h i r a e t h .

His favorite things about Blackrock are the forests. They seem unchanging -- the town has changed since he was a child, but the forests surrounding the town have remained more or less the same. It makes him feel like there’s still something there, even if he doesn’t quite know what that might be. 

And like the forest, he can always trust he’ll feel safe at this place -- their place. He can see the moon from here, and even though it’s in the middle of the night, even the breeze feels a little nice when he’s drunk and sitting by Logan. 

His tongue feels heavy, but tonight, it’s the good kind of heavy. The letting-go, carefree, not thinking about what he’s saying kind of heavy. 

“I think I might move out,” he says, lets those words out easy. “Actually -- I think I should move out.” 

It’s awkward to say the least, to be working alongside Diego. He doesn’t hate many things in his life but this is something that’s getting very, very close to hate -- it feels like the air around here is choking the life out of him, and when the clock hits eleven and his shift is finished, he’s quick to hang up his apron and get out of the kitchen. 

I need a new job, he thinks to himself before his eyes land on a familiar face -- Sola. He’d first met Sola near the motel after getting a reading -- more specifically, he’d spotted her stumbled up the stairs and helped her get to her place. 

He holds up a hand to greet her, and clears his throat before walking up to her.

It feels strange approaching someone at a bar, even though it’s someone he already does know, but he musters up the courage and takes a seat by her, though only after making sure no-one else is close enough to hear them. 

“Can I get you the next drink?” He asks, feeling his ears turning a little hot. “I just have something I wanna ask you.” 

Three yeas ago, he might have been an impulsive person. But if there’s anything he’s learned from Diego, it’s that he needs to start planning for his future. Not that he’s speaking to Diego much these days anyway -- but there is a thought in his head that refuses to leave, and if he’s to make it a reality, he needs to start preparing. 

The first step, of course, is to see if there’s a possibility for him to find a new job other than dishwashing. He goes through options -- even considers asking Scarlet, though he did eventually decide against that -- and eventually decides to give Celeste’s a try.

He makes his way there on his motorcycle as usual, and when he arrives, leaves his bike at the front and goes around to knock at the door. 

“Celeste, you in?” He calls out, “I might need a bit of a favor.” 

The past is always on his mind. It’s the hand that’s been dealt to him -- the way they had to grow up, it’s impossible for life to not weigh him down. But still, he doesn’t make a habit of keeping pieces of his life around with him. Moving from house to house, they were discouraged from carrying too many things with them, which meant photos were a rarity. 

But recently -- after his visit with Sara -- he’d come to find an old photo of him. He and Noah are very young in the picture, and they’re standing with the other foster kids, though he remembers none of them. But there is a boy in the corner of that same photograph, and Connor realizes that he recognizes the face. He knows he’s most likely wrong, but he can’t seem to stop thinking about it. 

It’s brought him to Twilight Cinema, wandering around the area until he sees the person he’s been looking for. Immediately, and without much shame, he walks straight up to Romeo and makes himself known.

“Can we talk? I -- I have to show you something.” 

Dark eyes peered over the cup of cocoa at Connor as he spoke. There was only so much that Santí could understand before it became too vague, and yet he nodded along, sipping occasionally, pretending he was aware of the situation. Experience proved that his customers often felt soothed by that.

There was a ‘his’ at the root of the problem, that was for certain, but why Connor had tangled himself in his hair was beyond understanding. 

The cup was placed gingerly off to the side of the table, and Santí began to shuffle the cards. 

“Nothing is ever the same as it was before. This is your first mistake, but do not worry. Many people make this mistake.” The light flicking sound of the cards as they were scrambled filled the spaces between his words. “This is no reason to feel stupid.” 

The cards were spread out on the table in a large horseshoe shape, the back of each card clearly on display so Connor would have many to choose one. “Pick,” he said, before quickly reminding the other, “No touching, please. Just point.”

He wasn’t sure that he entirely understood the process, so he watched in silence as the cards shuffled, then placed onto the mat with a certain delicacy. And he should feel dismayed by what  Santí has to say, but it’s oddly comforting to know that there is at least one person who thinks he’s, well, valid. 

“Thanks,” Connor offered a smile, “it’s just that I was meant to do all these things. I was supposed to become someone better.” After that, he held himself back. He wasn’t here to place his burdens on anyone, and of all people in town, Santí was the last one he wanted to scare off.

“That one,” he said when prompted, pointing to a card towards the right end. With a small sigh, he looked back down at his cup, two hands holding it tight. And what if the cards told him to leave? That he wasn’t needed there anymore? What then? 

“Bandaid,” he blurted out, “if it’s bad, tell me everything. Just please do it quickly.”

“Um. Eric is nice, though I don’t see him as much as I’d like to. Santí is also...nice to me. I guess if I had to choose one, it’d be Raine. They seem busy these days, though.” 

“I’d have a better job. Maybe learn how to write scripts like I’ve always wanted to. I might have a house and Iris would still be around. I think I’d like to find someone nice. No bullshit type of person. And -- Noah and I would be friends again. In an ideal future.” 

“I don’t know if I would trip anyone. How big is the bear? If it’s a small bear I might want to trip Evan depending on the day. Not to hurt him -- just to teach him a lesson or two.”

“The other one. The one that was in Godzilla.” 

“...and yet love is such a strong word.” 

“In a heartbeat.” 

“...Diego, Grey, Evan, Sola, Santí, Raine, and Naomi only because she hates me. And...I’m not ranking my brother.” 

A lot ran through her mind. First off, How could you? To steal from a locally-owned bookstore, a dying breed. How criminal, how rude.

Second, Twilight? Of all things to risk getting in trouble over? What a puzzling choice. If Scarlet wasn’t so astonished by the outcome of events, she would’ve been kind of impressed that he managed to sneak out of the store with such a thick book. But mostly she was mortified that he got away with it — she was working at the store three years ago, and it most likely happened under her watch.

“You… stole this,” she repeated dumbly, as though it would better help her process the situation. “And now you want to pay for it.” This had to have been a joke. Scarlet opened the book to page 49. Sure enough, there was a ketchup stain covering up Bella’s angsty internal monologue. 

“If it was three years ago, we would’ve taken the loss and removed the book from our system by now,” she said, thinking out loud. Her job would have been a whole lot easier if he’d grown a conscience three years ago. “I, uh, don’t think I could process this now. Or, if I even should. I mean, I should report you for shoplifting, right? Can I even do that, if it happened three years ago?” She phrased her thoughts like a question, as though she was seeking his insight on what do to about his criminal activity. Honestly, the last thing she wanted to do was report this. He was offering to pay for it, after all, albeit three years too late. “Three years. Damn. Did you at least finish the book?” The important question.

“I had my reasons. I needed to do research.” Connor was quick to respond, though his tone was more defensive than apologetic as it should have been. All he could hope now was that she wouldn’t have any follow-up questions about what kind of research he’d been doing, because Twilight wasn’t actually as informative about werewolves as he’d thought. 

“I don’t -- you can’t call the cops.” He said, once again, a little too quickly. “If you got rid of the book from the system then it’s just your word against mine. Don’t call the cops.” This was shaping out to be a terrible apology from content to tone and he knew it. 

“Look, I just. I can’t really explain it, alright? And I’m sorry that I stole it but I’d like to make it up however I can. I didn’t steal any other books after that.” He said, looking down at the crumpled twenty dollar bill and then back up to Scarlet. 

“Um,” Connor paused, eyebrows knitting together in slight confused at the strange turn the conversation took with her question. “I did. Read the second one at the library, too but it kinda got weird. And it doesn’t seem very realistic.” 

“I was annoyed that I had to listen to someone,” he says, because it’s not a lie. It’s a small truth attached to a bigger truth, one that he knows he can’t yet stand to look at. Evan sighs. “I didn’t mean for you to get fucked up over it for so long. If anything, I’m offended you feel that bad.” The corner of lip curls into a wry smile. Evan’s voice tightens. “If I’m good at anything, it’s taking a fucking hit.”

The corn maze is looking a lot larger, a little more off view, which means they’re getting closer to the ground. The ferris wheel slows. Evan takes a drag of the cigarette. That the smoke burns his throat produces the realization that it’s the first he’s had in about six years. The human body isn’t so used to its warmth yet.

Evan stares at Connor, face blank, trying to process his words. There’s absence where empathy should be. His rational mind attempts to assemble a substitute, but all it seems to build is resentment. Against Connor, but mostly against himself. Evan’s brows furrow. Is he so self-absorbed that he can’t even produce a morsel of sympathy for someone whose life was worse than his? Why does he envy Connor?

It’s strange that the other wolf can allow himself to be so open. It’s not something Evan thinks he can do. Perhaps there has too long been a shroud of lonesomeness wrapped around his being, a byproduct of assembling layers and layers of new selves to keep the real one safe, and it’s grip on his heart now keeps the truth from falling out. Now, he wonders what it feels to put it all down. He tries to imagine himself in Connor’s place, a child in a playground waiting for a soft pair of hands to carry him back home, and before anything else, it angers him, because all he can think is you’re lucky she left before you got to meet her properly. 

But wills his mind to wander away from old wounds. He thinks of Diego. Their house, and the troubled people that live there, and how much it must strain him to shoulder the demands and needs and burdens of every erratic man that lived there. Shouldn’t Evan try as hard? He meets Connor’s eyes. If he scours his buried heart he can dig up something that almost resembles compassion. Is it enough? Is it enough? Maybe not, but it’s a relief to know, at least, that he doesn’t need real empathy to tell a person it’s safe to place their grief in his hands. “How old were you?” Softly, he adds, “When she left, I mean.”

It’s easier this way. Easier to hear someone else’s fucked up story so he can bury his own into the dirt. He doesn’t fight Connor. Doesn’t argue that missed winters could hardly hold a candle to his six missed years. Evan tries to school the look of pensiveness that threatens to sweep through his features, but then Connor says you’d still be someone to me, and a flood of wistfulness crashes through his whole being, making it impossible for his face not to fall.

Evan blinks. He’s not sure what to do about Connor’s kindness. It’s strange and unfamiliar. There’s a joke waiting at the tip of his tongue, about babysitters and money or his lack thereof, but he doesn’t say it, instead letting this strange ache settle into his chest. The corner of his lip curls into a smile, small nervous and wry, but still realer than anything he’s shown Connor. The ferris wheel comes to a stop.

Connor is close to laughing when Evan tells him that he shouldn’t feel bad. He’s close to telling the other not to be ridiculous, that no matter what may have prompted it, it was still his own choice to hit Evan in the end and that he’s still at fault for it. But the words are lost as soon as he hears Evan’s -- and the sudden, unfortunate realization that there may have always been a reason behind why the man is the way he is. 

But he can’t assume anything more than what he’s been told, and he’s not sure if he should pry -- he doesn’t trust himself to say the right things, so he bites down on his lip and then bites at the end of his cigarette, then sucks the smoke back in again. 

And perhaps he shouldn’t have shared so much -- he feels bad, taking up all this space. He is far past the point of needing other people to pity him. Secretly, he prays Evan won’t say anything, because he certainly doesn’t need anyone else to tell him that everything will be okay when they have nothing to back that up. Because his life hasn’t been okay, and neither has Noah’s, ever since they were left right there at the playground. 

It’s such a silly thing to hold onto. Pathetic that he still tethered to something that was done to him over twenty years ago. 

Evan speaks, and Connor is silently thankful it’s not empty advice, as he’d somewhat expected. He shrugs, even laughs a little. 

“Young enough to not remember what she sounds like. Five or six. Something like that. It’s not -- it’s not really a big deal,” he lies, “not anymore, anyway.” 

Odd to think that Evan is one of the few people who know now. And for now, it feels okay that Evan’s not quite willing to tell him the whole story. He’s not sure if the other ever will, but this feels something a little akin to friendship. The way Evan smiles -- it’s something he’s never seen before, even after all this time, sharing a room, sharing a home. It feels like a small privilege, and it makes him feel a little warmer in this winter chill as they make their way off of the ferris wheel and back out into the real world.

He knows Connor is avoiding him.

Since the realization, it’s a constant sting. He’s been racking his brain over what he did, what’s he’s said, that caused the distance. Debated for longer whether he should stop Connor himself, and ask what was on his mind, but the chance slips through his fingers. Connor remains gone, despite still living in the house, despite still working together, and Diego doesn’t know what to expect.

He tries closing as if he’s not waiting for Connor to say something. As if he’s not trying to form the right way to talk to him, if he doesn’t talk at all. He’s wiping down the counter when he hears Connor approach, looking over his shoulder at the mention of the cold. “Yeah, it is. Got extra hand-warmers on me, if you need them.”

Connor still doesn’t meet his gaze. And despite the flutter of relief that Connor does wish to talk, that maybe he’ll stop avoiding him for whatever reason, the sense of doom lingers behind him, a shadow of forewarning.

“Yeah, let’s talk.” Leaning against the counter, he tilts his head, eyes scanning his pack member’s face. “What’s on your mind, Connor?”

It would be much easier to deal with this if he could somehow convince himself that Diego is not a good person, or even that Diego is someone deeply flawed. Call it infatuation, call him delusional, but it’s maddening that he can’t seem to believe any of that. 

Even now, Diego is offering him his motherfucking handwarmers and all Connor wants to do is scream.

He can feel the other’s eyes on him, and he quickly downs the glass, already wincing at the fact that he’s going to need another one, and that he’s going to feel all of it come tomorrow morning. He shuts his eyes for a moment and breathes, before opening them again and turning to Diego.

“I meant what I said when I texted you.” And he hopes it’ll be enough of an explanation because he’s not sure that he can put the rest of it in words before he bursts. “That I can’t -- I can’t stop thinking about you. And I --” 

With a sigh, he reaches out for the bottle again. “I don’t need you to say anything. I already know how this ends.”