Archived. Gone With The Wind

His gaze followed her the way dusk follows the last warmth of sunlight, unhurried and deliberate, lingering without touching, like curiosity dressed in restraint. The air between them carried that familiar tension, half teasing, half something softer that neither of them named out loud. He looked almost bored if you didn’t know him well enough to see the interest threaded quietly beneath it.

"Not everything in the world is one or the other. Conviction begets consequence — but so does the lack of it. I believe that many things exist simultaneously in a perpetual state of action and reaction. Everything is connected, nothing stands opposite — and nothing stands alone. We see the shadow because there is light to cast it, not in spite of it."

Nezumi watched Nastka demonstrate a point with his hand and resisted rolling his eyes at that.

"Only a man who doesn't have enough to give must ration his passions; had you had abundance of it, there'd be no need to keep yourself at an allowance, but enough of this. I don't blame you for what happened, I blame Viktor."

The truth was, as Nezumi processed his anger, that he didn't blame Nastka at all. He merely thought that the man wasted an opportunity to show himself to be better than he was, but then again — Nastka was right to point out that Nezumi didn't have the full picture. And Nastka didn't owe it to Nezumi specifically to explain himself, even though his presence in the hospital made it seem like a part of him wanted to . . . for what reason, Nezumi didn't want to know.

A lot of Nezumi's venom came from the anger, the grief he felt at losing something he loved, at watching people get hurt. He couldn't help it. He couldn't lock his heart from other people's pain no matter how much he wanted to — perhaps because he didn't truly want to. He wasn't afraid of the pain, he was afraid of the lack of control. He also had no way of knowing how worse or better it could've been and to what extent Nastka had actually intervened or not.

And he hated it. He hated being in the position where he felt small and at the mercy of someone else — and that, too, was partially the reason he wanted to lash out, to prove to himself that he still had teeth.

"…you cannot tolerate standing still in a world that is burning."

"I said what I said!" Nezumi snapped and shot the man a fierce glare, flame igniting the dry plains of his previously bored indifference and, like a Phoenix from its ashes, Nezumi's resolve burst alive, red and hot, and wedged itself between them.

Stubborn and unyielding, he raised his chin proudly. "I don't know if you're used to dealing with people to whom you can explain the world and how things are. People who, perhaps, don't know themselves all that well or who don't have much confidence. But I am no such person."

"A debt is a debt. I stand by what I said, and I didn't say it as an invitation for you to explain my own motivations to me. I know what I want here and if you're offering what I think you're offering, then yes. We will be on the same page."

"But I want more than words. I want proof—," Nezumi hissed and winced when Nastka held his chin, lifting it gently to achieve eye contact he was already receiving.

Nezumi's first instinct was to sneer. His body tried to tense up, but he reminded himself to relax, lest his broken ribs would make him curl up pathetically when he wanted to stand tall.

Mercifully, it didn't last long, but Nezumi still wanted to berate Nastka for thinking he could put his hands on people whenever he damn wished.

At the first hint of his chin being released, Nezumi shifted it out of the hold as if he couldn't wait to be free of the touch. Nastka's hand had been warm, and its absence made Nezumi feel a bit cold. It was aggravating.

He did not speak immediately.

Silence stretched not like emptiness, but like a thin, transparent skin drawn carefully over something fragile and alive, something that would shatter if rushed.

When he finally spoke, his voice carried the quiet gravity of someone who had spent years learning how to speak without sounding as if he were asking to be understood.

“You are correct,” Nastka said. “Conviction and consequence are not opposites. They are companions. I did not mean to suggest otherwise.”

He folded his hands loosely behind his back, not out of ceremony but out of restraint, as though the old instinct to reach for Nezumi again had stirred somewhere beneath the ribs of his composure and been gently, deliberately silenced. Nezumi’s pride was a living thing, bright, sharp, and easily wounded if handled without care. Nastka suspected that touching it too often would make it bare its teeth to defend itself.

“You do not need me to explain your motivations to you,” Nastka continued. “And I did not attempt to. I spoke to the anger I heard, not the philosophy you carry.”

A faint pause rested between them like breath misting against glass.

“As for your proof…”

The word was spoken slowly, weighed as if its shape were being tested against the gravity of meaning.

“I do not intend to speak promises as if they were currency,” he said. “You are correct to demand structure. Words without enforcement are theatre wearing the costume of justice.”

His gaze drifted briefly to the hospital window, where the city lay sprawled in electric quietude, its lights pulsing faintly like the slow, patient breathing of something enormous pretending to be small enough to sleep.

“The financial aid will be arranged through a controlled fund overseen by a third party board. I do not want my name to stand alone as the pillar of trust, because men who lean only on their own reputation eventually become tyrants of their own echo.”

A subtle tightening touched the corner of his mouth when he spoke next.

“The families who lost someone will not be made whole. Anyone who tells you that is selling consolation disguised as justice. The world does not knit broken lives back into the exact shape they once held.”

His voice softened into something closer to solemn honesty than reassurance.

“What can be given is ground that refuses to collapse again beneath their feet.”

“Housing that holds them the way soil holds the memory of roots. Medical security that allows wounds to breathe without fearing cost. Educational support for children whose futures were shaken when their present was taken. And long breath sustenance - not a single bright payment that dies quietly under hunger, pressure, and time.”

Silence unfolded once more, slow and vast.

“The theatre will be rebuilt,” Nastka said, and the certainty in his tone carried the gravity of a natural law rather than ambition.

“But it will not rise as a monument to survival alone.”

“It will be shaped like safety remembering that human lungs are not meant to shrink in anticipation of catastrophe.”

“Air will move through it the way invisible water moves through river stone. Exits will be placed where panic itself instinctively searches. Structure will not pretend that ornamentation is protection.”

A very faint softness touched his expression when he added, almost quietly:

“And engineers who speak the language of safety as their native tongue will review every design before a single stone is laid.”

“The contract you want will be drafted,” he said. “Legally binding. Transparent where transparency does not weaken the people it is meant to guard.”

He hesitated once, briefly, like a man standing at the edge of a word he is not certain he wishes to release.

“And I will add one condition of my own.”

His voice lowered, not into threat, but into the intimacy of deliberate gravity.

“You will not carry your injury like a banner declaring your refusal to be protected.”

“I will not finance the rebuilding of light only to watch you walk into it burning your own strength until it consumes you.”

The admission tasted almost reluctant in the air after it was spoken, as if it had cost him something invisible to give it shape.

Inside Nastka moved a quieter thought.

Nezumi did not want love spoken like theatre. He wanted certainty shaped into the architecture of the world around him.

Not to be owned.

But to stand inside a system that did not fracture when his heart refused to be smaller than the suffering he witnessed.

“You said you are not someone who needs the world explained to him,” Nastka said.

A very small, almost invisible gentleness entered his expression — not softness that surrendered, but softness that acknowledged flame without trying to hold it in bare hands.

“I do not believe you are.”

“But intelligence does not silence grief when grief decides to speak louder than reason.”

He exhaled once, slowly, like releasing a breath held since the first accusation had struck the air between them.

“You are angry because you fear the world is built so that people like you can only stand at the edge of suffering and negotiate with its shadow after the damage is done.”

Another silence rested there.

“And I ration passion,” he said, because honesty, to him, was heavier and more sacred than persuasion.

“I learned early that those who feel everything at the highest flame burn through their ability to act before they are given authority to change anything.”

His gaze returned to Nezumi’s face, steady as deep water holding the reflection of a storm it would not surrender to.

“I do not think you are small.”

The words were placed carefully into the space between them like stone set into earth.

“I think you are someone who refuses to shrink your heart in order to survive a world that prefers hearts compressed into manageable geometry.”

Something delicate and dangerous moved beneath the precision of his next sentence.

“And I think that sometimes frightens you.”

He did not push the thought further.

Finally, softer than the silence that followed storms breaking far out over the sea:

“You said you want more than words.”

Nastka’s eyes darkened with the gravity of choice, the look of someone preparing to walk willingly into consequence.

“Then watch what follows.”

“Do not stand outside the fire as if counting sparks like a spectator marking time.”

“But walk inside it carrying a purpose that belongs to you as much as it belongs to me.”

The machines exhaled their mechanical breath. The city blinked its indifferent constellation of lights. The lilies between them stood unmoving, pale and patient as winter memory.

Nastka did not reach for him again.

But somewhere inside, he felt the ghost of warmth where Nezumi had withdrawn from his hand earlier, like sunlight retreating slowly from stone as evening learned how to arrive.

He did not give the sensation a name.

Some feelings, he had long decided, became more dangerous when allowed the dignity of language.

Instead, he said only:

“The world may never become kinder.”

“But I will make it less efficient at breaking the people you choose to stand beside.”

He paused once, the silence holding the shape of a promise that had not yet decided how it wished to live.

how could it possibly be that something so utterly mundane as a HUMAN could be so .. intoxicating ? was it the soothing hum of the blood rushing in their veins ? or the sweetness of sweat against their skin ? no , perhaps the reassurance of their heartbeat ; whether slow and steady , or maddened by emotion .

with this one , it was difficult to narrow down . his scent was bitter like gin , cool like sandalwood , and sharp like ginger . there was a hint of sweetness there , yes . aramis could taste it ever so slightly upon his tongue ; biting into the petal of a rose .

❛ are you now ? hm , i think i'll be the judge of that . ❜ a gentle tease , index idly circling the outside of his glass , before lifting it to his lips to enjoy a watered down sip . he could hear the man's pulse just beneath the thin skin of his neck -- calling him , taunting his hunger . his companion was observant to a fault ; for a moment the blond wonders if he'd be able to piece together that aramis wasn't quite human anymore .

keen eyes follow the other's movement , ignorant to intent , though he surmises the motive was morbid curiosity , or a natural hypnotism his kind possessed . either way , the vampire's goal had been met ; find a body to warm his bed , and sate his hunger . it was almost a pity such an interesting specimen would become his prey . still , there was hope that perhaps ... things would shift out of his favor. how exhilarating would that be ... ?

aramis leans elbows onto the bar , a wall immovable as the other pulled away , and pressed closer , perhaps experimenting with the soft tension budding between them . in truth , it'd been quite some time since he's last felt so watched . though it felt like this one wanted to do far more than simply undress him with his eyes ; no , he couldn't really care less for sensuality or carnal desire -- this man wanted to dig deeper still , to dissect , to peel away skin and search his marrow for knowledge to consume .

❛ is truly so hard to believe that even those of us who command rooms could stoop so low as to want to be desired ? to lure , others and be lured in ... ? searching for trouble is one thing , but that is for those who do not understand how trouble works . volatile , fickle , overwhelming . ❜ there's a gentleness to his deep baritone as he speaks , jewel-like eyes drifting across the other's visage , to the cut of his hair , the calluses on his fingers , the fold of his shirt .

fingers extend , adjusting companion's collar , smoothing along the fabric before returning to his drink , ❛ you do not hunt for trouble ; that is unwise . you must allow yourself to become its prey . subdued but seeking . patience and confidence , yes . both bred of experience . what is the point of a painful lesson , if one does not learn from the agony ? ❜ with that , aramis finally leans back , releasing the stranger if he wished to take his leave , quietly polishing off the rest of his bourbon , letting it sit upon his tongue , then swallowing . ❛ perhaps i was waiting for the right song , a moment of weakness , or the fates and their whims . it doesn't really matter now , does it ? ❜ booted foot settles on the wood of the other's stool, arch giving a gentle caress to man's calf , before slinking away.

❛ for all my waiting , it seems like trouble has found me , instead . ❜

His gaze dipped briefly to the hand, to the smooth adjustment of fabric, then lifted again to Aramis’s face. There was no irritation there, no offense taken. Only the faintest sharpening of interest.

So.

Not shy. Not careless either.

Bold in the quiet way of someone who believed the room had already agreed to his rules.

The corner of Nastka’s mouth curved slightly as Aramis spoke, as the low baritone threaded through philosophy and hunger alike. Nastka listened without interruption, the way one might listen to an unfamiliar language, patient, attentive, waiting for the meaning beneath the words to reveal itself.

When the boot brushed his calf, however briefly, Nastka’s gaze dropped again.

Not startled.

Measured.

His fingers stilled around the glass, ice settling with a muted clink as he slowly placed the bourbon back against the polished wood of the bar.

Then he looked up.

And laughed.

Not loudly--- nothing crude enough to compete with the music--- but soft, low, the sound folding easily into the dark hum of the club.

“Trouble,” Nastka repeated, almost thoughtfully.

His eyes lingered on Aramis with a quiet, unsettling patience now, studying the man the way a surgeon might examine an unusual specimen before deciding where to cut.

“That’s a generous title to give a stranger.”

He leaned slightly closer again, reclaiming the distance Aramis had allowed to open, his voice lowered enough that the words barely slipped past the pulse of bass.

“Most people settle for mistake.”

His gaze flickered briefly to the empty bourbon glass, then back to the man’s jewel-like eyes.

There was something peculiar about him.

Not obvious. Not dramatic.

But wrong in a way that tugged at instinct rather than logic. The stillness. The patience. The strange, coiled restraint behind the man’s attention.

Nastka noticed these things the way wolves noticed the wind.

His head tilted faintly.

“You speak about trouble like a man who has watched it very closely,” he said, voice thoughtful now rather than teasing. “Close enough to study its habits.”

A pause settled between them, deliberate and heavy.

Then his gaze drifted, slowly, down the line of Aramis’s posture, the way his elbows rested on the bar, the unnatural steadiness in his movements, before returning to his face.

“And yet,” Nastka murmured, “you’re still waiting for it to choose you.”

The faintest smile touched his mouth again, sharper this time.

“Either you’re very patient…”

Another pause.

“Or very hungry.”

His eyes held Aramis’s, unblinking.

Then Nastka reached for his drink again, but instead of lifting it to his lips, he slid the glass across the bar toward the blond man, a small offering, or perhaps a test.

“I’m curious about one thing,” he said quietly.

The smile faded into something more thoughtful, more dangerous.

“When you sit in a room like this and let trouble come to you…”

His fingers tapped once lightly against the glass he had pushed forward.

          ultimately, she's the type to give in, to put another person before herself. at least she knew she had a way to make ends meet; she wasn't sure if she could say the same about alex. she only knew so much about him, after all. "i suppose that's fine. i could use your help putting up some curtains, patching up some drywall, that sort of stuff." arms are crossed over her chest, an attempt to keep her hands still to prevent more nervous fidgeting. it was clear the situation didn't sit well with her; ideally, alex wouldn't have been asking her for money, and she wouldn't have to see him in such a hard position.

It was the look people wore when kindness cost them something.

For a moment, the room felt smaller around him. The quiet stretched just long enough for the weight of his own request to settle properly in his chest. Pride stirred there, slow and stubborn, whispering that he should take it back. Say he’d figure something else out. Laugh it off. Walk away before the pity set in.

But the memory of the men waiting for their money didn’t laugh.

So he stayed where he was.

When she finally agreed, even with the nervous stiffness in her crossed arms, something complicated loosened inside him. Relief came first, quick, quiet, almost guilty. Right behind it was the dull ache of knowing he had just handed someone else a piece of his mess to carry.

His gaze dropped briefly to the floorboards, shoulders rolling as if he could shrug off the weight of the night itself. When he lifted his head again, there was the ghost of a crooked smile pulling carefully at the corner of his split lip.

“Curtains and drywall,” he repeated softly, almost tasting the words. “Yeah… that’s easy work. I can do that.”

He rubbed the back of his neck with his uninjured hand, fingers dragging slowly through the tension there.

“I’ll make it worth more than what you lend me,” he added after a moment. “Fix whatever needs fixing. If something creaks, leaks, or looks like it’s about to fall apart, I’ll deal with it.”

There was a pause, then a quiet exhale.

“Feels better paying things back with my hands anyway.”

When she told him he couldn’t leave looking like that, his first instinct was automatic. His head tilted slightly in a small refusal, the same stubborn reaction he’d had since the first time someone tried to fuss over a busted lip or a bruised rib.

“I’ve walked around worse than this,” he said lightly, though the movement pulled at the cracked skin on his mouth and betrayed him with a faint wince.

His thumb brushed absentmindedly over the dried blood there, as if the injury had only just occurred to him.

“It’s just a couple punches,” he muttered. “Nothing dramatic.”

But Alison was already looking at him with that quiet determination people got when they decided they weren’t asking anymore.

Alex shifted his weight, the wooden floor creaking faintly under his boot. His shoulders still carried the restless tension of someone who had spent too long under bright lights and roaring noise. The fight might’ve ended hours ago, but his body hadn’t quite accepted the peace yet.

He let out a slow breath through his nose.

“…You’re stubborn,” he said, though there was no real bite to it.

His hand dropped from his mouth as he glanced at her again, expression softer now, tired, but a little amused.

“Alright. Fine.”

He lifted his hands slightly in surrender.

“But if you bring out alcohol or something that stings like hell, I’m walking out the door.”

A faint, crooked grin tugged again at his lip.

❝ Yes? ❞ It comes out like a question, but she answers so quickly there’s no doubt she believes it.

All her life, she has been a sheltered princess in a castle set too high; her were days measured in careful routines. Her parents controlled every small detail: what she engaged with, what fell within the scope of her interests, what she was allowed to explore. She never truly resented it. Her interests had always been different from other children’s, and structure helped her function, helped her flourish. They were strict, but not cruelly so.

Still, it meant Claudette didn’t truly witness violence until well into her teenage years. Homeschooled and carefully monitored, she wasn’t permitted to consume anything graphically brutal. And when she finally was, violence always belonged to the large, the powerful, the towering figures who seemed built for that sort of destruction. She has never seen it embodied by someone who looks like a strong gust of wind might knock them over. Standing in front of Alex, she feels wholly out of her league.

❝ I suppose I understand mechanically how it works. The core, or something ⸻ if movies are to be believed. ❞ She takes his words literally ⸻ that strength comes from the body as a whole, not merely the shoulders. It never occurs to her that he might have meant something metaphorical. Still, his logic steadies her. No matter how she looks or how little she weighs, there are things she can accomplish to survive. And she will survive. Claudette may be a rabbit, quick to bolt at the slightest disturbance, but softness has no place in cold, hard logic. She may never be inspired or fierce in her attempts, but she can be methodical, Calculated.

Flight will always be her first option. But sometimes you have to create the opportunity to run. That makes sense. And because it makes sense, she steadies. Her wringing hands slowly curl into fists. A measured breath leaves her lungs, easing tension from her body like air slipping from an overinflated tire. Her shoulders drop from her ears. She’s still teetering on an edge, but she’s no longer dangling.

Then Alex taps his chest and tells her to hit him. It startles her. Why would anyone ask to be struck? Well, looking at him, it’s obvious she couldn’t do much damage. She could throw herself at his chest full force and he likely wouldn’t budge an inch. Still, there’s hesitation in harming someone who has shown her nothing but patience and kindness since she stepped into the gym. With his encouragement, she blinks uncertainly, but raises her hands. The stance is awkward. Unpolished. She doubts it would accomplish anything.

❝ Are you—are you sure? I . . . ❞ Her words trail off as her mouth twists, her bottom lip caught between anxious teeth. She hesitates. But his reassurances remain steady and calm. He is serious. Certain. Gentle. Alex is so gentle with her. So she throws the punch. It lacks power. Lacks conviction. But she follows through. Her gloved fist thumps lightly against his chest, and her arms tremble with adrenaline as she pulls back.

❝ Oh. Uhm… that didn’t feel right. ❞ But she did it. A small, throbbing ache blooms in her wrist, suggesting she’s done something wrong, or perhaps that this is simply what it feels like? If he were any less solid, her wrist might have buckled entirely.

Not the contact - that came softly, a muted thump against the broad plane of his chest - but the fragile moment that formed it. The breath she drew like someone preparing to step into cold water. The way her shoulders gathered courage in small, uncertain increments. He watched the decision happen inside her, slow and careful, like a candle being lit in a drafty room.

And then she struck him.

If it could even be called that.

Her glove tapped against him and rebounded, light as a falling apple against a stone wall. Alex did not move. He didn’t brace or tense. He simply received it, letting the moment exist exactly as it was meant to - small, tentative, but real.

For a second he just looked at her.

She always looked like she had wandered somewhere she wasn’t supposed to be. Too soft for rooms like this. Too delicate for the language of bruises and sweat and impact. Like someone had placed a porcelain figure on a workbench among iron tools.

But porcelain could still cut if it shattered the right way.

The corner of his mouth lifted slightly.

“You see?” he said calmly.

His voice remained low and steady, warmth threaded through it in a way that never demanded attention. It simply stayed there, like quiet sunlight through a window.

“You did it.”

His gaze drifted down when she pulled her hands back. He noticed the tremble first. Then the small misalignment in her wrist, the way the glove tilted ever so slightly as she held it.

“That didn’t feel right.”

Of course it didn’t. Nothing ever did the first time. The body had to learn a language before it could speak it without stuttering.

Alex stepped closer again, slow and deliberate in the way a large animal approaches something skittish. He was careful with his size around her, careful with the gravity of his presence. He knew what he looked like from her perspective - a wall of muscle and quiet confidence standing in a room that smelled like leather and iron.

But she didn’t need another wall in her life. She needed a door.

His hand lifted, pausing briefly before touching her glove, giving her time to pull away if she wanted. When she didn’t, he gently took her wrist and rotated it just slightly so she could see.

Her bones felt light under the padding. Fragile, almost. It stirred a strange thought in him - not doubt, but a quiet protectiveness he rarely allowed himself to feel.

“You punched with your arm,” he explained softly.

His knuckles tapped lightly against the center of her glove.

“Power doesn’t come from here.”

Then he shifted his hand and tapped beneath her ribs - careful, respectful, brief.

“It starts here. Your body turns with it.”

He released her wrist and stepped back again, returning the space between them like something borrowed.

For a moment he studied her.

She reminded him of a rabbit in winter , small, alert, always calculating where the nearest escape might be. But even rabbits bit when cornered. And survival wasn’t about size. It was about timing.

About refusing to freeze.

“And don’t worry about hurting me,” he added gently. “That’s not going to happen today.”

He nodded once toward his chest again, patient as stone worn smooth by water.