ᶦ ᶜᵒᵘᶫᵈ ᵉᵃᵗ ᵗʰᵉ ʷᵒʳᶫᵈ ʳᵃʷ

      now that’s she’s thinking about it seattle is a lot different than what she thought it was going to be. sure she had seen it pictured on television, and she’d done some research on the city before she booked her ticket here, but that doesn’t mean anything. luna has one hand gripping the strap of her duffel bag, looking around the city that she just arrived in. “did you know they have ferryboats in seattle? i had no idea they had ferryboats in seattle.” 

      there has never been a time in his life where he wishes that his mother were here with him. being a momma’s boy has it’s major down falls when he’s all the way across the united states and having to wash his clothes. it isn’t even that he can’t wash his own clothes, it’s just that whenever his mother washes his clothes they come out softer than when he does it.“where the fuck is my mom.” atlas huffs, and dumps his clothes out on one of the tables in the landr-o-mat and begins sorting them into piles of lights and darks. 

       lack of sleep still tugs at her every muscle, leading her in the direction of closed eyes and dream filled nights. sleepy eyes flit from the crown molding down to the boys face, studying the way his mouth quirks just the slightest bit downward when he stops talking, and the way it starts up again when he begins. it isn’t lost on her how his voice changes pitch from when he’d started their conversation - she feels bad for not fully paying attention. “just…” luna pauses for a moment. admitting that she had been zoning out would probably be a lot more hurtful than fibbing a little bit. “…i like detail.” it’s not a lie, luna loves detail like a child loves getting toys at a toy store. whenever she writes, or reads or visits places she’s forever paying attention to the detail. “anyway, about welsh kings.” she just needs more coffee.

       bejamin gansey is a creature of habit. 

         nickolaj prokopenko is a follower. 

         if dante kavinsky makes a point to pull him to the side and ask him why he kissed gansey at the substance party and then take him home immediately afterwards, he knows he: one has to kill jiang for twisting the truth and two he needs to stop. he owes his entire life to kavinsky, and that harmless drunk kiss from gansey evidently threatened to ruin that. it clearly didn’t matter than kavinsky spends all his spare time holding out for ronan, that he only uses prokopenko to get his dick wet. 

         prokopenko is 99% of the time a golden retriever: loyal to a fault. today is apparently the other one percent of the time, and only because gansey left his stupid expensive sweater on the floor of his golf the other night. considering that gansey is a creature of habit prokopenko is not surprised when he sees him emerge from the library, in fact a bit of a smirk curls onto his lips. he grabs the sweater and swings it over his shoulder, slips his hands into his pockets and crosses the street to the obnoxious orange camaro. “aye, benji!”

         hell is a hangover. 

         hell is also ronan hungover.

         he figures it’s in everyone best interest not to hang around the apartment while ronan’s banging around, throwing things for god knows what reason. plus — there’s still the matter of his research. an afternoon spend at the library is never an afternoon wasted in the opinion of benjamin gansey. it does nothing to lessen the throbbing ache inside his skull but still. he always feels limitless between the stacks of books. whole other worlds, endless knowledge, all at his fingertips. there’s something about libraries that make him feel timeless, part of something bigger. something not so easily forgotten.

           r.i.p nikolaj prokopenko. his heart fucking explodes in his chest, as his hands clutch tighter at his shoulders - even after they have to separate for air. his grin is large enough to swallow ronan whole. “…can’t remember…” it’s not a lie, his mind is all blurred edges from the kiss. his insides fuzzy warm.

      that was not what he was expecting, but it is very much welcomed. he has to catch himself on ronan’s shoulders as to not topple over. he returns the favor.

      “……ronan?”

         lack of sleep not only hurts her, but it hurts the people around her. luna is either cranky and pissy unless she gets a nap or she zones out completely during everything she does. today is one of the later days. with her chin resting on closed fingers, she tries her hardest to keep her attention on the person across from her, but the wood word behind their head is alarmingly more interesting than what they’re saying. i could totally be a carpenter if i wanted to. “what do you think of that wood work there. behind you. nice right?”

           proko is not a common name, unfortunately for him, so he knows that he’s been spotted by someone the younger kavinsky. he doesn’t want to stop walking but he does, and he waits for the other male to come to him. nikolaj isn’t aware of it yet, but this is the exact moment that his life is forever changed in ways he might never have expected. 

               he remembers overhearing his parents a few nights prior, talking in hushed tones in the kitchen at night, when they thought he was asleep. it was half past eleven when he came downstairs in search of a glass of water when he heard his mother whispering about dante kavinsky. “i don’t want that boy around our son, he’s a murderer.” if he has to admit one thing, he admits that that’s a mother thing to say and since she hasn’t really been much of one he’s shocked. on the complete opposite side of the conversation his father didn’t really seem to care “eliza,he did not kill his father, i do not ever want to hear that come out of your mouth again, do you understand? i keep this men out of jail not put them in there. niko will be fine.” and that was all he really heard before they started bickering about it. truth be told he could care less what they expect of him, or tell him to do or not to do. nikolaj has always been his own man. ( which he’ll come to realize is about to change as well ).

              dante kavinsky is both not what he thought of when he heard the name kavinsky, and exactly what he thought of when he heard the name kavinsky. there were only a few times where he had seen the elder kavinsky and of those few times he was exactly what you thought someone in the mob would look like down to the rings on his fingers and the shine of his shoes. this kavinsky is nothing like late father, there is no doubt they come from the same tree but this one is so much different. and so much the same. the two of them haven’t ever exchanged words with each other but here he is, stopped in the middle of the courtyard waiting for this kavinsky to stroll up to him, waiting for him like they were old friends reunited. he commands attention at fourteen and prokopenko can’t help but think about how dangerous that is ( which he doesn’t know is going to be his favorite part about the younger kavinsky ).  

              prokopenko is going to be in a word of trouble talking with this boy, he can already tell by the looks that people are giving him as he stops in the middle of the courtyard - whether they’re meant for kavinsky or himself he doesn’t know, he figures it could be for both. after all the word around town is that kavinsky killed his father, and here he is the new kid scene standing with him on the first day of school. what a fucking reputation to have the first day. “it’s nikolaj or niko actually.” is all he comments, tugging at the end of his sweater self-consciously, here he is barely filling out his uniform and kavinsky makes it look like the thing was made for him. “dante am i right?”

        if the gaze of their peers burn into the spread of his shoulders like cigarette holes in the upholstery no one would ever suspect it looking at his face now. his smile spreads, warm butter over toast on his cheeks ; it is an expression that is specifically designed to let nikolaj prokopenko know that his life is about change ( that it already has ) irrevocably. it stains his mouth with ease and long before the words are even half finished. he knows recognition when he sees it. 

         he takes the comment into consideration but has no intention of ever calling him by either of those names. he doesn’t bother to say so. instead, he shifts forward as if invited and drapes his arm over one of the other boy’s shoulders. “kavinsky or kav will do, nicky.” this version of dante kavinsky is kavinsky the boy. still half innocent in his rebellion ; still easily satisfied by childish mischief. it is a perhaps the best version of him — and as most good things do, it will die young but neither of them know that now. “let me show you around.”

          he makes a gesture for him to follow but doesn’t wait for an answer. as quickly as he had approached, he’s peeling himself away. one second there, half draped over him and the next half way toward the only building on campus that isn’t used at present time. he glances over his shoulder just once to ask “are you coming?” in a way that clearly dictates doing so means something much more permanent than this particular moment should insinuate ; that no doing so would mean he doesn’t get a second offer like this. it is undoubtedly the start of something and a question kavinsky doesn’t feel he needs to ask. it probably comes off as narcissism — the way he just trusts prokopenko to follow his lead as if it today were an old, well laid out plan finally falling into action.

            a look of sheer HORROR has manifested itself upon her features, the discovery she’s just made too unexpected to ignore. ❝ hey, uh       where’d you get that book from ? ❞ 

           it’s a copy of her short story collection… from when she was fifteen.                                 p l e a s e, let the ground swallow her whole.

          book is the word that ALERTS him he’s being spoken too but the tone is what surprises him. he seems almost frantic — except that’s not quite the right word. he lifts his gaze, his brows, and then the book in mention just to clarify.  ❝ this one ? ❞  gansey asks despite knowing full well that he doesn’t NEED to. there is no one else seated here much less with a book after all. his eyes drop the collection of short stories, a reminiscent hum in his throat. he can’t recall exactly where he got it.

    he trusted ella. that wasn’t easy –  there were only a handful of people he trusted in his life and he could escape to that home when everything was tootoo much. like now. he didn’t have to pick the lock, but he did. the place was empty and the first thing he did was shower. scrubbed himself until certain parts of him began to bleed just a little. he had a few bruises, one was prominent on his cheek, but he ignored it. well, until he couldn’t…like once he was out and drying off, and the swelling was worse. he pulled on his sweats and a t-shirt and stood in the middle of the kitchen now with a bag of ice pressed against his cheek. there was noise, but he didn’t move…just pretended that everything else was drowned out. he was the least harmless person you would ever come in contact with. ella knew him well enough.

         enrolling in a new school at fourteen, just starting high school where most of the miserable life stories come out of, where you depend in your friends to get you through, the get you to where you’re going to be later on in life, fucking sucks. 

            the navy pants fit him just fine, but the shirt and sweater ( even with the correct size ) hang off of him; because, of course he hasn’t grown into anything. nikolaj prokopenko is all limbs and collar bones with nothing else but a good head of hair. despite not wanting to be here he made sure his tie was done up, his shirt was ironed and his shoes were shined - even though he would rather be out smoking cigarettes and sucking dick, he was good in school and that wasn’t going to change here. the day before he had waltzed in with hid father, got a private tour of the school, got his classes, was told about school activities, so he’s slightly familiar with his home for, what he hopes is, the next year.

            the courtyard is filled with students talking and laughing with each other, some on their way to class, others sitting on benches and others sitting in the grass. there’s two boys together one with bright blonde hair and the other with curly brown hair, standing together the brunettes arm over the blondes shoulders, whispering something in his ear while the boys around them talk. he sees some other boy that looks about just as lost as he does, with tanned skin and very nice hands. nicolaj chooses to ignore them both and head in the direction of the water fountain in the middle of the courtyard, his classes are in that direction anyway - that’s when he sees him. handsome as the devil, his school uniform looks out of place on him but he makes it look designer, he manages to fill out the entire thing at fourteen, the hollowness of his eyes makes his skin crawl in the most delicious way possible - he’s seen him before, was that? he doesn’t care either way, and promptly turns his attention away to head toward the direction of the fountain.

         whispers have always followed behind him in hallways and after him in streets and about him in dark corners behind the glow of neon lights — as much an extension of him as his shadow and just as accurate. everyone blurs the edges ; blunts the colours ; exaggerates the shape ; smudges the actual details into smeared guess work. this morning those whispers are white noise, more a memory of his previous classmates than those of his new and current ones. faces pass by with knowing looks, curious gazes. some of them even look familiar though it’s hard to remember each flame lit feature of ever fire side face that’s made an appearance at one of his substance parties. it’s hard to remember much of anything that happens after a substance party. dante kavinsky, even as a freshman, is a living legend and if that isn’t enough to draw attention than his father, a recently dead legend, is — especially when the hush hush word on the street is that dante is the one that did it. though, if neither of those things are enough to make his name known than his face does a good job of it. deadly as the devil and twice as pretty applies quite literally.

          there are is a pack of cigarettes in his pocket that beckon loudly and a very strict policy against smoking on school grounds that does nothing to prevent him from tapping one out and lighting up on the quad. he has enough money to pay off every staff member and the number of his dead dad’s lawyer on speed dial if morals get in the way. they usually don’t. as if summoned by the thought of his father — dead dad’s lawyer has a devil son, too — nikolaj prokopenko wanders into his line of sight. it’s a coincidence, surely but that does little to keep the smirk off his face. it probably says more about him than he’d like it to that the expression is just over the edge of snarky school boy. dante hasn’t quite lost all his innocence yet ; there’s still some light behind those hollow eyes, a childhood gleam to the lack of bruised circles under them. he has not lost sleep over the death of his father, regardless of if it was or wasn’t him who did it.

    “i’d like to think so. a safe place to get lost in,” she muses and wrinkles up her nose over auden’s words. she looks anything but good ; yet everyone keeps saying the same thing auden does – or along those same lines. if she says anything to go against it, everyone will grow worried that she’s already back pedaling to what she was before. she wasn’t. the gaze on her tummy doesn’t go unnoticed and she chuckles, “it’s very small. they won’t be here until march,” her cheeks are rosy pink and she nods her head. “started thinking ‘bout it before i hung up with you. mum must’ve heard me because she was getting the kettle out as i stepped into the kitchen. auden’s coming? get the tea out,” mia hummed and her fingers wrapped around the box, bringing it to her chest. “baby thanks you for the caro cakes. they smell delectable. i haven’t had them in months and months…” the last time she tried, they ended up in the bin. too much fat on her bones. now she’s got a plate out and placing them on the table for the both of them. “how’s rolly?” she asks almost immediately. “i want to let him and lexi get together while we’re…staying in london. i’m sure he’d coo over stephen as well…”

       earlier today when she went to pay for her breakfast she found out that the women in front of her hand already paid for it. she was shocked, surprised, touched and happy all at the same time. one of those pay it forward moments, she imagines. the brunette orders her hot chocolate and a cookie dough cake pop to go. she slips the cashier a twenty, which is most likely more than enough to pay for her order and the person behind her. the women behind the counter gives her a gentle smile and hands her her receipt, which she tosses in the trash as she moves down the bar to wait for her beverage. she can’t say it doesn’t feel nice to do something like that for someone she’s never met. i just hope they aren’t an asshole.  

    mia’s delicate fingers are trembling as she’s fixing up the cuppa for her friend. her best friend. one of her very best friends. one of the few reasons she still existed. after a long, hot shower and a very brief phone call with her husband that had her choking back tears, she was on the phone and begging auden to venture to her parents’ home. auden was some semblance of normalcy in mia’s vast world of loud. her hand ran over the very faint bump of her stomach and she closed her eyes. this was the first time she was wearing a form fitting t-shirt and it startled her when she’d noticed in the mirror. she heard footsteps and turned, presenting auden with a tired smile. “ – got lost in my head.” was all she said before moving forward and wrapping the other girl in a hug ; she smelled like home, felt like it, too. mia missed this place as much as she hated it now.