are we all just crows to you now?

It wasn't the first time Pilar had followed a whim and it likely wouldn't be the last, but after so many unanswered texts and that intrinsic sibling spidey sense, she wasn't down with pretending there wasn't something going on here when there clearly was. Damian was a lot of things, but neglectful was not one of them. Not when it came to her.

So here she was, pulling the e brake on her borrowed Ford Taurus, the blue oxidized paint on the hood making it look glaringly out of place. She peered up at the house for a moment, steeling herself against whatever she would find behind that door. All she knew was that it was something and she was tired of waiting for it to sort itself out.

Maybe that was why she bypassed the door entirely, instead making her way around the side where she went for the first window she saw. And wouldn't you know it? God was on her side today because the little bastard just slid right open. Didn't even have a screen to mess with. It was like he'd known she was coming and prepared accordingly.

Crawling through said window was the next hurdle— one she didn't think about until she was leaning halfway in and staring at the floor where, if she kept going the way she was going, was going to swiftly meet her face once she dragged in her bottom half. It was only with some careful maneuvering and a tuck in roll that she managed to make it in unscathed. It hadn't been without a fairly loud thump, though, so if Damian hadn't known she was here before, he definitely did now.

Good.

She picked herself up and brushed herself off, rounding the doorframe as she called out into the hallway, "Damesy, I'm hooooome."

“Pilar,” he calls, stepping into the hallway, his tone caught between disbelief and something closer to fondness. When his eyes land on her — dusting herself off like she didn’t just catapult into his house uninvited — he can’t help the small, tired smile that tugs at the corner of his mouth. It’s her. Really, truly her. The physical sight of her might signal a twenty-five-year-old woman, but all Damian sees is the little girl who’d grip his hand so tightly while crossing the street he’d tease her about her strength. 

“You couldn’t just use the door?” he asks, his voice gentler now, no bite to his words. He gestures vaguely toward the window she undoubtedly crawled through, shaking his head — less disbelieving, more relenting. Not something he’s unused to, when it comes to his youngest sister. “What if you broke something? Like your face? Or, god forbid, my floor?”

There’s an edge of exhaustion in his words, but it doesn’t quite dim the warmth in his eyes as he watches her. It’s been too long since he’s seen her. He knows that. And despite everything — the constant suffocating presence of Jason, the relentless weight of keeping it all together — there’s a small part of him that’s relieved to have her here. 

The part that’s terrified to have her anywhere near Jason, however, is less relieved.

“What are you doing here, Pilar?” he asks, crossing his arms and leaning against the wall, his posture casual but his gaze sharp, scanning her for any sign of what might have brought her here. “Shouldn’t you be in Chicago? Or, I don’t know, not breaking and entering?”

The words are laced with affection, and there’s a flicker of something lighter in his tone now, a hint of the big brother he used to be — the one who’d tease her endlessly while secretly pocketing snacks to make sure she always had her favorite. But it’s muted, dampened, as if the weight of the last few months has hollowed out some essential part of him. Still, she’s here. And, despite himself, despite everything — his fear, his worries — that matters.

No, he'd made the right call, swearing something like that off.

Still, Alec's nose scrunched, a look of distaste he did not try to conceal pulling at his features, warping them until he looked as unrecognizable as Damian did now. "Okay, I'm not an expert at relationships, but I'm pretty sure you're supposed to still be able to love all the things you loved before. Unless it was like, fucking other people, I guess. But honestly, bro, he sounds like a dick."

It was only once the words were out that Alec wondered if he shouldn't actively shit all over the partner of a friend he was trying to keep. "I mean, he's probably great." A self-edit lulled him into a momentary pause. "I'm sure he's great. But. I don't know, man. It kinda sounds like you're not allowed to be... like... you. And I like you. That doesn't sound like a good partner to me." He shrugged, feeling defeated and like it didn't matter what he said. He'd probably only succeeded in putting Damian on the defensive, so he could recognize when a fight wasn't worth the effort. He sighed once, thick and full of unspent words and then, finally, stepped to the side. "Yeah, man. Whatever you gotta do."

He doesn’t look at Alec as he steps past him, focusing instead on the doorframe, the street beyond, anywhere but Alec’s face. “Thanks,” he mutters, voice hollow. “I mean, for coming by. For checking in. It — it, uh, means a lot.” And it does, more than Damian can articulate, but the weight of it crushes him all the same. He knows Alec is right. He knows Jason’s grip on him is suffocating, knows he’s slipping further and further from the person Alec seems to think he still is. But knowing doesn’t make leaving any easier.

Hand on the doorknob, Damian hesitates, his grip tightening as if the weight of the decision to leave or stay has suddenly doubled. He swallows hard, forcing himself to glance back, catching Alec’s gaze for just a moment. There’s something unspoken there, something he can’t name but feels deep in his chest, a reminder of who he used to be. “I’ll figure it out,” he says softly, though he’s not sure if it’s a promise to Alec or to himself.

And then he’s gone, stepping outside and closing the door behind him, the sound of it slamming shut feeling final, like a chapter closing. Damian grips his lucky lighter tightly in his pocket as he walks past Alec and to his jeep, the silence of the street pressing in on him. He doesn’t let himself look back. If he does, he’s not sure he’ll be able to keep moving forward.

PHOEBE: Hey! It's been a while! PHOEBE: literally so long I've actually been to Canada and back since we've last spoken

And, anyway, nothing about this situation is funny. 

“Oh. That sucks. So you aren’t hungry anymore, then?” Vanya asks, but not quite. Her lunch bag is heavier than usual now that it carries two of everything. Two sandwiches. Two bottles of cold water. On her desk is a first aid kit and basic medications that also has two of everything. She should figure out whatever he’s allergic to. “If you’re hankering for more, I’ve got a sandwich for you at the ready,” she practically shoves the thing into his hands, still warm from the microwave—her reward for making the hop-and-skip from her closet of an office to the staff lounge, “Actually, you should eat with me.” 

Crooked smile. Hands in pockets. Tousled brown hair. It almost takes her back to those awkward first dates, when they had yet to name a name to that gulf between what they are and what they should be, but there had been affection all the same. “Sure, I could have come to your classroom,” she says, leading the way to the bleachers, steering clear of the ball-happy teenagers and their noise. In the company of her oldest friend, no one else matters. “But it smells all funny. Teenagers and hormones and sweat and overbearing perfume…” She rolls her eyes before settling down on the bench. Shoes nudging at it in rhythm. One foot, then the other. 

He follows her to the bleachers, the soft squelch of damp grass under his shoes only half registering. Her comment about his classroom draws a low chuckle from him, one that’s genuine despite the weight he’s carrying. “Yeah, well, you’re not wrong. My classroom’s basically a cologne ad exploded in a locker room. Fresh air is a necessity at this point.”

Settling down beside her, Damian leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, the sandwich still untouched in his hands. Her rhythmic nudging of the bench keeps pulling his gaze — something small and grounding, a simple pattern against the chaos in his head. He shakes his head slightly, offering her a faint, lopsided grin. “You’ve always been great at guilting, Vanya. You know that?”

He unwraps the sandwich slowly, deliberately, like it’s an act of penance. The first bite is small, more out of obligation than hunger, but the flavors hit him in a way that makes his chest ache. He chews thoughtfully, swallowing hard before glancing over at her. “See? I’m eating. No hearts broken today,” he says softly, the smile not quite reaching his eyes. There’s a long pause before he exhales sharply, running a hand through his messy hair. “Thanks,” he mutters, not just for the sandwich. For the note, for the lunch bag weighed down with care, for showing up when he can’t seem to. He doesn’t elaborate further, just glances down at the sandwich in his hands, feeling its warmth seep into him and wishing it could do more than that.

He doesn’t take another bite.

the only shadow chance was facing down was the echo of his own. at times, it wore his brother's face. there was often that comparison that you couldn't tell the two of them apart from certain angles. they had been one of those sibling pairs that clearly could've gone up against the world together. and then shit has to get too real to handle. he doesn't try to bury those things — except, at the same time, he does. if he lets them out, what the fuck's going to happen? what kind of control is he going to lose? acting like it isn't out of control as it is. he knows rabid need when he sees it. he's drawn to it, fortunately, unfortunately. damien's wobbling grin is met with one that chance returns. nothing like living and forgetting, living to forget.

"alright, i solemnly swear i'll cause some trouble, just to make your week. can't have you out here with a boring time 'cause i won't get my hands dirty." the truth of the matter is that chance would willingly cause trouble. even with his job on the line, the risk-running entices him. something about this resonates as a risk, although he isn't privy as to what yet. could be something. could be nothing. "ahh, sure you ain't all that interested in hearing about my stress, right? we come here to blow off steam or whatever. i got some special smokes in my pocket too." special wielded the implication of it not just being nicotine. a recent purchase, perfectly legal.

The mention of special smokes catches his attention, and his grin widens, a little too eager. “Special, huh?” Damian echoes, leaning in slightly. “You know, I might take you up on that. Been a while since I’ve, y’know, loosened up properly.” He doesn’t elaborate, doesn’t need to. The words hang in the air between them, underpinned by something unspoken — the quiet understanding that maybe neither of them is as fine as they’re pretending to be.

At Chance’s observation, Damian’s grin falters just a fraction, the warmth slipping into something more subdued. He scratches at the edge of his jaw, glancing away for a moment before meeting Chance’s gaze again. “Different, huh?” he repeats, voice softer now, the weight of the comment pressing against the walls he’s tried to keep up tonight. “Yeah, well — life’s funny like that. Sometimes you gotta drag yourself out of the deep water, and sometimes,” he shrugs, a crooked smile tugging at his lips. “Sometimes you just let it take you. Float a little.”

There’s a beat of silence, and Damian tilts his head, studying Chance with a quiet curiosity. “But hey, if you’re about to fight the water with a skillet, I gotta see that,” he says, his grin returning, lighter now, easier. “Could be the most exciting thing to happen in here all night.” He nudges Chance’s shoulder lightly, the touch friendly, grounding. “Or, you know, we could both just sit here and pretend we’re fine. Either way, I’m game.”

"yeah, but it's why i came," he says at the other's sudden sentiment. it's too loud, too stuffy, too much. but isn't that what people who come to these places look for? when it gets too quiet in your head and you just want something else to fill that harrowing void? "why'd you come, then?"

micah, though it's none of his business, would like to wager a guess as to why, but he can neither confirm nor deny the accuracy of his assumptions. he blows a thin stream of smoke into the air, the lighter still in his hand when the admission of the state of the guy's sobriety comes. he's only half-surprised—it's a fucking nightclub, someone literally pushed a bottle of poppers in his face thinking he was somebody else earlier—and is more bemused that he would admit that so outwardly to a complete stranger. still, he couldn't help but feel somewhat concerned. "you good, man? what'd you take?"

“Am I good,” Damian echoes with a hum, the words tipped with amusement, though his laugh doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “I mean, I’m standing outside a club with a stranger, talking about how many drugs I’m on, so, y’know — I think that answers your question.” He shifts his weight, sliding his hands into his pockets and shrugging as if to say, what can you do?

The second question is harder. Damian’s eyes flick to the cigarette Micah’s holding, watching the ember pulse faintly with each drag. “Just — enough,” he says finally, voice low, almost conspiratorial. “Enough to forget about things for a while. Enough to make everything quieter.” He doesn’t elaborate, doesn’t list the cocktails of pills and powder and liquid that have carried him to this point in the night. It feels indulgent, pointless, to explain it all. The why of it is what matters, and even that’s too complicated to untangle.

He lets out a sharp exhale, tilting his head to watch Micah through the haze of smoke. “You’re not a narc, are you?” Damian asks suddenly, teasing, though his voice has a brittle edge to it. He doesn’t know what to make of Micah’s concern — it’s not something he’s used to anymore. Certainly not something he expects from someone outside the tightly drawn lines of his life. “Because if you are, this is a very bad undercover operation.” He gestures to himself, his unsteady posture, his frayed edges, like he’s the punchline to some cosmic joke.

Still, there’s a flicker of something genuine in the way Damian looks at him, like maybe he’s hoping Micah will press him further, even if Damian doesn’t have the answers ready. The quiet, the question, the lighter — all of it feels oddly grounding. And Damian can’t decide if he hates it or if he desperately needs it.

As much as their connection was purely physical, there'd always been an emotional sense too-- the underlying knowledge that, though they weren't lovers by any stretch of the word, they were safe here. They knew each other intimately, each other's dips and ridges and sensitive spots. It was hard to deny the fact that the best kinds of pleasure come from knowing someone.

And for all that Hunter knew about Damian, he wasn't able to reconcile what the man was doing here when he was supposed to be sober. Hunter leaned down, lips next to Damian's ear, and said, "I... have to say I'm surprised you're here." He stood up, chuckling under Damian's touch, even leaning into his hand.

"Overdue?" Hunter challenged, eyes gleaming. It was impossible not to succumb to Damian's energy, the way his skin practically danced with sweat and glitter and anticipation. "You been keeping tabs on me, or what?" It was no Four Seasons, but it hardly mattered. Damian was here.

In his haze, Hunter was unable to track the flash of emotion across Damian's face. He could only mourn the sudden space between them, curling a finger through Damian's belt loop and playfully tugging him closer. "I'm good. Sebastian's good," he watched Damian's face for a prolonged moment before asking, "You know he married CJ? In Vegas?" It was old news, but Hunter was still processing it-- at least, what it meant.

"I think they're in love," he admitted, laughing like it was an inside joke just for him and Damian. "But, you know, gotta let them figure it out on their own." Hunter caught Damian's eye again, tilting his head inquisitively, "Are you good? Reallly?"

But there’s that flicker again — Jason’s shadow at the back of his mind, the memory of a fist slamming into a wall too close to his head, the way Damian’s voice catches in his throat when he tries to defend himself. It’s not fair, he thinks, not here, not with Hunter, who feels like warmth and fun and a piece of his past he desperately wants to grab onto.

“Me?” Damian laughs, light, airy, the sound a shield more than anything else. “You’re asking if I’m good while we’re standing in the middle of this—” He gestures vaguely at the sweaty, chaotic crowd around them, grin crooked. “Hunter, I don’t think anyone in this place is good.”

It’s a dodge, and he knows it, but it’s all he can manage right now. He presses forward anyway, leaning into the space between them, his hands sliding down Hunter’s arms like it’s muscle memory, like the years and distance between them never happened. “Vegas, though,” Damian murmurs, shaking his head with a wry smile. CJ, his memory supplies helpfully, is Sebastian’s friend. Best friend. Roommate? Both. “CJ and Sebastian. I didn’t think your brother had it in him.” He pauses, catching Hunter’s eye again, his voice dropping a little softer. “I’m happy for him, though. For both of them. If you’re right,” he adds with a smirk. “And they’re in love.”

The way Hunter’s looking at him is disarming, like he can see past the grin and the easy banter, past all the mints and the alcohol and the way Damian keeps dancing just on the edge of a cliff. It’s enough to make him falter, just for a moment, before he pulls himself together. “I’m fine, really,” he says, his voice quieter now, more sincere. “I’m just—” Damian pauses, searching for the right words. “Taking a night off, you know? From everything.”

And maybe it’s the alcohol, or the drugs, or maybe it’s Hunter’s proximity, but Damian steps closer again, his hand ghosting along Hunter’s wrist. “What about you?” he asks, his voice tinged with something closer to intimate curiosity. “What are you looking for here tonight?” It’s a question that feels loaded, the kind of question that invites more honesty than either of them might be ready for. But Damian asks it anyway, his gaze steady, like he’s trying to read between the lines of Hunter’s answer before it even comes.

“Been…busy,” he finally says, voice soft, and he runs his hand over his face, willing himself to focus, to show up for her. “A lot going on, you know? Jason’s been…he’s been traveling a lot for his work stuff. Staying with him most nights, it just made sense.” The words are thin, stretched. Even he can hear the hollowness.

But Sofia’s looking at him, her gaze unwavering, and he can feel how much she cares. He sighs, letting the smallest crack show. “It’s not forever, Sofi. I promise.” He gives her a crooked, apologetic smile, knowing it’s nowhere near enough. “You’re stuck with me for the night, though. We can rant about ovens, eat enough ice cream to get sick, and forget about the rest of the world for a bit. How’s that sound?”

He nudges her lightly, hoping his smile convinces her that he’s still her Damian. That nothing’s changed. That he’s still here. And he knows he’s going to catch hell for this from Jason when he comes back — something about not being at his place, looking after his plants, something about trust and shit but — but Sofia’s here. And that has to be enough, for now. He’ll take whatever fucking punishment comes from it.

"I know." It's all he can muster up, the way Damian won't look at him is soul crushing. It makes him wish he fought harder to be there, to be in the loop of what's been going on his life and it's clear that he's terrified of what Jason will do if he sees them talking. If he couldn't see the embarrassment on his friend's features he would have assumed he knew about the texts but of course he wouldn't if someone wanted to put a rift between them.

He looks at Damian, arching a brow slightly as if silently questioning him. He turns and follows the other, glancing over his shoulder one last time to make sure Jason is none the wiser. He walks in maybe seconds after Damian, allowing the door to shut behind him. He reaches for the locking technique and turns to meet his best friend's eyes in the mirror. All the nervous ticks are appearing like something more has been going on under the surface. He can't stop his eyes from glancing down to see Damian picking at his fingernails. "That I didn't what?" He whispers, lifting his eyes back up. "Didn't want you around anymore?" It's the only direction this conversation could go because a certain boyfriend mentioned something similar at the bar that night. "We've been friends for over ten years. You think I'd throw it away over Jason? Over Scarlett? Never. You know that, right?"

Swallowing, he averts his gaze once again, locking it with the door behind Oliver, as if it’ll somehow come to life in the middle of this conversation, or something. “Well,” he clears his throat of the knot sitting inhospitably in there. “Thanks. For reaching out. I’m sorry I didn’t get the texts sooner.” His voice sounds monotonous even to his own ears, but he doesn’t know where else to go from here. “I, uhm—” he glances back to meet Oliver’s gaze once more, nervously. “Maybe we could meet up sometime next week, for lunch, or whatever.” He knows, objectively, the plans may never come to fruition — Jason would hate the idea, after all, and he’d rather not start a fight. But it’s the best he can do, right here, right now.

Had he been more emotionally intelligent (or emotionally intelligent at all) he might have had more pieces to put together, a conclusion to draw that wasn't self-centered. It was one thing, really, that stuck out to him.

Eyebrows drew together in confusion, Alec's head canting to one side not unlike a puppy who didn't quite understand its command. "Who the fuck is Jason?" He spat the name with vitriol, immediately latching onto a person he could blame, someone else who could shoulder the responsibility for this disconnect between Alec and a friend he felt suddenly so far removed from. Who gave a single fuck about Jason's business trips? What did that have to do with Damian? What did that have to do with D&D? Why was this Jason so much more important than the other important things in Damian's life? Wasn't there enough room for a little bit of everything?

Hands on his hips, Alec squinted at Damian as if he might be able to draw the truth out of him by willpower alone. His eyes ping-ponged between his friend's, rounding in a silent plea. "Is that really what you want?"

He forces himself to keep his expression neutral, but he knows Alec sees right through him. Alec’s looking at him with that mix of confusion and frustration, like he’s trying to puzzle out a problem that shouldn’t be this complicated. It makes Damian want to turn around and walk away, shove this conversation into a box he’ll never have to open again. But Alec’s eyes are locked on his, pleading for an answer Damian’s not sure he can give.

“Jason’s…” Damian hesitates, forcing the words out even though they feel like they’re scraping his throat raw. “He’s my boyfriend.” He lets the word hang between them, heavy and strange, like it doesn’t quite belong. “We’ve been together a while now.” There. A truth. An entire one, at that, not half of one like he’s been spewing throughout this conversation. But he can’t let Alec dig any deeper, because he knows he’ll unravel under the weight of it, spill everything he’s been trying so hard to hide.

“This is what I want,” he lies, his voice barely above a whisper, but he can feel the strain in it, the way it trembles just enough to betray him. He forces a weak smile, trying to make it convincing, but even he can feel how hollow it is. “Look, I know it sounds — weird. But I’m trying to make things work. Jason — he doesn’t get why D&D matters so much, why I’d want to spend time doing something like that instead of—” His voice trails off, his words faltering as he realizes how ridiculous it sounds. Instead of what? Spending more time getting twisted up in Jason’s rules, in his constant demands for control?

But he can’t say that. So he shrugs, glancing away, his hand slipping into his pocket, fingers gripping the lighter like a lifeline.

“It’s not forever, alright?” Damian says finally, looking back at Alec, feeling the desperation crawl up his spine. “Just — give me some time. Figure things out. I just — have to be better.” The words feel empty, the way he recites them to Jason after a fight. I’ll be better, I’ll be better, I promise I’ll be better. The same way they taste when Jason shoves them down Damian’s throat. He forces another smile, though it’s strained, frayed around the edges, and prays Alec doesn’t push any further. “I really have to go, now, Alec.”

She had to stay. But what if staying made things worse? 

Full of indecisiveness lately, Phoebe stands there a moment more, contemplating what to do, trying to catch anything out. His overall disposition is uncomfortable, but nothing to indicate anything untoward. Just more like someone trying to ditch an annoyance. And Phoebe, unfortunately, felt like she had no choice but to play her part. Her eyes soften, issuing Damian a silent apology for giving in, though she was far from giving up. Lose the battle, win the war etc.

“Sure.” She makes no follow-up joke about Misty like she usually would, because what was the point? With one final, sad smile, she nods at Damian. “See you around.” And she turns from the bar, from her friend, stomach churning that she had made a massive mistake walking away like this.

Despite Damian’s teasing, Phoebe can’t help but wonder where she’d be in life if someone genuinely was keeping an eye on her back in the day. It wasn’t like Seb or Jeanie were bad kids, or even the other Weaver Ridge kids she was heavily associated with due to people’s insistences of a class divide in the social hierarchy of high school. They were raised to look out for themselves, and often fought back against the system that had set them up to fail from the start. Phoebe tried to rise from that — not out of snobbery or a sense of entitlement — but because whilst her friends and peers reveled in causing mischief and playing pranks, Phoebe liked being at school for its intended purpose. Probably why she is still helping out ten years when no longer needing to, really. “Excellent, c’mon.” And she leads the abridged tour of the institution that for four very crucial years of her life, brought her both safety and destruction. 

“First of all, that’s not the mindset you go in with pop culture. It’s either good or so bad it’s good. Secondly, I do think either Glee or Pretty Little Liars is the way to go. Need to really speed up your brain rotting to enjoy the treasures 2010’s media offered us.”

He follows her throughout the halls, then, familiar to him now that he’s been teaching here for three years, but certainly far more familiar to her, who’d practically lived in this place for four of them in her youth. School had always been something of a sanctuary for him — a reprieve from his home life. He’d felt out of sorts, when he had to go back home, sad, even, for summer break when other kids would excitedly revel in the anticipation. Can’t really tell if it’s the same for Phoebe or not, but there’s something like nostalgia in her expression, so maybe there’s something in common between them, there, as well.

Snapping his fingers at the word Glee, he says, “I know that one!” And he does, but only because some of his kids have talked about it. Called it a retro show, which feels wrong, especially when they told him it premiered in 2009 and not, like, the 1900s, but it’s something. “It’ll be something I can talk to my kids about,” he says cheerfully, looping his arm around hers as they make their way outside. “You better be prepared for me to ask a shit ton of questions, Phoebe,” he warns her. “I never learned TV-watching etiquette.” And with that, he allows her to lead him toward the bleachers, eager to learn about the sordid past lives of Blue Harbor High’s students.