A Place For Words

Travor collapsed back on the bed, breathing hard, a mess of curls and sweat as he reached up and raked a hand through his hair.

“Wow,” he panted, then turned his head and flashed Lyrene a boyish smile. “That was, ah…”

“Great?” Smirking, Lyrene rolled onto her side, propping her head on the heel of her hand. “Amazing? Otherworldly? Vaguely terrifying?”

“Terrifying?”

“No? Maybe that’s just your face.” She winked to show she was teasing, brushing a stray curl from his brow. “You weren’t so bad yourself, handsome. Wasn’t expecting such a good night out here in the middle of nowhere.”

The praise startled a laugh from him, his cheeks flushing an even deeper red than they already were. “Well, I’m glad I didn’t disappoint.”

Humming, Lyrene bit her lip, green eyes drifting down his bare chest. She liked the hair some shemlen had there. It was nice to play with. “Mmm, not even a little.” Sidling closer, she nuzzled his neck and nipped his earlobe, giggling when he responded with a gasp. “You make the best sounds, you know that?”

“I-I do?”

“Mhmm.” Still smiling, she settled down beside him, sensing he was a little overwhelmed and might need a break before a potential round two. “I like it. Most guys are so… quiet.”

“Oh. They are?” He swallowed, brow furrowing slightly. “Should I be?”

“Depends. Do you want to disappoint me?”

Glancing down, Travor caught the playfulness in her smile, his own mouth curving into an echo of it. “No, I don’t.”

“Then you just stay exactly how you are.” Sighing, Lyrene rested her head on his shoulder, her fingertips absently playing with the hairs on his chest. “You, my curly friend, are going to make a great memory, that’s for sure.”

There was a pause. A strangely significant one, given the circumstances. 

Then, Travor spoke.

“… Are you flirting with me?” 

If Lyrene had the capacity to be the required level of incredulous, she would be. But, as it was, lying content and naked beside a guy as oblivious as he was adorable, all she could do was laugh and press a kiss to his lips.

So I’m skipping ahead a bit in the Saga, to after they have made their escape from the Red Herring…

On the eastern side or Rialto Bay, hidden away from the demands and desires of civilisation, sat a lone, ramshackle cabin. Its wooden exterior was pale and sun-bleached, splintered by weather famous for its wild temperament. Standing quietly, like a man new to town intent on minding his own business, it was clear whoever owned it had forgotten it, and if anyone else knew it was there, they did not care to use it.

That was, at least, until a red-haired man kicked in its front door.

“Easy. Easy there – I’ve got ye.”

“S-Shit…” Damiros grit his teeth and staggered, nearly dragging Delton down with him as his legs almost gave out. Both men were soaked, forced to abandon their rowboat a decent distance from shore when it sprung a leak. They shivered in unison, arms clutching at each other; one for support, the other to offer it. 

Malnourished and frail as he was, it had been a near impossible feat for Delton to get Damiros up the hill to the unassuming cabin. But somehow he’d managed, wincing and apologising with every stumble and sway, knowing how it must hurt the man to move at all, yet alone at such a pace. 

“Here. Lie down.” Delton hobbled over to an ancient looking bed that sat quietly at the side of the room. It creaked in feeble protest as Damiros all but collapsed onto it, groaning and coughing, his face knotted in pain as he uncurled onto the thin mattress. 

“M-Maker,” the Antivan breathed, a shiver wracking his body and earning another wince. “Take a look, would you?”

Pretty much a continuation of the other Red Herring ficlets!

In which Damiros’ attempt to bargain with the Captain does not go well, and they need to come up with a Plan B…

[Part 1, Part 2, Part 3]

Damiros’ appeal to the Red Herring’s Captain went far from smoothly. One might argue terribly, in fact, given that Delton was now in chains in the brig again and Damiros was nowhere to be found. Shifting uncomfortably, burned hand throbbing, Delton had spent the past few hours trying to ignore the threats tossed through the cage bars by the other prisoners. Prisoners who were once pirates, before he lit their ship up like a Satinalia candle. It was a small kindness, that the Herring’s crew hadn’t just tossed him in the main cell with the rest of the rabble. Now, Delton occupied a far smaller one, the soles of his boots pressed against the metal bars, knees bent, his back against the ship’s hull.

What a bloody mess.

The day limped by. Despite his exhaustion, Delton couldn’t sleep. Every time he tried, the pain of his hand kept him awake, or the pirates badgering him kicked the cage bars and startled him out of his doze. Head tipping back, Delton actually found himself missing his previous accommodations. At least he had been alone, and what little company he’d had was usually Damiros.

Damiros…

Grunting, Delton attempted to stretch his leg out fully, which meant sliding his boots up higher on the metal bars. He’d watched the Antivan’s appeal to the Captain at a distance, his burned hand quenched in a bucket of water. Some part of Delton hadn’t really expected it to work, but he hadn’t anticipated that the Captain would send Damiros sprawling to the deck with a punch that could have knocked out an ogre. Some people ruled through respect, others through fear. It became crystal clear, in that moment, which category Captain Greaves fell into. 

Delton had been cuffed and dragged away before Damiros had even regained consciousness, his body frighteningly still on the blood-stained deck.

The laundry room at Cyrus’ apartment block was, to put if frankly, a piece of shit.

Cyrus muttered that fact every time he went down there, and that day was no exception. Basket wedged under his arm, he stalked his way down into the building’s basement clad in a pair of old grey sweats he called his ‘laundry day pants’. They hung low off his hips, held up by nothing but the fraying drawstring, the elastic of the waistband having perished years ago. Every time his roommate Ralon saw them, he vowed to salt and burn them the second Cyrus took them off. Unfortunately, that just made Cyrus all the more intent on keeping them around. 

“Morning!”

Tired from his night shift and already in a rotten mood because he had to do laundry, Cyrus just grunted at Darren as he entered. The blond was at the drier, his clothes tumbling about inside the rattling contraption. Cyrus swore everything in their building was held together by duct tape and a prayer. 

The whole laundry room smelled of fabric softener. He didn’t think he knew anyone other than Darren who used that shit. 

Slowly, roughly, he thumped his basket down and started stuffing his clothes into one of the machines. He never bothered with things like turning his shirts inside out or doing separate washes for dark and light. Sure, he knew about that stuff, but that didn’t mean he cared enough to do it. 

It’s odd, how sometimes you just get that strange, skin-tingling feeling on the back of your neck. Standing at the washing machine, Cyrus felt it, like a barely perceptible breeze brushing past him. Frowning, a pair of his underwear in his hands, Cyrus suddenly turned, his pale eyes cutting to a flustered looking Darren.

“What are you staring at?”

“You haven’t been sleeping.”

Head tilting towards the familiar voice, Hanin just sighed, his gaze returning to stare blankly at the space between his feet. “Not now, Varlen.”

Frowning, the younger elf ignored the remark and entered his clanmate’s room. It was small but functional, bare of anything save the necessities and a rack for his weapons and armour. It was interesting, how the space a person lived in could often tell you so much about who they were. “Yes, now.” He stopped just in front of the warrior, who was sitting hunched at the end of his bed. “Hanin, this needs to stop. You need to stop.”

There was no ignoring the pleading edge to Varlen’s words, but Hanin did his best. “And do what? Lie in bed all day while the sky tears itself apart?” Anger rising to replace his emptiness, Hanin’s gaze cut a sharp line through the air, resting on the younger elf. “I don’t have the luxury to stop, Varlen. No one does.”

Varlen wilted slightly beneath Hanin’s glare, but just when the warrior thought he had the upper hand, he pulled in a short breath and stood a little taller. “Yes, you do. That’s just what you keep telling yourself because you can’t deal with… with what happened.”

Hanin’s expression darkened. “I can’t deal with it? You can’t even say it.” He shook his head. “Just get out.”

“No.”

“Varlen.” The word was a warning. A warning that went unheeded as Varlen shook his head and took another step forward.

“You know what? I’m only here because your squad came and begged me to do something.” He snorted derisively, folding his arms. “Apparently they think I had more of a chance of getting through to you than they did. Not sure where they got that idea. Probably too scared to go ask Riv to do it, with her being Inquisitor and all, so I was all that was left.”

That… was not what Hanin had expected. “They… came to you?” He frowned, eyes drifting towards the window that overlooked the training field. “Why? Their training hasn’t been interrupted. They have no reason to complain.”

In which Ralon and Cyrus bond (sorta, in their usual antagonistic way) in the Herald’s Rest over a lot of booze…

“I can hardly stand myself.”

Lowering his tankard from his lips, Ralon snorted wryly as he regarded his friend. “Yeah? Well, I can hardly stand you either, so… we’ve finally got something in common.”

Slumped at a table on the upper floor of the Herald’s Rest, Ralon and Cyrus had outpaced and outlasted even the most diligent drinkers for the evening. Now, they were accompanied only by the sound of their own voices and the gentle slosh of ale, the evening limping into true night, dark and cold as winter finally reached the mountains. 

“Yeah… fuck you too,” Cyrus mumbled into his cup, voice echoing slightly. It was about as civil as their conversations got. “Piss-head.”

For a moment, Ralon considered firing back an insult of his own, but he decided against it, his drink-addled mind wandering down a slightly different path. “That’s real messed up, y’know.” He jostled his tankard, stretching out one finger to point in Cyrus’ general direction. “You’re kinda stuck with yourself, Prickles. Might as well enjoy it.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Could shorten it to Prick?”

Cyrus gave a unimpressed grunt; the kind typically used to replace words like sure, fine, and whatever. “Y’don’t think I know that?” he continued, jumping back to before Ralon had so expertly insulted him. He leaned forward and attempted to plant his chin on the heel of his palm. It took him two tries before he met success, his elbow sliding slowly across the tabletop. “Y’don’t think it’s a fucking nightmare, being stuck in skin you don’t even want to look at?”

And the final part of the Red Herring ‘drabble’ series! (Part 1   |   Part 2)

“Just hold still.”

Delton winced, looking away as Damiros tipped more water over his palm, the skin blistered and red. “I’m tryin’,” Delton managed through gritted teeth, although he couldn’t help the way his arm jerked back slightly beneath the flow of water. “Ye should be at the healer, not wastin’ time on me.”

It wasn’t really a sentiment Damiros seemed keen to argue with. He shifted slightly, glancing down at his bloodied side. “It’s fine. For now. Don’t think it hit anything important or I’d be…” Trailing off, the Antivan nodded wearily towards a cloth-covered pile at the ship’s stern; a stack of bodies masked by a red-stained sheet. “The sharks will eat well tonight.”

The sentiment left Delton queasy. It was that or the pain, and he liked to think he could handle a bit more than a burned palm before losing his stomach. “I’m…” Instinct told him to say something like I’m sorry, but he really wasn’t. Other than Damiros, none of the Herring’s crew had been particularly welcoming of him. And some? Some had been downright cruel. “Anyone ye were close to?”

Damiros didn’t even look up from his task. “No.” 

For a moment, Delton expected the man to elaborate, but when nothing came he chewed his tongue and let it slide. No love lost, then. Good. 

… Good?

Shaking his head slightly - where had that come from? - Delton reached out, resting a staying hand on Damiros’ wrist. “It’s fine. It’ll heal.”

So I kind of started this then completely forgot about it, so I figured I’d post it before it joins the graveyard of half-finished prompts on my computer! 

Damiros x Delton (Red Herring), taking place a few weeks after Delton’s rescue/capture… (1400 words)

“Shit, shit, shit…”

Delton strained against his cuffs, eyes darting wildly aboutas the ship was rocked by another massive blow, the cracking sound of cannonfire nearly deafening even from inside the Red Herring’s brig.  He flinched on instinct, cringing back againstthe hull, the chains binding his wrists and ankles as good as a death-sentenceif they were boarded.

If they were sunk.

Above him, Delton could hear the roar of the Herring’s crew,their frantic footsteps thundering back and forth across the deck. Anothercrack and the ship keeled, tipping dangerously, sending any untethered barrelsand crates sliding from one end of the hull to the other. Delton went tumblingwith them; at least, as far as the chain would allow. It jerked him to apainful halt just before he hit the far wall and he scrambled to right himself,mind working wildly, trying desperately to think of some way out. If he hadsomething metal, he could try picking the locks. But the pirates had searchedhim thoroughly when he first arrived. They had left nothing but the clothes onhis back, and even then, Delton was confident it was only because they wereworthless to sell.

Something shattered. It wasn’t what Delton expected, butthen again, nothing about his current situation really fell under ‘anticipatedcircumstances’. Once the debris had settled, Delton uncurled himself andimmediately saw the problem. It appeared a cannon ball had glanced the side ofthe ship, cracking a section of the hull just above the waterline. As hewatched, Delton felt strangely numb to it all, as though his panic had finallyreached boiling point and had nowhere further to go.

Then the water started rushing in. It came in surgeswhenever the boat rocked too far to the breached side. The world snapped backinto painful, startling clarity and Delton did the only thing he really could.

“Damiros!” 

“I know it doesn’t seem like it, but I’m going to take care of you.”

Darren’s head lolled to the side, Cyrus’ voice sounding distant despite him standing right beside his bed. Even in his feverish state, Darren mustered a genuine smile. “I know you will,” he mumbled, then coughed, wincing as it sent a spike of pain through his chest. “You’re doing great.”

Cyrus snorted softly, shaking his head as he rearranged a selection of pots and cups on the bedside table. “Stop comforting me. That’s my job right now.” He paused, as though rethinking his tone, and continued more gently, “The rest of your family picked a good time to visit relatives, huh?”

If Darren could have laughed he would have, but he just didn’t have the energy for it. “My cousin had a baby. Named him after pa. They had to go.”

“I’m not saying they shouldn’t have gone. I’m just saying it’s typical that you’d get this sick when your ma and pa are away.” Pausing, Cyrus wafted the steam from the pot of tea towards him, checking to see if it was done brewing. “Now all you’ve got is me, and I’m not exactly… you know.”

Darren wanted to reply, but had a feeling Cyrus just needed to vent his frustrations a little, so he said nothing. Instead, he reached out, hand brushing Cyrus’ hip reassuringly. It was the only part of him Darren could reach. Glancing down, Cyrus actually smiled, reaching back to squeeze Darren’s hand briefly before returning to what he was doing. It was the little gestures that melted Darren’s heart. A year ago, Cyrus would have just awkwardly stepped away or pretended not to notice the contact, not because he didn’t want it but because he didn’t know how to respond to it. Maker, he’d made so much progress. 

He often wondered if Cyrus even realised how far he’d come.

Your wish is my command! Darren Miller x Cyrus, approx 1200 words.

“I’m really trying notto put my abandonment issues on you, but I’m fucking scared, okay? I’m scaredyou’ll leave.”

Cyrus knew he wasbeing unfair. He knew that he couldn’t expect someone like Darren to put up withhim forever. All his life he’d been surrounded by temporary things; things thatwouldn’t last. He wasn’t sure why he suddenly thought this would be different.When he’d woken up feeling like his chest would explode, it took him longerthan he cared to admit to work out what was wrong. It had all been because of adream.

A stupid fuckingdream.

Of course, the firstthing Darren had done was fly into a panic, thinking Cyrus was having one ofhis attacks where he couldn’t breathe. But it wasn’t that, and as soon as herealised Darren managed to calm himself down and lit the candle beside theirbed, bathing them both in a faint but warm light. Cyrus wasn’t sure which ofthem was more shocked by the wet lines on his cheeks. He was never fast enoughto swipe them away.

“I’ll leave?” Darren repeated, brow furrowedin concern. “Cyrus, where would I be going?”

His hands were shaking.Pathetic. “I don’t fucking know.Somewhere. Away.”

“But… I live here?”

Frustrated, Cyrus gesturedsharply towards the door. “Fuck, then maybe I’ll be the one who has to leave.”

For a time, it seemedlike Darren couldn’t find the words. He opened his mouth as if to speak, then justshook his head, reaching out to cup Cyrus’ face in his hand. “Hey… no one’sgoing to do that.” He brushed his thumb gently across Cyrus’ cheek, turning theman to face him. “What brought this on?”

Because sometimes little things go wrong, but they don’t feel all that little.

In which Cyrus makes a mistake and it hits him harder than he expected.

Darren x Cyrus. Set post-Inquisition. CW: PTSD.

This… was bad. He knew he’d fucked up, and this was bad.

Cyrus just stood there for what felt like hours, staring.Waiting. Unmoving. It was as though his legs had frozen stiff, refusing tocarry him anywhere, and while his mind knew that wasn’t possible, it didn’tchange the fact that he just couldn’t bring himself to leave.

When had he become so clumsy?

He’d broken things before. Mostly when he was a kid. Notoften, but sometimes. It never went well when he did. It was strange, how eventhough he was a grown man, the sound of something shattering spiked a fear inhim that was so visceral – so primal– that it rooted him to the spot. There was no point running. Hiding. Anything. He’d done it, so he had toface the consequences.

Was it important? A gift? An heirloom?

Did that even fucking matter?

Cyrus exhaled suddenly, his vision returning to sharp focusas he forced himself to take in his surroundings. The broken platter. Theshards on the floor. He could clean it up. Maybe if he did that, no one wouldnotice it was gone. Sure, that had never worked in the past – there was alwayssomeone who witnessed the crime – but maybe here…

… but he didn’t want to lie.

Not to them.

Get a grip, hetold himself sharply, part of him still desperately willing himself to move. It’s a plate. It’s nothing. It doesn’t haveto mean anything.

It was just anaccident.

“… Cyrus? Are you okay?”

Haha well I’m not sure what you WANT me to do, nonny, but I guess I can write something about how they’d probably meet?

(Note: it was not meet-cute, so cw for abuse, kidnapping, and imprisonment)

“Well well, look what the tide dragged in.” Damiros crouched before the soaked figure on the deck, the man held by two of his crewmates in a manner that could only be described as uncomfortable. “Thought I saw something odd floating out there on the water. Gotta say, I didn’t expect it to be breathing.”

His crewmates chuckled and murmured in agreement. After all, they’d all been planning to just do a routine scoop and loot. When the rescued man did not reply, Damiros reached out, roughly grabbing him under the chin and jerking his head up. “Look at me when I’m talking to you,” he instructed, voice turning cold. “You’d better learn some manners if you want to make it through the night.”

Green eyes rose slowly to meet his, and the man’s mouth twisted into a smile that was half a sneer. “Pirates talkin’ of manners? Well, have to say, that’s a new one.”

Damiros raised his brows, part of him impressed by the man’s strange form of reckless courage. But then again, courage could easily be explained by stupidity. In this situation, with his crewmates waiting eagerly for his reaction, Damiros rather felt the man had stumbled into the latter. 

Mouth twitching into a smile, Damiros matched the red-head smirk-for-smirk. A moment passed, and for a second, Damiros swore he saw something in those green eyes. Something thoughtful. Calculating. Different.

Then he backhanded the man so hard his crewmates lost their grip on him. 

Haha very well!

So for this, they are on a boat. For reasons. Idk run with it.

“Strong set of arms you’ve got there, elf.”

Grunting, Hanin heaved at the rope, hoisting one of thesails as he had been instructed earlier. “Hanin,” he said shortly, tying it offbefore stepping back to assess his handiwork. “What else needs to be done?”

Damiros leaned on the railing of the ship, head cocked as heregarded the warrior. “Hanin,” he repeated slowly, as though testing the wordon his tongue. “I’ll remember that.” He smirked, nodding to a cluster ofbarrels. “Gotta move those below deck. Give me a hand.”

Shaking out his arms, Hanin moved to join the Antivan, bothmen hoisting a barrel and carting it across the deck towards the hatch. “What’sin these?” Hanin asked, mostly as a means to pass the time. That and the manhad a… pleasing accent.

“Supplies,” Damiros replied shortly, setting down his barrelto throw open the hatch. “Rope, candles, ink, paper. Shit you need to keeptrack of…” He gestured vaguely around the rest of the ship. “All the othershit.”

Fair enough. Haninnodded and helped move the barrels down into cargo, the sunlight filteringthrough the wooden deck in tiny slivers of light. “Who keeps track of it all?”

“Quartermaster, usually.”

“Usually?”

“He… had an accident. Went overboard in a storm.”

“Oh.” Setting the barrel down with a thud, Haninstraightened and regarded the other man’s back. “My condolences.”

To his surprise, Damiros laughed, broad shoulders shakingbeneath his thin shirt. “Nah. He was an asshole. Anyway, that duty goes to theFirst Mate now.”

Hanin frowned. “Isn’t that… you?”

Turning and flashing a wicked grin, Damiros just winked. “Sure.But I delegate.”

“As Simple As That”

First of all, adorable prompt. Second of all, I got carried away, so here’s a bucket-load of fluff (and a lil’ angst, because Cyrus). 

Approx 3000 words. Set post-Inquisition, pre-Darrus…

“You know I’m fine, Darren. You don’t need to stay.”

There was a kind of stillness to the small room; a space above the bustle of the lower floor of the Miller house that sat in quiet contemplation of its current inhabitants. Of all the things Cyrus was not used to, stillness and quiet wereamong the top two. The road was rarely both. There was always something to keep an eye on.

Maybe that was why he was secretly grateful for Darren’s presence beside him on the bed, the blond’s large hands working a mortar and pestle with surprising gentleness. It had been… Maker, four years? Five? Sometimes, it was hard for Cyrus to look at him. Really look at him. After all, he wasn’t the kid he remembered anymore. Darren had grown so much - so well - and Cyrus felt like he’d done nothing but stand still. 

“Hmm… I don’t think I know that, actually,” Darren remarked,glancing up, his expression slightly teasing as he ground the herbs into apaste. “In fact, I’d say I’d have to be pretty crazy to think you’re fine, with how youlook right now.”

Huffing, Cyrus’ gaze slid away. “Thanks. Good to see youtoo.”

“You know what Imean.” The pretence of humour slipped from Darren’s face, a full-blown maskof concern replacing it as he lowered the mortar to his lap. “Cyrus, I know you don’t want people fussing, but you’re not well, okay? Sojust… let me fuss.”

My inspiration has been dead lately, so it’s not really the whole Dawn Squad :( sorry. But Cyrus’ knowledge did come in handy for Ralon once, while they were travelling through Orlais to Val Royeaux…

CW for language (because Cyrus) and a chevalier who doesn’t like being rejected.

Ser Phillipe du Cerronwas about as insufferable as Chevaliers could get, and Ralon swore they all gotmore annoying the closer they got to Val Royeaux. “A whole camp of bandits,huh?” Ralon remarked, feigning interest as he drank enough of the man’s wine to make the conversationbearable. “And you say that got you… what was it again?”

Phillipe laughedbrightly, his manicured beard reminding Ralon of a stiletto knife with the way itjutted from his chin. “Why, it saw me favoured by the Duke! See, I am but ahumble man, but an act of valour such as that… it never goes unnoticed.” Hesighed emphatically, swirling his glass. “It is quite a responsibility you know.Being appointed as the Duke’s Champion.”

Arching a brow, Ralontook another pointedly long drink. “Champion? I mean… yeah, I suppose that’simpressive.”

The man grinned, whiteteeth flashing as he raised his glass. “I was hoping you would thinkso.”

Ralon’s suspicionsthat the man was flirting with him seemed to be correct. Great. “What, all this talking has just been to impress me?” Hegestured to the wine. “If I was interested, all you’d need is the bottle forthat.”

“If?” Phillipe seemed taken aback, but then again, who wassurprised? The man clearly had a very inflated sense of self-worth. “Do youdislike heroism? Adventure?”

“It’s alright.” Ralon shrugged,taking another drink, the sounds of the tavern bustling around them. “Kinda romance serial-y. You’rejust not my type.”

“You prefer women?”

“Not necessarily.”

“Then… you are alreadyspoken for?”

“Nope.”

He was, but there’s a bit more to it than that…

“You know I can take care of myself.”

“I know.”

“I don’t need anyone throwing punches for me.”

“Cyrus, I know.”

Cyrus gasped, his hand knotting in Darren’s hair as the blond’s lips danced a line up the side of his neck. The act alone left him weak at the knees, but with his back against he wall and Darren’s arms around him, he was in no danger of falling. 

With him, he never was. 

“I’m s-serious,” Cyrus managed, neck craned, the words thin as they passed through clenched teeth. “I’m not some fucking–”

Hot breath ghosted past his ear, sending Cyrus into a shiver that unlocked his jaw and left him almost boneless, clinging to Darren’s broad frame as though it was the only thing that kept him standing. But it wasn’t, and it only took a few moments for Cyrus to reach that realisation before he reasserted himself. 

The way he pulled away might have seemed self-conscious, had it not been so sharply done.

Breathing hard, Darren stopped, shifting so that his forearms framed Cyrus, bracing himself against the wall. “’m sorry,” Darren mumbled, blue eyes flicking up to meet Cyrus’. “I just wanted to help…”

A brittle laugh, devoid of humour, shook its way from Cyrus’ chest. “I know. You always do. But you can’t…” He groaned, tipping his head back against the wall in frustration. “I can’t fucking explain it, Darren. You just can’t.”