache in getting Lennox by surprise. Solo could see in his eyes he knew none of these things, caught unaware by the years he spent with his face down in a book, and his dreams up in some distant future, made up of bagpipes and mountains. He liked the look of surprise, but he longed for something else - a hint of recognition, like old friends that hadn’t seen each other in a while. He went cold for a moment, like he half expected Lennox to say so there you are - just two men that had lost each other in a crowd. But that was wishful thinking. Lennox was a constant presence in the back of his mind and in the back of his room, a weighty ghost of past mistakes, of never-have-beens and never-would-bes. He was a broken arrow pointing to Solomon’s heart, but Solomon himself was just another stranger; the reticences at the end of a book never opened. 

He was a cock, and a mouth; a pair of hands and a some quivering thighs. Solomon was everything but a person, and he buried that thought into another glass, afraid of an anger that felt more like home than the Flint Manor. Instead, he hung unto the casual talk, hoping against hope for a proof that this could still work. “I’d go anywhere with nice beaches, where the sun shines all year long. None of this bullshit weather we have here, where it’s always raining, always grey. Makes people go frigid, yeah? Makes people want to keep their socks during a shag. Fucking blasphemy, it’s what it is.” He smiled again; this time, genuinely. 

It felt easier when Lennox looked at him like that, like he should have been looking for the past seven years. Not the brooding frown that came before the punches, not the hard line of disapproval on his lips after running into each other on the corridors. “I’ll go, but only if you promise I’ll get a nice trophy to look at after,” he stated, and watched Lennox drink glass after glass, strong scottish accent slipping as if they could turn back time, and be the boys they once were again. “And you don’t have to say anything during the debates, just watch me in awe and--” But Lennox didn’t stop talking - as if someone had removed a lid from his mind, his thoughts came tumbling out.

It was Solo’s turn to go silent, surprised.

“Lennox...” he started, carefully - he’d been punched in the mouth for less before. “It’s not-- it’s not important anymore, what happened... I mean, it’s not like I don’t think about it, about Lana and how it ended, but we, we can do better, yeah? We can be better, mate.” And it sounded deadly hopeful to his own ears. “Make some new fucking memories, build over all that shit we’ve done. About time, innit?” It was true that there were lands so ravaged by war that nothing would grow, but they were still young, still lost enough to find their way back to each other. Or so Solo had hoped.

And Solo was good at hoping. 

“Shit, mate, I don’t know what I’m saying and you’re drunk as hell, but we are--”

Under fire.

That was all he could think of when the Hog’s Head windows exploded at once, raining glass over their heads like a crystal storm. “Down!” Solo screamed, the sound lost in the chaos that followed, and reached for Lennox first, his wand second. All around them, people scrambled to their knees, or to the door, eyes wide and scared. 

“Protego!” he whispered, voice shaking. Best in the dueling club, he had claimed earlier, proud and certain. 

The promise of alcohol was what kept Lennox’s feet walking forward. He had to believe that they could do this, even if Solo’s hand in his own felt foreign; as though his own hand were a time-bomb, waiting for the moment he was going to be told to crush it. Solo wasn’t delicate, he’d proven that point well enough over the last seven years, but he was somehow smaller tonight than Lennox could remember him being. He didn’t know how to stop sizing Solo up, however; he could feel it in himself, some innate reaction to be this vulnerable, like he was constantly circling Solo. Lennox hated to be on the back foot, and as much as he wanted to try, he also felt a tiny part of him break away and start preparing for the worst - for Solo to sneer some comment at him, a pass at something sexual that underlaid Solo’s true intentions. In short, Lennox was expecting the worst but hoped for the best. Or, at least, something different - a chink in their narrative that could change the tide. And he noticed that he the more he let himself take down his walls, brick by brick, the more he fell into things - he noticed that the light of the Hog’s Head caught the line of Solo’s cheekbones, the curve of his lips. Lennox let himself notice those things and smile. 

“I don’t want to know about the steamy affair of you and Kim,” Lennox says as they walk in and slide onto the leather seats of their booth. Their drinks, delivered swiftly, are cold to the touch, and Lennox nervously nurses his for a moment, watching Solo drink. They’re both unsure, then - that makes Lennox feel a little better as he takes a mouthful, feeling his eyes water as he swallows. The question catches him off guard and he laughs, bowing his head. “Lennox is fine,” he says, humouring Solo. He thinks for a moment, shifting uncertainly. “I’m a writer,” he says, deciding that if he can be any version of himself, he wants to be the one that’s furthest away from where he is now. An idealised version, a fantasy-esque Lennox Fraser who doesn’t have a sick mother and obligations to attend to. “I want to write books, and I want to write stories that mean something. Change people. I don’t… I don’t get as much time to write as I’d like, I’m usually busy on the pitch. I’m a chaser for the quidditch team,” and here he smiles, watching Solo’s face. “I’m sure you know all about quidditch though, being such a huge fan and supporter of the game, right?” 

He can’t remember the last time he’d seen Solo at a match, even when it was a final. Lennox had scored so many goals, held the trophy in his own hands, and it had never been with Solo in the room or by his side. Quidditch was not something they had in common. 

“I’m the eldest child in my family, which recently grew in size. I have a brother,” and Lennox smiles, thinking of Loren probably asleep in his crib, the mobile above his bed twirling softly. “And I love my family, I’d do anything for them.” And somehow, that feels like the extent of Lennox - he can’t think of anything more to add. There’s a brush of panic in his chest at that; what does he like? What does he hate? What’s he passionate about? There’s a void where the answers should be, a gaping hole where his time has been sucked away by tasks and people who needed those tasks performed. Lennox clears his throat, taking a quick drink, finding half of it gone when he lowers it back to the table. He runs a finger through the condensation on the side of the pint glass as he says, “what about you? I’d love to know more about you,” and looks up, hoping Solo will fill in the silences that Lennox’s life seems to grow like spores. “I’ve seen you around school. You’re… uh,” and he fumbles, trying to think of something smooth to say, but there’s nothing. What does Solo like? What’s he good at? Lennox has nothing, except sex. That’s what Solo’s good at; that’s what Solo likes, isn’t it? He doesn’t say it, feeling his cheeks flush, because he know he’s fucking up. “You’re cute,” he finishes, looking back down, and at least it’s not a lie. “That’s what first caught my attention. The way you strut about,” he says, smiling and glancing back up, hoping Solo hadn’t noticed the fumble.

“That’s too bad, because we’re made for each other,” Solo said of Kim, grinning, but the joke died on his lips as Lennox started to talk. For a moment, he felt like they could be other people, less choleric, more forgiving, as if the Hog’s Head had suddenly changed. He felt like looking at the place through a kinder lens, and felt a strange surge of affection for the sticky booths, the bitter drinks. 

For the Lennox he had lost somewhere along their teenage years. 

 “A writer,” Solo murmured quietly, “so you’re one of those artistic, mysterious types.” There was a time Lennox would read for him, words soft and full of wonder, whispered in the small space between their bodies, cuddled in bed. Read me one of your poems, Solo would say then, and close his eyes as Lennox’s verses built castles in his mind. Through the heartbreak of his childhood, Solo had found happiness in those simple moments. How long had it been since he’d read anything Lennox wrote? How long had it been since they burned that bridge? How many bridges came tumbling down after that, leaving behind only the charred remains of their best years? And how could two people miss each other so obstinately as they did in the last seven years, absence made deeper by the proximity of their bodies? They woke up together and went to bed together, avoiding each other’s eyes even when their hips met, tracing steps from each other’s bed like the worn out trail from a battlefield. 

If there was any tragedy in growing up, that was it.

“Oh, yes, I do love quidditch,” he said lightly, humoring Lennox, as if it was easier to talk when they were in character. Made up, better versions of themselves - the people they hoped to be when they grew up. “What’s not to love about balls and holes-- i mean, hoops, Absolutely fascinating.” Then, more earnest: “I’ve heard you’re the best in the team. People are always talking about your goals.” Solo knew by heart the years in which the Ravenclaw team had won the trophy - had always planned to watch the finals, to be there after the big win. But somehow, it never happened. He remembered the losses better, Lennox’s frustration, his stormy rage. Solo drinks as Lennox talks, swallowing regret and alcohol in one gulp. He should have been there.

But the older boy didn’t stop talking - about his family, about Loren, about the the things he cared for most in the world. Solomon smiled - but it died in his lips with Lennox’s next words.

I’ve seen you at school, you’re, uh--

A whore, his brain promply supplied, knowing exactly that’s what came to Lennox’s mind. It wouldn’t be the first time he heard it from the ravenclaw himself. Solomon finished his pint too fast, more to hold the insult in than to get wasted faster, and set it back down the table a bit too harshly. 

“Well, thanks,” he forced out, tasting bitterness. But he had to try, right?

“I’ll have you know you’re talking to the one and only unbeaten king of the Ravenclaw weekly debate, three times winner of our yearly ranking,” Solo informed him, and ordered a new round of pints. “The ones that happen every Wednesday at the common room, you know? Last one was about the lack of popular representation in wizarding politics, and how the Wizengamot’s choice for the ministry reflects an out-dated political system.” He smiled again. “I like politics. I’m at the top of the dueling club, too. I love creating new spells, even if they backfire sometimes.” He thought carefully about what to say next: “I can speak a rusty german, even if my grammar is not stellar. I’m Billy the Squid’s favorite person, or so he tells me, when we share sandwiches. I named him that.” Solomon could conjure an infinite number of random facts about himself that didn’t involve sex, even though sex was a big part of his life. He just wanted Lennox to see that was not all he was, and maybe then, he could convince himself, too.

The last time Lennox had touched Solo with any degree of gentleness or kindness was a foreign memory to him. He’s sure it must’ve happened, somewhere between their few brief years of being friends, Lennox glued to Solo and vice versa, but he can’t quite remember what it felt like. Soft, maybe; they’d been young then. Every touch since had been tinged with something else - a need, a hatred, a spark of something that felt too close to being an emotion that they’d collectively decided to stay away from. Lennox couldn’t remember if that decision had been mutual or just his, either. What he instead remembered about touching Solo was bending his arm back and feeling it break; he remembered the weight and taste of Solo in his mouth as he’d knelt on that bathroom floor; he remembered dozens of stolen moments - bed, hallway, closet - where they’d touched each other with an array of intent, but never quite the right one. And Lennox remembered touching Solo when Solo didn’t want him to; he punches, the shoves, the way he could draw blood faster from Solo than he could get him to smile. He thought of all those moments when he felt Solo take his hand - the first real touch in years. 

Lennox wrapped his fingers tight around Solo’s hand and told himself to take it gentle.

His heart was hammering at his best laid plans - romance, a nice dinner - suddenly shot to hell with Solo’s sarcasm and derision. Lennox knew that Solo was, at heart, not one for romance - there’d be no Valentine’s from him - but he had hoped that if he could just do it properly; if he could do it and show Solo, then maybe he’d change his mind. But that wasn’t going to work, and they walked through the darkness of the grounds towards the gates, Lennox wracking his brain for a plan. “Yeah,” he said, thankful for the dim light to hide his guilty face. “Thought we might get a pint first. Ease into it.” He was coming up empty - why did he think he could do this? Be a boyfriend to anyone, let alone Solomon Renfield? “And as for playing nice, it’ll be a two-way street,” he said, glancing at Solo and feeling his heart calm a little. “Play your cards right, you might even get a kiss on the cheek before the night’s through.” 

Which said nothing about the fact that Lennox was dying for Solo to actually kiss him; had been in the process of dying since Solo stopped. The one person he couldn’t kiss in this castle was the one person he wanted it from most, and Lennox’s eyes darted to Solo’s lips in the dark, knowing their shape. He stumbled over a rock in the dark, catching himself before he could tumble over, and gave an awkward laugh, face burning. “This is weird, isn’t it?” he said. “Like… the artificiality of this. I’m not saying we should’ve had a date in the kitchens because Merlin knows there’s nothing less romantic that Han coming in with his hair in rollers, but– I don’t know,” and Lennox let his thumb brush over Solo’s hand. “I don’t want to build up the pressure too great, y’know?” But it was there, nevertheless - this once in a lifetime moment, make or break, and Lennox was scared of the ‘break’ alternative. 

Hogsmeade became visible ahead, down the path, and Lennox had to make a split-second decision between the Three Broomsticks and the Hog’s Head. He was eighteen, but Solo wasn’t; the decision was made for him. “Why don’t you head to the Hog’s?” Lennox suggested, already steering them past the door of the Three Broomsticks, which burst open and three giggling witches stumbled out. “Ain’t nothing more romantic than a sticky booth and One Eyed Kim. And before you even think it, I ain’t trying to hide you by taking you there - just figure neither of us want to be the talking point over breakfast tomorrow,” he added, looking at Solo for his reaction in the lamplight of the shop fronts they passed, hoping that it hadn’t been a conclusion Solo had drawn, assuming the worst of Lennox, as always. 

Solo had loved and hated Lennox’s hands.

As their fingers entwined, he felt a jolt of emotion rake through his body - indistinctive, but powerful. Lennox had big hands, built for hurting. Knuckles sharp and bones hard as steel. Those hands were never still, never resting; bloodthirsty. They were the perfect size to wrap around his throat and squeeze, squeeze, squeeze. He didn’t mind that - didn’t mind those big hands when they were running through his body, leaving marks on his skin - bruises shaped like fingerprints, scars that spelled Lennox’s name in the dark. They were built for hurting, but Solo liked the pain.

Right? He could still feel those same hands pinning him down, twisting his arm further and further, until it snapped - a loud crack echoing through his brain. Solo breathed in and out, trying to push those memories away. There was a lot to forget and forgive between them, too much baggage. They carried it around for seven years, and this new attempt to let it go felt strange, sudden. Part of him was still thirteen years old and shaking, body slamming against a wall - shunned by his best friend, for simply being too much, too loudly, too shamelessly. He was still fourteen, nursing a split lip and bloody nose, spitting offenses that slid down his tongue venomous and easy. He was fifteen, head shoved down the sink, eyeliner running down his face like tears. He was fifteen, pushing back, wand pointed at Lennox’s balls with a quiet threat. He was fifteen, spitting out blood on the floor of the Ravenclaw male dorm. He was sixteen, a red smile on his lips, pressing on bruises late at night.

He was still seventeen and Lennox was breaking his arm.

But when he looked up at this guy - he was different. It wasn’t the same Lennox he had brought down to his knees in a dirty bathroom a few months before. And maybe that was alright - he was not the same Solomon either, or at least he’d like to believe. Growing pains, he told himself - and steeled his heart for the worst, while also hoping for the better. A trait he got from his mother, hopeless lover that she was.

“Oh, a kiss on the cheek, how rowdy,” Solo grinned; as if they hadn’t done much, much worse before. Surprisingly, he found himself alright with the idea. Maybe this is what they needed - to start over, slower this time; gentler. A kiss on the cheek instead of bare knees on dirty bathroom tiles. They needed to relearn how to be around each other without sex, the crutch that brought them back together again and again, over the years, through pain and mutual abuse. It was easy to like Lennox in the dark, when their hands travelled each other’s bodies, teeth grazing against his neck, hips colliding in pleasure. It was harder to hold hands, look into each other’s eyes, and be honest. Solo squeezed Lennox’s hand subtly, in encouragement, and nodded. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll play nice, alright.” And so he did, though it wasn’t easy. When Lennox stumbled on a rock, and almost took them both down, Solomon swallowed the quick sneer already on the tip of his tongue. He grinned instead, amused, and pretended to dust off his date’s clothes off.

“Now, now, I know I’m fantastic to look at in these jeans, but we don’t want you on your face this soon into the evening.” Solo tried to lighten up the tension with a joke. “No pressure’s so great some alcohol can’t lighten it, yeah? And not seeing Han in rollers? I’ll fucking drink to that, mate.” They walked together down to Hogsmeade, a path Solo had made a thousand times, though never like this. He looked up for a moment, watching the taller boy, asking himself how long this would last. It scared the hell out of him, but he supposed he owed it to himself after seven years of pining. He could strip off the armour for a night.

“I’ll forgive you ‘cause One Eyed Kim is my true soulmate,” he informed Lennox, walking a few feet ahead of him, in the Hog’s general direction, before turning around. “And mate, I don’t mind being the talk of the breakfast. Hell, how many times did you cuss my name over toast?” There were no heat behind the words, though - Solo just stood there for a moment, the faint light of the Hog’s Head shining around him like a halo. “Let’s go in.”

the-yunhaneul:

Moving back to Korea was not going to be quite as simple as Haneul had originally thought, of course it would be easy enough to move back to his family home and settle into life there with his new sibling no doubt occupying most of his time, but the educational side of things was a little more complicated. He had every intention, of course, in continuing his NEWTs even when he moved back home, he’d worked hard for six years on them and didn’t intend to give up on them simply because his family circumstances were changing, but there were a lot of things to take into consideration when making the move; whether to continue with his NEWTs or take the Korean alternative, whether he would have access to the same source materials in Korea as he would in the UK, how he’d be able to sit the exams when he was half way across the world and the school year was divided differently in both countries. A lot to take in.

Hence why he was in the library with several books scattered about him, open on various pages and with little bright pink post-its sticking out of several pages. He had books on the NEWTs themselves, books on international wizarding education, he was even flicking through to see if the material tested for the NEWTs was the same elsewhere or whether the focus was entirely different- cultural influences on magic already made the styles very different, no doubt the tests would be different too. With a soft hum, his brows furrowed, he flicked over to the next chapter on he book he was currently absorbed in and read in a mutter, “Practical Examinations for OWL Levels and Above.” He had no idea if this was meant to be useful or not.

Solo was good at many things. 

He was good with his hands, and he was good with his tongue. He was good on his knees and he was good in the bed. But most of all, Solo was damn good at running. And run, he planned to. With a couple of recent travel books and magazines piled around him, he let his mind wander to far off places, warm and sunny and safe, as if he had to put as much distance between himself and London as he could. It wasn’t enough to just move cities anymore, or hide his wand away and pretend to be just another muggle boy, trying to lose himself in the deep bass of british EDM in some filthy night club. No; London seemed to be getting smaller and smaller as he got older, its gray buildings and old streets as oppressive as Hogwarts stone walls. It seemed like he could find ghosts everywhere now - his mother’s cold trail, Renfield’s heavy absence in the back of his mind, the Flints’ long shadow, Lennox’s lingering words;

The leathery hands of a stranger in Knockturn alley, throwing him a couple of coins for a good fuck. 

Everyday, it got harder to breathe.

The wait by the doors to the entrance of the school made Lennox’s palms sweat. He’d never done full-on romance before, where there was surprise and sweeping gestures and a lot of things relied on luck and chance. Most of his experience had been centered on surety: doing what he knew, with people that he understood, on solid terms. But everything about Solomon Renfield was uncertain and unfixed, from the place he lived to the people he slept with. To Lennox over the years, there had been very little about Solo that was constant, except maybe that he could relied upon to return to the dorm for a change of clothes. And, after Valentine’s Day, Lennox had learned a second constant: Solo’s love had been placed, unwaveringly, on him. His chest expanded a little as he stood waiting, allowing the thought to fill him up, until it hitched at the sight of Solo coming down the stairs. It wasn’t exactly the heart-stopping, movie-magic moment, but it wasn’t far off, and Lennox was proud to see that Solo had obeyed his request. On time and in actual clothes. His smile, unfiltered, waned as Solo mocked him, and the stab at his carefully laid plans was a little too close. It felt like someone had shot down the butterflies in Lennox’s chest and he was crashing through the canopy, sweat beginning to prickle alongside fear. He couldn’t ruin this. “Cheesy is what makes romance romance,” Lennox snapped, distracted and trying to think quickly. “It wouldn’t be romantic if it wasn’t a little cliche and a little heartfelt. Maybe I should’ve made a mould of my dick and left the note attached. Practical and romantic.” 

Lennox rolled his eyes and pushed the door open, grateful for the cool night air that washed over his face. He needed to get a hold of himself. Tonight was supposed to be about a fresh start - making an effort to talk to Solo, get to know him again, see if there was even the slightest chance of something happening between them. And already, they’re argued; it was second nature to the both of them at this point, too well trained at taking bites from each other over the years to give it up completely just yet. Lennox heaved a sigh, trying to shake off that sarcastic aggression and turned back to Solo. “You look nice,” he said slowly, the words he’d been meaning to say - or had hoped to say. “And I want us to have a good night, cheesy or not. Do you think we can do that? Because, like, if not, we’re kind of in a bad situation in regards to the whole love thing.” Lennox took a step backward, leaving the warm candlelight of the castle and trading it for the cool, crisp night of the grounds, and a shiver rolled over his skin. It wasn’t yet curfew, so there was time to leave - the last group wasn’t yet back from Hogsmeade. Lennox had this all worked out, but what he hadn’t planned was the way he held out a hand for Solo, giving him a shy, almost hopeful smile and raise of his eyebrows. “C’mon,” he said, hand held out. “Unless it’s too cheesy for you, of course.”

Solo laughed - and habit pushed words out of his mouth that he’d rather keep in, not missing a beat: “Oh yeah, I’d love a mould of your dick, not much difference to the real thing, yeah? You both just keep standing there, waiting for sex to happen around you.” He regretted the abrasiveness of his snide remark immediately. This was supposed to be the tentative beginning to something - to salvaging what they’d lost over the years, in between broken hearts and broken bones. Lennox had made him wait for weeks, as if deciding he was worthy of a simple date was that fucking hard, and it was a bitter truth to swallow. But they were here now, they were trying, ridiculous as he thought it all was - notes, and flowers, and, god forbid, romance. And to think that all that Lennox had to do was smile that one smile - the one he never gave Solo willingly, that was always aimed at Flora or Smith or Fitz or someone else, and Solo would say yes to anything. It was a dangerous little thing, to love. To offer your hands up for shackling, and give away the key, like a martyr ready for punishment. Loving Lennox, Solo found out, was even harder. He was all rough edges and rough hands, anger and passion burning in the same measure inside him. 

And from the cigarette tips he pressed against his thighs, creating a constellation of scars against pale skin, to the crackling pits of Lennox’s feelings, Solomon wanted to burn.

“No, fuck. Let’s start over,” he offered, quietly. “You look nice too. All, y’know. Dressed up, and--” he looked down, not sure how to play into this new game they were trying. The word love out of Lennox lips made him shudder, feeling suddenly vulnerable, raw and exposed again, like in that closet. He wished they were still in the dark, but even under the stairs, he could see Lennox’s expectant eyes, the sharp jawline he used to kiss, when they were fourteen and stupid. As much as he hated the seasonal couples, with their easily digested feelings out of a cheap romance, and their convoluted love stories that fit a golden band around their fingers, they had a bravery Solo didn’t possess. Seeing outstretched Lennox’s hand made him tremble, fear clogging his throat. Taking a punch was easier, and Solo had grown used to Lennox knuckles against his face. When he slowly, hesitantly, reached out for his hand, he half expected it to hurt too, but it didn’t - and that was even scarier. “It is impossibly cheesy, yeah, but-- just for tonight, I’ll play nice, yeah? So... where are we going, then? Better be some place we can have a pint,” he joked lightly. Merlin, he needed alcohol. 

How did those couples even do it? 

Astoria shrugged in response. Sure, if she kept on smoking, she probably would get used to it. But then again, she had no need to start smoking, she had only felt the need to try that one time. “I think perhaps I’ve managed to find another way to relax than to smoke, so I’d rather keep the possibility of getting addicted at bay for now,” she responded. Still, she kind of wished she had cigarettes so she could share with Solomon, if only as a nice gesture. Nodding, she responded. “I’m kind of worried that perhaps something bad is going to happen at the protest… But I feel like I need to be there. Show my support to the cause, besides, I’m going to write an article about it. But mostly for support.” Astoria really wasn’t the kind of girl who went out looking for trouble. But it was a cause worth fighting for, she wanted and needed to be there. “What, don’t I look like a bad girl wanting to look for trouble?” she asked, quirking an eyebrow at Solo, trying to do her very best ‘bad girl’ smirk, but it kind of looked like she was about to sneeze instead. “I just feel like I need to be there. Good girl and all.”

“Well, kudos to you. Your addiction is probably cheaper than mine,” Solo sighed, “this shit gets you good.” He watched Astoria as she spoke and frowned, trying to imagine her in the middle of the protest that would probably not end up as peaceful as the flyer advocated. “Something bad’s gonna happen at the protest,” he said, bluntly. “It’s bound to, logically-- I mean. All this pent up anger, this pent up aggression that’s building up in response to the Minister’s plans? It’s gonna blow up at some point.” He shrugged, very serious. “Best case scenario? It’s contained to a small part of it and quickly subdued - either way, people will get hurt. Worst case scenario is a repeat of that protest that went so well the first time. You ready to face that for your article, doll?” He provoked her, amused by her reactions. “I admire your commitment, good girl. Just remember good girls are also good PR when bad shit happens, yeah? You’re like the perfect victim.” 

Darcy recoiled, the purse in his lips souring as he tried to swallow Solomon’s spite with dignity. If he closed his eyes, which he’d never dare within the close quarters of this hellish dormitory, he could envision a Solomon quiet, obedient, as he should be. Servant to a King. But reality was painfully different and Darcy had to curb the reckless impulse to grasp his wand, he’d never been fast or smart enough to win a duel against him. The humiliation of every club meeting rung fierce and hot across freckled cheeks as he dug short nails into pink palms. ❝You think I’m afraid of you Renfield?❞ He spat, blowing as much conviction into the syllables as he could, even if his chest tightened and pulse thundered. Darcy breathed in through his nose, lip curled in between his teeth as he adjusted the polished cufflink holding together a virulently white shirt. Robes be damned, Darcy had his own way of living.

And, that did not include sharing a room with Renfield.

❝Shut up,❞ he barked. ❝You are a poor excuse for a man.❞ His insults were clumsily put together, strung up by the bite of Oldridge rage and nothing more. Darcy’s fingers dug tighter into the cufflink, pinching and twisting it as he tried to temper the rising storm. It was no use. Even the sight of Solomon was enough to push all the wrong buttons. He strode across the space until the space between the boys diminished. Eyes dark in the dim light of the dying fire met his. ❝Shut up.❞ Darcy repeated, lips curled and forehead wrinkled as he tried and failed to control the ire that had brewed. There was no telling what rational part of Darcy broke in those few seconds, but between storming half way across the room and spitting in Solomon’s face his hand had reached to grasp his shirt. Fisting and pulling at it to hold Solomon close, closer than he’d like but it was a show of power, impulsive, rash.

❝This is not yours don’t act like you own it Solomon, you are nothing but a pitiful wretched excuse of a human, an accident.❞ Fingers tightened, muscles flexed and held taut as he tensed his jaw, any hope of a peaceful calm evening drowned in the violent invasion of personal space.

Solomon smirked; a cruel thing.

“Afraid? No, I don’t think you’re afraid of me, exactly,” Solomon didn’t bulge, full of the certainty that Darcy wouldn’t reach for his wand. He’d known the boy for more than seven years - Darcy wouldn’t dare. He was predictable, constrained both by the strict rules of his own upbringing and his own fear of losing. “I think you’re terrified of the way I make you feel. Powerless. Humiliated, innit? Am I close, Darce?” That was the burden of names as heavy as Oldridge. Darcy carried on his shoulders the weight of a legacy he’d never surpass. It was a heavy crown to wear for feeble shoulders, a constant reminder of what you’d never be. Solomon was under no such pressure. As a bastard, he had nothing to his name but shame - and he knew shame like an old lover; he laid in bed with shame and swallowed it, refusing to let it eat him away.

“I’m a poor excuse of a man, Darce?” He arched both eyebrows, amusement seeping onto his voice like fresh poison. “What about you? Are mummy and daddy proud of their golden boy? Do they brag about you at parties?” While Darcy was rage, Solomon was velvet - bending words around with the slick control of a man who’d faced worst. “Oh, yes, you see, my boy Darcy-- he’s the twelfth best at his dueling club, and maybe the nineteenth best in his class in every other subject, if you don’t count any muggleborns and halfbloods. A real taker, pride of his family. That’s a real man.” Solo said, voice deeper, full of a fatherly tone as he impersonated Mr. Oldridge.

Being handed the flyer had been a surprise. It had been quiet for so long, about any kind of resistance against the treatment of creatures, half-creatures. Yet she had been handed a flyer, announcing there was going to be a protect held in London. The last protest to have been held there hadn’t exactly gone after plan. Still, she was curious, she definitely wanted to go. She thought she had put the flyer safely in her bag, but apparently not, because Solomon was calling to her, announcing that she had dropped it. “Oh, thank you,” she reached out and retrieved it with a smile. “Sorry, no, I don’t have any cigarettes… I tried smoking once a month ago, and I swear, it felt as though I would cough up my lungs.” Astoria had decided, that day, that she wouldn’t ever try smoking again. The protest, however. “I think- Yes, I think I’m going. I’m absolutely going. Are you thinking of going too?”

"It’s a matter of practice, really,” Solo sighed, unhappily pawing his pockets again, in hopes a new pack of red Marlboros would suddenly materialize in his robes. “I thought I was gonna throw up dinner my first time, but you get used to it pretty fast -- or addicted, I guess, whatever comes first.” Admitting defeat, Solo shrugged, and turned his attention to flyer in her hand. “Yeah. I mean, something’s bound to happen. Be it the government making some demonstration of power or some rogue werewolves deciding to stir shit up. Whatever it is, I wanna be there to see it.” Solo grinned, full of conviction: “Kinda feels like we’re gonna watch history unfold, yeah? Probably gonna be bloody, but then again-- the only things that do make history are either bloody, obscene or both.” He offered, and arched his eyebrows for a moment. “Gotta be honest though, didn’t think I’d see you there.” Astoria never seemed the type of girl that chased trouble, and he had no doubts the protest would be trouble.

elliot-fincher:

Elliot turned to look just as Solomon’s head knocked against his, and then Elliot was ripped backwards, dashed against the wall, thrown on the floor and trying to remember how to get air with Solomon’s weight holding him down. There would be a bruise from where Elliot’s gut reaction was immediate, just no, body tensing, curving in, legs trying to lock down tight, and Elliot had flung an elbow backwards and made a dent in the wall. The sense of invasion, of outrage, was instant. This was a transgression. It made Elliot’s stomach churn, taut with interest and roiling anxiety. Solomon in Elliot’s space should be a nightmare, not exciting. But here was something new, and the accompanying thought that crashed through him, clear as day, was this is what you want. This wasn’t a spell holding him down; this wasn’t a spell blocking the air to his lungs, cutting off his speech; this wasn’t some invisible, indefatigable, humiliating piece of magic he couldn’t fight. This was something physical to orient around: Solomon’s angry words in his face, his body doing damage to Elliot’s, imprecise. Solomon’s face was so close, Elliot could smell the liquid courage on his breath, sweet, outrageously potent, and that at least was more familiar and terrifying, and it was so hard to breath with Solomon above him like this. 

He kicked out, heels striking against the floor. His wrists smacked at the outsides of Solomon’s thighs where they were pinned by his weight. Elliot wished for his own wand. He didn’t trust the stolen one one to fight with. It had rolled away, and his fingertips barely brushed against it; he could get at if he really tried, but what if he missed, what if the wand didn’t work for him, or what if it did and it backfired? “I–” Elliot began, tongue numb with intent in the face of Solomon’s tirade. Elliot closed his eyes, tilting his face toward the ceiling. His hands chafed against Solomon’s jeans, and he realized he’d been endlessly twisting them back and forth, working to free them by millimeters. The movement gave him something to do, something to prevent the panic from setting in. “Stop,” Elliot said, but Solomon had more anger, he was more. “Stop,” Elliot said again, louder, one hand braced hard against the floorboards, poor comfort for the collapsing burning in his chest. Why the fuck didn’t you ask his bloody name, Solo shouted in his face, while Elliot pictured an endless hallway, all the doors slamming shut, Renfield’s door closing, the last time he’d seen him before the train station. Elliot opened his mouth to tell Solomon to get off, but then he didn’t. Because there was a pressure in his throat and a familiar stinging, embarrassing heat behind his eyes, and Elliot didn’t trust his voice. He turned his head to the side, but there was nowhere to go when Solomon was pinning him, spittle and accusations flying in his face. 

There was a silence in which Elliot opened his eyes to find Solomon looking at him. Elliot could have sworn the Sugar Quills asked him then if this was one sin or seven, but that wasn’t right, because he never listened to that song. He always skipped that one. He didn’t want to listen to it again. Not ever again. Elliot released a breath, heart pounding, and Solomon’s hands on his collar were shaking hard. “Fucking get off of me,” Elliot said, hoarsely. “Right now. Want you to fucking get the fuck off of me right now, get the fuck off of me, get off me, get off–”

One of his hands slipped underneath Solomon’s leg, and he jerked it the rest of the way free. Elliot arched his back as much as possible to throw Solomon’s weight and brought his fist up to smash into the side of Solomon’s head. There wasn’t much momentum behind the hit, and he wasn’t made of muscle, but Solomon was drunk and Elliot had fast reflexes. It was just enough. Solomon was unbalanced enough for Elliot to heave himself up into a sitting position and send Solomon sliding sideways. Their legs tangled. Elliot thrashed and kicked wildly until he could haul himself backwards and stumble to his feet, leaning heavy against the wall. “I don’t care what you do,” Elliot said, blindly backing down the short hall towards Renfield’s room. His shoulders were drawn up tight around his ears. He looked very much the Elliot that had first appeared on the doorstep of Hogwarts, hollow-eyed and hyperaware, an animal about to bolt. His knuckles smarted. “I don’t care about anything you want,” Elliot said, feeling the phantom weight of Solomon on his torso. “You didn’t ask, you pointed a wand. What did you expect me to do.”

Elliot’s stolen wand and the Gyantess album he’d tried to make it out with were lying half underneath Solo, who was sprawled ungainly on the floor like the night had shit him out there, pale and sweaty and ragged. “If you touch me again I’ll–I’ll forget Renfield even existed,” Elliot promised. “You won’t get another word out of me.” A lie. Elliot would do anything, say anything to protect himself. In the face of more violence, nothing he’d had with Renfield was worth keeping for himself, for those private moments where Renfield was one of the only things he’d had worth remembering. 

Nothing except that Gyantess album, laying underneath Solo. 

Or so he’d thought. Now, seeing it out of reach, Elliot realized it had been a mistake to want it at all. There was nothing worth this trouble. He had to let Renfield go. He had to let things go. When he was a child, they said, he’d never started a sentence without asking for something. It was always “I want” or “I need” or “give me” and “now.” They’d spoiled him rotten. Maybe it was too late for him to ever stop now; maybe he was destined to always disappoint. Elliot never could manage to be good: to stop trying and shut up and stop doing and wanting stupid things. But hadn’t the Finchers learned that lesson the hard way? They’d had to learn to give up their lifestyle, their livelihood, their dignity, their status, their pride. So why did he keep making the same mistakes? Why was it so hard to stop? 

Elliot left the Gyantess album there and kept moving.

And when he stopped moving, he was in the middle of Renfield’s bedroom facing the door. He didn’t know how he’d done it, and it didn’t matter. Elliot lowered himself to sit on the floor in the dark and hug his knees to his chest, feeling around inside himself, mentally checking for limbs, for the sense of panic that had been creeping in before, now strangely, ominously absent, but now there was also nothing to grasp at, nothing to move him to standing again. Renfield’s three pieces of furniture–the bed, the bookcase, the low wardrobe–had been moved in front of the bedroom door, barricading him in. If Solo really wanted to get to him, it wouldn’t be enough to keep him out. The Sugar Quills were still playing. The album sleeve lay abandoned on the floor beside Elliot. He plucked it from the ground and felt something venomous moving sickly in his chest as he looked at it, reading again the faint handwriting in the moonlight. With all my love. At least Solo couldn’t have this. 

There was just the hint of pain as their bodies collided, and Elliot’s fist flung against his face, alcohol dulling most of the impact. Still, he lost his balance, his firm grip on Elliot’s collar weakening, hands grasping desperately for something to hold on to. But it was too late; his strength was gone, giving way to a mellow sort of melancholia as the alcohol burned through his defenses. They rolled on the floor, legs tangled, bony limbs smashing against each other’s ribs, ceiling spinning wildly before Solomon’s glassy eyes. Elliot stumbled away and all Solomon could do, in the drunk stupor taking over his body, was to reach out, fingers barely missing Elliot’s ankle. 

And just like that, he was gone.

The bang of a closing door reverberated through his bones, echoing inside the chamber of his ribcage with a finality that made his heart ache. That was it, he thought, staring at the ceiling that had gone from spinning to gently swaying, as if rocking him back and forth - a feeble comfort at the face of a hollow night. Somewhere behind the closed door to Renfield’s room, he heard the sound of furniture being dragged around, and he imagined the scars they’d leave, etched on the floorboards like proof this night had existed, even if Renfield himself didn’t anymore. And did it matter, he wondered, if Renfielf was out there, somewhere? What did blood matter anyway, when his father denied him for seventeen years, and they circled each other under the same roof like strangers? What did it matter when Allegra was dead and gone, buried under an unmarked grave, a pile of bones like her mother before her, and her grandmother before them. That seemed to be their fate, as if they were born to die like dogs, their names engraved in each other’s lips instead of stone. To disappear like they never existed - to leave the faintest marks in the world: a blood stain under Persian tapestry, a faded out vinyl in a faded out room.

Solomon felt like crying.

As he laid over the Gyantess album that one day had meant something to someone - a man he didn’t know, a stranger he might have loved - he thought of his mother. He thought of the last of her body, etched into that house like the ashy impression left by a fire, spreading in a scarlet puddle, seeping between the floorboards. Death, he thought, was a cruel affair. It happened suddenly once, and then it happened slowly every day, as you lost a piece of what made your ghosts human. Allegra’s voice, her face, her calloused hands, were all gone, disappearing slowly as Solo looked for her in every empty space, every mark on his face: a grieving amnesiac. And Renfield, his loves and his life, were just another lost piece of a puzzle Solomon could never finish. His mother took her secrets to the grave, and as he followed her footsteps around Knockturn Alley, looking for the cold trail of her dancing feet, all he found were dead ends.

“Grow the fuck up,” he whispered to himself around the tight knot in his throat. He was too old for fairytales, too old for fragile hope. And yet, he kept on hoping, hoping that if he tried just one more time, something might change; that if he turned just one more street, had just one more drink at the bars she made herself at home, there would be a revelation. But now, laying on the floor like she once did, too drunk to keep his lies straight, he allowed himself to admit the truth he’d been skirting around for seven years.

There was no revelation.

There was nothing left, no secret to discover, no trail to follow. Renfield was not a mystery to unfold. Renfield was just a scribbled name on a lost vinyl, and Solomon already had a bloodstain for a mother, he had enough of holding on to bits and pieces - a family he could fit in a box. 

The Sugar Quills kept playing as he rolled over, stumbling towards the door to the deep sound of their bass. This place wasn’t a treasure cove - this room was a grave. And he had enough of graves, enough of hoping for a lifetime. It didn’t matter - Elliot could have it. Elliot could have everything, Solo didn’t want it anymore. He didn’t want this knowledge, this music, this aching heart. He didn’t want Knockturn Alley, busted locks and his mother’s legacy. 

And maybe, at some point out in the night, lost between drunk delusions and raging nausea, he might even convince himself he didn’t need it. 

Huxley furrowed his brow at the implication that he would predict something so dire like that just for shits and giggles.  He supposed people didn’t exactly know how much each reading took out of him. How drained he felt – physically and emotionally – after each reading that he did. He figured it stemmed from the fact that people didn’t rightly believe that he could actually tell the future, and so thought he could just make up whatever he wanted to tell them.  “To falsely misrepresent the cards like that…” Hux searched for the words to describe how abhorrent that would be to him. “My family is already cursed. I don’t need to anger whatever force is out there that allows me to read the cards by misrepresenting the knowledge that they give me.” Hux could justify just about anything in his life, his morals were that changeable. Except when it came to his Divination practices. It was really the only thing that he took seriously in his life, and he wondered often if that was because of his family’s curse or not. Rumour said the curse didn’t activate the same way in each person, but perhaps he and his grandfather had similar strains of the curses. 

Hux’s voice took almost a bored expression.  He’d explained how he gave readings enough times that he briefly considered writing up a script to give to people when they came to him. “I’m going to hand you the cards, and you are going to shuffle them to your heart’s content. All the while focusing on the question that you wish to ask. You don’t need to speak it aloud, most people don’t. Though it does help me if you give me an indication of the topic so that I can filer the information that I get.” While he spoke he tried to finish the cigarette that he was almost done with. He didn’t mind the client smoking while they did so but preferred to focus his full attention on the reading. “Then you will set the cards between us, I guess we ought to sit down for this, and I will draw the top cards and read them. That’s it.” He produced his tarot cards from his pocket with a practised ease that seemed to make people automatically trust him at least 12% less than they had before. He figured it was something to do with the appearance of a con man that it gave him. He held the cards in his hands out towards Solomon. “Don’t bend them.” 

Solo listened to Hux, brow furrowed, wondering what it felt like - to carry this weight, this legacy. He’d never know, and for that he was grateful. The future was something he’d spent his life avoiding, as if living in the moment could make it last longer; as if it could silence his fears of not amounting to anything once school was over, of being one of those unlucky fellows that reached their peak during school years. “Sounds serious,” he said, more to fill the silence than to provide meaningful running commentary, “I believe you.” He may not be Hux’s favorite person, but Solomon knew enough of lying to recognize when someone meant business. Divination may sound absurd, but it was very real for his schoolmate, and he allowed himself, for just a moment, to have faith.

To be hopeful.

Solomon nodded once given directions, held his cigarette firmly between his lips, and took the cards, feeling their weight in his hands like an omen. “I just wanna know what’s gonna happen after Hogwarts. If I’m gonna leave England when school’s done.” He shrugged, not afraid to say it, as if it could make him feel braver than he actually did, “Fuck, even leaving London would be a success, I guess.” He smirked, shuffling the cards quickly, nimble fingers moving fast with nervous energy. Almost instinctively, Solo fell into a tense silence, as if some ancient part of his blood recognized the power flowing through them now, the ancient weight of it over Hux’s shoulders. Slowly, he set the deck of cards down, cigarette burning between his lips. Tell me I get to leave, he pleaded quietly, words burning in his brain like a prayer. Tell me I get to be free. 

Love had always been the fuzzy, far-off goal that Lennox had aspired to. As a boy, it had been the thing that had made him smile in the dark when he felt a body beside his own or when a warm hand had brushed his palm. Lennox knew for sure that, someday, he would get married; he knew his family would be there, and that once they’d exchanged vows and rings, it would be forever. He would be loved, and they’d never leave, and he would be happy. Of course, the older Lennox had gotten, the more the dream faded. He still wanted to fall in love, the kind that would inspire a muse to awaken and burn brightly, but it wasn’t the same - he was jaded a little, worn at the edges by the failed friendships and few attempts at a relationship he’d had. And even now, at eighteen and ready to leave Hogwarts to be an adult, Lennox wasn’t sure he was someone built for love and marriage and the kind of romance that had coloured the pages of his favourite books. But he was going to try anyway.

The premise was simple, but Lennox had been digging himself into holes for days trying to work out something perfect. It was a date - a date with Solomon Renfield, no less - but Lennox wanted it to be good. He’d promised Solo that he’d think about it and come back with an answer, and a date was what he needed to be sure of that answer. It would determine whether they could be alone together for any extended amount of time without Lennox throwing a punch or Solo sinking to his knees for some other guy. His hands were sweating as he places the letter on Solo’s bed, along with the flower he’d managed to make bloom with magic (which had taken three hours but he would later lie and say it’d been minutes worth of work). It made Lennox’s lips twitch into a smile as he looked down at it: the display was minimal but romantic, and even though he knew that Solo’s feelings weren’t the ones in question, Lennox still hoped he would agree to come.

Romance was tacky.

That was Solomon’s conclusion after watching his fair share of muggle movies and watching couples form and break around him, as steadily as the changing of seasons, He hated the safe clichés of it all, the societal pressures, the easy routes. He hated the flowers, the rings, the flair of huge declarations, the going-on-one-knee public gestures. He hated the easy to break promises and the unhappy marriages they spawned. He hated that it was all so constricted by people’s idea of what love was supposed to be that there was barely any room for breathing, for trial and error, for something new - something that hadn’t yet become a marketing tool for selling chocolates and valentine’s cards at newstands. But he knew love intimately, and it wasn’t something he could put down on a card, something a ring couldn’t contain in its little golden circumference. It was years in a limbo of loyalty and suffering, as inescapable as shackles. Solo loved freely, and loved deeply, but he took it like an arrow to the chest, like the brief moments before dawn where everything was possible - liminal spaces where love could breathe and bloom before the harvest.