This Is Where My Imagination Lives

He racked his brain, desperately searching for an answer. Yet, all he was met with was an inky blackness where his memories should have been. There was obviously a story to how he had ended up here, lying against a rock in… where even was he? A sewer? His hand instinctively went to his chest, fingers tracing the ragged outline of the tear in the fabric of his shirt.

He felt like the world's worst detective trying to piece together what little he did remember. It reminded him of that one time he tried to do a Rubik's cube blindfolded: impossible and frustrating. A flash of a memory crossed his mind before just as quickly disappearing. 

Soft hands cupping his face, gently pulling down the blindfold he wore to come face to face with brown eyes, those big, beautiful brown eyes.

“That was a good attempt, Eds. Too bad you’ll never be as good as moi”

Ed’s, no, no. He didn’t like the sound of that. Eddie, however… that must be his name right? But who did that voice and those intoxicating eyes belong to? 

He pushed himself up onto shaky legs, one hand braced against the wall for support. He needed to get out of this hellhole, despite only spending a short while conscious in the morbid cavern, he knew it was not a place he should linger. 

There were people who would be worried about him, faces, some with names and some without, who would come looking for him eventually. His wife for one. 

His wife? 

Of course, fuck, his wife. Myra, was it?

He could remember their wedding, a day that felt stuffy and plastic, as though it would melt and burn away if placed under a hot flame. However, the months and years leading up to it were a blur of colours and numbness. He couldn’t actually remember falling for her. 

And that’s when he realised. 

He never actually had. 

He staggered over to the large gap in the wall, what he assumed was hopefully the exit, at the other side of the cavern. His steps echoed as he sloshed through the water. It seeped through his socks and shoes, making him release a disgusted shudder. 

The dim light in the cavern did little to aid him in his task. He stuck close to the wall, lest he should stumble into something he would rather avoid, something that would be better off fading into the inky blackness, never to be known again. 

Eddie guessed that was almost where he ended up. And then where would he be? The people that knew him would forget about him eventually, his face would fade from their minds like leaves that decayed as they fell from the trees, slowly until nothing remained. 

He would go out of the blue and into the black. 

His footsteps echoed in the tunnels of the sewers, bouncing off the walls and down into dark places unknown, places that were probably better to stay that way. His feet moved automatically, guiding him down the twists and turns that he wasn’t even conscious of. 

Yet, deep down he knew of their existence, as though he had travelled them before. Had he? And his feet had never forgotten the path, leading him out of that dark, desolate place and into the sunlight of Derry. 

Yes, that’s definitely where he was, Derry, Maine. The streets were thankfully empty as he stumbled aimlessly along, the sun was just on the cusp of rising as people were not yet called from their beds. It was a blessing he should be thankful for, he cut an unnerving figure in his bloodstained shirt - whether it was his blood or another’s was an answer he was yet to find - and caked in dirt and grime from the sewers. Someone would surely notice something was wrong, and then where would he be? Taken away to some hospital to have test after test - 

“You’re sick Eddie-bear! This will help you feel better!” 

No. No tests. He knew he had visited enough hospitals in his lifetime to never set foot in one again, though the reason why still escaped him. Though who the shrill, piercing voice that reminded him of the fact belonged to still escaped him. 

A three story townhouse came into view, a weather worn sign swung on its hinges outside, announcing it as ‘Derry Townhouse.’

The hotel, if you could call it that, was seemingly abandoned from the outside. Only one car was parked outside it, a large black SUV, one that Eddie immediately recognised as his own. 

Wasn’t someone else supposed to be here? No, not just someone, multiple someones. 

Nevertheless, here he was, standing on an empty street with fractured pieces of memories floating around in his head like pieces of debris from a particularly violent storm. He knew this car was his, and he knew he had drove all the way from New York to this sleepy little town for some reason. 

But putting his finger on why seemed to be the problem. 

He rooted through his pockets, fishing out a car key that had stayed surprisingly intact throughout the fight. 

Wait, what fight? Had he fought someone?

Or something? 

That was all his mind seemed willing to give at that moment though, so he unlocked the car with a loud beep and threw open the door. 

Beep…

Beep Beep… 

Beep Beep R- 

‘BEEEEEEEEP’ 

“What the fuck?!” Eddie shouted, launching himself back out of the car, removing his shoulder from where it had subconsciously moved to rest against the horn. He slapped a hand against his chest, desperately wishing for his racing heart to return to it’s calm, almost sluggish you might say, pace. 

He laughed to himself as the terror faded, the only rementants of it being a skittering feeling along the surface of his skin. He jumped back into the car, fingers wrapping around a little card that sat in the compartment that separated the driver and passenger seat. He turned it over in his hands, a picture of himself looking miserable greeting him on the other side. He squinted, eyes roaming over the information printed in block letters. 

Edward Kaspbrack. So that was his name. He lived in New york? Why? It was chaotic and dirty and not his scene at all, he knew that much. 

Sighing, he punched the address into the sat nav and turned the keys in the ignition, bringing the car roaring to life. The sooner he got out of Derry, the better. 

—-

“Eddie, is that you? Where the hell have you been? You were supposed to be back- Oh my god,” The accusatory tone in Myra’s voice failed her as she hurried round the corner, coming face to face with her husband for the first time in a couple of weeks. 

Eddie could understand her shock, after going radio silent for god knows how long it had been, now he turned up on their doorstep covered in dirt and grime from the sewers, it was bound to be disorientating. 

But he couldn’t focus on that right now. He thought the feeling of needing to run would dissipate the further he got from Derry, yet it only became stronger, more panicked. He needed to go further, faster. 

He barged past her into their apartment. Her footsteps echoed behind him as he rushed through to their bedroom.

“Eddie! Answer me! They told me you were-”

“I can’t stay here. I’ve got to go.”  Eddie delved into the wardrobe, pulling out a large canvas bag identical to the two already sitting in the back of his car. 

“Go? Go where?!”

“I don’t know. Anywhere that’s not here.”

“Eddie, you’ve got to tell me what’s going on. I don’t understand!” Myra screeched, tears now spilling down her cheeks. 

“You wanna know what’s going on? I just woke up in a goddamn sewer with no clue of how i ended up there. Now I've got to go, I don't know why, just something is pulling me. Telling me to get as far away from Derry as possible.”

“You sound crazy, you know that? So you’re just gonna come home, after supposedly being crushed to death, or at least that what they told me, and just jet off again. What about everything you’re leaving behind Eddie? What about me?! What about your wife?”

Eddie turned to where she stood in the doorway, the black pair of trousers he held dropping into a crumpled heap on the floor. He walked towards her, slipping off the gold band around his ring finger and pressing it into her shaking palm. 

“It was never real for either of us. You know that,” Eddie whispered, staring at the ring that now lay in Myra’s hand. He instantly felt lighter, as though he had finally been unshackled for the first time in years. “Goodbye, Myra.” 

He zipped up the canvas bag and carried it through the apartment, antsy to get out of that suffocating apartment. He knew what he was doing was harsh, but it was best for both of them, living a lie was pointless, and Eddie was done watching his fly by in a whirlwind of moments that held no deeper meaning. 

The airport seemed like the best place to go, yes, jump on the first plane leaving, the visa he’d found tucked neatly beside his passport would cover most places. His poorly formed plan was rash and could fail spectacularly, but it was just the kind of adrenaline kick he needed. 

Richie had always liked it here, it was calming, the atmosphere always managing to soothe his racing mind when he needed that relaxing silence the most. The park over the road was a nice view, watching people go about their daily lives while his felt like it was constantly crashing around him.

A figure hurried past the large glass windows and into the shop.The bright red hair caught his eye, a comforting constant in the ever changing whirlwind he called his life. She smiled when she saw him, stepping across the tiled floor to pull him up and into a tight hug.

“It’s so good to see you again, Rich,” She smiled, her hair had become lighter since he last saw her, the caramel highlights shining under the soft lighting. She grinned, sticking her hands into the back pockets of her jeans, she seemed relaxed, happy.

Everything that Richie wasn’t.

“It’s good to see you too, Bev,” He replied, returning to his seat, a wordless offer for her to do the same.

“How longs it been? About six months?” Bev reached for the coffee Richie had ordered for her, cradling it between her hands. Even after so long apart he could still recite each of the losers’ coffee orders off by heart.

“Something like that,” Richie replied, thinking back to the last time he had seen any of the losers. They had all flown out to New York for Bill’s latest book release, about three months after the engagement party. It had been good to see them all again, like a breath of fresh air, a much needed reprieve from the stuffy streets of LA.

“You holding up okay?”

He knew what she meant. Bev had always been able to read him, when he was younger he secretly thought she could read his thoughts. She could tell how he was feeling from the quirk of his lips, the finger that tapped absentmindedly on his coffee cup, the bags under his eyes that he hoped the rim of his glasses hid. She knew he wasn’t fine.

“I’m fine, really i am.” He wasn’t “But what about you? How’s the future Mr and Mrs Haystack spending their days? And please, don’t spare any of the juicy details, i’m recording this conversation to sell to Hello! after this.”

Bev rolled her eyes. “Everythings just been so crazy lately, what with planning the wedding-”

Of course, the wedding. It was the easiest thing to distract Bev by turning the conversation to. Ben had proposed exactly one year after they had rekindled. One year to the day. Which also happened to be one year to the day of Eddie’s death. No one had noticed that but Richie. At the time, he had resented Ben and Bev for it, for being so happy. Why did they get to have the happy ending? The white picket fence with the kids and the dog, while his lay decomposing in the Derry sewers.

“You don’t need to explain yourself to me, Bev, it’s fine. I’ve been busy too.” It wasn’t technically a lie, he had been busy. Another tour was lined up, hopefully one that would help him to successfully draw in a european audience. So, when asked, he went on stage, smiled, laughed and became Trashmouth Tozier, before lapsing back into what he had become now, a shell of the person he was. The jokes and quips had become harder to think of after returning from Derry, like he’d left that part of himself back in the sewers to fester and rot away. Sure, there were times when one slipped into his mind but it was… rarer than it used to be. “I have a Netflix special coming up, flying out to London tomorrow to film it.”

“Oh, Richie, that’s great!” Bev gushed, reaching across to place a friendly hand on his wrist. Richie smiled softly, he knew he should share his friend’s enthusiasm, yet he couldn’t bring himself to.

“You are excited about it, aren’t you?”

“Oh of course. I’ve heard Brits are a tough crowd but if Trashmouth can’t make ‘em laugh, nothing will!”

Bev laughed, light and airy.

And he did, within five minutes of the lights going down at the O2 Arena he had them eating out of the palm of his hand. Turns out Brits liked dick jokes and toilet humour as much as Americans did. The lights that beamed down on him were overwhelmingly hot, a thin layer of sweat coating his forehead from them. The brightness of the spotlight was always the worst part about performing, it turned him blind, the faces of the audience fading into the darkness beyond the stage, all he could hear was their laughs, a faceless beast that existed to provide him with a cynical sense of validation.  

The show passed by in a blur. If you asked Richie what he remembered of it, he would say nothing. It was another nameless show. Sure, one where TV cameras caught his every move, but still one that had instantly faded into the back of his mind. No heckles that had caught his attention, no diversions from his normal stand up routine. It was just… normal.

And that what Richie hated about it. He hated that this had become normal for him. To only feel anything when an audience laughed at his jokes. He hated that the routine he had once loved had become so mundane to him. He hated it, yet he was stuck.

“Rich! You were great, pal! As always,” His manager exclaimed, awkwardly throwing an arm around him. Even though he was a full foot shorter than Richie - but who wasn't? He had always been obnoxiously tall - it was a habit they had started right off the bat. “Now, there’s a guy here i want you to meet. He’s an actor, trying to break America. For now, America is still very much intact. You could do great things for each other. His name is-”

“Eddie?”

Edward Kaspbrack stood in front of him, very much alive and breathing. The same beautiful boy he’d left in Derry years ago.

Richie felt like he was going to pass out. This was all too much. It had to be some sick joke. That, or he had finally lost it, hallucinating the entire thing. But there Eddie was, as alive as he had been back in Derry.

“Richie, right? Good to meet you, man,” Eddie smiled, offering his hand.

Richie stared, bug eyed. If he took Eddie’s hand would all of this just fade away? Was this just a dream? A cruel dream, yet one that was intoxicating at the same time. And as soon as he took that hand Eddie would fade away again, once again just existing alive and warm in his mind.

“Yeah, uh, good to meet you too.” He shook Eddie’s hand. “I’ve, um - sorry i’ve got to, um, i’ve got to go.” He rushed past Eddie, making a beeline for the restroom he knew was nestled in a little alcove around the corner.

“Rich, wait-”

The last week felt like a really, really weird dream. Had he really gone back to his childhood town to kill an alien clown from outer space? It felt like the plot of Bill’s next book. As much as he tried to tell himself it was, it wasn’t, and he shelved it alongside the many other traumas he’d faced in his life in some deep dark corner of his mind.

He staggered to his bed, kicking his shoes off along the way, and stayed there for two weeks. Of course, he had left his bed in that time, but only when he couldn’t stand the incessant growls of his stomach or the call for the bathroom became too much, but these times passed in a blur, and before he knew it he was buried beneath the covers again.

He had, of course, dreamed in this time. Those hazy moments he remembered consisted of hot humid summers, seven pairs of bike tyres whizzing over asphalt, and a smile, oh god that smile, from a boy wearing tube socks, a fanny pack and a polo shirt.

Then it had always taken a turn for the worst.

They were approaching the neibolt house, bikes skidding to a stop for seemingly no reason other than a foreboding sense of dread. The sky darkened as the clouds twisted and moved, seemingly drawn to the tip of the house as they curled around the spire. The door creaked open ominously, and the group had stood there in silence, watching the frightening tale unfold.

If Richie didn’t know any better, he would have thought he’d watched one too many horror movies the night before, falling into a sleep where the frightening figures follow him. But he knew better.

The ground cracked beneath them, sending each tumbling in a different direction. Richie had been the only one to remain standing, the cracks splintering around him. Gruesome creatures from their nightmares rose out of the ground, taking hold of each of the losers and pulling them back to the earth.

Thick, red blood bubbled out from the crack that Bev stood above. “Oh my god,” She muttered, eyes going wide. Thin strings of it wound around her legs, pulling her down as she screamed and fought..

The voice of Georgie caused Bill to look down. “G-Georgie?” He asked, reaching down into the darkness.

“Billy!” The unmistakable voice of Bill’s little brother cried back.  A small hand wrapped around Bill’s wirst, bone-chilling laughter emanating from the darkness as it pulled him in.

The lady from the painting jumped onto Stan, grabbing his shoulders and forcing him backward into the abyss. “No! No no no!” Stan screamed, grappling to keep his grip on the edge of the ground. “Richie, help me!”

Two charcoaled bodies climbed out and grabbed for Mike. “What the hell?! He shouted, fighting against the arms that were wrapped around him. They wrestled with him until they forced him down and out of sight with one last scream.

Henry Bowers jumped out and grabbed Ben, pressing a switchblade to his throat as he forced Ben to stumble back. He grinned grotesquely, “I’ve got you now!” He shouted, laughing maniacally.

“What?!” Ben gasped, his arms reached up to wrap around the hands that held the blade.  

The leper reached up and knocked Eddie to the floor. “No! Richie!” He yelled, blindly scrabbling across the dirt. The leper chuckled, a dry, hacking laugh, before grabbing Eddie’s ankle and yanking him away.

Screams of his name echoed from all around him , screams of fear that begged him to move and save them. Richie, however, felt rooted to the spot. His feet felt glued to the floor, no amount of thrashing could get them to move, to run towards his friends and save the day. He was useless.

“Richie!”

“Richie, please! Save us!"

“I thought you were our friend!”

“Richie! Help!!”

“Richie!!”

“RICHIE!”

Richie woke up in a cold sweat, sheets tangled between his legs. He gasped, heart racing as he took in his surroundings. It apartment looked the same as it always did. Moonlight filtered through the gap in the curtains, and all was quiet. The clock on his bedside table told him it was 4 o’clock in the morning. It was a dream, none of it was real. Only then did he start to cry.

Six Months Later:

“Please welcome to the stage, Richie ‘Trashmouth’ Tozier!”

The crowd roared as he stepped out, the sound vibrating through his chest and down to his bones. He pasted on his ‘happy to be here’ smile, yet he felt like he’d rather be anywhere else. If he weren’t contractually obliged to do this tour he would be back at his apartment, watching some nameless true crime show and gorging on takeout.

He loved performing, he really did, the laughs from the audience gave him a shot of adrenaline that zinged through his veins. For one of the few times in his life, he knew people were laughing with him, not at him.

He found the things he said funny, his writers were great at their job, but the jokes just weren’t him. Jokes about jacking off to his girlfriend’s best friend’s facebook page? That wasn’t him. But still, the audience laughed, and he got that shot of adrenaline he craved, but the empty feeling in his chest stayed.

He’d find some back alley bar where he could numb the feeling with whisky later. He’d fall into a drunken stupor and somehow find his way back to the tour bus or his hotel, wherever they were staying that night.

Then he’d do it all again at the next show.  

One Year Later:

Richie stood in the corner at the party, smiling softly at his group of friends. Bill stood with Audra at the other side of the room, arms wrapped around each other’s waists, the epitome of a loving couple. Mike sat at a table, nursing a glass of whisky. Ben and Bev stood in the middle of the dance floor, completely immersed in one another as they swayed back and forth to a slow song.

Richie smiled, it was nice to see his friends so happy, they deserved it. Ben and Bev deserved to be the happy, now engaged, couple they were. Bill and Audra deserved the domestic bliss they had. Mike deserved to get out of Derry and live the life he wanted. But Richie…

Did Richie deserve a happy ending?

Because here he was, curled up in a corner at Ben and Bev’s engagement party wishing he was somewhere else, not anywhere in particular, just somewhere that wasn’t here.

Even though no one else had realised, he had noticed. He wondered how long it had taken them to forget. To forget the events of Derry, to let their friend’s death fade out of their peripheral vision for other, what they deemed more important, things. He wondered how they didn’t realise Eddie had died one year ago today. He’d considered going back to Derry, but it would have only caused the pain that had slowly dulled to a dull ache to flare back up into something hot and sharp, a blue-hot flame of pain that burnt through his chest.

He left the party early, feigning tiredness from his recently ended tour. The streets of Chicago were bustling with life. Cars idled in heavy traffic, their engines whirring with anticipation to move. People passed him on the sidewalk, each caught up with their own lives. Richie wondered if anyone would notice if he walked into oncoming traffic.

That night he dreamed of Eddie. They stood in the Barrens, a slight breeze blowing through as the water lapped around their ankles. It was as hot as it had been that summer all those years ago, and Richie felt himself slipping back into that childhood giddiness.

He held Eddie’s hands in his. Felt his warmth and smelt his cologne as he pulled him close, hands resting on Eddie’s hips. He told him how much he’d missed him, how much had been left unsaid. Eddie had reprociated the feelings, and Richie felt like he could fly. He had bought their lips close, closer still and-

Richie woke up. He wanted to scream until his lungs gave out. To tear the paintings from the wall in his hotel room and just explode, leaving a burning trail in his wake.

Yet, he just lay there, staring at the ceiling as tears slipped down his cheeks.

It trawled the hallways looking for what it knew was down there to set it free from it’s prison, like a hunter, searching for unsuspecting prey. It made its way into a large cavern, the roof reaching upwards in an optical illusion type manner before ending in a heavy iron grate. A circular hatch had been left open in the floor, the force diving down into it and through the narrow twists and turns it contained. There, it found what it had been looking for.

It almost squealed in delight, if that was possible, wrapping around the figure resting against the rocks with a crushing intensity. It finally had a purpose, could finally put it’s gifts to use. There was a bright glow, brighter than was safe for the human eye. It dimmed slowly, sinking into the body it clung to.

There, in the place they had fought Pennywise for the last time, the limp, slumped over body of Edward Kaspbrak twitched.

-----

Across town, Richie leaned against his car, waiting for the others to get their shit together. He stared vacantly at the townhouse, a lit cigarette lying forgotten between limp fingers. Had the world always been this grey? Or had it seemingly drained of life the way Eddie had?

It was September, and the world was filled with colour, or at least it was supposed to be. Richie couldn’t see the oranges and yellows of the decaying leaves, the way they coloured the sidewalk like splashes of paint.

He knew what they looked like, he had seen them recently. The moment Eddie had walked into the Jade Orient, back into Richie’s life, it was like he had been injected with light, bringing the colours that had become dulled back into amazing technicolour.

And it had only continued, each bickering joke and laugh had seemed to make Richie’s world brighter. It made him think of when they were kids.

It was a simpler time, well, apart from the memories of that one summer that had dragged them all back twenty seven years later. Regardless, it was a time he yearned to return to. Memories that Richie had subconsciously ached to remember before coming back to his childhood town. Screaming down the roads with the rest of the losers, a pleasant ache in his legs from pumping the well worn pedals. The warm summer breeze whistled past them, and in that moment, Richie thought they could stay like that forever.

But of course that was naive. All good things must come to an end.

The moment was broken by the sound of a slamming door. Richie looked up, watching as Bev led the rest of the losers down the steps of the old townhouse. She came to a stop in front of him, her face a picture of sympathy. Richie looked away, he couldn’t deal with any form of compassion right now, it might just break down the barrier he was trying so hard to hold up.

“I still think you should come with me and Ben, Richie. Even if it’s just for a couple of days,” Bev said, her eyes conveying more than her words. ‘You shouldn’t be alone right now.’

“And cockblock you and haystack over here? Wouldn’t dream of it,” Richie quipped, yet it held none of his usual brand of sarcasm, it felt fake and plastic in his mouth. .

“Richie…” Bev started, reaching out a comforting hand.

“I’m fine! Really Bev, i’m fine. There’s some...stuff i need to do before I go back to New York anyway. Wouldn’t wanna hold you up.”

Bev sighed, it was obvious there was no convincing him. Ever since Richie was a child, if he set his mind to something there was no detering him from it.

“You need a-anything, man, y-you call us. Any of us,” Bill insisted, stepping forward.

Richie nodded, knowing that if he spoke his voice would betray his anguish as his throat closed up. He could always count on the others to have his back, they had when they were kids and they did now. How he got through those 27 years without them he would never know.

Heartfelt goodbyes were exchanged. Richie felt like a robot as he hugged each of his friends in turn, avoiding the pitiful looks they held in their eyes. Soon enough, they had all dissipated, heading towards the highway or the airport.

Yet, Richie couldn’t bring himself to move, not quite yet, he wasn’t ready. He wasn’t ready to say goodbye to Eddie, who he could just imagine lying lifeless in that shithole. How could he have just left him there? He should have fought harder, fought to stay with Eddie even if it meant-

He sighed, forcing his legs to move towards his car. He had always loved his car, racing down the highway just for the hell of it was one of the few reprieves he got from his cluttered thoughts. But now it just felt like a constricting metal prison, one with plush seats and a top of the range sound system but a prison nonetheless. So, with the gas pedal pushed to the floor, he sped through the town towards his last stop before once more trying to put all of this bullshit behind him.

The kissing bridge was on the edge of town. It looked a lot more dilapidated than Richie remembered it, the red paint of the bridge peeling into tiny flakes, covering the ground in what reminded Richie of blood. The wooden planks had certainly become more weathered with time, the many carvings on them becoming faded and forgotten.

Except one.

Richie kneeled down, eyes scanning past the faint carvings and finding what he was looking for almost instantly. It was still there, staring proudly back at him almost exactly how he had left it. The carving of the letters R+E had of course faded, but they still sent the same feeling on butterflies singing through Richie’s chest. He smiled at the sight, tears pricking at his eyes as he pulled the utility knife from his pocket and pressed it against the wood, tracing over the letters. The carving darkened, the weathered layer of wood dropping to the concrete and revealing a new layer of wood underneath. It reminded Richie of a snake shedding it’s skin to begin anew.

He supposed that was what he was doing in a way. He was trying his hardest to put all of this trauma and heartbreak behind him, shedding that layer and donning a new one where the only thing he focused on was his set for his shows.

Richie stood, giving the carving one last glance before getting back in his car and getting the hell out of Derry, hoping deep down he would never see that hellhole again.

---

The silence in the rink was becoming suffocating, dropping onto them as it threatened to engulf them both. Roman was sure Virgil was able to hear how painfully fast his heart was thumping away in his ribcage. It rang in his own ears, th-thump, th-thump, th-thump.

“Let me teach you,” He blurted, his mind catching up once his mouth had already made the decision. 

“What?” Virgil asked, confusion taking over from that sweet ‘deer in headlights’ expression his face had held before. Roman felt like Virgil had had a lot of experience with that feeling.

Well, there was no going back now. “You’re good, like, really good, Virgil. I meant it. But, with a bit of practice, you could be great, you could compete if you wanted. This could benefit both of us.”

“That’s crazy. There’s no way I could compete. What could you possibly stand to gain from this?”

Roman let the silence settle between them. From his perspective, Virgil was right, he was just a stranger to him, one that happened to be good at skating. Yet, he was here to stay, for a while at least, and his parents had been begging him to fade into the background for a while, to take a step back from the ice, the one thing he loved. What better way to get the best of both worlds than to teach a shy boy that was undeniably cute? - Sure, he wasn’t Roman’s usual type but he was cute nonetheless, he wouldn’t mind seeing that face every day.  That way, he was fading into the background for a little while and still keeping in touch with his favourite thing. A win win right? Now the only obstacle was to convince Virgil. “You shouldn’t underestimate yourself. As for what i get, well I get to see your cute face every day, I'm not gonna pass up an opportunity like that! So, what d’you say?”

Virgil rolled his eyes. “You’re gonna keep bugging me until I give in, aren’t you?” 

Roman sighed dramatically, placing a hand on his chest. “It’s like you’ve known me forever, V.”

“V?” Roman replied, eyebrow raised as though it was the most obvious thing in the world. Which, in hindsight, it probably was.

“Yeah, short for Virgil?”

“I know my own name genius, but why the nickname?” Virgil retorted, crossing his arms and slightly tilting his head. 

“I give all my friends nicknames, and since I'll be teaching you all of my magnificent skills, i thought we should make this friendship we have official.”

“Is that what you’d call it? I literally met you a few days ago. I barely know you.” 

“What are we then? Acquaintances? Strangers? Lovers?” Roman retorted, raising an eyebrow.

“I am definitely not your lover!” Virgil spluttered, his skates slipping slightly as he grabbed the edge of the rink. His cheeks had heated up even more, what was once a slight pink was now a deep red. One that showed easily through the patched where his foundation had rubbed away, leaving red splotches across what had been a pale canvas. 

“Well if we’re not any of those things then we must be friends!” Roman exclaimed, grinning. Virgil was too cute when he was blushing. Roman made sure to file away a mental note to make him blush more often.

“You can’t be though. I don’t have... friends,” Virgil muttered, barely loud enough for Roman to hear. His heart sank at that. Virgil had grown up here, right? He had to have at least some friends, people he had met in high school or even earlier. Did he really mean it?

Roman’s smile softened into something calmer, one that held an essence of sympathy in it. “Then how about i’m your teacher for now. We’ll go from there.”

“That doesn’t sound too bad. I can live with that.”

“I’m still calling you V though. It suits you.”

“It suits me?” Virgil parroted, eyes narrowing and he crossed his arms. 

“Yeah! It’s as mysterious as you are!” Roman laughed as Virgil scowled at him. “I’m only kidding, string bean.”

“String bean?! I think you’ll find i am-”

Virgil’s rant was cut short by an electronic chiming noise to the right of them. Roman’s phone sat there, his lit up lock screen obscured by some incoming text on the screen. Roman stepped out over the step at the entrance of the rink, leaning down and picking up his phone to read it. His mother’s name flashed across the screen, asking where the hell he was. Damn! He’d forgotten about that stupid meeting with his PR manager.

“Crap! I’ve got to go. I’ll see you here tomorrow. Six-thirty?” Roman asked, sitting down and pulling his skates back off and throwing them into his gym bag before pulling his converse back on. He shot up, hurrying up the steps that led to the exit. He paused as he placed his hand on the door, ready to push it open ad rush out of there. He looked back at Virgil, who was still standing at the side of the rink. 

“I’ll be here.”

“Perfect, see you tomorrow, V!” The door slammed behind him. He booked it out of the ice rink, running past the many shops of the high street. The panic that had engulfed his mind held drifted into the background, the image of an out of breath Virgil with flushed cheeks taking its place.

But, of course, Patton had been insistent that he join him and his work colleague, and long time crush (Virgil, Logan thought he vaguely recalled Patton calling him) to watch the England v France match in a more… lively environment.

So, here he was, crammed into a stuffy pub that had an overwhelming smell of alcohol and BO. The unnaturally hot summer the UK was currently in the grips of did not help inside the building, with it’s lack of air con.  A huge projector screen had been placed on the far wall, the projector hanging precariously over the crowd’s head. 

Part of Logan hoped it would fall down and knock him out. 

“Isn’t this great, Logan?” Patton yelled over the inane chatter of the crowd, throwing an arm over his long suffering roomate. 

“If you say so, Patton,” Logan replied, crossing his arms. 

A roar went over the crowd, especially down Logan’s ear as Patton threw his arms up and cheered loudly, when one of the England players sent the ball flying past the French keeper and straight into the net. Logan sighed, the beginnings of a headache starting to echo around his head. “I’m going to get some air,” her muttered, hoping Patton had somehow heard him over the euphoric cheering. 

Logan turned, pushing his way through the throng of people towards the exit. The humid air outside has never been seen as a good thing, but, as Logan stepped out of the pub, he relished it. 

The air was still overwhelmingly muggy, but an evening breeze had drifted in, bringing with it a brief respite from the stuffy conditions. 

He leaned against the wall, watching as drunk, elated, carefree people stumbled by, cheering and laughing as the made their way from one pub to the next. He wished he could be like that, to be able to let go and not worry about the consequences or if he had to go to work the next day, hangover or not. He sighed, rubbing at his forehead, he would never be like that. 

A hooded figure strolled nonchalantly out of the pub before leaning up beside him, Logan vaguely thought about how the guy must be dying in the dark jeans and black hoodie he wore. 

“Footballs not your thing, huh?” The figure spoke. 

Logan smiled, looking towards the sky. “What gave you that idea?”

“I have no idea, maybe it’s those cute, geeky glasses you wear, or maybe it’s the fact that you look like you’ve just walked straight out of a job interview. It could also be the fact that you looked like you wanted to be anywhere but in there,” The figure chucked, pointing back towards the entrance of the pub. 

“And you were watching me because?” Logan asked, turning and raising an eyebrow. 

“Well it’s not every day i bump into a guy as cute as you.”

“You know, if a guy is flirting with me I usually know what he looks like first.” 

The figure sighed. “I wanted to keep an element of mystery but… you seem like a tough one to crack.”

“I don’t let just anyone get into my pants,” Logan retorted. This back and forth between himself and this mystery man felt oddly… natural. He was never one to slip into an easy conversation with strangers but this felt different. 

He wasn’t sure whether that was good or bad. 

The man raised his arms and lifted his hood down. Logan caught a flash of brown hair before- 

Oh my god. 

“Happy now?” Roman Prince asked, smirking at him before pulling his hood back up. 

“I-I. Y-You’re-” 

“Now you know why i prefer my element of mystery,” Roman smirked. 

“I can’t believe you’re - Why were you in there?” Logan stuttered, pointing back towards the pub. 

“I’ve never been to London before, wanted to see the sights.” 

“And you think a stuffy pub in Camden is a tourist site?”

“I didn’t mean the touristy things. I wanna see the real london, not the photo ops or the money making schemes. I wanna see the little independent coffee shops, the vintage stores, the bustling stores and narrow streets that you could get lost in. I wanna see the London people fall in love with.” 

Well, if Logan wasn’t already whipped for Roman Prince he certainly was now. “Aren’t you a little warm dressed like that? It’s over thirty degrees out here.”

Roman shrugged. “I’m from the west coast, it can get to double that there. I think i can handle it.” 

Logan wanted to see what else he could handle.

“Hey Logan, there you are! I’ve been looking everywhere for you,” Patton came bounding out of the pub, face red, lips swollen and eyes gleaming. Logan could easily guess what Patton had been doing with a certain work colleague while ‘searching’ for him. “Oh! Who’s your friend?” 

“I’m no one. Just a guy who’s been bothering your friend,” Roman cut in before Logan could answer. “It was nice to meet you, Logan.” He held out a hand. 

Logan accepted the handshake. He blinked, feeling a piece of paper being slid into his hand before Roman pulled back. 

“See you round,” He winked. 

Logan watched as he turned and walked away before rounding the corner and disappearing out of sight. 

“Well that was… odd. Who was he, Logan?” 

Logan looked down at the piece of paper scrunched up in his fist. He opened his hand and unfolded the paper. A number was written there in handwriting that could almost be classed as calligraphy.

‘Roman Prince. Call me. ;)’

It reminded Logan of the Charlotte Bronte books he’d been forced to read in college. The ones where the guy had come in and swept the girl off her feet. The ones where he had imagined the men sweeping him off his feet.  

Yes, he could. His revelation under the watchful eyes of the skating poster in his room had brought memories crashing back. The feeling of the ice rushing beneath the blades of his skates, the air whipping past his face as the built up speed, the adrenaline of it all just wiping everything else away. It reminded him of why he loved it. Also, it was a Tuesday morning, a day known to be quiet and no classes were scheduled for another couple of hours. 

Virgil stepped forward, wobbling unsteady on the slippery surface. Damn he was rusty. Pushing himself away from the barriers, he stumbled forward, almost tripping as he went. He stopped himself at the opposite side, gripping onto the safety bar. He sighed, pushing the hair out of his eyes. This used to be like second nature. He thought of Roman, the way he glided through the air effortlessly, like he was born to be there.

Should he tell Roman he knew who he was? The guy was obviously trying to lay low for a while, at least according to the numerous articles he’d read into the early hours of the morning. Would it just make things weird if he told him he had a poster of the damn guy on his wall? 

The answer was most likely yes. There was no need to make things weird, if he saw Roman again, he’d keep quiet about it. 

Virgil closed his eyes, letting himself feel the ice beneath his skates. The smoothness of it as he glided across, the slight track the skates left in their wake, the slight hiss it made in contact with the skating blades. 

He could do this, he knew he could. Skating forward, he dipped into a simple glide, letting one foot lift off the floor. And just like that, the muscle memory was back. 

Virgil smiled as he spun into a teardrop spin, arching his back as he lifted his leg back towards his head, spinning one, two, three, four times, before coming to a stop and taking off down the rink. He dipped down to let his fingers brush against the ice before standing again and gaining speed. He’d forgotten how amazing this felt. The adrenaline of gliding was addictive, a force that seemed wholly unstoppable- “I thought you said you didn’t skate?” 

Virgil’s head whipped around, his eyes landing on a smiling Roman Prince. He flailed, trying to bring himself to a stop before- 

He crashed straight into the barrier. “Goodness! Are you alright?” Roman shouted, the sound of his footsteps hurrying towards Virgil. A wave of embarrassment flared up, hot and fierce. It creeped up his body, flushing his face a deep shade of red. “I’m fine,” he sighed, propping himself up into a sitting position, his legs pushed out awkwardly in front of him.

“That was quite a tumble,” Roman exclaimed, his face popping over the edge of the rink. 

“Yeah, thanks for pointing that out, genius,” Virgil glowered, pulling himself back onto his feet. “Look,” He started, rubbing the back of his neck, “can we just… forget this ever happened. I don’t really skate anymore. This was just… a mistake.” He turned, making his way toward the exit. 

“Why don’t you skate anymore?” Roman asked, tilting his head. 

“What? Why do you want to know?” 

“Because I-” Roman started, looking away. “You have good technique, I can tell. But your posture is all off. You could have easily gotten two more rotations out of that teardrop spin. Let me show you.”

“Excuse me?” 

“Let me show you,” Roman repeated, hurriedly pulling on his skates and stepping onto the rink. 

“No i - i don’t think that’s a good idea.” 

“Awe come on, indulge me.” 

“Fine,” Virgil sighed. 

Roman skated up behind him, placing a hand on the small of his back and another on his shoulder, pulling him up straight. 

‘I know who you are. I know who you are. I know who you are.’

“Straighten up, you’re never going to get the speed or height you’re looking for slouching like that.”

Virgil held the posture, all too aware of Roman’s hands on him. They burned the areas they touched, leaving a scorching trail in their wake. Coupled with Roman’s body heat, Virgil felt like he was about to explode. 

“Now, follow my lead,” Roam whispered, his breath hitting Virgil’s ear. He removed his hand from his shoulder, taking his hand instead. Roman skated back, into a simple crossover, pulling Virgil with him. 

Virgil went willingly, following Roman’s lead. He skated back, crossing his feet over one another has they rounded a corner. The air flying past his was a dizzying opposition to the warm presence of Roman behind him. 

“Trust me for a second?” Roman asked, pulling them around into a loop. 

Virgil breathed deeply and nodded, his mouth going dry. “Okay, i trust you.”

Roman’s hand on his back slid around, landing on his hip. “Jump for me, Virgil.”

Virgil did as he was told, he jumped high, reaching upwards towards the roof. 

Roman let go, using his grip on the Virgil’s hip and hand to spin him. 

Virgl felt his feet leaving the ice, felt himself turning in the air. This couldn’t be happening, he’d never even attempted a solo jump with more than one revolution, let alone any jump with a partner. 

He landed perfectly, extending his leg instinctively. He skated around in a circle before spinning to a stop. 

“That was amazing!” Roman exclaimed, hurrying over to where he stood. “You’re amazing!” 

“That was all you,” Virgil countered, dipping his head to hide a blush he felt quickly rising. 

“Hey, look at me,” Roman gently commanded, gently tilting Virgil’s head up with his hand. “It takes two to tango remember?” 

Vigil smiled, Roman’s excitement was contagious. His cheeks were bright and rosy, his eyes glistening. The beanie hat he wore had slipped back slightly, showing a sliver of brown hair beneath. Virgil thought he looked absolutely breathtaking. 

No. He realised. It really, really didn’t. He had countless aides who he trusted would oversee the day to day runnings for him if he only opened his mouth and asked. Logan would oversee them if he asked. But, only he could create those special times with Roman. When was the last time they’d just spent a quiet night in together, binging netflix until they both fell asleep on the sofa? When was the last time they’d spent time with each other that wasn’t rushed hadn't been cut short by a later engagement or emergency that in the end could have waited another hour or two? He couldn’t remember. That was shameful in itself.

Now all that tension had bubbled over. Roman had fled the room, eyes brimming with unshed tears.

And Virgil was the only one to blame.

The rising shame of his actions skittered along his skin, bringing with it that horrifying wave of panicked nausea that reared its ugly head when you knew you’d done something wrong. It was a feeling Virgil was unfortunately familiar with, but one he hadn’t felt since he’d left his old hellhole of a school and met Roman.

The inane chatter of his advisors faded into the background. Everything they had been discussing before now seemed trivial, irrelevant. Virgil could feel Logan’s gaze burning into the side of his head, bringing with it a fresh wave of shame.

How could he have done that? Since when did this matter more than Roman? Since when did anything matter more than Roman? Virgil sighed inaudibly, letting his head hang limply. Pointedly avoiding Logan’s stare. God, he’d messed up so badly.

He knew as soon as he got out of this never ending meeting he’d be getting one of Logan’s lectures, that was inevitable. Then he could go see Roman and try and fix this mess he’d caused. Yet, he couldn’t bring himself to end this ceaseless drivel with a mere wave of his hand.

Why? Because that would mean facing up to his mistakes. It would mean being berated by Logan for being so idiotic and careless. It would mean banging on his own bedroom door, begging and pleading with Roman to let him in so they could just talk . It would mean swallowing his own pride and admitting he has been an idiot. Admitting he’d been weak. And that wasn’t something a ruler could be.

And so he sat there, ashamedly picked it his fingernails as his aides droned on and the intensity of Logan’s gaze increased every moment he didn’t make a move towards that damn door.

The voices of his advisers went numb to his ears. They slipped into the background, allowing him to helplessly slip into his own mind with its never ending whirlpool of anxious thoughts. His eyes glazed over, staring subconsciously at the wall as the memory of Roman running from the room endlessly repeated behind his eyes. “That’s it. I’m staging an intervention,” Logan announced from his left, cutting through the white noise in Virgil’s head while interrupting a particularly riveting conversation on tax rates. He stood, grabbing Virgil’s wrist and yanking him up onto shocked and unprepared legs. “His highness has more important business to attend to.”

Virgil almost tumbled to the floor as Logan practically threw him out into the hallway. “What was that?” Logan demanded, arms crossed and eyebrows knitted together in confusion. “What was what? You’re the one who decided to pull me out here.” “Don’t play dumb with me, Virgil. You know that’s never worked. Why were you still sitting in there when you should have bolted out that door after Roman?” Virgil sighed, his shoulders slumping as his gaze drifted to the tiled floor. “I messed up, Logan, i know that. I just...what if he hates me now? I wouldn’t blame him.” “Virgil,” Logan started. “You know i’ve never been the best at this… emotional business,” he gestured between the two of them. “But the one thing I do know is if you don’t go after him you’re making a mistake. If that had been Patton bursting in there I would have been out the door quicker than you can say infinitesimal. If he doesn’t want to speak to you, give him time. At least you can say you’ve tried.” Virgil nodded, his eyes lifting to lock with Logan’s as he gave him a sad smile. “Thanks, Lo.”

“You’re very welcome. Now, go fix things. I can take care of business here,” Logan replied, stepping back and slipping back inside the meeting room.

Virgil turned, wringing his hands together. It was now or never. Glancing one last time at the door, as though Logan was still there to push him forward, he pivoted and took off towards his private quarters.

-----

Back in the room, things weren’t going much better.

Roman paced, his breath coming out in short, distressed huffs. His hands were buried in his hair, gripping the strands as though he could pull the negative thoughts straight out of his head. As though that would make everything better. Why did he ever think this would work out? Nothing worked out for him. Ever since that first fencing lesson it had all been destined to fall apart, and he was powerless to stop it. He was so stupid, too caught up in planning their wedding to realise that Virgil was losing interest in him. That must have been it, wasn’t it? The only explanation for the missed date nights, the late nights spent in meetings he could easily miss. The aids could handle everything inconsequential, the only reason for him to be there would be… If he was avoiding him.

Another sob wrenched itself from his throat. He had never felt so wretched in his whole life. If only- A frantic knock at the door pulled him from his thoughts. “C’mon Ro, open up. It’s me.”

Roman backed away from the door, fixing it with a wide eyed stare as though it had been set on fire. His back hit the window, casting his shadow across the carpeted floor in the late afternoon light. “Just leave me alone!”

“I’m sorry, Roman, I really am. Please just open the door and we can talk about this.” What was there to talk about? The way he’d embarrassed him? How the advisers had turned him away, like a misbehaving child? How Virgil had looked so damn ashamed of him?  

Roman strode toward the door and wrenched it open. “What is there to talk about?” He seethed, “You seemed pretty unwilling to talk to me in there, when others are around. Is that it? Am i your dirty little secret? Or are you just here to tell me that it’s over? To just make up an excuse to save face and get out while you still can.”

Virgil looked stunned. “Roman… I came to apologise. I shouldn’t have treated you that way and I know that.  Why would you think that i’m here to leave you?”

Roman visibly deflated, his eyes filling up with tears as he turned and made his way to sit gingerly on the edge of the couch. Soft footsteps then the slight depression of the couch were the only clues that Virgil had followed him into the room.

“C’mon Ro, talk to me.” “It’s just...you’ve been so distant lately. It’s like dating a ghost. Pat told me to talk to you about it, and that’s exactly what I was going to do but… things didn’t exactly go to plan.”

The silence that followed covered the room like a blanket, the air tuning thick and stuffy. It stretched on and on, until Roman was questioning if Virgil was going to speak again at all. “I’m so sorry Roman. I should have listened to you, it was wrong of me to turn you away like that. From now on, i’m going to make an effort to be around more. Nothing should come before you and I lost sight of that. I’m sorry.”

Roman turned to Virgil with a watery gaze. “You really mean that.”

The London rush hour traffic had always made Roman grind his teeth. The endless beeping of horns was an incessant noise he couldn’t stand. There was always some hold up, and there was always someone who thought it could be fixed by sounding their car horn every five seconds. Roman sighed, in London, every morning was Monday morning.

He gripped the steering while tightly, his knuckles turning white from the pressure. The minutes ticking by on the car’s LCD screen as the radio host indistinctly chattered away did nothing to ease his rising level of stress. It was mornings like this that made him question why he didn’t just choose to take the tube like most commuters. But that was a question he already knew the answer to.

The police radio on the passenger seat crackled to life, jarring Roman out of his thoughts.

“Sir, we have officers at a hostage situation asking for you to attend, south bank, outside Tate Modern.”

Roman’s eyebrows knitted together in confusion as he reached across to grab the radio. “Why me?” Hostage situations were usually a piece of cake, officers were trained to diffuse them.

“The suspect is specifically asking for you, Sir. He won’t speak to anyone else.”

“Crap!” Roman cussed, running through the long list of enemies he’d made in his many years of policing. Which one had finally come back to exact their revenge? “Received. Blue lighting it, will be there in 15.”

“Received.”

Roman dropped the radio back onto the passenger seat before reaching into the adjacent footwell and attaching the now flashing siren light to the top of his car.

The traffic parted for him immediately, bringing a smile to his face, this was one of the many perks his job bought. The car screeched and sped forward as he slammed down the accelerator.

The south bank of London was filled with it’s normal bustle of people. Hassled police officers fought to keep a curious crowd behind the barricade tape that had been erected to cordon off the area. Many were just commuters just looking to add a bit of excitement to their usual, mundane morning.

Roman leaned forward in his seat as he scene came into view. He sighed as he reached over to grab his police issued firearm before stepping out of the car. The glock he had grabbed from the passenger seat glove compartment was securely hidden away in the holster concealed by his jacket.

The crowd eyed him curiously as he pushed his way through and ducked under the tape. The curious stares and whispers no longer bothered him, it all came part and parcel with the job. The constables on duty barely batted an eye at him as the Sergeant jogged up the steps to meet him.

“A crisis negotiator isn’t usually needed on a job like this, Harry. What’s so special about this one?” Roman asked.

“He’ll only speak to you Roman, says he has information you’d want to know.”

“Gimmie five minutes and I’ll have in handcuffs, any details I need to know?”

“Declan Reeves. He mugs a busker, she resists so he pulls a gun on her.” The following police sergeant informed him as he closed in on the two figures backed against the river barrier.

They were more discernible now, a tall man dressed in all black with a bowler hat gripped a crying young woman against his chest, definitely a busker by the smears of chalk on her shaking hands and smeared image of a forest at their feet. A pistol was pressed against the underside of her chin.

“Sounds like a ploy to get our attention. I’ll see to it.” Roman steeled himself and walked forward, allowing his friendly persona he always used in crisis negotiations to fall into place. “Declan? I’m DI Roman Price, I believed you asked for me.”

A smirk crossed Declan’s features, his eyes obscured by the rim of his tipped hat. “Little Roman Price, long time no see.”

Roman inquisitively tipped his head. “I don’t believe we’ve met before.”

“Not in a meeting that you’d remember. You’ve met my employers once before though, and my, was that a fun time!” Declan laughed. It was a deep sound, once that ignited a sense of dread that Roman quickly shook off.

“Well why don’t you let this poor lady go, we both know you don’t want to hurt her. Maybe then we can do some catching up. Y’know, you can tell me who your employers are over a coffee or something.”

“Don’t patronise me! Not if you want to know what really happened to your parents.”

Roman’s eyes widened. “What do you know about my parents?”

“More than you’d think. Little Amelia Price, an up and coming lawyer, and her police sergeant husband. And how they both died. It was so satisfying, watching them both cluelessly step onto a train that wouldn’t reach it’s destination.”

‘’Wha-what?” Roman stuttered, taking a step forward. “What did you do?”

“I’m happy, hope you’re happy too…”

Declan lunged, throwing the petrified busker to the concrete. Roman barely had time to react before an arm locked a tight grip around his neck, and the barrel of a gun pressed to his temple.

Screams of the onlookers echoed in his ears as ARV officers surged down the steps, the lasers of their rifles all pointed squarely at the now laughing offender and his new hostage.

“You don’t want to do this, Declan. These officers are itching for a fatality outcome. We can talk things through,” Roman gasped, his hands reaching up to grip around the arm that held him squarely against Declan.

“Oh, believe me, I’ve wanted to do this for a long time. Finish the job that they started all those years ago.”

“Who started it Declan? I thought you wanted to tell me the truth about what happened.”

“I do…but that’s not what I’ve been paid to do.”

A ear-splitting bang echoed out as the trigger was pulled, and Roman’s world went black.

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30