BARED TEETH

LOCATION: Hotel gardens

STATUS: closed for @codecerberus

Catalina never thought of herself as a smoker until more recently, and while it felt like she was going against all the teachings she had studied on how harmful tobacco was and all the papers she had written about how evil all these cooperations were for allowing this practice to still happen yet here she was, doing what the French did. 

Inhaling a lung full, Cat wasn’t feeling as cynical as before. This was something different, this was recklessness. She needed to experiment on Metzger, not in the same way she experimented on everything else. She wanted to test him. Right now spirits were high due to this trust for Volkov (or the fact that someone was treating them normally for once) yet it wasn’t enough for Cat. She wanted to see what would happen if she ran away. With her invisibility, she could assume that she could perfect this experiment and see just what Metzger truly was all about.

If Aladdin is dead because of him, Cat wanted to know why.

She didn’t hear Carter behind her as she was lost in her thoughts, staring at some flower for god knows how long. So when she turned to see him, she almost jumped. “I’ve been in my head all day I didn’t even hear you.” She smiled, offering a cigarette. “You want one?”

Things are changing, he knows that much. Nobody whispers anymore like they used to. But rather, he’s seen raised fists from those he does not expect; leering gazes from friends he once called trusting. And personally, Carter hopes this change can be called progress instead of regression. An awakening. A realisation of sorts.

He’s seen this in Catalina too ( wasn’t she involved in a fight of sorts? Didn’t he hear her shout in Shanghai? ). So he joins her at the bar, light laughter intertwining with his apology for stunning her. “Sure. I’m surprised, though -- didn’t take you for a smoker.” Cigarette trapped between his teeth, he exhales, smoke rolling out before him as he adds, “Because it’s stupid and unhealthy, I mean.” Not because he thinks she’s not badass enough for it; she was. Is. And on that note...

“Then again, I guess none of us have really been behaving the way we should, have we?” Part joke, part rhetorical question; Carter doesn’t know either which side he leans. All he knows is, a lot has changed since the dreamlike haze that was Vegas. And he doesn’t really mind that everyone’s starting to wake up.

anoracle‌:

@fcxxes​

If there’s a reference to Carter’s words, she doesn’t understand it, just turns her head just so to see the both of them at once. Smiles because he’s smiling.

Words, beginning strong before trailing off, to become part of the night, something quiet, “Of course - you always make a wish, even if you don’t think you, even if you don’t remember it.” And there’s almost shock to hear Carter speak like this, but not true surprise, she likes to think she always knew his heart. Tell the two of them she choose this friendship, not forced upon them by circumstance built out of train cars and circus tents. She choose them, and would again. With all she knows now. Relive it, for all its hurt surrounding.

She crinkles her nose with Carter, “You’re not supposed to tell us your wish, remember,” a poke to wrinkles noses, “But I think we can manage that to not make it just a wish,” and she does go along with him, “I wish to see the day your hair goes white like Soren’s, but Soren, if your hair goes grey, what if it just turns to black since it’s already white?”

@codecerberus​

for all the shooting stars he’s tried to become, he doesn’t know what to wish for. doesn’t know what to want that he can’t have between his teeth by the end of the night, if he could help it. doesn’t know what to ask for, not when his life has been a taking.

“stolen baked goods and some wine, maybe. that’s the kind of life i wouldn’t mind having for the next while.” could close his eyes, could dream of it, could see nothing. doesn’t, then. hears carter’s wish and lets it settle on skin only to be blown away by parisian winds again; a fleeting thought at most.

another night. for now, he won’t speak of it, won’t ruin another good thing with that mouth of his. later, he knows.

he laughs a little at emme’s question, eyes crinkled-soft as limbs shake with movement. “maybe. why, are my roots beginning to show?” sighs to the stars, feather-light. “i never thought to think about it. that far, y’know. if i could have a wish, i’d give it to you. i think you’d make better use of it than i would, anyways.”

@anoracle

He knows his friends. Knows enough to understand Soren’s simple wish, and how his friend wasn’t brought up on stars and delicate things like hope. And he agrees, too, that Emme would make better use out of a shooting star. 

“Ah, shit,” Carter winces, clicks his tongue against his teeth, “I thought we were supposed to say it. I guess I haven’t done this enough, huh?” Cue a breathy laugh, and a mental image created by Emme’s wish. Growing old together. A part of him thinks this won’t happen; that one or more of them would become too much at home with the word monster or cryptid, and forget the human to them.

But again, he can only hope.

“Have you noticed it’s weird talking about the future? About getting old? Like being here traps us in the present... fuckin’ wild, man,” he muses half to himself, though his tone is surprisingly even. Calm. Enclose a beast within iron bars, and all he can think about is escape; not what comes after. 

That’s the scary part the boy doesn’t dare to think about, see -- the unknown aftermath ( what to do after you survive ). 

The last thing she wants to do is think of her discomfort in the tank; the last thing she wants to do is think of how inadequate her sleeping quarters are, how they’re paraded treated. It simply makes no sense to dwell. In the end, she’d destroy whatever calm was left in her veins. As sad as it may be, the menagerie provided what Josie needed. There is sanity in this newfound mobility. 

As hard as it is to believe, it’s her truth; she was secure in her apathy, and felt that the feeling kept her safe. 

He’s clearly troubled with their current situation, as many are and have the right to be. Carter had the right to rebel even ― although the repercussions made a rebellion less than desirable ― but his feelings towards the menagerie had nothing to do with Josephine. They could coexist so long as he didn’t insist on figuring her out. 

Josephine takes a deep breath, and slowly exhales. She thinks the words are meant to be biting, and the use of ‘past’ does touch a nerve, so she focuses instead on the goosebumps rising on her arms. “I’m sure you’d like to know, but it’s not a very interesting story,” if Josephine learned anything from her mother, it was diplomacy even in the most tense circumstances. 

The circus feeds into her denial; not that of her family’s death, no ― that’s a painful truth she must live with ― but that of a life without them. She doesn’t leave herself much time to consider the possibilities outside of this circus. The money her father left her is still untouched, most of the things at the bottom of her suitcase are, and the circus keeps things that way. 

She glances in his direction again, the action dipped in leisure, and she just stares. He could try to figure her out all he wanted, she hadn’t even been able to do so herself. 

Truth be told, he understands it -- security through apathy.

But he’s never understood the why nor the how’s; what it takes to grow a steely composure, or rather, what sort of suffering was required. That’s the interesting part.

And so Carter tilts his head, a simple shrug following. “I’m sure it is, everyone’s interesting in a way.” Leaning back against the iron bars, he idly walks his fingers along them as he muses, “We can start easy like, I dunno.. do you miss it at all?” 

Rarely has he heard no. He wouldn’t even be sure whether to call it naivety, or even wisdom, for one to turn a cold shoulder towards the past. The boy has always been on the opposite side of this, see. Restless, pining, scrabbling for any semblance of freedom or home if even for a moment ( god knows he wouldn’t hesitate to step over others for the chance; nevermind a drop of blood or two ).

DATE & TIME: February 20TH, 11:30PM LOCATION: Paris Streets TAG: @codecerberus

A midnight dinner in a box in hand, filling the air around them with the smell of it, of something warm. Puppy in front of them, leading the way on a leash, filling the air with more sound, barking and laughter of following after him. Emme pointing out his little corgi legs to Carter any chance she gets. And there’s a light to it, a softness, something to breath in, something familiar. “I’m not ladylike enough to stop myself from eating this before we can meet Soren,” she gives, holding the box up, only half a joke.  

It’s not the only thing familiar of the night. It wasn’t Aladdin’s funeral, and it’s odd to feel it still, in the air. Like a second skin. It wasn’t being trapped inside a train car, hands and rocks against windows until she’s shaking too. But it’s still here. Her looking to Carter during meetings, with the same knit brows, checking on him too when he’s not look, seeing if he’s thinking the same as her through shared looks of the eye.

“You make this look when you’re thinking,” she whispers to him, leaning into his side to speak it, like it’s a secret, though there’s a smile in the words, mixed with curiosity, mixed with the concern she doesn’t want to show just get, doesn’t wish for a night to be fallen, “I don’t know if anyone’s called you out on it before; you made it before too - during the meeting,” pokes his cheek as if it makes her case. And eyebrows raise, a look known - something given across rooms when they can’t stand next together. It’s a question, what he’s thinking, what he’ll do. And maybe then too, a promise, because she will always ask, because she no longer has to say where he go, where he finds his concern, expect her to be there too. Except to be there for fires. For where his impulses lead. (For when visions leave her alone for days, wake up to him there.)

Call it a survival instinct, or maybe an inability to trust the notion of safety. But the boy feels unusually... optimistic tonight, and his first response to this is doubt. Optimistic that they might get to do this again much more than once; the laughter, the warmth of baked goods from a new country, the bubbles of laughter at Puppy skipping ahead of them. And a man who seemed to hear their struggles, or at least attempts to. Was he stupid to be so absorbed in all this?

Carter blinks at Emme’s observation, though a smile ghosts across his lips, knowing there’s a truth to what she says too. “I’m that obvious, huh?” he inquires, humour lingering at the corner of his mouth. But see, tonight is different. The two are different. Less secrets kept between them now, and more whispered truths instead. So he allows himself to talk, starting with a lengthy sigh and fingers raking back locks of hair.

Brows knitted together again, he murmurs, half to her and the other to the night as if searching for an omniscient guide ( so far it hasn’t been listening ), “I don’t know if I’m paranoid or if things are legitimately too good to be true lately.”

“Like..” he begins, popping a piece of croissant into his mouth. “Is it naive to think Volkov’s got our back or are we just getting desperate?” By we, he means him, and it’s telling by the way his laughter carries a wry edge. All he knows is he trusts Emme’s opinion above all else ( even if she has as an equal likelihood of placing her beliefs in the wrong place, just as much as he ).

anoracle‌:

DATE & TIME: February 21ST, 1:00AM LOCATION: Paris Rooftop TAG: @codecerberus & @fcxxes

And there’s a softness here she can feel herself already missing as a memory, already wishing it could last, afraid of the fading - holds closer because of it as she shifts to lay her head in Carter’s lap beside her, hair fanned out and gaze turned to the Eiffel Tower lit up and she takes it tonight instead of stars. Hands reaching out to find Soren’s. All limbs tangled together, an instant thing built of comfort. Except one of her legs, that dangles over the edge of the roof, into cold air.

“Do you think they’ll find us, if we stay here for the night? Do you think anyone would mind?” Says into the night air, not looking at either of them, “You’re both trapped here with me - but only when we run out of leftovers,” a quiet laugh in it as somewhere Puppy joins in, barking to the lights and the people below she can’t see. We’ll call it peaceful, we’ll call it being able to breathe, just for a moment, pretend time stops here, wish on every thing she has that it could at all. “Hey - just there!” She nudges Soren with a knee and Carter in the chest with her hand to grab attention as she points to the sky, “Star or satellite or plane, what do you think?”

it’s simple like - reminiscent of easier times, of moments when they didn’t worry of it disappearing as it happened, when it didn’t have to be counted. how many nights like these left. how many words they are until it’s gone again. for now, it is just this: hand in hand, legs tangled, close enough to count the stars on palm. there’s a bundle of fur in arms with tail wagging, and boy shifts all of them with laughter as he tries to reign the ever-growing puppy in.

for now, it is just this: bliss.

“if we close our eyes, they won’t find us. and if anyone minds, it won’t matter.” hands reach up to the sky, as if wanting to touch the moon. “if we run out of leftovers, then we’ll keep running. right?” he looks over to carter, small grin flitting at the words. laughs a little more when emme nudges him, bright eyes turned to the sky. could be the stars themselves when he looks up, finds where fingers are pointing to.

“a falling star, isn’t it? should we make a wish?”

A dream, this feels like. And Carter wishes that there could be so much of this, that the boy loses count of it by hand. The tangled limbs, the aurelian glow of Paris, and stars to wish on; he would bottle it up for the three of them, if he could.

But for now, he chuckles at Soren’s allusion, a crooked smile where a stern line normally would be as he chimes in, “Keep running with stolen baked goods, yeah.” But when they’re as trapped as they are, don’t young, lost things deserve to misbehave? 

He follows his friends’ gaze, now training on the bright light up above; he swears it’s looking right at them. And the boy hums, for he’s never had many wishes. None except freedom, except -- “Well, I wish that.. we’ll keep doing this, this cheesy sticking together thing, until we’re old and worn.” Cue a nudge at both of them, and he wrinkles his nose as if in mock disgust, but they should both know this isn’t true. “Now, you two sappy kids go next.”

The enclosures are the most normal part of the night; as bad as it is, whatever is done consistently as routine will make the mind question any deviation from it. 

And Josephine is good with routines. They conceal. They distract.

The water pooling around her feet is cold as usual ― warm water was a request she deemed not worth voicing ― and the cold rose around the enclosure, chilling the air around her. She stood at five-feet and nine inches, and when she turned her head she could count all the holes in her tank, standing uniform like soldiers. 

It was very much too small a tank for the fish that resided in it. When she shifted into her cryptid form, her legs nearly doubled in length; the only choice left was to fold the large tail to accommodate for the cramped space.

But Josephine didn’t complain. There were worse realities in the world.

She had busied herself with the water pooling at the bottom of the enclosure, left foot on pointe as she moved it through the previously still water, creating ripple after ripple. 

Only at the sound of her neighbor’s voice did she lift her head, eyebrows raising. 

For a moment, Josephine really just blinks at the question. She can never figure out the reason for his line of question, wondering why he wont live and let live. But she’ll humor him if she must, “Hm, I can’t say it is…I’m sorry if that disappoints you.”

And she assumes that the conversations they have must do so quite often.

Perhaps in another reality, Carter and Josephine might have gotten along. Or achieved a semblance of understanding, at least. But see, the problem is this: she believes there are worse realities out there.

He believes they are already living them.

And so he blinks at her response, almost mirroring her own reaction. And he wonders how she’s so comfortable, so at home in a tank much too small for her, while he’s here. Struggling. Fighting against accepting all this, and refusing to shift until the telltale sign of electric batons in back-pockets.

“What’s so awful about your past life that it makes this,” he gestures to the iron bars around him, his taller than most to satisfy his beastly form, “feel like a sanctuary?” On another night, he’d bite his tongue; swiftly reel back his words, especially around someone he has yet to get to know.

But he - and perhaps others - consider her an unsolved puzzle. And the boy’s never been any good with the unknown. Especially, unknown reasons for being content with this circus they must call home.

“is it? and what idiot says shit like that?” a grin that is close to what it used to be, same mischief as it was in another forest just as dark as this, where running came before greeting. “hope ‘s not you, carter - you don’t seem like the preacher type, though maybe if you grow out that scruff of yours i’ll change my answer later.”

(and they both know, this is easier. banter in sidestepping truth, in scarred throats and bruised knuckles. come back bloody and laugh, both things who have long forgotten how to cry over what unfairness the world has dealt to them. long forgotten what forgiveness for what blood has been spilled in return for it should look like to them)

(come back and laugh, because this time at least they did. know they are both not things adept to living, only adaptive to this surviving. where do we even begin with a softness?)

“mm. probably. guess i’ll just have to do my private shows now, hm?” only a half-joke, grin turned wince at burns hissing at ice yet again. digs nails to palms and pretends it is nothing, nothing.

and arched eyebrows know the truth as much as the hellhound does - quick-bite sharp-angered things like him aren’t meant to know the word stop easily - a fanciful thing, soren thinks. they both know this. he smiles in a way that says this, wan and half-hidden. “give up? don’t tell me your old age is hitting you already, dear carter. i would’ve pegged you for having at least a couple more years of life in you.”

he hums softly at carter’s last question, lets it hang in the air, not uncomfortably but settling somewhere on skin only half-right. “looks prettier.” he says simply, wide eyes blinking. “don’t you think?”

“...google quotes and drunk preachers in the streets.” It’s a deadpan joke of sorts, one that perhaps suit their former life, blending into alleyway shadows and the haphazardness that is everyday society. But the boys still grin, as genuinely as they can despite the burns trailing along Soren’s skin. And for now, that is enough.

( but laugh all they want, their talks still return home; to violence and bloodshed, and what it means to tend to one’s wounds. Or allow them to grow into dull scars, in the kumiho’s case. And it’s a puzzle still, why the two always come back to this )

( ... then again, who else he could he discuss it all with ease, but Soren? )

“I mean hey, why not?” Carter jests back, a wry smile toying with his lips. But contemplation replaces this for a moment as he continues, head canted so he can see his friend better. “Do you prefer the applause of one; of someone you know -- or hundreds?”

An easier laugh rolls out of him, a shrug following. “Oh, I’m talking more than a couple of years, though. Imagine I’m fifty and still running. That’s a bit, ugh.” A cringe punctuates his statement. The boy does see himself as a feral thing. He does see himself as a survivor, a fighter. But what of those who don’t give their heart a break? What if one loses the meaning of just stopping to live?

Carter sighs, almost dismayed, wishing that that his friend wouldn’t romanticise broken things. But everyone has to cope somehow. And if it never hurt Soren, maybe it doesn’t matter. So he hums, almost reflecting him this way, murmuring, “I guess so. But.. don’t lose sight of the boy wearing those scars too.”

You’re not going to change your mind about falling in love with me, right?

It’s in times like this that he knows, understands, that love is a choice. That it demands sacrifice, patience, understanding; numerous qualities he wasn’t made to have an affinity for. And quite frankly, perhaps neither of them, for the two are too adamant on the fullness of a life of their own. This is my life instead of ours ( or is it simply because they have yet to learn the meaning of the latter yet? )

But it hurts to think, to willingly entangle oneself in a spiral. They’ve already done that one night. So Carter settles for laying here. Simply lingering. The soft hums of the fan in the background, sunlight dancing across bare skin; fingers trailing up and down her back. And though both pairs of eyes are closed, he knows she’s awake too. Knows that they both don’t want to wake up.

Funny, how he thought they’d be treated like human beings for at least a day.

Funny, how he was wrong yet again.

One minute they were performing amongst the art, at one with a place some call sanctity; for one night, they are bigger in presence - in name - than they all really are. Glorified. How cruel it is, then, that they are stepping behind iron bars again, cued to shift in just five minutes. And so his gaze shifts to his neighbour, wondering if they were just as dismayed as he, or perhaps jaded with it all.

Since she had arrived, the Starlight Carnival had struck her as unsettling—an eerie dreamscape of some grandiose scale, that is, in some long lost time. Shadows everywhere, eyes that follow, broken machines, twisted metal, dead eyes—a reflection she’d crack with the force of her fist if need be.

But confusion comes in the flames that erupt out, lick at what remains of canvas tents and wooden frames. Death cannot come for a queen in such a way—no, fire is for the heretic and ice for the exiled. The exit wounds that dot her shoulder like stars fate her to a death greater than the height of heaven or the depth of hell—and so, the charred skeleton of the carnival recedes behind her, the crunch of her boots carrying her across the snow.

Far enough away, pine trees in the dark like elongated, cracked ribs—the fire-light glow of the flames in the distance—she stands face-to-face with Carter, slick smooth grin and arched brow that he wears like a crown. Self-satisfied amidst the chaos—as if he were the only one who would thrive in such a place.

“Fuck off before I drag your ass back there and give those hungry carnies a treat while I slow-roast you over the fire.” Her eyes are sharp and glinting in the dark, fingers curling up into a fist that wants to reach out and break those white little teeth in his mouth, make him choke on them.

(But he isn’t wrong—it is out of her control and so she tightens her grip, pulls the reigns, the image before her something unthinkable, impossible—the collapse is dangerous, destabilizing, the way the earth vibrates before an earthquake rips through.)

Nadia closes the distance between them—bringing them eye-to-eye, shoulder-to-shoulder—“Trying to egg me on? I already told you what I’d do to you and your little girlfriend. But if you want to tango, I’ll tango.” She pushes him, hands to his chest, it didn’t matter to her—the flames behind them, the cold around them, the eyes of others who escaped cutting their way. “Let’s go, lover boy. I’ll break your fucking jaw.”

Spits on the ground, snow melts under the heat of her. What was Carter but a plaything—easy to rip into, to leave with stuffing hanging out and tossed away when too broke, energy release?

He hears it. The subtle difference in tone. He remembers the haughty edge to her voice that night in the train, her poise akin to a queen newly crowned. As if she owned the place, and maybe even him. 

This is different.

Raw, wild, like the fire lashing and striking not far behind them. As if she knows she doesn’t have control in this place ( and truth be told, neither does he. But the boy somehow feels more free here than back there ). And he laughs at her anger because, hell, he wanted a fight. Even if he walked out of this burned and battered, it was better than exiting with his head bowed last time.

He’s also here to throw a punch for Li Hua.

The hellhound’s never been a romantic, but like hell he’d fight for those he cares for. And if there’s anything that the night in Shanghai taught him, it’s that he isn’t as willing to let her go as he thinks. He’s selfish too.

Carter stumbles at the push to his chest, but quickly recollects himself. Squares his stance and refusing to break his stare, a sardonic little smile to the corner of his mouth ( if one looked closely, they might notice that it nearly mirrors one of hers ).  “Oh no, you’re not even going to get fucking near here. Not after tonight,” he fires back.

He doesn’t mean that he’ll scare her. Or kill her. Carter isn’t that foolish, and even he knows who he’s up again. But be a nuisance, an obstacle to Nadia persistent on wearing her down? This, he can do. This, he wants to achieve. 

minotaur-unslain·:

ceydran-aecor·:

He feels the thing swirl inside him, the running, chasing thing, and for the first time in five years he feels really alive again. Alone, perhaps, but not when this feeling, for the first time, is accompanied by friends, real people he trusts, flanking him on both sides. Carter steps forward as they all slow to a halt just outside the city, turning to face the rest of them as they stare, awed. Freedom, it looks like. Safety in alleyways. Ceydran smiles.

“I say both. The easiest way to shoplift is to pay for one thing but steal three others.” He pulls stiff hands out of work gloves to count the small amount of cash he has, takes out the pack of cigarettes while he’s at it, but decides after a moment to simply put them away. He hears Carter’s sigh and glances up. “Someday, we’ll take everyone on a grand tour of the world and see all the places as real tourists.” He doesn’t really pay attention to what he’s saying, what he’s implying, until he feels their eyes on his back. He straightens up and narrows his eyes. “What?”

“Speaking from experience?” Jin said, taking too long to realize the answer is likely yes. The circus makes it easy to forget that the life it creates, for better or worse, was not always the norm. More so the life Jin would have considered normal was nothing at all like there’s. Until five years ago there nothing he could want that would be denied. Now everything was and he was being told to take it anyway. A different form of entitlement? Maybe, but one rooted in necessity over desire. When the two had been entangled together for so long would he even know how? 

It is a beautiful city. The trick, he thought, was for it to emerge after a long road of nothing but snow and ice as far as the eye could see. Anything would be look pretty by comparison. But the longer they stood there, eyes taking it all in, it became clearly the city was a powerhouse all its own. In another lifetime Jin would be here of his own accord and could spend hours upon exploring every bookshop and cafe and piece of architecture that caught his eye. 

When he hears Carter and Ceydran speak again, a firm reminder of their actual reality, they are only saying what he was already thinking, but he stares at them blankly until it’s pointed out. Is it worse for Ceydran to be seemingly optimistic enough to believe that any of you will have such an opportunity, or foolish enough to recognize that it’s a pointless optimism yet hope against your better self that he might be right any way. “Nothing.” Jin said, turning away. The latter, it is always worse to be the latter. He gestured forward. “Well? Lead the way.”

She has always admired beautiful things, and the city of St Petersburg is no different. Ask her about the finer points, the elements of architecture, however, and all she’d have for you is a shrug and a smile. 

Lets the others voice their opinions first, for they are all older than her, a remnant of her upbringing in a culture steeped in respecting elders. Isn’t very comfortable with the idea of stealing, but she supposes that between that and allowing the others to starve, she could let this instance go.

“ I think that sounds really nice, ” A smile graces her lips in reply to Ceydran. Perhaps one day they would have the opportunity to, but right now they had more pressing matters to attend to. Her feet move quicker, in an attempt to keep up with the rest of the group who possessed far longer legs than hers.

“ Do you think there might be a money changer anywhere? I only have dollars and yuan. ”

Carter huffs a laugh, an icy swirl following where his breath should be. Gloved hands stick into pockets as he arches a brow at Ceydran. “I love how you said pay for one thing.” But it’s what must be done. None of them had the luxury of time, let alone choice. Maybe in another life. 

He turns around to face the rest, treading backwards, boots crunching into the snow. “We could loot a few urgent things from the supermarket first. Money changer later, just to save time,” Carter suggests. From a place of logic, of course ( or so he says ). It feels strange to even form the word. Supermarket. Strange how such a simple thing could become foreign.

And it’s not long before they’re so close. Just crossing the city’s borders now. Nobody passes a glance or stops in their pace. No gawking, no audiences, no circus master watching in the shadows. For a moment, they’re... normal, and Carter’s certain that he won’t forget this, wishes he could bottle up the feeling to pass it on.

She wants to call him home, she wants to call him family, more than any of her own blood. Dreamed once, her own dreams, pretending she did grow up with him, pretending he was her brother, pretending they shared a home when in childhood - pretending they were okay. But she doesn’t have to pretend gentleness, that a person can be a home. She laughs, something half in relief, something half in the feeling of recklessness. 

If you listen close enough, you’ll hear the panic, you’ll hear the trembling, “How long did it take you to get here, Carter?” How long has he been here? How long did it take him to find her? Because she’ll think it’ll take them longer to get out. She believes they will, she knows they will, together they will. But her heart still beats against flames. There’s a calm she feels, looking to his face, a trust, but a heart still beats. 

“No,” something breathless, something to say she tried as much as she was willing, beyond the unexplainable part of her mind, the lack of control she has even when she’s known who she was her whole life, “There’s so much here - there’s too much. You’ve seen the walls, you’ve seen the names. There’s too many memories, too many graves to see anything else.” But there’s a pause in the words, “Is there something? You wanted me to see something?”

She can hear them too a moment later, the outside crowd, knows it’s delusion, but thinks she can hear snow fall, thinks she can see it on eyelashes, melting with the fire. She doesn’t expect either for more to run in, doesn’t want it - and maybe that says something too, at the end of the world, is it selfishness to wish Carter would be there with her? Selfish to not want to be alone, to want it to be him? Or trust, or home. So she says it quietly too, when his voice rings soft, but louder than the roar of flames, “Me too.” And then, after a moment of pause, but not one of thought, one of feeling, “What I said, after the blackout, I take it back, some of it. Tell me, if you think you’re going to run in something, but - let me be there. Tell me so we go together.”

“Not too long,” he huffs, but it’s a lie through teeth. There’s no need to be truthful here and cause further panic. Not when he’s adamant, just as much as she, that this won’t be their end. The boy isn’t an optimistic, but there’s still a part of him that wishes, that hopes, that he won’t lose this semblance of hope so easily. 

Of course, he thinks, at the mention of too many memories and names on graves. “I --” Where does he begin? It sounds trivial, almost naive, to say that he was hoping she didn’t see Volkov plan this. So overtly trusting to hope that they finally have an ally. Cue a sharp inhale, both to take in more oxygen and to gather his words. “It’s more like I didn’t want you to see something. Someone we know setting this up. I didn’t want to see any betrayal again.”

Violence and bloodshed, he’s jaded by. But somehow a knife to the back is one thing Carter can’t quite wrap his head around. Something he doesn’t want to understand. All he wants to know is this loyalty he hears from his friend, promising that they go together, and he looks at her as if he hears it loud and clear. “Some of it,” he echoes with an airy laugh. But he’s the same. Trusting, wanting, her to be by her side ( but not to the point of jeopardising safety ). And he knows by now that there’s no separating either of them, and there shouldn’t be.

neither are things that know gentle, know soft. they were built on a camaraderie that was made of bullet casings and trees falling behind them; the aftermath of the healing still something new, something foreign. neither has ever known how to do it quite right.

(help? heal? themselves, or each other?)

he lets out a laugh at that, and it is too sharp in the winter ice, almost jagged. the way he sobers from it is too quick, too many words stuck in throats; dead man drowning with those eyes too dark even in this dim light.

“i don’t know if i hate these chains or if i can’t go without them.” a truth that is both brittle and bladed in voice, in words. “do any of us know enough about a home to make any place feel like it?”

he winces when ice meets burnt skin, soft hiss escaping between teeth as the sting settles too close to veins, eyes looking at the snow, at the rocks of the half-cave, before settling too sharply on his friend, unblinking.

“good.” he says, and the word is a clipped-wing thing. “maybe one day they’ll stop healing then. isn’t that what we’re all going for?”

a smile that is teeth, not unfriendly but too crooked to be welcoming; wired. “and you? do you think we’ll ever stop running, or is this the best there is for us, if not death?”

Carter tilts his head, a subtle frown more in his eyes than his lips, only barely resisting the urge to protest. To remind Soren that he’s more than these chains. But he’s not Emme. Knows that he cannot deliver encouraging sentiments like she can, and knows that with the kumiho’s past, he isn’t to blame for believing such a thing.

He hums. “Maybe not, but it’s never too late to learn how. Finding your way doesn’t mean you have to know where you’re going.” He chuffs a laugh, a sigh more than anything that forms icy swirls. “Or at least that’s what they say.”

A reminder: neither had a talent for doing, for saying, the right things.

He curses under his breath, almost winces along with Soren and his burning skin. This is normally when nurturing words come in, but god, he’s never been any good at sugar coating things, has he? “Shit, at least this’ll be an excuse for you not to perform...”

A sigh and a lengthy pause follows, as if he physically has to muster up what little positivity he has in this hardened heart of his. “I have to think we’ll stop one day, or else I’ll just.. give up.” If there’s anything Carter cannot do, it’s this. The boy’s never known how to just stop. 

“Why do you want them to stop healing?” 

( and how can he protect someone who doesn’t want saving? )

The smile that crosses Carter’s face, slowly, warms Ceydran more than any fire has yet. None echoes on his own lips, but his eyes alight with a kind of brightness that hasn’t been there in a very long time. 

Just another day. Another day of the same shuffling walk towards oblivion, another day fighting for nothing but another breath. Just another day. Another day of taking kindly provided coffee from gentle hands, another day with weary fingers becoming lighter across ivory piano keys. Just another day. Fight long enough, and those days might become weeks, become years, become a life you’re living. Become a home. Ceydran sighs.

“Is it worth it?” He repeats, slinging his backpack on again and leading Carter into the cold. “I don’t know. Once I would have said no, but now…” He gives a small smile to Emme as she attempts to wave at him from under the pile of blankets she’s carrying. “I think it is as long as you know when you’ve found where you’re trekking to.”

And it’s in Ceydran’s smile that he thinks, yes, he was right to think (if even late) that there are those worth being close to here. Those worth staying for, even through broken glass or the bite of the cold here. All he can hope for is that neither will reach their breaking point; that this hell, this circus, will build strength out of them. Not reduce them to ash and bone.

But Carter hears it, the hint of hope ( or is it resilience? ) in Ceydran’s advice, and for now that’s enough for both of them. He reflects a ghost of a smile, as if he, too, knows what he’s talking about. “I get you. It’s funny how life’s like that, huh?” 

He nudges him, barely feels it through the ridiculous amount of layers they’re donning. “It’s the same with people too. Like I know now, that you’re a stronger guy than we give you credit for.” He means him. Himself underestimating Ceydran, only to realize much later that he was worth calling family all along. That he always was.

And it’s when there’s a stronger burning in her lungs than before, coughing into his chest before she can stop herself, flames across arms, pain she’ll feel in full extent later, that she thinks she should have listen to him, but she doesn’t regret reckless action if it means finding him earlier. It hurts to hold him, to be close, hurts to breathe. It takes him pulling the both of them away from smoke to vaguely remember what she’s meant to do in fires.

There’s relief in the eyes with his words, before some shock, before recognition, before soft, closelipped smiles, “I’ll call you my hero, and maybe an idiot, when we get out of here,” and a quiet, “Thank you,” for wanting to find her at all. 

Maybe it’s easier for her than him to reach out to him when they’re leaning away from smoke like this, easy to reach out to hands, hold onto lightly even if she doesn’t want to, making sure to be beside him and not behind, even if that may be smarter. There’s so much she could do better, she knows, but regret still isn’t what she thinks of being together, being rescued and wanting to make sure he gets out too. “Do you remember how you got in here? The way you came?”

There’s a long moment she watches him out of the corner of her eye, the vision she first saw after a funeral, still clear in the mind, “That doesn’t have to be what it means, it doesn’t have to mean you’ll shift in the moment. It could mean something wild, angry, Shanghai,” the place he almost did shift, “It could just mean trapped.” She nods when her gaze turns from his, to walls, searching for real light, “I know we will.”

His smile reflects hers. Soft, genuine, despite the flames threatening to swallow its surroundings whole. This friendship, this home of theirs, must mean an awful lot if he’s able to smile the way he does now. “It’s what friends would do. Stupid friends.” And yet they tend to survive through all of it anyway, reckless decisions aside.

Squinting, eyes search for the way he came, a door left ajar at the end of the train. But he knows that if it’s taken him this long to find Emme, they still have some time to go. More held breathes to go. “The back of the train,” he manages, and it’s easier to hear his frown than it is to see it ( the hellhound looks unusually composed, as if he’s certain this is not their end ). The hint of dismay mostly comes from inconvenience, if anything.

Wild, angry, Shanghai.

-- ... Oh. 

Perhaps, it is what he thinks. Perhaps, he will lose his patience with Nadia tonight. But when it’s such a personal fight, Carter would be lying if he said he was concerned. It was just between the two of them, after all; bloodshed only between two cryptids. So he settles for a grimace at the mention of being trapped, as if to say maybe. “Did you see any other visions besides that? Of anyone else? Even Volkov?” ( god, how foolish he is to trust him already ).

the other’s fire is not unsurprising - welcomed, expected, almost, what with how this echoes memory. there is never any variation in carter’s fire, much like how he thought the same of his blade-sharp smile, but now -

there is a warmth to this consistency, at least. he doesn’t say it, but he holds on to it, limbs shaking.

“your silence might be an urban legend, carter wolff.” he manages to grin, something of a half-wince as snow seeps through clothes. “though given how you can also transform into a three-headed fucker, i suppose there are harder things to believe.”

knees buckle too suddenly - fatigue? pain? the wear of a thing not meant to live past eighteen? - and boy finds himself in the snow, breathing in the ice and feeling skin hiss at how the cold sticks to the burn, dirt digging into pink flesh.

youth only fuels one for so long. at the end of the day, we all know the two are things refusing to slow with the knowing of what they’ve left behind them fast on their heels, nipping. they have outrun worse demons than angry cryptids before, and the thought almost makes him smile, ever-so-faintly.

“was it?” ragged breaths leave chests. “what next, then? we escape to the city, and then? do we ever stop running, carter?”

he shakes his head into the snow, silver blending into the white. “‘m fine, ‘s okay. if we leave, they’re gonna find us - tracks ‘nd shit. sides, got all these scars ‘lready - what’s another one to add to the collection, hm?”

Carter scoffs a laugh at the other’s jest, and almost raises a hand in a playful shove, only to remember the ugly splatter of red and pink across porcelain skin. He really wasn’t good at any of this. Nurturing, caring, a gentle touch. What the hell do you do when your friend’s burnt to a crisp like this, no medical supplies nearby?

He shovels some ice into his scarf, wraps it up like a cheap man’s ice pack, eyes downcast and trained on his rather shoddy work as he shakes his head and shrugs. His answer is easy. Clear. “I don’t mind it -- the running, even if it never ends. If you’re with the right people, anywhere can feel like home.”

Or so he hopes. It’s been a long time since he’s been familiar with the word. “Do you mind?” Carter asks, softer now, less certainty to it than before. 

A raised hand first, lingering eyes asking in silence if it’s okay, before he gingerly brings the pack to Soren’s neck. An angry shade of scarlet blooming there, threatening to leave a scar in the near future. And honestly, he’s okay with that, the notion of a collection scars. But when Soren possibly already has so many...?

He meets his friend’s gaze, lips pursed into something close to a smile saved for concern over friends. “Too many scars and that means less time to heal, though.” But he’s a hypocrite. That’s advice best given to him too, for neither of the boys knew how to stop. 

One day, they might just mistaken the brink of death for another scar.