lizzo78

Backdoor shuts. Feet shuffling. ‘No rest for the wicked, Ma. Amren knows that better than anyone.’ Bags rustling, left on the kitchen counters. Bread and butter and staple things for tomorrow, when the markets are closed and everyone is too full from the night before to move. Az hears her kiss him on the cheek.

‘You said you’d be late,’ she says. Maybe a little tearful already. Not the same without him.

‘Pa let me off early.’

‘Well. Never mind that. Go on, sit down. We’re almost ready.’

‘Sure, sure. Hello, Elain. Fey here yet?’

Feyre’s out on the front porch trying to hide that she’s started smoking again. They have this little pact, between him and her, where when he catches her, she gives him a cigarette, and he promises not to tell Rhys. Az can keep a secret, and isn’t precious about bribes. If Rhys had come in the front way, she’d be busted. She’s smart enough to know there’s only room for the car in the alley out back.

‘Somewhere around,’ comes Elain’s soft voice. ‘You know how she is.’ Said with a smile, Az can hear it.

Ah, there’s the telephone. New just last month. Better cord. Louder ring. Better to have it in the kitchen, he’d said to Rhys’ mother, no need to traipse through half the house. Nesta will tell him she isn’t coming.

‘Leave it!’ Cass shouts, hauling himself out the chair that is starting to look too small for him. He’s so broad now, shoulders packed in with tight muscle. Hugs from him are pleasantly crushing. ‘I’m coming.’

A pat on the back from Rhys, crossing him in the doorway. A smile and a good luck, you’ll need it.

‘Here he is.’ All dressed up. Shined shoes. Dark, woollen overcoat. Leather gloves. Hair slick but not perfect. Mussed. Easy smile. Feyre will climb him when she sees him. Az feels distinctly underdressed, even with nice slacks and an ironed shirt. Rhys wears a tie like his father these days. ‘Brooding already?’

‘Funny.’ They embrace, claps on the back, and maybe they hold each other a little tighter, a little longer than usual.

Rhys grips him by the shoulders. Looks him up and down. ‘Big college boy, eh? He doesn’t even wear a jacket for Solstice. Call yourself a law student.’

All squared away and paid for. He’s got potential, that one. Smart. Always thinking, aren’t you, boy? But he’s home now, just for a few weeks. Back in the city, ready to fill his lungs with the sea air and drink his weight in wine. Trip over cobbled streets. Get dragged through the Rainbow by Mor. Get dragged to Rita’s by everyone. And he’ll pretend to hate it.

With a huff, Az shoves him in the chest. ‘Yeah, yeah. At least I’m not getting dolled up and… oh—’ he snickers—‘you got powder on your nose, Rhysie—’ Rhys swipes at it with the back of his hand, reflex, just beak, I swear, a little, every now and then—‘fix yourself up in the ladies’ before you got in the car?’

That earns him a clip round the ear, but not hard enough to hurt. ‘Shut it.’ Then a tender pat at the cheek. ‘It’s nice to have you around,’ he says. ‘You’ve been gone so long Cass was planning on coming up and kidnapping you just for a weekend.’

‘Oh yeah? How’s he getting to me?’

‘Guy was gonna walk it.’

‘Dumbass.’

‘Yeah, well,’ Rhys says, ‘he’s got no one around to temper his stupid-ass ideas nowadays.’

Speak of the devil, Cassian pokes his head around the doorframe. Frowning. Elain comes through with another plate—where on Earth—? oh, by the pickled cabbage—and Rhys’ mother follows with the main attraction. A huge bird, a chicken, the biggest one from the Palace they could find, covered in tin foil, ready to be deposited onto the empty platter at the centre of the table. Az, so used to shitty canteen food and cheap takeaway pork ramen which has never so much as seen a pig in its life, is dying to sit. His mouth, watering. Then too does Feyre appear, pulling off her boots, wafting floral perfume, the good one, into the room. Rhys goes all soft and draws away, his sharp eyes gentle a touch and—

‘It’s for you.’

—they’re good together. Az likes Feyre a lot—

‘Az.’ Cassian smacks his hand against the doorframe, bashing so hard Rhys’ mother barrels a look at him. He grimaces, sheepish, but it got his attention.

‘For me?’ Az asks. ‘Why? Who is it?’

No one from university knows this number, even really knows he lives in Velaris. They look at him, see an Illyrian, and don’t ask any more questions until he beats them in class, then they ask how he cheated. Maybe an old friend from school could guess it. Might see the name in the phonebook and put two and two together. Gwyn does keep sending him nice letters from Autumn down south, after all. He already sent her a card for the holiday. Hope this piece of folded paper lets you know I’m thinking of you. He’s certain she’ll laugh.

He dares not entertain the idea that his mother might have remembered it’s Solstice. Or even that they would let her call him if she has.

Cass makes a face. ‘I don’t know. He says he’s a friend. Has the number anyway. Be quick about it, would you?’

He rolls his eyes. Nesta won’t come, but it’s so blunt. Cass will be devastated. It’ll be on him and Rhys to take him out and play wingman for him to get over it. Tomorrow. Probably two nights in a row. Everyone tells him not to be too long.

‘Don’t wait up for me,’ he says, taking the phone.

The kitchen still smells delightful. His stomach rumbles when he pulls the phone to his ear. Heavier than the old one. Different latch. On the other end, very little. Quiet. Fuzzy ringing.

‘Hello?’ he asks. Not seeing someone in front of him makes him ansty. No face to read. Things, hiding. Feelings in shadows between words.

‘Azriel. Good. I was beginning to think I had the wrong house.’ A pause. Infinitesimal. ‘Such a charming brother you have.’

Phone in hand. Squeezed around the grooves. Of the phone or his hands. They itch still. His whole body does this thing where it freezes, hardens. Temples fizzle. Melts a moment after, more like ice. Very slowly, he pushes the kitchen door to.

‘Have I stunned you to silence, Azriel?’

His mouth is very dry. ‘How—’ no, wrong question. Phone book. Two and two. Or, spoke to a guy. I know someone. Don’t worry about it. Yeah, no, we can find him. ‘Why?’

Bemused silence. Az can see the smile. The dimples. Freckles. Fucking freckles. Click of the tongue.

‘It’s the Solstice. Don’t you celebrate up there?’

Prick. His lips suddenly work to create noise. Unthinking noise. ‘Most people send a card.’

A little, exhaled laugh. ‘Should I be offended that you count me in with most people?’

Ball rolling now. ‘You can’t call the house.’

‘And yet.’

‘You still can’t.’

‘Not even for Solstice?’

‘Why do you even care?’ he hisses, hand hovering at the receiver. He’ll hang up. It’s easy. Just push down. Easier than talking.

‘Am I not allowed to care about you?’

‘Fuck off.’ Latch down.

Easy. Phone on the hook.

There, hands, really itching now, braced against the wall, alone in the kitchen—delicious smelling kitchen—Az waits a minute. Actually counts the seconds from one to two to three to four to—

Again goes the phone. Too fucking loud. Az snatches it.

‘Eris, you can’t call the fucking house.’

For just too long, the words hang.

‘Who’s Eris?’

Oh, gods spare him.

‘Nesta, I—’

‘No,’ she says sharply, ‘actually I don’t care. Tell Cassian I’ll see him later.’

Line dead.

Azriel, breathing a bit heavier than he’d like, places the phone back on its latch very carefully. Waits. One, two, three, four, five. Six. Seven. Eight. Shit.

How can he go back in—well, he can’t just yet, can he—or? He’s going to have to tell Cassian. Poor, poor man. He’ll leave dinner early just for her. Stumble around the city looking for her if she isn’t in her apartment.

Yes. Tell Cassian.

He can do that.

Should he?

What’s the alternative?

Die here in this kitchen? Bash his fucking head against the new marble counter? Wait for Eris to call back?

Azriel slips in through the door and closes it gently. They didn’t wait for him to start serving themselves, but they haven’t started eating. He takes his seat next to Rhys and Elain.

‘All good?’ Cass asks, fork in hand, eyeing up his chicken, salivating like he hasn’t eaten in days, not even sparing him a glance. ‘That guy sounded like a fucking asshole. Never heard an accent like that.’

Those potatoes are calling him. He shrugs, serves himself three, hm, four, and hands them to Elain who thanks him quietly. ‘Just someone from my classes. Wishing me a good Solstice.’

‘Someone who knows the home phone number?’ Rhys. Suspicious. Or curious.

‘No, I—’ take chicken next, Az— ‘sometimes, I use your name, in class.’ Not a lie. ‘He saw it in the phonebook. And yes, he’s an asshole.’

‘Well, if he bothers you again,’ Rhys’ mother says calmly, but firmly, ‘I’ll be happy to give him a few choice words.’

They all smile. ‘Thank you.’ Sweet. ‘He’ll think twice after that I’m sure.’

He won’t. He’ll think it’s funny. Fucking dimples, fucking laugh. Fucking—freckles.

But conversation eased. Crisis? A little one. He needs to tell Cassian. He looks like he’s having fun over there with Feyre. Talking training. Technique. He should go back to the gym. Going soft. Rhys could floor him. Embarrassing; Rhys wears ties. Pull him aside, afterwards when they start drinking the fortified wine from the cellar. Nesta said she’ll see you later. Okay.

Compliments about the food get dished out, and Az has to agree that the stuffing this year is the best they’ve had for a while. Maybe since the time they got snowed in up in the cabin, remember that? Lina was there—she couldn’t make it this year, Rhys? No, she’s somewhere in Montesere. Got a boyfriend apparently. Oh, another one? Watch it. Rhys kicks Cassian under the table. Never know what your sister’s doing these days. She’ll be alright, Ma. I know. I just worry about you kids. They haven’t been up to the cabin for so long. Long gone are the days of snowball fights with Mor.

‘She isn’t coming either, I take it?’ he asks. ‘Mor, I mean?’

Feyre scoffs. ‘Keir’s got her tied up in work until Starfall.’

‘Oh, what a horrid little creature he is.’ Rhys’ mother should slow down on the wine. ‘Why your father ever went into business with him I do not know,’ she grumbles. Money, Az thinks. ‘That for a sire, bless her.’

All of them unlucky there.

Azriel looks over at Cassian again. This time, Cassian catches him. Subtle, he gives a look. Azriel, less so, frowns. Can’t tell you in front of everyone. Telepathically, he must understand. Rhys, of course, catches them in turn.

‘Do we think they’re speaking mind-to-mind or just having a staring contest?’

Cassian laughs. ‘We’re complaining about you, Rhysie. Can smell the three tubs of shoe polish you used from all the way over here.’ And they get into it. Az suddenly remembers to finish his potatoes.

‘Have you spoken to Nesta?’ He hears quietly beside him. Elain. Somehow she always knows. He jabs a potato.

‘She wants to meet Cassian later,’ he tells her, voice lower than a murmur, but she hears it. Always does. Always knows.

A wry smile. ‘Poor guy.’

A small smile of his own returned. ‘Have you not seen her?’

‘She’s never in. Or at least she pretends.’

‘I’m sorry, Elain.’

She waves him off a little, disguising it as a pushing around of food on her plate. ‘She’ll come around. It’s been hard for her. I just wish she and Cassian would… I don’t know. Settle. Or not. Decide one way or the other.’ Then a wince. ‘That feels like an awful thing to say. It’s hardly my business. I wouldn’t want her saying anything about me.’

He snaps his gaze towards her too heavily. ‘You and who?’ he asks. Tries to sound soft.

‘Oh—! I—I suppose I haven’t mentioned it, with you being away. No, I met someone. He came in for flowers one day and… anyway. He’s nice.’

‘But not here for Solstice.’

She shakes her head. ‘He doesn’t celebrate. He’s, uh, actually he’s one of Feyre’s friends. They studied down in Spring together.’

He tuts. ‘And she still speaks to him?’

‘Like I say, he’s nice.’

A silence settles between them. Too hefty to name.

‘I’m happy for you.’

Another soft, soft smile. She pats his hand. He stiffens.

‘You’ll get there, Az. These things have a funny way of finding us.’

*

One, two, three, four… Eris stamps out the fifth under a polished shoe on his mother’s back porch. And she said she was quitting. He debates it, then decides it doesn’t matter much anyway, and rolls another, thinking about the dimples on the back of Azriel’s shoulders when he flexes, and how he’ll need to wash his hair in the morning to get the smell of smoke out of it.

It’s all quiet out here—three-in-the-morning so why wouldn’t it be?—and he has only the chill in the air for company. It’s fine. Better than his brothers, some of them out in the town, probably not coming back until morning, afternoon, the whole day is perhaps preferable, some of them asleep. Lucien asleep. Because he doesn’t go out anymore. Some mystery girl he’s so cagey about. After Jesminda, he can hardly blame him.

The thought makes his next drag taste sour. It’s all fucking sour. Am I not allowed to care about you? Bitterer still.

The back door opens and shuts behind him.

‘I thought you were quitting.’

He glances back, but his mother is already sitting down next to him.

‘That makes two of us, doesn’t it?’ he says, handing over his lighter.

Like this, they could be friends. Just sixteen years between them. Just sixteen when he found her here the first time, fag hanging, an indictment, from her mouth. Tastes like it did back then, the whole thing; very, very sour.

‘Your father—’

‘Please, let’s not.’

She puffs smoke out into the dark shadow of the night, wisps of foul breath swirling. ‘I was only going to say that the doctors—’

Eris shoots her a look. ‘I don’t want to know.’

If he dies, Eris will learn of it. Until then, his father’s health means nothing to him. Cancer. Colon. Yes, sounds about right for him. The company board are hungry to replace him anyway, even if he recovers, and Eris knows they will pick him. For a stake. He hasn’t even graduated. Fuck. He takes a long, long drag, and presses the palms of his hands against his eyes and wills it to rid him of his three-day-long headache.

Someone else’s mother would comfort him now. A hand on the shoulder. A maternal word or two. Know some implicit way to try and help him like mothers do. His just keeps smoking, because she’s smarter than most people’s mothers. Of course, she’s also hardly his mother. Genetics. Hair. Jawline. Eye shape. Disposition for bad decisions. Bad choices of partner, that’s all.

‘What’s troubling you, Eris?’ But not that fucking smart, apparently. ‘Haven’t seen you in a mood like this for a while.’

He scoffs. ‘You haven’t seen me in a while, full stop.’

‘Well,’ she says, coughing a little, as though it were something that would catch her off-guard and not the truth, ‘who’s fault is that?’

Eris just huffs a laugh. No. Barely a mother. Just a woman unlucky enough to be married to his father and have his children. ‘You live in the middle of nowhere, so.’

‘You used to be more creative with your excuses. I still remember when you—’

He squeezes his eyes shut very tightly so that he can hear it in his skull. ‘We don’t have to go down memory lane. Why are you up?’

He doesn’t really care, he just doesn’t want to talk about himself. Or anything.

‘I don’t sleep so well these days.’

‘Oh? Helion not knocking it out of you enough?’

‘That’s disgusting, Eris.’

He really wishes he’d just gone out somewhere to smoke. To drink. Or that he was back at university, fucking holidays, holed up in his room and reading case studies. Thinking about Criminal Procedure and pissing off his classmates by being right all the time. Thinking about whether Azriel is going to inconspicuously hang about outside his own class—something about the Federal Courts—so he can drag him to the library or take him to the green where he can look ridiculous and sun himself while Eris actually does work. Just, he wishes he were only thinking about Azriel, actually. Azriel is so much simpler than the rest. Sounds like an insult. Maybe it is.

He’d laugh, but Azriel doesn’t really laugh. He… smirks, turns up his lips, not a smile, but his eyes go bright, some shade of hazel, and Eris can tell.

Then he starts thinking about how completely fucked he is.

Of all people, some pretty Illyrian who piped up to bite his head off about the ethics of sectioning in the middle of a debate. Practically had him by the throat. Could’ve been anyone. But it’s not.

Headache tenfold.

Am I not allowed to care about you?

Gods above.

‘Who is she then? Important enough to leave dinner for.’ He snaps to look at his mother, who’s watching him with a half-smile. ‘It’s always a girl with you.’

It isn’t. It’s never been a girl with him, has it? That’s half the fucking problem.

‘That isn’t your concern,’ he tells her, finishing his cigarette. Stamping it out. Number six.

‘I’m your mother, Eris, of course it is.’

A wry smile. He stands, his joints stiff from sitting still so long. An hour, at least. ‘Goodnight.’

Her parting gift is one she’s given before. He can mouth the words along with the exact cadence that it leaves her. She likes to know things only when she knows Eris keeps them from her—ash in his throat. ‘You always were a spiteful boy, you know that?’

His hand stills on the door handle. He glances back at her, cigarette burning down between her slender fingers. Yes, that too they share. Pianist’s fingers.

Maybe she should have been a pianist and not a mother.

Maybe doesn’t fucking cut it. So sick of not knowing. Of vaguery. Of patience—is he even gay? Gods take his fucking headache.

‘Finally,’ he says to her, ‘there’s something you and father can agree on.’

And the dark look that comes across her face is so satisfying that it shakes the weight in his chest off for a moment. Just one, tiny, blissful moment.

She sucks on the cigarette like it’s the only thing she cares for. ‘You’re going to the gala tomorrow.’

How quickly she can move on.

‘So that’s why you came out here. Don’t ask me to play messenger,’ he spits.

‘Helion—’

‘Helion visits every weekend if you’ll hear Lucien tell it. Sometimes more.’

She scoffs. That too a commonality. ‘What would Lucien know? Like the rest of you, he’s never here.’

Eris laughs, because it is funny, really. ‘Hm, like father, like son,’ he says.

‘Careful.’ As though they aren’t all so careful already. Then she softens. ‘Just—send him my love, will you do that for me at least?’

His hand tightens around the door handle. ‘Call him yourself,’ he says. ‘I’m not a fucking errand boy.’

‘Like I say, spiteful.’ And she turns away, staring out into the trees which line the back of the garden.

Eris makes sure to slam the back door behind him, kicks at the kitchen island as he rounds when he remembers she still has his lighter, and stews up every step to his bedroom where the wallpaper is still covered in silly drawings of dogs, painted by her hand.

Am I not allowed to care about you?

Taglist

A Sport of Stars and Fire

Azris | E | lunaophelia

Summary:

Azriel Singer, “Terror of the Montreal Stars," and Eris Vanserra, star center and Captain of the Boston Fire, have been pitted as rivals since the 2009 NHL draft. When Singer stumbles upon Vanserra in a compromising position after a home game, he realizes they may have more in common than he thought. In lieu of an NDA (or a bargain tattoo), Singer gives Vanserra his number. It’s not much in the way of leverage, but it’s all Vanserra is going to get. Or is it?

Or, a rivals-to-lovers Hockey-AU romp with our favorite ACOTAR boys, featuring codependent Azriel & Cassian, modern epistolary romance (a.k.a. sexting, HA), so much yearning, and very little hockey.

Notes:

Azriel’s feet press, soft and steady, against the giving earth of Autumn. 

There’s a nice breeze going – a welcome reprieve from the biting cold of the mountains of Night. Sun shines on his back, absorbed by the black of his leathers and heating his skin. If he cranes his ear past the ever-present humming of his shadows, he can even hear the gentle splashing of a lake on shore. 

It’s a wonder, he thinks, that a place so idyllic can breed some of the worst fucking people he’s ever met. 

There! His shadows insist, interrupting him with their song. They dart across the floor like children, skittering to their destination. He dares not cross Them, so of course he leaves it be. 

Where does Your mind take you? He asks back – ili mansi vikra? – but his feet already move behind them. Their senses invade his entirety.

Following patiently, watching the light hit the trees hit the ground from about fifty different angles, from every one of his eyes, he thinks he smells a little bit of smoke.

Naiya, the shadows sing at him. Naiya.

Before Azriel can process why They insist on discussing dogs when there might be an active fire, he hears a bark himself, then a sort of pained yowl. The scent of smoke bites at his nose. 

His feet carry him to a birthing hound, in visible pain, sloughing smoke off her back like a snake shedding skin. 

Azriel stops. There lies a puppy the size of his palm, wiggling in the dirt. The smoke from its dying mother wraps the poor creature in a blanket of ash. The mother closes her eyes, and the remaining smoke billowing off of her fades into nothingness.

Through it all: Naiya, his shadows repeat, chorusing joyously. Naiya!

He takes a moment to whisper a quiet prayer for the felled hound, and for the magic she homed. Finishing his mutterings, he scoops up the infant, its eyes scrunched shut. A little maneuvering and – it’s a girl.

The shadows crow in delight, rushing in at once, peeking down at the little creature. Their joy smothers Azriel and he has to bite against the feelings, the whole force of Them. Then, as fickle as the rain and as changing as the tides, They demand alterations. The love cuts off immediately; it turns into warning. 

Azriel focuses hard to try and split his attention once more, to spread his fracturing being across the shadows and the hounds and the dying and the earth. He hears the thud of footsteps, and concentrates until he smells the fire magic of Autumn. 

It is Eris, Son of Autumn, who rushes into the square, feet slamming against the leafy dirt in his hurry. His eyes catch sight of his smokehound, dead on the floor, and only a flicker of grief lasts in his eyes before it is smothered out by rage. 

He whirls on Azriel. “You.” 

Azriel looks at Eris for a moment, and he sees, from a shadow behind him, a tinge of red beginning to seep through the Heir’s back. His hair, unraveled, matted – not perfectly combed as usual. Cracks on his cuticles. He must’ve just gotten out, Azriel realizes, from a conversation with Beron. Torturous in both a metaphorical and physical sense. 

“She was dead when I arrived,” Azriel says, and it’s as much of a condolence as he can muster, being caught how he is. “I’m unsure why.” 

Eris’s face scrunches up in fury, and it would be comical if it wasn’t so sad. 

He almost looks like the wounded parakeet that his shadows were taken with in Summer, squawking and injured, lashing out with talons too dull to achieve much. “It’s obvious why she died,” Eris spits out. “Smokehounds are blessed by the Mother for their magic. It elongates their lifespan to the hundreds. But magic is finite.” The explanation comes out somehow both bitter and distracted. In fact, the Son of Autumn is not looking at him at all, his eyes instead busy searching for remnants of smoke that no longer exist.

Azriel understands, and thinks clarifying aloud would be a mercy. “The smoke transfers to the infant after birth as the magic cannot sustain two. The mother dies as age catches up to her at once.” It is this truth told to air that breaks the redhead free from his compulsive searching, and amber eyes find him again. 

Eris sneers. “The mother or the father. But Lethe’s mate died already, in the war.” He snaps, once. “This is irrelevant. Where is the pup? What have you done with them?”

Azriel holds his palm out, lifting it up from his shadows, baring the curled up pup within it. “She’s safe,” he says, flatly. “Regardless of what you no doubt think of me, I wouldn’t slaughter a puppy.”

There’s a brief sort of silence before despair hits Eris’s face all at once. It’s a far cry from the relief Azriel expected to see written on his face. “What,” he grits out, “have you done?” 

Eris rushes forward, and Azriel instinctively shields the small animal from him. The heir looks almost sick at the action. 

“I didn’t do anything,” is what Azriel says in his own defense. “I picked it up. It’s unharmed.”

“It’s imprinted to you, you Illyrian bastard.” Eris snaps, incensed, and Azriel stops in his tracks. “Congratulations, shadowsinger. You’ve damned this child to a life bonded to you. ” 

Blood sprouts new flowers beneath his tunic, staining the embroidery red. And silence is all Azriel has to offer, his shadows dancing in the air beside him: victorious.

Eris stares at him. “Not a word in response, shadowsinger?”

With no choices beyond the obvious or obscenely cruel, the spy elects neither and begins to spout nonsense. 

“I’ll take it to Night, then,” he offers, knowing as he says it how empty the suggestion is. He can’t take care of any hound – he barely suffers through caring for himself. Dependent on him for survival, the pup would be lucky if it lasted the week. 

“You will, will you?” Eris taunts, viciously. “It’ll die before it leaves Autumn’s borders. It’s too young and its magic too weak.”

Azriel purses his lips. “Then I’ll leave the pup here.” 

“Are you slow? It will die without you.” He pinches the bridge of his nose. Eris’s shadow sings to Azriel and it’s more like a verse – tense, anxious. Rigid, like the male himself. Cowardice and avarice is all that he finds. 

“Then I’ll visit. Periodically. Once a month.” 

Eris scrunched his nose. “Give her to me. Now.” 

Azriel does, obediently dropping the little puppy in Eris’s waiting hands. Eris examines it, and seems almost distraught when the puppy mewls out for Azriel instead. 

Azriel’s shadows wail in kind, thrashing unhappily at his feet and wriggling in his ears until his head pulses painfully. But he can not acquiesce to Their whims anymore. Rhysand will have his return. 

He winnows out of the clearing, his shadows screeching, singing, chanting oppressively in his ear. He leaves a piece of his soul behind when he departs.

[full fic on AO3!]

____

TAGLIST:

@azrisweek