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❝ nothing built can last forever. and every legend, no matter how great, fades with time. ❞

❝ who are either of us without the other? ❞

❝ it's so much easier for a legend to stay nice and shiny when it's a fond memory... easier to control it. ❞

❝ i'm not proud of it, [name], but i was a little, tiny bit weirdly obsessed with you. ❞

❝ don't make yourselves the villains in my story. ❞

❝ you're totally jealous. ❞

❝ thank you, by the way, for getting arrested with me. no one's ever done anything like that for me before. ❞

❝ soooo... you're not gonna... you don't wanna just, weigh in, with your opinion... or just, say, words. ❞

❝ i’m gonna get my OWN mushrooms. make my OWN stew. disregard my bedtime. break whatever rules i feel like! within reason! ❞

❝ would you rather fight a hundred chicken-sized zombies, or ten zombie-sized chickens? ❞

❝ there are good things left, if you look for them. ❞

❝ that's my body, [name]. my broken, battered body. ❞

❝ they cannot help you. but me? i choose not to. ❞

❝ i hope i’m not imagining things. goodness knows, it’s happened before. ❞

❝ you are resilient. though, sadly... still mortal! ❞

❝ everyone's running away... except for you. ❞

❝ you will be made useful. ❞

❝ oh, and pumpkin pie is the universally loved food? i think not. ❞

❝ you and me have made a pretty good team so far. i'd even call us friends. ❞

❝ i don’t want you to feel forced to keep doing something you don’t want to. i don't wanna be that person. or... or make you feel scared to tell me the truth. ❞

❝ boy. when you put it like that, i almost feel bad. ❞

❝ wow. never knew you cared so much. ❞

❝ haven't you taken enough? ❞

❝ i'm just trying to get used to having 'teammates' and 'people who care about me'. ❞

❝ i hate so much about the way you choose to be. ❞

❝ hopefully they dig a deep hole, bury them in it, surround it with lava, and— sorry. got a little carried away there. ❞

❝ stay safe, okay? ❞

❝ don’t know if you’ve looked in the mirror lately, but i’d watch who you’re calling “goofy.” ❞

❝ you pick up that excuse at the same place you got that haircut? because they're both awful. ❞

❝ no matter what you've done, you're still a person. like everyone else. you can be redeemed. ❞

venus, sera had answered, brows pulling down in confusion. the morning star. a planet just created, where lucifer had been out of earshot and unable to see what the others had been up to. and so he was divinely created lucifer, son of the morning star. the planet was, aptly, named because of the faintest outline of it could be seen at dawn, watching over the garden of eden from a distance, from the heavens. lucifer doesn't doubt that that's what he's supposed to do. yet, he still kicks his feet as he scrunches grass in his gloves, delighted at the stain that appears on pristine fabric. green! fantastic! he giggles boyishly; as much as he's seen grass, it never really gets old. nothing in heaven is ticklish or alive and few things up there make lucifer want to laugh. ( millennia afterward, lucifer would remember it differently, memory nostalgia-tinted and choked by regret. but it wasn't heaven that lucifer hated losing, it was earth, it was the sight of the humans, so full of wonder and curiosity. it was eve. how long he waited for her to show up on his doorstep! to welcome her and to tell her he's sorry she ended up here, but hey, it's not so bad! and if we work together, we can make something beautiful here too — ) the angel isn't sure how long he wandered the garden, imitating animals and scurrying up trees when he sensed the humans' approach, but a golden bleeding heart can't be smothered for too long. he would eventually shed his facade as an observer in favour of becoming the comforter, soothing lilith when she was … sad? angry? he's not entirely sure what it was, but he knew it was painful, could feel that much radiating from her. this garden, a repose and a respite from the hardships of heaven, is supposed to be paradise. lucifer couldn't possibly sit idly by and watch humanity struggle like that. he does recall that it was difficult, at first. despite observing humanity, he couldn't quite discern what they actually wanted. power and control, he figures, and listens carefully to lilith's complaints, reassures her of her own agency, her own strong will. i wish i were half as impressive as you, he remembers saying, remembers it clearly because her expression had changed once he'd said it, softened to something genuinely fond. and his heart ached for her, a strange feeling bubbling up at the base of his stomach. he'd noticed it when he saw them before and had dismissed it as a sort of curiosity. being forced to sit back and just watch from a distance, it didn't feel good. he wanted to go up to them, to imitate them like he had the snakes and the goats and the creatures of the sea. to learn more about them, to run his hands along them and see where they liked to be touched. dogs liked to be touched behind the ears and around their necks. most felines liked just the top of their head. some animals were more finicky than others, but none of them seemed to hate having an angelic hand on them. he'd learned lilith likes his tongue more than his hands, that there are certain places on her body she prefers he touch in some situations and not others. ever curious, lucifer wondered how adam's responses would differ. would he, too, like mouth more than hands? would he want lucifer to touch him elsewhere? lucifer surveyed his form openly, and adam never hid away. didn't know to, lucifer realized belatedly. the angels told the humans never to eat from the tree of knowledge. the fruit looked delicious, and time never rotted it, never soiled its perfect image. but lucifer didn't occupy himself thinking about free will. not until he saw heavenly light, the image of a rib burned behind his lids as a beautiful woman was birthed from it. not tall like lilith and adam. small, subservient. like him.

he hid away from eve at first, not knowing what to do with her. told lilith that she'd been created as a new wife for adam. at first, the two of them spied together, observed the difference in relationship. lilith and adam argued. they couldn't agree, not because they had different ideas, but because neither of them wanted to admit they thought similarly. they dreamed for the sake of being the most original. they viewed the garden as theirs, divinely ordained and gifted to only the most deserving. eve was humble. she followed adam around like a duckling follows her mother. lucifer became enthralled by her. even when lilith's interest in the new couple waned, lucifer still observed. she at least thrown lucifer a bone in the form of appearing to adam and eve, making herself known to them, and by proxy, her relationship with lucifer. adam's grip had tightened on eve's waist. she'd looked utterly delighted. lucifer didn't know if he saw himself in her or if she was created to be bewitching. she haunted his thoughts. he watched, smitten, as she touched and admired every living thing in the garden, observed with eyes of wonderment lucifer hadn't seen on a single created being. he'd always felt ostracized for his awe. yet, here eve was, open amazement on her features, excitement bubbling in her tone as she showed off every bug, leaf, and dewdrop to her new husband. lucifer's teeth gnashed at adam's dismissive tone, his lack of understanding. but there was no opening. eve was always with him, as if she was still a part of his ribcage, just a piece of bone glued into place. lilith fisted a powerful hand into the fabric of his coat and led him away. he followed, lamb to the lion. she was right — adam and eve didn't, shouldn't, matter to them. she had nothing but venom to spew when it came to her former husband, and lucifer was inclined to agree, images of eve's smiling face smouldering in the depths of his heart. he and lilith roamed their garden, and lucifer showed off every bug, leaf, and dewdrop to his wife. and it's all ours, lilith had hummed. how nice it is to own such a beautiful thing. lucifer perfected shape-shifting, would take the shape of an animal with a sudden poof! and lilith would laugh, pinch his beastly cheek and kiss whatever snout he'd sprouted. eden should have been paradise. he had a love that was bursting with it.

yet he'd been strolling on his own one day and heard footsteps. one pair. slithered right up into a tree like a bolt of lightning. he still isn't sure why he did it. there could be only one other person walking through the garden alone: his wife. but he was right to disguise himself, to shroud a heavenly form in leaves and branches. for it was eve walking alone, and lucifer's angelic heart did something it had never done before. it had thumped so hard that he could feel it straining against his ribs, echoing into his throat like the footfall of some fearsome predator. every unit of light in his body suddenly felt hot, almost screaming, finally! as if lucifer was meant to do something. as if he had been created for just this opportunity, a moment alone with earth's newest human. it was dawn, adam had not yet risen, and the thin outline of the morning star smiled down on the garden. with a flash of explosive light, bombastic yet quiet and reverent, lucifer shifted into a more human-like form and appeared before her. "hey there!" he'd greeted her, to which she yelped. immediately, heat rose to lucifer's cheeks, colour suddenly infecting a pure, heavenly being. "sorry! i, uh, don't usually see you alone!" lucifer invented the bow then, stooping before her as if she ranked above him, taking her hand to adorn a kiss atop perfect knuckles. he'd asked her why she was wandering the garden alone. a part of him selfishly wished that adam had driven her, too, away from him. an unknown sensation crackles in his chest, a feeling he decides may be similar to the pain he sees from lilith sometimes, a bitterness and a wrath. but eve speaks in sweet tones and explains that she's seen the sliver of light in the sky, a sight only visible when the new morning dawns with her fresh eyes and beginnings, and lucifer's smile grows adoring and soft, widening on his features. that's what i was named for, he replied, pride clear as day on his face as he tapped the venus-shaped embellishment on his hat. that, my dear, is venus. the morning star that smiles upon the garden.

( he'd never learn that humans would later refer to venus as the planet of love, of desire. would never realize that it was eve who deemed it so. )

unlike lilith and adam, eve was soft-spoken and polite. the two of them chatted through the sunrise, and lucifer marvelled with her at how the light put the garden into an entirely different perspective. felt that wrench in his heart when he saw the awed look on her features, a vice grip in his chest that would only become more and more familiar to him as time stretched on, lazy and warm like a sea lion in the sun. his heart made itself painfully known to him whenever he saw her, when her eyes would light up and she'd tell him about a new delight she had discovered. always punctuating her sentences with, do you think adam will like it? lucifer's reply was always the same: it's beautiful, and it's you showing it to him. how could he not? he couldn't live without seeing that look on her face, and so lucifer began to create. new species of flowers, animals, fish. he placed constellations in the sky for her to marvel at. his heart grew when he was around her, so large it almost felt unbearable. but it was a burden he couldn't imagine himself without. he doesn't know it. doesn't recognize the slow creep of poison infecting a heavenly form. this might have been why the other angels never touched divine garments to the dirt of the earthen floor. lucifer didn't know angels could be corrupted. didn't know there was anything in this paradise that could harm him. but bitterness, his first love, had touched his heart. self-interest seized him. it hadn't overtaken him, but it had coloured blue eyes ever-so-slightly scarlet.

he runs into eve near the end of the day, the evening star of venus visible in the sky once more. the garden is dusky, cloaked in shadow. the fading light clings to eve's form, painting her in a different light. still beautiful, though. oh, always beautiful. the sticky thing of it all is that lucifer knows now what he wants from her. he's caught himself focused on her lips, her breasts, her hips. he's learned from lilith, and lilith from him, what these lingering stares mean. the clench in his chest that he's grown so accustomed to, though … oh, that tells him it's not just her body he desires. he desires her passion, her love for life, her vivacity. she is everything he loves about creation, everything he loves about humanity, in one fantastic package. and lucifer knows he shouldn't. knows he shouldn't and yet he always has. he shouldn't have ever come down to the garden, but he did. shouldn't have interacted with the humans, but he did. shouldn't have watched eve's creation, but he had. shouldn't have hid in a tree, pupils shaking with consuming jealousy, and watched eve bathe herself and adam in the lake, but he did. and he definitely shouldn't be seeking eve out, prowling around in the hopes of running into her, desperately craving another one of their inspiring conversations, another hit of that connection they share. "the garden looks so different at twilight." his voice is just as soft as that fading sunlight, briefly painting the world in gold before the warmth of the day goes to sleep, gives into the shadowy night. "the day — wow, i mean, the day's beautiful, but the night's just … " he can't find the words, doesn't think there is one to describe how full his heart feels, seeing eve bathed in the moonlight. "all those things you thought you knew, you see them with fresh new eyes." an idea strikes him then, and the smile that forms across his face betrays his careful planning. gone are excitable flights of whimsy. lucifer practically glows with want. "and! there are certain creatures you'll only see after dark. owls, foxes, aardvarks … " lilith had named those, adam fast asleep as she perused and claimed them her own. "come to think of it, sweetheart … have you ever seen a moonflower?" lucifer's smile only grows wider, pride blossoming in his twitching, tainted soul. "they're beautiful, sweet-smelling, and they only bloom at night. i could fly you there, if you want." six wings sprout from his back, white and blue and heavenly. and before she can protest, he adds, "maybe you could bring one back for adam." name in sing-song, tempting, lyrical. extends a hand, heart burst and gushing in his ribcage. "what do you say?"

so time is spent trailed after imprints left by man, curled around him until you find space to fit. there’s a tender parting just for that, right where one expects ; the side where you'd been removed from, slightly easier and softer than what lies against grass. he doesn't feel your weight, the tickle of mousy hair, just lays still and allows you a comfortable place to rest. life goes on. you spend entire strolls drifting off paths to burrow a face in bushes, gently poking your nose into empty tree bark so you may see what little creature has made home there. eagerly petting fluffy manes that make fingers twitch with a need to thread through dusty hair instead. eternally stuck in eye corners as things fly about, buzzing, while other animals nudge up against your legs. your hair is chewed on, tugged, and your hands constantly find a head to settle upon. names are kept inside rosy cheeks : tigers, otters, and swallows. beetles, ants, and caterpillars. stars shape your face, mouth moving like the loving touch of wind, because isn't this so pretty? how blessed they are to be here, unfurled under an endless sky as if they're ferns -- standing beside all other forms of life, free to smell and taste and see. your husband quickly tells you it's not about being blessed at all, his own mouth slanted into an odd up-and-down, chest puffed ( like a bird, you think ) when he says it's merely his. everything here was made for him, for his children, for the slow crawl forward of mankind. you don't exactly remember what else he said, although his face seemed to bloom at the end, where he then said for us. we're not gifted to be here, when this is all for us. faithfully, you nodded. gratefully accepting adam’s word as holy truths that are stored inside, shown between every lash that bats just for him. but it's in the after, dew hanging shapely leaves low, where you step forward as eve and find yourself not understanding. agreeing? it's confusing, because he's the word of angels, your guide, yet features twist and wilt ; this isn't yours, the land here only owned by you as much as the beasts who dwell here can claim it. maybe it's adam’s. maybe it’s lilith’s. but you know this garden isn't really yours. and that's wonderful! … being allowed to roam and laugh, giggling against wet dirt or a voice carrying in a splash of water, breathing air shared by flaring nostrils, body gaining marks from feasts and a life lived. this beautiful place is better off without you labeling it : mine. you're made for adam, and this place was made for him, and that's all.

still, this tiny thought, so personal and unsaid, sprouts newness across shoulder blades, a difference taken down to wiggling toes. you begin to wonder when adam is lulled by slumber for longer than your own body allows, company unneeded since he’ll rise soon, and you'll be back before then. will bow at your knees, cradle his face between hands and let him awake with a hairy cheek squished into your lap. but for now, you follow the tail of light stroked through dark skies ; ground almost uneven from how balance wavers, swayed too far one side, a mark twitching like wet noses, right where you shelter your other half’s rib. would fall into his shoulder if he walked with you. but there's no adam, no smile, so all you're able to do is right yourself and keep going. dutifully close behind colors that warm skin from the inside out, colors that are so, so heavenly. brightness glows and everything glows with it, changing into something softer, lighter shades of what were previously carried. it was then, in a burst, you see that blue again and make sense of something before it's explained to you. lucifer is as your mind remembers : kind ( he bends his back like he's trying to touch soil, takes your fingers and easily parts them, like he wants to hold each one individually ; lips brushing there, on top, which causes you to laugh and laugh because it's nice, sweet, a word that used to just be for berries now fitted for this, ) and full of this … wonder. he asks after you, when have you ever been asked anything before? words babble out in bursts of conversation, answering immediately despite hiding behind streaks of auburn hair all the while. his attention doesn't waver like you're expecting, a breath caught tight in what little chest you have, and he’ll smile so differently than you're used to. looks softer, long like adam’s but less -- is there a word for it? less shallow. less brief. gaze watches wings unfold, much more angelic beneath morning light, and maybe that's on purpose, maybe what lucifer was made for, because he shares knowledge of a world you'll never touch. that's what i was named for, he said with a tap to his head, that, my dear, is venus. there, seated upon his oddly shaped skull, is a form, one that moves fingers up for the sake of touching. wanting. how would it feel? except arms fall back down, in love with natural gravity, before there's any brushing contact. instead you stare. bat your starry eyes. finally laying a statement at his feet as though an offering ( “ like you! ” directs energy towards curved lips, smiling on the garden. just like venus! his name, his role among them, ) and somehow it feels better than the questions, than showing off whatever bugs you might find. that smile shines like his skin and the skies above them and eve, you, find yourself tangled within it. ensnared, tied willingly against the tree your warm back leans into. time stretches forward endlessly between this and later, a later you'll share only with adam, a later that always feels shorter than it should ; whereas here there's forever meadows, an above that soaks fur lighter, makes lucifer’s hair look like a rabbit’s coat. i like mornings, you’ll decide as eve and only her, one look not so secretly spared at the angel lounging beside you, with you, him, with all this. ungraceful. imperfect. unlike the garden, except exactly like it too.

( eve, silly woman, heartful girl : every word said out loud & these sentiments may never make the bible, but they'll make it into the chest that lay beside her back then. because the serpent hears it all, and it curses him enough for a damnation she'll receive tenfold. seducing, they'll call it, temptation. but he's only given the first woman what was shared with him first. an eye for an eye, a kiss for a kiss, & a confession for another )

adam doesn't come calling, although he never shall need to, when human ears could hear his heart’s steady song acres away. so you must leave, because he’ll wake soon and when he does, he’ll need you beside him. to keep the sun out his eyes, to groom his hair and skin, to tend his hallowed side so he’ll never be left walking alone ever again. the same old story : eve goes to her husband. but there's tucked away chapters, new tales, verses that say : you’ll always come back to venus too.

and so you do, in little ways that adam won't notice. paths crossed accidently but you reap what's sowed, more than content with happenstance. in hearing flapping wings overhead, a chin tipped to catch before he’ll land into your upturned palms willingly. gracing the land beside as feet part the grass beneath him, equally alone, with no wife of eden to be seen. occasionally, new eyes wish to catch the first woman more. gaze upon features and be able to trace exactly where they differ, understand what makes lilith perfect for lucifer and what about eve was built to create you as adam’s perfect bride. it couldn't just be a rib up against dirt. couldn't be so easy, could it? glimpses of sharp curves that look like stone and skin that fits around bone tightly, her more kept hair, her night eyes. adam enjoys daylight and water -- melts best when your hands are wet, sun looking down at them without a smile, but still bathing earth's first man exactly as he likes it. pulls of hair becoming softer in drowsy light. maybe lucifer isn't entirely his name, maybe he likes the opposite of mornings and sunshine more. and this is where lilith fits to him as you fit to your own husband ; two opposites, different mounds of flesh and different colored eyes. here, out under the twilight, you feel like you could almost be her, with lavender skin and awashed in pinks instead of reds. quietly do you watch an ever faded sun while lucifer chitters like any other woodland creature ; perfectly capturing those hisses, a tongue that slips between his maw of teeth. talks about the garden, the night, their neighbors with such love in his heart, and throughout your head tips and your narrow shoulders shake from joy. listens, loyal, delicately sat up on the ground they tread and your fingers close around blades of grass all the while. petting like you would a deer’s snout. or adam’s back. or lucifer’s wings … that wonderful tenderness reflected in your eyes as plush lips move around excitable words, “ oh, that sounds amazing! i wish i could see, ” a whine, tempered and yielding, “ but adam needs his rest, so i never get to be out late. can you imagine? eden in darkness? ” blurts out thoughts half created, senseless but felt in every cooling limb. yearns to see these nightly beasts and aardvarks, whatever those are. tries not to squirm where your body lofts, excited -- endlessly enamored, taken, by eden in all its blessed sights. by lucifer, who seems to glow brighter under the slow seep of moonlight ; skin pristine and holy, you think, but still welcoming. it's then he talks about a moonflower ( and no, you haven't seen one before! but how you want to! see, smell, taste? can you eat flowers? well, you can feel -- you'd like that too! ) and you're already stumbling to your feet, eager like a little one, except you start wilting into yourself last second. but adam, your heart catches, rightfully swayed back to where it belongs. where eve should be. but you, your head aches, rooted and sprouting right here, on wavering feet and eyes struck on six ( six! ) wings that gracefully extend from a perfect back. the angelic blue already looks darker against blackening skies, but it's still everything to you. and before you can make your own decision he offers his hand and another out, curated just for this and you and you don't even know that yet, but you arch forward to accept. earnestly, “ do you think adam will like it? ”

he doesn't know why exhausted feet carry him to clementine's door, except that he does. if there's anyone who would get how it feels to have a gaping hole by his side, it would be her. he feels like she'd understand everything about him, a crazy thought, but it's one he keeps coming back to, a tug in his heart and an ache in his chest insisting that he needs to see her. at least it wasn't aj, he keeps thinking, heart skipping beats to the point he feels he'll black out from a lack of oxygen. at least she only has to imagine how this feels. he doesn't know that she already knows what it's like to have your boy ripped from your arms, to have to fight tooth and nail to get him back. mitch has already killed two of their ranks, their bodies, still human, littering the courtyard. if he hadn't gotten separated from willy, he'd have killed every last one of them before he let them take his boy, or he'd die trying.

small fucking blessing, he tells himself, because he's of more use alive than dead right now. one of the few fighters left in the group. staging a rescue mission is a no-brainer at this point. he'd rather die than let willy stay there, alone and scared, longer than he has to. wonders with a stab to his chest, a sudden sharp pain in his neck, if willy remembers what mitch taught him or if he's ... resorting to old behaviour. mitch grimaces. they wouldn't want his boy as a soldier ( even the ericson kids didn't ), which means they're running on borrowed time. that thought, visceral and petrifying, leads him to burst into clem's room without even knocking. only realizing his mistake when he sees both of them jump with surprise. "sorry," mitch starts. "fuck — " and with a quick, guilty glance to aj, he corrects, "shi — darn. uh, sorry. again."

he feels profoundly stupid, the daring draining out of him in an instant, and a face flashes into his mind. louis. he takes turns grieving, different faces coming to mind and making him feel sick. louis is one of the older ones, but he's always been lackadaisical in nature. he and minerva made a good pair, that way, always the life of the party and the eternal goofballs. he wonders if louis has seen her and sophie at the compound. he almost curses under his breath again, but after a glance at aj with his serious, assessing expression, he simply heaves a sigh, so deep it makes his shoulders sag visibly.

there's an unspoken question in the air, a what do you want? or even a, did something happen? that forces mitch to try and get his shit together. doesn't want to alarm the two of them more than he already has, nor is he keen on making a horrible impression on them. the last thing he wants is to be seen as a liability. not when he needs to get on that boat, scoop willy up in his arms and press his face into the kid's hair himself, no matter how embarrassing he might find being smothered in front of his friends. "i needed to see you," he bursts out, staring directly at clementine before his cheeks heat and he steals a look at aj. "both of you." it's a quick correction, but it's technically true. mitch didn't realize how badly he needed to see that the little spitfire was safe in bed, that at least two of the three little ones were still safe. makes a mental note to pop in on tenn and see how he's doing. ruby, he thinks with a tug to his heart, and only presses his lips together in silent respect. she did the right thing, something mitch would have done in a heartbeat had he only been closer to the kid. tries for levity and rolls his shoulders. "we need you two. it would've ... i mean ... " catches himself gravitating towards clementine, wanting to grab her arm, and keeps himself in check, staring at the floor.

at the end of things, he was terrified. terrified that they'd lose clem, too, their unofficial leader and their hope and the person mitch kept scanning for in the crowd. he loves everyone at this school, obviously, but green eyes kept searching for her. even crushed her into a hug as soon as the danger was over, yanking away quick and with a cleared throat when he realized. it's remembering that that makes it crystal clear to him he needs to speak to clem alone, doesn't want to freak aj out or give him anything to worry about. glances at aj, wanting him to know over all else there's no bad blood between 'em, not now, not when the stakes are so high. "is it okay if i borrow your mom a sec?" glances awkwardly at clem before adding, "or should i ... come back another time? once he's settled?" remembers how clingy willy would get when he was that age, not wanting to disrupt the bedtime routine under any circumstances. he had to be able to see mitch before he dropped off. maybe aj's the same way. he's a warrior, but he's still a fucking kid.

can see abel, as perfect as ruby but blurred by motion, alive, because that's how she left him. bound with rope, broken with rot. noticed the strained silence in aj afterwards, compassion curved into a frowning mouth, watered across his living eyes. didn't dare touch it then, because what the fuck was she supposed to say? she's sorry? she feels bad? it’d be a lie, so the girl just wiggles further into unsteady quiet, softly rolling the ball in his court instead. for him to think about how he feels without an opinion squeezing hotly around his wrist. maybe she could explain herself, if gold eyes saw an opening, about doing what must be done. a lesson in proving strength, since that's the only thing these raiders will listen to. about how marlon wasn't a monster, but these people are, and they'll only take and take until no mercy is shown.

( it's what people like kenny knew, something he could see from the very start. carver was worse than walkers or those first world raiders, desperate enough to hold on and someone who had the power to chase you. perched too high on pedestals, secured by too much support, which has bullets and punches barely making a difference. learned quickly from standing there, watching metal cave in skin and bone, that this is how these things must end. you can't just kill the body, you have to ruin everything they've built too. strangle it into something meaningless. turn it into taunts. whatever means used must have the effect of seeing their big talk crumble in on itself, shriveled and succumbing to pain. like they were nothing but another stain soaked into solid ground, forgotten as easily too. carver needed that ending, so did abel, and so does lilly. she’ll never feel remorse for giving people who kill and kidnap what they deserve … though something in her, in the face of conflicted big eyes, almost wishes she did. would make things easier if she could )

a creaky floorboard squeals somewhere past their room, head briefly tilting towards sound before waiting. shoulders shift into herself, tensing. vi stood her ground earlier today ( “ we need rest. real rest, before we go charging into fucking gunfire, ” ) though that didn't mean she was expecting an undisturbed night. those raiders could be back any second, or the undead, or worse, more strangers could appear and it’ll be another problem to bury their filthy hands into. anything can happen. and she kinda wants it to, an itch scrawling up a chilled spine, this worried rush that can't be shaked. too ready for something she's now waiting for … sat and poised like a hunter ready, one leg slumping towards even ground without a noise made ; finding leverage to already haul herself on to steady feet. ears delicately pushing past the busy noise of aj’s breathing, his body weight heaved against his ratty mattress, and instead sharpens towards behind the door. expects thin blonde hair and sulky posture, soft vibrations of a low voice that belongs to their leader, her best friend. sounds vague in her mind, having someone she can call that, as if this is first grade and she's little all over again. bright, bushy tailed, happy to squeeze in between the other girls so they can call boys gross and declare who's closer with who. can’t remember who was hers back before everything went to hell. bethony? samatha? someone fierce and fast probably. might've liked those qualities, as adventurous as she used to be. before adventuring turned into a chore, a word lost forever when travel was expected -- always keep moving. still, clem can gingerly admit it's been nice. friends. crushes, she thinks with a lingering grimace. things which made every hard fought battle worth it, despite knowing there's preventable losses rested squarely against a purpling sternum. uncomfortably knotting there like welts, darkened and swollen.

mind eases away from musical teasing aimed at aasim ( away from patented thanks, smart green eyes ) for settlement anywhere else yet again. sometimes it feels as though parts of her will never stop running. no more finicky floorboards groan, and a breath she'd held safely inside breezes out in wisps of hot air that colors her waning mood. broken walls shrink further in, boxing frayed worries inside a box she can't escape from. if vi didn't need her, wouldn't allow her out, then … in dying embers of final thought, wood meets damaged walls with an awful crashing sound that rings between two ears like a dinner bell. leaps to readied feet instantly, the scarred tissue making up her left hand swinging back, back towards a makeshift sheath dug into tight pants. already fisting the blade’s handle between vice-tight fingers and drawing it, crimson stained steel gleaming under what little moonlight peeks in. when instinct finally bleeds out of her, all she's left with is someone blocking their only exit and entry. tall, filled out by muscle, and body reared back just like her own. mitch. not exactly someone easy to miss. clem glances down, heart shooting to rest oddly near parched vocal cords, embarrassed, all while attempting for a smooth motion ; putting her knife back where it belongs. cautiously hoping he didn't see it, aware of how that could look. they're good now, have been better than ever actually, still generously given smiles in ample amounts, winning a few kind words with an ease she’s been quietly practicing … two arms wrapped tightly around her tired frame, crushed into smokey clothes and expansive areas of skin, held close enough for something to break inside. a more comforting heat than flames, but still gone too soon. clem has been very careful to not prod the memory since.

lips perk at his slew of apologies, allowing herself more ease ; shaking away bent knees and hitched shoulders for casually crossed arms, a straightened back. looks to aj after mitch does and already catches him staring back at her, clearly seeking some light guiding. naturally offers it up, “ it’s fine. right, aj? ” before letting goofball have the floor. pride crashing through yellow hues like waves when he nods in agreement, at how his quietened tone smooths over any remaining stress by simply saying : yeah, it's okay. you've sweared before. feels her cheeks strain from a smile widening at his error, sweared, and coaxes out a correction. “ swore, ” head shaking softly with bubbled laughter, “ he swore before. not sweared. ”

“ swore. ” aj’s face crumples in thought, sounds the new word out so he’ll understand it better. every syllable, every mash of letters. he looks at mitch again, “ you’ve swore before. it's okay. ” clem knows she'll get an earful later about how come it's fine for other kids to swear when he can't, but she’ll deal with that later, when it actually arrives.

for a precious few moments, this is all there is. her home, rooted in teeth like a cavity, bruised along a cheekbone. somewhere safe. someplace where little girls can stand tall and smile freely, let happiness make permanent residence inside her heart without needing to stomp a leathered foot over it ; snubbed out for safety, same way she remembers someone freckled and accented doing it, way before, with something tiny. feels flames grow into kindling whispers at personalized walls and mitch’s cute fumbling and aj utilizing what he's learned. finds that inner warmth elsewhere too, because even if it's strongest here, how could she forget the other places where it's gently raged? felt it behind violet’s swinging meat cleaver and unwavering trust, in louis's lilting voice and gift of a bow that held the world for him, in omar’s cooked to perfection meals, in aasim’s obvious respect, and in willy's crooked and toothless ear-to-ear smile. kindly wrapped items that come with sharp stings, damaged arrows which hit every bullseye and land ; propelling an injured body back to the reality around them, of dangers lurking in each corner, gaping mouths and soulless-eyes. just waiting for more kids to take, another person to silently sink a knife into until all that's left is the sliver of hilt. those firestarter names dwindled into fresh ash that bleeds soot in its final resting place, staining any kind of surface with soft but heavy grays. insides probably looking a lot like their courtyard pathways do. pressure builds again right between two shoulder blades, right when fresh wounds go rotten near her ribs, and clem presses her mouth together and bears it. places peaceful afters where they gotta go, images of what this could be, could feel like, put on high shelves she can't reach by herself ( which -- yeah, admittedly, is kind of embarrassing … ) because sentiment being hidden away helps.

finds fluttery moth wings stilling when she finally turns back to where mitch camps by their doorway, fretting returning full force as questions form across slanting features : did something happen? am i needed back out there? like a soldier in war, though she'd gladly be one if it was for this school’s odd collection of troubled youth. line drawn between a choice of her choosing versus getting dragged into someone else's right direction, kicking back as teeth bared the whole way there. but then his answer comes, shot out bullet-quick, and it's nothing expected. just that word again, need, needed, all while he stares at her, puncturing the end with you. lashes become flurried clumps of black as she blinks, harsh hands falling from cover to limply hang in candlelight air. even one foot shifts sideways, balance swayed, delicately stricken. finds herself staring wide-eyed and open when mitch shifts closer, stuck in her way despite his chin tucked downward … can hear his muffled laughter from before, although a pink mouth remains closed. past repeats when clem fumbles, just as awkward as before in the face of the boy’s growing sincerity, splaying dirty cheeks crimson in the wake of muffled words. both corners twitch, trying to build one last smile, though flesh twists and curves like a stitched wound ; amateur at every edge, too shy and new. a crush, she thinks again, her battered heart squeezing around the term -- sounds so small when compared to someone so big. then again, so does love, and child, and lee.

“ you really don't have to thank us, ” clementine murmurs, compassion rubbing through to reveal etched designs, “ everyone else helped too. we couldn't have done it without them, or you. ” after all, the boy’s bomb plan had been the heart of their whole defensive strategy. his earnest promises of it working, his fucked up hands cramped and curled from a labor every kid knows too well these days. must've slaved away at that project for hours, a visual that leaves nine fingers aching in sympathy. if things were less awkward ( mm, tense? oof, ) she could see herself asking if he was doing better. if built in tension spilt out immediately when his masterpiece was completed and time had finally run out … or does it linger in his muscles the same way it clamps deep into hers? unshakable, one more thing for the body to be crushed under. it's then sore ears hear him call her aj’s mom, like it's such a fact, like mom and her name can go together, which quiets further questions or selfish wants. swiftly crushed, stabbed, and shot before left decaying on pebbled pathways. moth wings return but there's an added squirming too, something crawling around inside that feels too hot to be safe ; makes a girl shift against tightening insides, ones which freeze in big knots as goofball turns to her again. always listening and seeking. two pairs of eyes, twice the weight, yet she suddenly falters under just one. don't let fear take over, one of her many hurried lessons, so like a survivor she meets it head on.

nods once while lips move, “ we can talk, ” could've said : sure, you can … ‘borrow’ me, except she chooses not to, “ we’ll just be right outside. ” said entirely for aj’s sake, practically thrown at his feet with how trusting gaze falls to him, little but still the toughest boy she knows. the kindest too, even if he can't see that yet. like a good boy he agrees without any complaints -- only happy to let her go because she's agreed, every bone in a small body shaped and sharpened into tools of protection, his keen senses this blanket of security she'll drag with her out past pipe-lined walls. carried loyally alongside the cap she plucks off their nightstand, pure second nature when hole-y material finds its own home on top of her head. stained white providing cover for messy, stringy curls that look more like dust than the mousy brown the sun has bleached it into. unlike most, clem doesn't linger after that. marches forward and saddles mitch with a quick, assessing look ( did the same back in vi’s office, how far they've come since then ) until her shoulder narrowly avoids his to get to the only exit. twisting the handle with an ease she's learned from twisting plenty of sharp-edged weapons over too many years, not waiting long when he shuffles out himself, only sparing a second, one little heartbeat, to give aj a softened smile. mushy and leaking sunlight, an orange gone bad but still ripe. fuzzy hair and that normal, serious face on chubby cheeks disappear into nothingness when she then closes the door. has to remind herself it's okay that way, better for him to be lost behind their bedroom door than where she can't find him easily. better than carts or prisons. than lockers. throat constricts, dry as sandpaper when she swallows around soured spit, steadying herself before turning an all too tall boy’s way.

this road’s been a long one, though long isn’t really in lucifer’s vocabulary like it is for the other sinners. it’s the can’t-be-killed of it all, the dreary droning on and on like radio static, though even that grating sound brings affection to the bottom lids of weary depression-dark eyes. almost feels like it did in the early days, idyllic and beautiful, when he was still a dreamer and thought he could change things. ( ah. huh. technically he’s dreaming again, on second thoughts, considering he’s helping out with charlie’s fantasy-gone-game-plan, but it doesn’t feel the same — guess your hands and heart never work the same once they’ve been burned the first time. ) depression is a word lucifer’s picked up from sinners. a word coined at some point since his fall, which, technically, are all the words. but besides the technicalities and all the fluff, the point is lucifer doesn’t know depression on earth or much of anything about earth. but he hoped, stupidly, that maybe one day he’d sprout his wings and fly past the reaches of those grotesque shadowy hands of depression. feel heavenly light back on his face and see beauty in everything, leaving behind all this exhaustion and horror and grief.

not so! alastor would say with his perpetually-grinning face. a mental image that leaves the king of hell with butterflies in his stomach. the thing about the morningstars is that they find the beauty in everything — they never stop doing it! the apple really didn’t fall far there, marvels lucifer briefly. a face once ugly to the fallen seraphim becoming a doorway to finding the beauty in all manner of grotesque things. thinks about how he’d let alastor tear a chunk off his bottom lip and chew on it like he was sampling meat at the deli and grimaces. yup, even the weird shit and he’s only mildly annoyed about it. could barely muster up the energy to care beyond a dismissive, eh, it’ll grow back. he’s largely gotten over the mortification of wanting to fuck a sinner ( that smells like rotting deer meat, no less ) by this point. which makes sense, considering the radio demon now owns his soul. marriage and all, lilith never had that. a thought that leaves lucifer thinking as he fiddles with rubber and squeaking air. wonders if this relationship he adores more than anything is a better one than he had before. well, lilith never chomped off my fucking lip like a sociopath, grumbles lucifer, and maybe he’s a little more than miffed about that when he removes it from what happened afterwards, a pointed compliment, an, mmm! delicious! in a dated affect, scarlet eyes twitching ravenous in a way lucifer can only interpret as desire. leaving him to lament just how fucked up he’s really become.

really — selling his soul to a sinner. it doesn’t get worse than that. alastor said it best: sinners expect to have their souls sold. the head honcho, though? head honcho usually keeps his. hence why alastor’s so pleased about being owned, considering he got the better end of this whole deal. not that lucifer can complain, being the one that brought it up and all. thought ( still thinks ) of it as sickeningly romantic, a trust he doesn’t think he has for anyone but alastor. a trust he thought he had for lilith, before everything went sideways. but this thing he has with alastor … marriage, he figures, though the thought of it makes him want to kick his feet embarrassingly in delight — this thing they have is good. charlie likes it and thinks it’s sweet, vaggie is … less enthused, but hasn’t said anything ( and can’t, he thinks vindictively, a hellfire stoked in him at the mere thought that someone might dare to come between him and his queen ). it’s been a long, weird road, but it’s forged from mistakes made over and over, not just the one, not just the fall of humanity and the creation of hell, but small cataclysms carving their path into the natural one forward. a gravitational pull that tethers humans to earth and lucifer to alastor. so yeah, he brought up a deal that benefits him way less than alastor, all so he could be the one to hold a blood-soaked soul and call it his own. something that belongs to lucifer alone, that can’t be shared. you can’t trade your soul to more than one person at a time, and maybe it was eve’s before, but she didn’t do anything great with it, so lucifer’s gonna do better. gonna make him feel like there’s a slice of heaven reserved just for him, even in a place as horrid as this one. rests his head on a puffed-out chest every night and feels a tentative weight, almost a claw of a hand, on his back. love, in its purest form. going against all the rules of how things are supposed to be. letting go of pride and falling into compromise. and who wouldn’t sell their soul for that?

all roads, chained & boundless, have never steered him elsewhere, never misled hooved feet down a path that wasn't swollen by pride. alastor preens! his head never bows! has spit blood upon earth and refused anything less than what he deserves! has beat every obstacle that dared to stand in his ruthless way, brought ruin wherever a decayed heart desired … his morality the pinnacle, nothing less nor anything more. aging, rotting, this body couldn't escape a sin curated for itself. list of feats trailed after tattered tailcoats like overlords and their unimpressive remains, long line of accomplishments to adorn battered clothing in splatters ; crimson upon stain, an added branch of antler. although more recent pursuits have led him here, standing tall ( ah-hah! ) beside the very foundation of the sin, shacked one more time to powers not entirely his own. soul given away, in a shriek of finality, because lucifer’s apple-tart core was too good to simply dismiss. lessons stretched high above pasts never sticking like the victories do, so unlike tremors in hands and sweeping pupils and teething ambition. physical ailments. and why yes, such a description is as abhorrent as it sounds, it's nothing he can't handle! the radio demon merely buried under newfound infamy, one fearsome title swapped for another. really, what is pride to someone with hell threaded between tipped fingers? where do mistakes matter when reputation demolishes every structure because it's able? how laughable, how insignificant, to a sinner with the hellish world as his oyster! alastor’s mouth splits and oozes white noise from thrilling reminders, ruffled royal decrees stitching along flesh : choices guided long limbs here, crowned, eternally throned the winner. well dressed chest spindles forward as stale air relaxes against what little skin dare show, unashamed in proudness, broadcasting the topic on a pin drop. frequencies full of talks that embrace his morphing mantle, title a million names to suit whoever's fancy -- definition the one unmovable thing in this tar-black cesspool, a demon in power. a sinner who's danced their way into morningstar royalty. sounds easy put like that ( didn't even have to lift a finger! is the encore that drifts back ) and his stomach coils around rumors of how’s and why’s. they purport him a temptress, a puppeteer! twine at his fingertips rather than a golden band or soul, oh, what an image he must make now. reminiscing while bloody gaze tracks his double’s swirling head in-between gentle hands of creation, crudely imitated laughter snapping out in a piercing bark of ear-splitting noise. all while immortal blood thrums and reeks half-a-step near, homely, and as pestering as who it belongs to.

( who houses it, since belonging is too debatable … lucifer, six winged & red cheeked, in all that he was and will be and is, rests under sure weight. could soundly cage a king, tug what strings of power make him out like entrails, denounce and feast for eternity if he'd like. if he only desired to. everything mercifully kneeled before his whims by handshaken commands. doesn't care about trust, not when it's fostered from fools, though unwavering freedom quietly soothes twitching flesh. unclipped, unchained, unholy : alastor’s soul may still be bound but he's more free than he's ever been in spite. who in their right mind would dare cross him now? who would ever own him again, when ruined grace itself would fell armies over the right to? a bite of sound that's his but isn't whistles past clenched bone, kept but released, shared but his. the demon who once lurked within bronze walls of radio exists entirely outside of barriers, vengeful as a head tilts proudly upward, pride, pride, & pride. nothing fits quite as well, the dead voices say )

drawled humming shocks negative space, zaps wood and skin alike. familiar cracking sound as bones canteen sideways, ears brushing against who's dutifully sat. attention spread thinly from the head honcho and what poor rubber mirror is held up before maroon rimmed features. “ for someone with front row seats, you'd think this would be easier for you. ” visceral delight glows in lidden gaze and drawing brows, flashes of red that almost haze across a nose bridge. lapsing into muffled atmosphere until he breaks it himself with his rolling wrist, staff lifting only to slam back down to garner focus. listen : recorded laughs of his on air roll back, pitched high, rumbled low through the chest, and goodnsess, what a trip down memory lane! programs held dear finished off decades ago but sounding as if they were broadcasted just yesterday. he dusts off nostalgic tendrils before they sink below classy attire to seep and mingle with rotten rind. an eye belatedly opening on his microphone, twice red, seamless as it takes after who wields it, blinking when alastor does and strained open to fill crevices. maddening laughter reeling to a close when foggy light dwindles away, sucking red wisps from tidy room corners so original colors can shine again. the array of white, boring red, and gold. third sight seals shut along with this program, a blissful temporary death, which leaves two souls alone in pierced quiet. such affairs don't grate like they used to, seeing as they aren't choked by an appetizing animosity. flight of burning fancy that would frazzle hairs and tear at clothes … no, no! those times are behind him, lamely rested in what cities of the dead house too-small reputations. betrayals. all there is is whatever afterlife this has become, cocooned in private quarters while shadowed claws parse through districts and the art of deal-making ; seeing deadly teeth reflecting off his own in smiles that grow more present by the day, an eternal buffet of compliments that are mouthed here, or elsewhere, the sorts which mark along putrid skin. it's an acquired taste he might've lacked before, although what is lucifer if not the first temptation? the one who leads flocks away from stubborn paths and into the heart of all evil, all good? twisting body curls closer, fake innocence wilting between a carved cheek bumping into another, one that cushions, catches any falls. understands lucifer will intimately feel the squirming wound beneath his protruding cheek ( life lived and tossed in depravity! one he'll never shake, one he doesn't wish to ) and fuzzed teeth pull ever wider because the king should feel it, the uncomfortable flaps of skin layered together, that promising bite of an eater. two prey ears rear back so they don't get caught in the fray, then his surely missed voice punches out, “ or is it a live demonstration your muse is lacking? ” his staff is pushed to be cradled against fluffed shoulders, gloved finger hastily stabbing sideways -- persistent where it crams into rib. mimicking the rhythmic flow of blood.

// @deathwis ( tanya. ) said: " it did escalate severely after five minutes. "

Anthony had missed the beginning of this particular argument, too busy kicking rocks and moping to rush the walk home from school — but just because he was late doesn't mean he missed out on tonight's family trainwreck entirely. Actually, he got home just in time to witness its explosive conclusion; lucky him.

The sound of the front door's slam is still ringing in his ears, deafening in the silence that follows, and it takes everything in him just to remember how to breathe. ( Everything's falling apart again. ) He can already feel the tension building in his spine, a sure-fire sign of the headache that's to come; maybe he deserves it, though, for being so caught up in his own problems that he didn't realize something might be wrong. He definitely deserves it for still being upset regardless, even underneath all the worry and confusion, even as he's wandering over to Tanya to figure out what the hell went wrong.

( Because yeah, it's not a huge deal to walk through town, seeing as he does it in his spare time anyway — but they'd told him they would pick him up, so he'd waited. Standing in time's agonizing pass while the school slowly emptied out, letting slow realization crush him until he walked away all alone. So now the question burrows under his skin, poisonous and cutting, relentless even when buried under layers of guilt: had his family just forgotten him completely, or was the fighting really just that much more important? Does it even really matter when the outcome is the same either way? )

Of course, when he tries to talk to Tanya, the first response he gets is a flippant one. It's so typical of her that he could scream, but instead he stays silent, beholden to the knot that ties itself around his throat when he thinks of losing her. ( These days, it seems like he always has to swallow around it; it's there when Tanya stays out late, and when Dennis lashes out, and when Megan gets real quiet. It sinks like lead in his stomach when their dad comes home drunk, and when the fighting gets so loud he can hear it over Dennis's records. Some nights, he wakes up in a cold sweat convinced he's already lost them. )

But maybe if he knows what went wrong, he can try to fix it.

he's her buffer, her shining knight in armor, and this isn't news, so why she’s being shoved into reaffirming that is anyone's guess. just allows brittle honesty a passage, flowing out air light and gently fogging mirror surface. crystalized sight that's gone too soon, vaporized by lofty heat, glazes of sun finding ways into the clarke house despite minimal effort of keeping it out. slowly pieces a few puzzles together : her cakey make-up, dennis’ red hot anger burning more than usual, mom’s everything. in that same 'holy' revelation, she suddenly understands her efforts were fruitless in the beauty department, hit with annoyance hard enough for marble features to crumble, pockets of skin knitting together in an area here or there. fine, tanya relents, i’ll go without. painted nails pluck at wet wipes nestled into the crook of decorative furniture, missing fluffy tips by cross hairs ( aggressive swats as though she were an unlucky, blind cat ) before finally hearing a zip! of sound, smears of moisture wetting mushy palms already. begins combing away every flaw tacted to her face as words hang between them, left there swinging. is so used to this, making men wait, leashed and on her line -- only thinking to cut when she feels like doing it. when attention is assured. “ dennis wanted to ‘catch up’, ” voice withers around those two words, “ and that went perfectly for about three seconds. then mom heard us going at it like dogs and … it's the same old story. ” attitude flares, bristling from memory. of becoming her family's favorite hill to pile upon, of bitter tears that curled thick lashes vanishing seconds after they appeared. mind cluttered with get me the fuck out of here, like, now. though that wasn't ever happening, not when she was broke and without a car of her own. so no paris, no big apple, no squat, just a ruined house full of broken toys pretending they're still worth a dime.

and though willy was stuck to mitch's hip, always eagerly running his mouth off about whatever thing has most recently caught his interest, when mitch lingered awkwardly by the old headmaster's office, marlon never seemed to mind explaining some of his plans to the kid. had told the awkward, shy adolescent that he was doing a great thing. even marvelled at mitch's affinity for bombs and traps. it was easy to see that mitch looked up to marlon, trusted his opinion and learned to have faith in the older boy's decisions. even, sometimes, touched his hair and wondered if he'd look just as cool with the same haircut, though he heard the other kids' ribbing at marlon's expense and never bothered to try it out. they all fell easily into their roles after a time — cook, medic, gardener, trap-maker, tactical support, whatever louis did. and mitch stuck to his traps and his role as ... well, he always just said friend, but in his heart of hearts, he knows the feeling that swells up in his chest when he looks at how far willy's come isn't anything but fatherly pride. so mitch, despite his love for bomb-making, never really ventured much into ...

the greenhouse, yeah. a place that's become way more significant to mitch than it's ever been. he's not coward enough to hide that he's looked down on the others a little for childish games of truth or dare and spin the bottle or whatever else. their penchant for getting into messy situations with each other. he knows, because he sees, when relationships spark up and can tell when they inevitably fizzle out. but he's always turned up his nose at them, and he pretends it's out of some sort of moral high ground. like, hello? the apocalypse fucking called, you might wanna stop frenching and pick up the phone! being a judgmental prick is a great distraction from how utterly bitchless he is, anyway. a reality that settles deep in his bones sometimes when he thinks about how he wanted his life to go. he'll be honest, he never had high hopes for it, but he had vague ideas. like a girl who loved him, a dog that ran around in their garden and a kid or two whose laughter livened up a home. he never considered it a tall order back then, way back, when all this started. only now does he realize what a damn pipe dream that was. remembers un-fondly how crushed he'd been after confessing his feelings to a girl, thinking, what the hell? if we're all gonna die, then fuck it, i'll go for it! — only to get brutally turned down, heart torn out and stomped into what looked like walker guts on the wooden floorboards. ( hey, so, uh, you're the best fighter ... girl here, and i'm the best fighter, like ... guy? here, so ... god, he'd sounded so fucking stupid! )

another thing that mitch pretends is that he's never looked too hard at any of the other ericson kids. attention wholly focused on the kid he'd taken under his awkward wing ... or so he likes to front. mitch has been captured by a fair few of his friends ( all older, the kids mitch's age are all dead by now ), heart squeezing in his chest when he looks at them, tongue-tied in their presence, the whole shebang ... but none of them worse than clementine.

from the start, she was wildfire. capable and cool in the face of danger, the kind of person mitch frankly thought didn't exist, couldn't exist. she was a kid their age, younger, and she'd been out there, past the safe zone, with her own kid in tow and neither of them dead yet. he never told her this, but he'd helped marlon wrench her out of the wreckage, pried her out of red-hot metal like he couldn't feel a thing. at the time, all he'd cared about was ... fuck, human altruism or whatever the hell it was. hadn't even realized how beautiful her eyes would be once they opened, and ... shit, he sounds like fucking omar when he's talking about fine herbs. never thought he'd ever be this stupid and act so crazy. sure, he'd liked marlon, but that white-hot anger that exploded out of him ... he still cringes at himself thinking about how he waved a knife in clementine's space, like she couldn't easily disarm him, like he would ever add a scar to her precious face. which — which is stupid! he hated clem for a while there, and that's just as true as how his stomach did flips when they were standing so close to each other. when he jeered at her and claimed she was expendable, and then she just narrowed her eyes in that ( bitchy, hot ) way she does and decided she would just go first, no matter how overrun the greenhouse was with those things. remembers how his heart almost somersaulted out of his chest when that evil fucking walker made a grab at clem, how he couldn't calm down after the fact. it's not a her! he'd shouted, shrill, still thinking about how that inhuman thing could so easily have bitten a chunk out of their best shot out of this whole raider garbage, and it would've been on his watch. his fucking fault.

so maybe he got a little out of hand, wanting to burn the bitch. can anyone blame him? clem definitely didn't, went along with his childishly cruel suggestion and stomped over ruby's feelings with him by her side. and so they started a sick little blaze, sick in the ill sense and not in the fucking metal sense, and he'd thought again about how clementine burns so bright he wants to avert his eyes and creep closer to soak up the rays of warmth all at once. she makes him feel sick in the ill way and the fucking metal way, makes him want to spill all his guts out like a disembowelled dead guy. cramped fingers twitch, imprecise, when he remembers how he'd regaled a near perfect stranger his entire life story, why he got sent to this shithole in the first place in more sentences than he usually musters up in a week. and she'd just looked at him, beautiful and kind, and he'd felt ... insane. felt like he was going mental with how she made his body gear up like he was up against an army of undead fuckwads. all that in mind, you'd wonder why mitch keeps staring at her. every time she shows up, he's casting green-eyed envious hues in her direction. like his twisted stare can't get the memo, even when he'd made a point to look down when he was helping her up into the greenhouse, pointedly avoiding looking at the goods he already knew she was packing in those too-tight jeans, goods he'd already sized up when he hoped she wasn't looking. but his stare isn't just for looking at her body, it's also ... curious. cautiously admiring, even. feels similarly ( though not the same ) as how he did with marlon in the early days, and that scares him.

but he's roused from his thoughts when his perked ears catch clem's snippy tone, eyes widening as he tries to look anywhere but her — settling ultimately on the bomb he continues to fiddle with, as if he could just pretend he wasn't rudely staring, that he's not just as much of a pervert as his own little boy. there's a brief moment where he considers being suave, like — hey yeah, clem, there is something on your face, lemme get that for you. a course of action he ultimately decides against, because — well, what if she asks what was on her face? then mitch'll have nothing to show her, and it'd be weird, weirder than weird. instead, he scowls and fiddles with his fertilizer-propane solution. "there's nothing on your face, alright?" tone too confrontational, like he was caught doing something wrong. "i just, fucking, looked up."

( louis will come around, is what tenn says, a real dreamer through and through. but clem notices everyone else’s silence on the matter and believes the truth’s found there instead. leaders can be replaced but best friends linger forever, invaluable, because it’s love and that's even rarer, and she firmly presses on faded reminders like bruises ; this isn't about being liked. there's nothing necessary about these kids wanting her around. she will earn her keep, secure aj the home she's promised, live a few more years and that's -- that )

except she hasn't stopped liking them, every piece attached to ericson's boarding school for troubled youths. and her … uh, fondness? gratitude? hm, affections? well, whatever’s locked away in this distant heart still burns brightly. a candle which doesn't give out no matter how strongly air knocks against the flame. carrying those small torches prove quite challenging, however, especially when the situation is as fucking fucked as it is. stakes raised, every shadow heightened into a looming figure behind your back, the cost of laziness suddenly too steep to pay honorably. whole thing’s an unorganized clutter of mess, and caring about people only makes everything worse ; screws her head on crookedly and turns sure footing into walker legs, clumsily disjointed in ways that can get others ( and herself ) killed. makes her cowardly, how much she tries not to think about that burnt wick inside, only using it as fuel that’ll push them forward instead of back, but it's what’s right, still makes her braver than marlon. at least she's covered some bases in the middle of all this chaos -- managing tiny accomplishments, like mitch’s change of heart when they'd been in the greenhouse. a token comfort, watching walls too sharp for barbed wire lower and wrangling more smiles out of him than she ever thought she'd see. an added wave of heat, an extra flame, another quiet fear placed in coarse palms, although she eagerly took it then. for the herd of nothingness they had before, conversations so brief clem could repeat them back to anyone who asked, she could admit ( soundly, alone and in her mind ) she liked mitch better than most. gone were fleeting admirations, stilted first impressions of a kid who was super into crafting some knife, scrambled thoughts finally set into something recognizable. solidified into that singular word she's been indulging in, despite a tiny voice tucked in her chest trying to convince her otherwise. learned from watching an arm disconnect from a decayed hand that she can trust him too, and maybe that's the most important thing, more than liking and wanting. being capable and fearless counts for a lot now, so he's squarely been placed next to the other people who’ll see this through. who clem can look to and instinctively know that they’re ready to do what it takes. wouldn't plan around his bomb if she didn't believe in him, if there was ever any doubt. it's this confidence that’s been withering like dead weeds at his glances ; spreading only with time without a word shared. mitch doesn't need to like her but clementine thought ( assumed -- ) he did, or at least could tolerate seeing her loitering around. believed he agreed with her leading them beside the familiar sight of a lanky, hunched blonde. if she was wrong, she'd like to be told as much. air out whatever extra grievances mitch is nursing so they can work together, the way they should, the way they had inside glass walls fogged by condensation. why were things so different now?

catches a soured scowl before his words come out in a bite, all canines and gnashing, which twitches at her frowning mouth. effortlessly mirroring her mean look from earlier before thinking twice, responding just as quick. “ uh, yeah. up at me. ” thumb presses into leather, automatic, a gesture for aj ( me, goofball, it’s me! ) she hasn't bothered nipping. rapid fire teenage frustration bristles out as quick as it comes, fizzling back into humid shame and guilt after speaking -- a place with company, if mitch’s own sidelong look is anything to go by. almond eyes releasing him to openly size up what he’s been slumped over recently. rusty ignitor kept close beside his ‘homemade explosive’, his words. head tilts sideways while she looks, forehead scrunching when dark eyebrows seesaw at what counts as a bomb these days. before her isn't some black ball, round and metallic, it's instead plastic bottles, held together by haphazard tape. is almost gripped by an urge to question it, because how can this blow the raiders back where they came from? nothing about it makes sense to her, though clem refrains from saying anything, not too into openly fretting in the face of someone so critical. gracefully accepts that this isn't her area of expertise and smothers down fragments of curiosity, swallowed until a pink tongue’s wiped clean. probably for the best, given how easy they rile each other up on accident ; hopes it's accidental, anyway. saw passion claw its way across the boy’s face when they found the fertilizer to begin with, sulky nature soaked up at just the idea. for whatever reason, making explosives means a lot to him ( you'd kinda have to be totally blind to not notice ) and it's enough of an interest for her to keep ten feet away for now. wearily nudging sacks of forgeables which lay at black booted feet, breath lodged somewhere between rows of teeth like fishing line, stinging the same too. has half the mind to save them both further embarrassment by slinking back towards marlon’s, vi’s office and offering more help. arm power, strategies, anything. clearly her original plan, barely formed and stupid, wouldn't do anyone any favors so --! … girlish hesitance lifts slowly at what she hears, chin jerking upward while gold eyes expand, fully filling out circular sockets that immediately stick through the older kid sitting near. hood of uncertainty bleeding into shock, helpless against the onslaught of confusion that crashes into her temporarily. doesn't realize she's smiling back already, corners reserved and small but amusement making lips beam, a wilted chuckle slipping past clouded sunshine. “ i don't think that's something you can just find, mitch. pretty sure those are long gone. ” left behind in wacky kid cartoons, or those greyscale westerns she vaguely remembers her mom loving in-between hospital shifts. still, clem takes the bone and doesn't let go, happily adding, “ it would fuck us sideways too, so maybe stick to smaller explosions for now. ” a safer option than what could've burst out of her, too teasing for the occasion : you don't even have a cool hat for that! if there were more bombs to be made for less grim reasons, she could allow herself to say that with no potential regrets. storing words securely under her own hat, filthy yet standing tall in muted blue.

air relatively softer, clem sweeps her gaze across a quiet courtyard to peek at the sky. sunlight barely beating on sensitive eyes thanks for said cap she's never seen without, though the girl squints a little regardless. there were still hours of daylight to go. good. all their time might be borrowed but there isn't a second that they can spare, every trickle of a minute precious and lucky ; and luck counts for a lot, she'd been taught. it's this line of thought which beats her into shape, posture straining to reach full ( miniature ) height, face purposefully stony so exhaustion and pain don't creep in. hidden, tucked out of reach like the best of supplies. squares pinched shoulders that flare in swollen aches at the steeling motion, which only smudges away any lingering trace of a smile, beating back melodic and surprised laughter ( not giggles, clem isn't sure she could even make those sounds anymore ) before facing mitch again. eye contact quickly maintained because it’s respectful, because his smile is more blinding to look at and isn't something that can be shielded by her hat. as a waspy noise of consideration warms her throat, picking at original plans and schedules, she goes for it. says it because someone has to, and that someone is never not her. “ listen, you can't just work on your … bomb, all day. we need everyone pitching in everywhere if we wanna win this. so the way i see it, you have two options : come help me with the back wall, or, ” pauses, grappling for solid ground, “ i teach you how to fight. like, really fight. ” violet said mitch was good in one, gotta be one of the best if the girl felt like clem would be safest with him around. it's an idea that heats a small belly, because it sounds ridiculous, being safer around someone who hates ( hated? ) her, yet it'd been true. she appraisingly steals a look up and down his sat figure, broad and towering, and knows she can work with that. work with it well if allowed. though fixing all the mistakes done on the back walls of the school would be good too, an actual necessity. really, it's mitch’s choice, clem’s fine doing whatever, wouldn't have offered if she wasn't completely willing. besides, it’d be fun to -- hang out more.