Thou? A Man? Thou Art A Peanut.

Bronte and Emery are coworkers with benefits

Bronte is terribly in love with Emery.

Emery is also in love with Bronte but he’s dumb and doesn’t realize. (Once he does realize he just gaslights himself)

Gay elves are accepted in society BUT Councillors are still not allowed to marry

Bronte and Oralie are besties

Emery has also been in love with Bronte for years but he’s lowkey stupid and doesn’t realize it. He just plays off every word, every touch as something platonic, despite the fact that every interaction is charged with some kind of energy that he can’t decipher(note: sexual tension)

Title: I walked across an empty land (I knew the pathway like the back of my hand)

Word count: 1,456

(See the end for notes!)

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Bronte remembers manifesting. He remembers feeling ill the night before, feeling as if something were caught in his throat, as if something were clutching his chest, constricting his lungs. He took medicine, crawled into bed, and let his mother kiss his forehead.

He remembers going to Foxfire the next day. Remembers getting into a disagreement with another student— over what, he can’t remember. Grades or an assignment or simple teasing; things that seem undeniably silly now. Either way, it doesn’t matter. He doesn’t remember actually Inflicting—everything in that moment is outlined in red. He does remember seeing the other prodigy convulsing on the ground. The students around them screaming and backing away. People pointing at him, their words sharp and accusing and afraid.

He does remember the knot in his chest unraveling, the ball in his throat disappearing, and being able to breathe again. He remembers feeling powerful.

He remembers turning and fleeing. Remembers bursting into his house, startling his mother. Remembers sobbing into her arms, terrified of himself. Remembers crawling into bed and curling up under the covers. He doesn’t let his mother kiss his forehead this time.

(He’s never let her kiss it since).

He remembers other elves whispering about him. Averting their gazes. Several even crossing to the other side of the street when they saw him coming.

He learns to live with it. Learns to command his power, to ignore the voices always repeating the same things: He’s not safe. It’s not natural.

He lives with it.

Well, he tries.

He thinks of his mother, of her agonized face as she writhes on the ground. How she had assured him after, time and time again, that she was fine. That she loved him enough to know he hadn’t meant it. It makes him break a little more every time he thinks of it.

He realizes someone is saying his name. He pulls away from his memories and blinks back into the present, finding himself to be the focus of the other eleven members of the Council. Emery looks slightly impatient. Bronte realizes that Oralie, seated next to him, is frowning. Somehow her delicate fingers have come to rest on his wrist. She is reading his emotions. Well, crud. Bronte clears his throat, attempts to come up with an excuse, and then says, quite honestly, “I wasn’t paying attention.”

Emery sighs and several other Councillors laugh. “I noticed, thanks,” the spokesman said. “But what we’re discussing is important. I need everyone to be focused.”

Bronte waves his hand. “It’s the ogres, Emery. No matter what we do, they’ll always be trouble. Trust me.” He thinks of the Ogre Wars and the bloodshed they held. He really should go and visit the Four Seasons tree. Maybe sitting underneath its swaying branches will ease his mind, if only for a little while. “We’re getting nowhere today. I say we sleep on it. If one of us has a miraculous prophetic dream about how to get the ogres to agree to another treaty, then we can regroup.”

Emery sighs—he does that quite a lot— and agrees, stacking the together the notes he’d been taking. The other Councillors gather themselves and make their way to the door, sticking to their usual groups. Oralie stays seated next to Bronte, who stares out the curtain-framed windows. The sun is slanting through, sending shafts of warm evening light across the table. How long had he been stuck in his thoughts?

Oralie’s hand is upon his again. When he turns and looks at her, her lovely eyes are shining with concern. “Your emotions are strange right now,” she whispers, and Bronte notices Emery pause at the head of the table. She traces a finger around the palm of his hand and he forces himself not to pull away. “You feel… sad. Regretful. And angry. But…” she pauses as if she’s searching for the right words. “Not at anyone else. You’re angry at yourself.”

Because I manifested a curse, he wants to tell her.

“It’s memories, right?” Emery asks from the head of the table. When Bronte looks at him sharply, he raises his hands. “Look, I’m in every Councillor’s head so much that sometimes it just…happens. And Bronte, you… feel things pretty strongly. Once I realized it was just nostalgic Ancient memory stuff, I backed out,” he adds. “I didn’t know if you’d want me seeing those memories in particular.”

“Those memories?” Oralie asks, and her voice is so soft that Bronte has to pull his hand away, lest she sense his fondness for his best friend.

“Inflicting,” he mutters roughly.

She gives a knowing hum. He’s told her of his struggles, and he supposes that now Emery knows, at least a little.

“What made you think of it so much today?” She asks.

“Sophie and I had her Inflicting lesson today,” is all he says. He’s always astounded by how much he’s come to look forward to every lesson they have together. He always gets a warm feeling in his chest when Sophie opens the door and grins at him, a physical reminder that they aren’t opposed to one another anymore. Sometimes, when they gossip and trash talk other people, he thinks that maybe she’s started to actually like him a little bit.

“Oh.” A crease appears between Oralie’s brows. “Is she—“

“She’s fine.” He interrupts her. “It’s all fine.” He stands abruptly. “Look,” he addresses Emery, “I’ll pay more attention tomorrow. Probably. But right now, I’m going home. I’ve got a headache.” He presses a hand to his temple, trying to ease the ache that has been slowly building up.

“But your emotions,” Oralie starts. “Are you sure—“

Bronte cuts her off. “I’ve lived with this for thousands of years. To be precise—“ he pauses, counting. “—whatever my age minus sixteen is. I was never good at math. It was the sciences for me.”

Oralie half-smiles and Bronte continues. “It’s nothing to worry about. At least, it’s nothing for you two to worry about. Inflicting is my ability, which makes it my battle. And I’ve handled it alone for a long time.” He thinks of Grady Ruewen, seated in his office, head bowed and shoulders trembling. He should call him and ask how he’s doing. Honestly, there’s a lot of things he should do. A lot of things he should have done, a long time ago. He grimaces. What on earth is the matter with him today? Usually he can push down the nostalgic thoughts and get on with life. God, he’s not getting like Fallon Vacker, is he?

The thought makes him shiver, and Emery laughs. “You’re still a few thousand years away from that, Bronte.”

Bronte throws up his hands. “What’s it take for some privacy around here? Keep your mind to yourself.” He trails off into inaudible grumbling as his two fellow Councillors laugh.

Emery stashes his notes away into a neatly organized file. “Sorry. Maybe you should think quieter.”

Bronte glares. “You know I can’t do that. I can’t help the way I think.”

Oralie grins at him. “We know. I like the way you think. It keeps the rest of us honest.”

“You mean ‘humble’?” Emery corrects.

“Well, I didn’t want to bring up the fact that he insults us all daily. Oh, sorry, I meant you all,” Oralie corrects herself. She grins at Emery. “Perks of being Bronte’s favorite.”

“I don’t have to listen to this,” Bronte announces. It stuns him how easily they can make him feel a little better just with light-hearted teasing. He can already feel his melancholy memories fading from his mind, leaving only a wistful feeling in his chest. It burns a little, but he’s used to the fire. “I’m going back home, where I don’t expect to be bothered until tomorrow.”

Oralie pouts, sticking out her perfectly glossed lips. “Who’s going to play Mario Kart with me?”

“Oralie,” Bronte complains as Emery sputters. “That was our secret.”

“You two play that without me?” Emery demands. “I am offended—don’t look at me like that, Bronte. Yes, I have a Nintendo Switch. Why does that surprise you so much?”

“I honestly didn’t think you were smart enough to play.”

“Excuse me?”

“You can play with us tonight!” Oralie breaks up the argument happily. “It’ll be fun!” She stands and seizes the two male Councillor’s arms, pulling them out the door with her. Emery shouts that he can’t leave his notes, but Oralie cheerfully ignores him. Bronte allows himself to be pulled along by his best friend, snorting at Emery’s disgruntled expression. He takes one last glance out the window, then shuts the door as they go, leaving behind the melancholy memories.

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The end! I took a while on this because I wanted to get the wording right. It’s still not exactly how I want it, but it’ll do.

- for those who didn’t catch it, the title is from the song Somewhere Only We Know by Keane. It’s great, give it a listen!