gone.

fionn sprawls into a chair, long-limbed and loose, though he feels more like someone who's gone ten rounds in the emotional boxing ring than a guy having a fun night out. he doesn't think anyone has cut straight through to his heart, before, the pieces that he keeps well buried. but he's not alone in pretence, in hiding, he thinks; ilya too is someone who hides behind the figure everyone expects him to be, whether that be party boy or the asshole the media thinks he is. fionn doesn't have ilya's ability to see right through him — or, perhaps, he hasn't the desire to lay someone else's vulnerabilities out on the table, even under the guise of letting them be known — but he can tell that there's more to him. a dark, hurting heart is there, beneath the surface.

he stares, for a long moment, at the bubbles in his glass, the now-melting ice cubes, and sighs, lifting a hand to run it through his hair. ❝ yes, but no. it's not...it's not being noisy, it's being, i don't know. ❞ he looks up at ilya, perched on the table like a fucking god, and shrugs. ❝ being what they want, i suppose. but that sounds...intentional, manipulative. it's not. it's just...amplifying the good parts. ❞ it's not as though fionn wants to be around all of himself, is it? why would anyone else?

❝ what, no hail marys? ❞ fionn's fingers tap against his glass without him realising, gaze straying over to the bar again before it returns to ilya. he shrugs. ❝ i've had worse nights. ❞ oh, fuck. is that what he's doing? is he accepting an unmasking that is also removing several layers of skin, exposing every frayed nerve, not because it feels good to be seen, but because it hurts, too? does he think he deserves that pain? his skin prickles beneath the surface, and he chews his cheek for a long few moments, regarding ilya like he's trying to figure him out. it's a wasted effort; the thoughts are too loud, now. ❝ fuck, i shouldn't even be in a bar right now. i—i'll be outside, i need some air. ❞ he abandons the rest of his drink, a hand patting ilya's shoulder as he passes — a no hard feelings, perhaps, or a be right back he's not sure he means — heading out the back to lean against the wall, breathing too-fast for several crisp lungfuls until he can slow it down.

he shifts his weight, boot scraping softly against concrete below. there is a flicker of something resembling consideration in amber hues before he reaches out, fingers closing around fionn’s forearm — it's not gentle, but it's not rough either — holding for a second longer than necessary before letting go. “you are fine,” he is wholly unimpressed. “this is not a breakdown. this is five minutes of feelings you do not like.” his mouth quirks, sharp and fleeting. “very rude of them, i know.” he glances toward the door, then back. “if you wanted to disappear, you could have done so. you chose fresh air. congratulations.”

JOHN LOGAN HAD ICE IN HIS VEINS, and hockey pumping through his veins. mixed with his blood, and he was lucky that he got to do this with his best friend. garrett graham, the platonic love of his life. he's the captain of the bruins, and playing with him is a beautiful harmony. it's something so wholesome. and it was fun. he fucking loves hockey - it was his favorite thing in the world, and it had been his escape from whatever haunted him at home. now they're in the big leagues, they've made it. they're wearing bruins together - and tonight they were playing ilya rozanov's team. they were on the ice together, getting to feel it out. the way it feels under their skates - both teams getting to move around and feel it out. none of them were playing at home tonight, not their usual crowd. garrett left the ice to do press, but for some odd reason logan had been blessed with the presence of the other team's captain, still on the ice. " i skate like i'm having fun. because i am, " and that was the truth, as hard as ice. as simple as that. " don't you? have fun? - or are you more like a shark, gotta swim or you die? "

some players were like that. the game was all they had. logan thought he might end up like that. but then he had grace, his wife. they got married on a snowy winter night, without anyone knowing, and it was the best day of his life. and even before that, he had garrett. and he knew for a fact, that as look as he got to have his village - he'd be okay. even if it wasn't in the nhl. and for a while it had looked like his dream would be crushed. like he had to say goodbye to it, but then his brother stepped up. took over the logan autoshop. he even got to open THE LOGAN CENTER, a rink for the kids who didn't have a lot. a free place for them to go and skate. " it's the competition, drives men mad. that and hookups. puck bunnies - i bet you get a lot of those, the accent and all that. " a shrug of his shoulders, but then he grins. he might circle graham all he wants - but logan has endless faith in his center. " why would i pick one side when i can keep you on your toes? - i'll be wherever you are, all night on the ice, pretty boy. i'll fight you for every goal. " the challenge makes his eyes sparkle. now that was the thrill of being a defenseman.

❝ fuck me, ❞ he breathes, with a breathless laugh that speaks more of releasing tension than any actual humour; it is as clear an agreement that ilya hit the nail on the head as if he'd agreed vehemently. because he's right; fionn is terrified of his own thoughts, afraid of who he'll be if he stops—stops smiling, stops laughing, stops putting everyone else at ease. scared that the darkness will pull him in again, and this time he won't be able to fight his way out. scared of the sadness, too, that sits deep within him, even though it's always been there.

which means it's a part of him. the deeper truth, which ilya either hasn't picked up on or hasn't said aloud, thank god, is that it means fionn's scared of who that version of himself is. scared that people won't like him at all, if they saw all of him, and he needs to be liked. he wants, desperately, to just be the happy person, the life of the party. a lot of days, he is. but ilya fucking rozanov...he saw the day where he wasn't.

fionn rubs the back of his neck with condensation-cool fingers, gaze dropping to ilya's fingers accidentally brushing his arm. ❝ yeah, ❞ he agrees, picking up his glass and following ilya away from the crowds. the darkness feels like an embrace, but it's too late to hide. god, he feels wrung out. exposed. he'd much rather be naked than this kind of vulnerability. ❝ i dunno, mate, reading into this sounds a lot more fun than whatever the fuck this is. jesus christ. ❞ his smile flashes, brief but bright. god, he wishes he could have a real drink.

he settles for coca cola and the startling agony of being seen.

❝ is this a thing you do? flay people alive for fun? ❞

“people do most of it themselves,” he returns flatly, tone mild, almost dismissive. “i just do not interrupt. much.”

ilya's gaze tracks the flash of fionn’s smile, the effort behind it, and his jaw tightens but he does not bother concealing it. he shifts, fingertips closing around the back of the chair, grounding himself in the curvature of wood. “if you want to hide,” he adds, “you would be louder, yes?” there is no cruelty in it, but no cushioning either. his eyes flicker south to where knuckles brushed flesh earlier, then back up again, sharp and assessing. “you are noisy. people don't like noisy.”

it is true that fionn does not know ilya well. he's only just started watching hockey, solely because he's associating with hockey players, but he doesn't have any of the preconceived ideas of what rozanov must be like that a long time fan would. he's not here for the fame, after all. neither does he really know ilya, the man. they've been together in groups, yeah, but that's not really getting to know someone. but what fionn does have are eyes. without trying to fit the real ilya into the person one thinks he is, like a sticker on a page, fionn can see how good he is with his teammates, a consummate captain.

he can also see his loneliness. perhaps it's only obvious because fionn carries his own, a weight he's hauling round heavier than any of his breathing apparatus, and so well-shielded beneath his smiles and laughter. a near-perfect camouflage.

too needy. yeah. fionn huffs, a soft noise that might be a laugh, might be a scoff, might be nothing at all. there are times fionn feels like that's him, desperately searching for something real among the scattered pieces of liaisons always intended to be casual. he's an idiot, he knows. ❝ yeah, feelings are messy. but they're also real. ❞ he's so scared of being unwanted that he seeks out anything. even that. fuck, even this; a strange conversation with a bloke who somehow pulled off the cloak. fionn shrugs, thanking the bartender as his drink is set before him and swirling the straw around, ice cubes clinking.

❝ i—it's less pretending i don't need people, and more pretending i don't want to be needed. ❞ as a friend, a lover, whatever. just not something that feels ephemeral, gone from his grasp before he can even properly take hold of it. he stares into his coke for a long moment before he looks at ilya, one side of his mouth lifting, cheek dimpling with it. ❝ but yes, it's exhausting. ❞ he sips his drink, turning in his seat to look at the room with a sigh. ❝ we are in a room full of people. most of them are your friends. how the fuck did you notice that on me? ❞

“you fill space before it can decide what to do with you.” his thumb taps once against the rim of his own glass, a restrained tell. “it is not subtle.”

he shifts on the stool, angling closer without crowding, the nearness calculated. there is a warmth there, but it is contained, controlled, one he allows without meaning to. “you say you do not want to be needed, yes?” ilya continues, gaze steady now and unflinching. “i think you do. you do not want to stay longer than you are wanted.” the words come out dry, stripped of consolation. he registers the contact when his knuckles brush fionn’s forearm, an accident he does not apologize for. “people take easy. they stay for what costs them.”

‘ yes,    i am meant to,    ’ she confesses partially,    although it lingers that consumption is not for this tongue,    but rather,    an empire of her own blood.    her conception is one of paternal utilitarianism,     the power that feeds upon her own father’s reign,    the path towards humanity,    she,    the bridge,    a perfect servant disguised as an heiress.    oh but that’s not what she is anymore,    perhaps that’s why she is more delectable.    she is not just destruction,    as her blood beckons,    but creation as her learned magic allows her to be.    she is closer now,    to a divine asura than a mere fiend,    surpassing her own fate.    it must be a sweet and bitter thing for its tastebuds:    all that dark energy.    it could implode and kill them both if eaten.    ‘ but… ’ words choked out,    her throat dry from drooling and heaving,    ‘ i am not what i was meant to be.    not anymore.    ’ she’s almost a perfect meal,    if her power had not risen to make her a deadly one.    

raven finds him.    her ishaan,    through the claims of property and feline tongue.    grooming is some sort of loving tasting,    and she doubts ishaan and the sheitaan will agree on what it means to have her so wickedly intertwined on his thighs and arms.    this is her hope:    the least violent way to make him come back to what he was,    the softness and sensuality of touch she knew not to do by nature,    but would try for him.    it was not fair that in the midst of their experiment he had to be confused between evil and love.    she was supposed to shun away either since youth,    so it’s confusing to her even through the lens of empathy.   

‘ prove it,    then,    ’ it’s harder to negate the need for her demonic side to defend itself,    but she pushes it down until it drowns her,    she’s safe still,    the darkness is her home too.    ‘ bring him back,    ’ she whispers,    ‘ i will let him take me,    you will be fed tonight,    i promise.    ’ the implication is,    not as erotic as it may seem,    although to their kind,    inhuman things tend to find mundane sacrifices of heat and flesh inadequate as tribute.    she has her own rituals to pacify him,    as long it’s ishaan’s tender dark eyes looking up at her.    

prove it, then.

the sheitaan reels — thrilled by her offer, repulsed by her demand. a paradox, a riddle it cannot solve with violence alone. she offers herself and yet wraps it in condition, if he can be mine. her kiss sears, not with passion but recognition. the creature stills, as it is coiled around his spine, talons digging into marrow, undecided between retreat and ruin. ishaan, somewhere sunken deep, feels it. a trickle, a tether. her power doesn’t just taste of jasmine and anguish, it hums with a memory that isn’t his, and yet he aches for it. a moonlight touch on a hospital bed, laughter in the echo of a ruined library, a hand to his cheek during a storm — her faith. she is the storm and the shelter.

his breath catches. something shakes. a shudder not born of thrill but of remorse. the claws at her throat slacken further, not in mercy, but confusion. jaw clenches against her skin. her shadows coil around his arms, and when she embraces rather than strikes, the sheitaan doesn’t understand the restraint. doesn’t know why the hunger begins to curl inward like a dying flame. her offer twists in his chest like a blade lovingly inserted. “i...” the voice cracks. it splits at the seams of demon and man, slips through clenched teeth. “...don’t want to starve anymore.”

his grip falters. his forehead meets hers again, and it is no longer a weapon. it’s a quiet prayer now, pressed close. his eyes flicker, they are not pitch black now, but shuddering and uncertain, rimmed with red and flaring amber. “you… know me,” he rasps. ishaan's voice pours through like oil over stone, fractured but breaking the surface. “you… see me.” a tremor in his shoulder. her name begins to form on his tongue but dies. he chokes on it, a sob dressed in silence. the sheitaan howls inside, unaccepting and venomous, but cornered by her patience, her power, her refusal to break. there is no hunger that can eclipse what he feels.

the longer fionn is here, tonight, the more he feels as though he should leave; the bad days are no longer his entire existence, life spent in a desperate attempt not to feel the way he did, but that doesn't mean the dark clouds have left him entirely. it's hard work, to be as happy and carefree as he portrays himself as, and not always genuine. and tonight...tonight he feels like his smile is painted on. tonight he feels horribly alone, an aching in his chest likely to send him into the arms of the first attractive guy who shows an interest, despite knowing that momentary comfort will fade when one of them gathers his clothes and unceremoniously leaves.

that ilya rozanov is the first person to talk to him feels like the universe laughing at fionn's expense.

❝ what? ❞ he bristles instinctively, as if bracing for impact; his smile falters, and then slips entirely. the instinct is to lie, to say he's fine, to smooth over everything with affable charm. that, or to resort to sarcasm. but fionn bites the inside of his cheek, because how the fuck did someone he only knows casually, existing in the same circles but not actually becoming friends, read him like that?

fionn regards him for a moment, trying to figure him out, a hand running through his own curls. ❝ takes one to know one, yeah? ❞ that's got to be it, surely? fionn can't begin to imagine the demands of being in the public eye all the time. how hard it must be to feel like a product and not a person. another moment and he nods once, sharp. ❝ okay. thanks. ❞ he smiles — smaller, more genuine — and takes a seat beside ilya, ordering a coke from the bartender before offering a hand. ❝ fionn. i know we've been around each other a lot recently but i don't think we were ever properly introduced. ❞

rozanov has not been the only one paying close attention, unless the man is merely presumptuous. if that is the case, then he is simply stupid. whatever. ordinarily, ilya would be countering such a remark with spruced-up humor, a clever barb sharpened just enough to shut him up. but he is tired. not only from game, though it lingers heavy in his bones, but tired of the incessant weight. the endless strain and pressure of expectation until something finally gave. in his last phone call with alexei, it had snapped. the final rubber band in the web. his father had not recognized his voice that day, nor polina's, and ilya was unable to fathom what he was paying his brother for when the imbecile was out eating shit rather than doing the one thing ilya begged of him.

the kingdom falls when its prince is gone; ilya couldn't keep this up much longer — undoubtedly, he would — but he could not, not like this. it is hard.

“ if you keep talking like that, i might have to stay for good. ” he teases, scrunching his nose and leaning in to press a kiss to his boyfriend's forehead as their bodies press together. his tone is joking now, which he hopes won't have any impact on the much more serious discussion they'll be having later. it was the topic of most of his daydreaming on the flight over. it's been the topic of his dreams for days, weeks. being with eddie and christopher was all he wanted.

he finishes up cooking the shrimp, and starts to assemble the tacos for the three of them — three each, which is definitely too much for chris and possibly eddie, but then that way, they won't have to get back up. “ you okay, baby? ” he asks, plates in hand, eyebrow raised as he looks at his boyfriend. buck hears chris start to walk towards the table, so he leans over and quickly kisses eddie before their his son can make any sort of comment.

buck grins as chris excitedly remarks on the tacos, and as soon as everyone else has sat down, he does too. immediately, he takes eddie's hand. “ so, what're we doing after dinner? ” he asks chris, using his free hand to pick up one of the tacos and take a bite. “ i was thinkin' a movie. something easy after a long day of traveling. ” buck turns to look at eddie, winking at him before he takes another bite. truthfully, he wanted to curl up on the couch with his boyfriend. “ there's this new superhero movie i've been wanting to see. what do you guys think? ”

his gaze drifts yet again, out of habit, instinct, scanning the room before he steps away from the stove. christopher is already at the table, proud as ever, holding himself upright in that chair like it’s a throne. there’s flour dust on his sleeve, a smudge near his wrist from the salsa lid, and eddie notes it all, tucking each detail away with the same precision he once reserved for mission reports. some part of him still runs on that clock; still measures safety in stillness, still counts blessings like checkpoints. they’re good, he tells himself. this is home. it’s a mantra more than a thought. when buck’s voice reaches him again, you okay, baby? eddie turns back, one brow lifted, lips curved faintly. “yeah,” he responds simply, because he is fine. he's happy.

when the plates hit the table, eddie’s first instinct is to serve his son; some habits don’t fade, no matter how many years stack up between them. he slides chris’s plate within reach before taking his own seat. his hand intuitively finds buck’s, like muscle memory, like reaching for a prayer. the squeeze is brief but grounding, and when he glances across the table, there’s a softness in his eyes that expresses everything he doesn't say. everything he's saving for later. he takes a bite, chews, then hums; the food’s good. better than good. but what catches in his throat isn’t taste, it’s the realization dawning on him that this — this ordinary, domestic moment that's happened well over one hundred times back in los angeles — is something he used to think would never happen, again.

kelly is almost high off the laugh chris diaz gives him when he reaches to mess his dad's hair. "oooooh, gotta watch the hero hair, huh? are you trying to impress anyone tonight, diaz?" a gleam and twinkle in severide's eyes as he watches the man in front of him. sure he was a bit nervous to be around all of eddie's family, but he would happily do it for them. for chris and eddie, to be an active part of their life. ( especially now that shannon couldn't be anymore ) yeah, she'd come between kelly and where his heart was landing, but he never wanted her to grow wings in the meaning of dying. chris deserved a mother who could be there for him - good thing he had a father who was, and ... a kelly who was too. "just like that, hm?" he nods when eddie starts parting the sea of people like moses, they all respect him so much.

his heart beats louder, harder, as they near the hen of the party. but his hand moves down, finding a smaller hand. one he'd held before. one he hopes to hold for a long time - christopher's. like please never get too old for that, his mind is begging the universe as kelly walks, hand in hand with chris, next to eddie. like he was being guarded on each side by a diaz who had his back - just like he had theirs. like he'd die for them. leaning down to whisper to chris. "does she have as many feathers as i'm picturing in my head?"

he doesn't mean to go into fight mode. but his heart is pacing. he couldn't lose eddie too. he'd lost shay. but losing shay also meant losing the family he'd chosen for himself. losing the ( platonic ) love of his life. the woman he was going to have a family with. his relationships all died - but shay was the first one to stop breathing. and then eddie entered, and he dared to speak of himself dying. like eddie could read his fears. losing another one he loves, watching eddie be taken off the vent. who'd take care of chris? would he leave for texas again? go live with shannon? until she gave up on him again. and what then? eddie's parents? that wasn't a fucking viable option. the thoughts are racing, along with the blood in his veins - his heart going: thump, thump, thump. too fast. he feels dizzy, like he could feel the world moving.

He steps forward, gradually yet assuredly, and lets the space between them shrink like a closing wound. “ Then I won’t, ” I'll try not to, those last four words are near inaudible however, fragile and coarse, like they’ve been dragged up from a place radically foreign within him.

it's a pleasant kind of hush that falls on the house this late, when the kids are away in their rooms — charlie fast asleep, wyatt doing whatever it is teenagers occupy themselves with these days, 'cause she's not fool enough to think he's asleep — and the two of them are the only ones still up. a warm blanket on a chilly night; grace can't regret their lives, can't wish that their worlds were any smaller, but there is a softness when it's just her and judd, the comfort of both memory and present, that she wishes she could bottle up.

those 24 hour shifts can be hard. a baby is hard. chronic pain is hard. and trusting that the lord will provide answers doesn't take away from the uncertainty in the moments before those answers come; not everything can be solved by typing in a few keywords on travis county's systems. judd is, as he has always been, a constant. a security. when she hears his voice filter in from the other room as she's still rubbing in her lotion, grace can't help but smile at it.

home. he is always home, more than anything.

❝ i recall, ❞ she says softly, tugging down the sleeve of her nightshirt. no need for a fire tonight—it seems they will have the warmth of memory. and there, as she makes her way out into the living area, is judd. her heart, her home, handsome as the day she met him. he looks almost wistful, tonight, and it softens his features, sloughs the years from him in an instant. god, she loves this man.

even if he is holding that damn mug. ❝ i say that if that's coffee you're drinkin', you're gonna be up half the night, ❞ she says, warmth in the words, ❝ and that maybe we shouldn't tell pastor that you had a near religious experience by the rig. ❞ her full answer — the one that matters — is coming, and the quiet that stretches as grace moves over to the couch, holding out a hand to judd, has no tension in it. it's easy. it's safe.

❝ come sit with me, husband. ❞ every time, they are drawn together. across phone lines, across rooms, it's always to his side that grace returns. and she wants to cuddle up against him, now, or curl into his lap, to spend the time before sleep claims her with judd's arms around her. her answer waits, knowing that he's drawn to her in much the same way, that her gentle summons will be answered, until he is close enough to kiss. ❝ i think it's a wonderful idea, baby. it hasn't been just us since...before charlie. ❞ before the accident, really. not like that, not just a little weekend getaway. a chance for it to just be them. ❝ you wanna go back to fredericksburg? i bet they got some real cute hotels there. ❞

He chuckles low at her teasing, glancing down at the chipped mug as if it’s betrayed him. “ Ain’t much of a religious experience, ” a smile through the drawl, moving to set it aside on the counter. “ More like somethin’ close to penance if you ask me. ” Because even he, missed it. Everyday without a moment alone, everyday they pour themselves into others and mere minutes into one another. Still, he often lingers on the thought she stirs: That chapel, its crooked steeple catching the dawn just so, colors spilling out of stained glass, it's as otherworldly as he's always recalled. He carries the image as he crosses the floor to her, letting it settle somewhere deep, where he knows it’ll root until it's come to fruition. For his Gracie.

When she reaches her hand out, he doesn’t hesitate. His rough palm finds hers, warm and solid, and he lowers himself to the couch beside her, the old springs groaning their daily complaint. “ Darlin’, Fredericksburg could do us some good. Just a quiet little place for once. No sirens, no chores.... ” His voice dips softer, not because it fills with any doubt, but because the weight of his yearning insists on respect and utter sincerity. “ Been a long time since I had the chance to just sit across from you without a hundred things pullin’ at us. ”

He leans toward her, shoulder brushing hers, and presses a kiss against her temple, lingering in the familiar scent of her lotion, the comfort of her skin against his lips. “ You’re right. It ain’t been just us since before Charlie, and that’s too long. I wanna give you that again, Gracie girl. ” His thumb strokes over the back of her hand as he speaks, perpetually grounding himself in her presence.

beck was a fast girl when she'd set her eyes on something ... she was also incredibly clumsy. she would bump into something at least twice a day. often more. so when isabel starts chasing her down the beachy roads. she sighs, because she didn't want beck to be upset - and need her sleeping dad, because if you have a booboo, of course you've got to go see condad md. beck's hero was her dad, he was a doctor, and therefor? he could fix every-and-anything. she pauses when she sees @ezburns catch the wild child that wrangled herself free of her mom's arms. a breath of relief when she catches up. just in time to hear beck go: "i'm not a mia - i'm a beck. sometimes a mermaid, but not today!"

His gaze flickers toward Belly, softening as she draws near, wind-blown and flushed from the pursuit. It’s always like this with her: Painless, unspoken understanding stitched into the seams of their summers in Cousins. A shared language born of sleepless nights and scraped knees, of knowing what it means to build a childhood out of second chances. His expression grows fonder at the mention of Conrad’s determined routines, that trademark obstinacy. “ He ever lets her near a stove, I’m calling in a Code Red just for the excuse to yell at him. ” He deadpans with a quiet huff of a laugh, adjusting Beck to his hip as she starts fiddling with the buttons on his shirt like they're a puzzle only she can solve.