sin-tentional

an 𝒂𝒓𝒄𝒉𝒊𝒗𝒆𝒅 𝒎𝒖𝒎𝒖 ; in which we explore the lives of the following muses:

⸻𝐡𝐚𝐧 𝐣𝐚𝐞 𝐬𝐨𝐧𝐠 ;  THREADS  

⸻𝐩𝐚𝐱 𝐦𝐢𝐧 ; THREADS

⸻𝐣𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐜𝐚 𝐜𝐥𝐚𝐮𝐬 ; THREADS

⸻𝐦𝐞𝐠𝐚𝐧 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐬 ;  THREADS

⸻𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐨𝐭𝐭𝐞 𝐝𝐞𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐬 ; THREADS

⸻𝐭𝐨𝐝𝐝 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐬𝐨𝐧 ; THREADS

⸻𝐬𝐤𝐞𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐡𝐢𝐠𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐬; THREADS

In both his working and personal lives, Simon’s opening lips are so often met with groans and rolling eyes. His pessimistic nature, pretentious air, his unprompted opinions and tendency to ramble - particularly in subjects he finds interesting - are justly greeted with signs of discontent. As a result, he keeps to himself. He purses his lips and folds his hands and presses himself against walls to make room for others.

But Han sits. And waits. Not only does he listen, but he smiles, and Simon knows he’s heard.

He knows shattered teacups can never be truly mended; their severed limbs will never return to the same strength they once had, but as Simon takes the second glass of wine for himself, he thinks it’s for the best that not all shards can be glued back together precisely. Going back to staring at Han from across the room? Idle touches and hungry gazes, only to sleep alone each night? Simon doesn’t want that - he’d shatter a hundred more teacups and dinner plates before that. He longs for something not unrecognizable, but not returned to its original state: something new and whole in its own right.

“Live for me. Live with me. Lay by my side and take your last breath with me, when the day inevitably comes,” He imagines his bones bleached white and indistinguishable to Han’s - his rib, Han’s rib; they were one in the same, in the end. “I’m afraid reversing history is not an ability I possess. I can’t forget about the bullet I put in your shoulder. Nor that letter opener you drove into my back. But I don’t want to, either. I can’t keep returning to my quiet home alone night after night. Not when I know your own bed is as empty as mine. Han I want…I want to glue those broken pieces back together. I want something touched by your hand alone. That teacup may not sit the way it used to or hold tea as well as it once did…but it can still be ours…”

Perhaps if he hadn’t been a coward when they’d first met, Simon could have spared them both years worth of heartache, but the risk of losing the single friend he’d managed to grasp onto had left Simon burying even the potential for anything to happen between him and Han deep in his belly until his stomach was so full of poison he’d made himself sick; if Han hadn’t laced his drink with arsenic some months ago, only in due time would Simon have checked himself in the hospital with similar symptoms of nausea and vomiting from the toxic lies he’d swallowed to keep the truth buried.

“I think I punished myself long before I started punishing you. For what, having a friend? For feeling so…” Words fail to define Simon’s feelings for the man who sits to his side in a simple manner. Intense? Infatuation? How could a single word explain how living with Han would never be enough? Language had yet to evolve to the point for Simon to easily say that he couldn’t be satisfied until their skin turned to dirt and became inseparable from one another. When Simon finally takes a sip from the glass Han poured for him, he thinks to all the dinners they shared in the past, where Han must have pressed his own lips to the rim and partaken in a drink. They had shared dozens, if not hundreds, of ghostly kisses before, but this time had been enough. “I made you watch as I pledged my life to another. I nearly watched you do the same, but I believe you’ve always been the true owner of my heart. If doing so didn’t kill me where I sit, I’d show you my own heart as proof,” He looks to the piping soup that remains on the table just in front of Han. “That may not be my heart, but it is just as close and personal to me. I hope it’s a close enough replacement for the real thing.”

Rather than answer Han’s question regarding what is in the contents of the soup, Simon gestures for him to eat before it gets cold. “This is my gift to you. It would hardly be much of a gift if I were to partake in it myself, would it?” Still, Simon does share silent agreement that sitting at the table with Han eating dinner draws back pleasant old memories of sitting begrudgingly side-by-side in the dining hall to work on their class project together over lunch ( they could have sat across from one another, but it at least gave them an excuse for their thighs to touch while still maintaining the false belief of their hatred toward each other ). Not returning to the experience by dining alongside Han is a tad unsettling, but watching the expressions on his face brings a much more satisfactory feeling than Simon eating the meal himself.

“To answer your previous question, yes, it is Haejangguk,” He at last nods once he watches Han’s bulbous adam’s apple bob against his throat. “It’s the only thing my father ever taught me how to prepare, you know. We made it for my mother once, I believe,” He’d still been in high school at the time, but the one time he cooked with his father stands out in his mind. The kitchen had been so silent, save for the water boiling with bones and the knives slicing into radishes. “I’m certain I’ve made it for you before too - it does help with hangovers,” And while Simon still considers himself a stranger to parties and social events, he had an intimate relationship with throbbing headaches and dry mouths the morning after heavy drinking. “I must make one last confession,” He lays a single index finger on the table between them. “I have altered the recipe since those old college days of ours and no, you will not be recreating it; it will be the one secret I take with me to the grave,” His smile returns. “The rest of the pot is, of course, for you to keep and enjoy. But perhaps…” Simon looks to the bits of broth that have clung to the corners of Han’s lips and the savory film of broth made from bones and blood that must have coated the inside of Han’s mouth. “Perhaps you could still offer me a taste…”

the intention behind those sentiments- the way it makes everything feel so right– is something to embrace and clutch. and as violent as he is, there is an overwhelming desire deep inside to wring and squeeze and strangle the life of those convictions. Han Jae Song has never wanted something so reciprocated. it's been so out of his grasp for so long that he doesn't know how to properly react. and, yes, he's been teased with these tiny revelations coming from Simon's mouth before. he's been forced to share for so long, that a part of him is still wondering if this is a twisted fantasy bred by his incessant daydreaming in Simon's presence. he hopes it's not the case. he hopes he no longer has to share this man before him. that this gift he's imparted is that resolution, and that Simon could forever and only belong to Han. on the same coin, he could finally give the other something he'd always deserved.

Simon was always slave to seclusion– and Han sometimes wondered if it was something he thrived in, but for as long as they were both alive, he'd vow to never make him feel as such. he explains, "If it means anything–" he's careful in his wording, afraid that he's reading too much, "I promise you won't ever feel desolate in my presence." he continues to appeal and atone. "I promise I never meant what I said, when I implied that I no longer enjoyed your company." he straightens up– his spine flesh with the chair on his back as the sound of those wooden legs scrape against the linoleum flooring. "I was lying." he blurts it out and even still it stings his tongue, "I'm sorry I lied to your face, and it wasn't easy for me to do, but I did it anyways." he takes a humble sigh– lungs afraid to fill due to the guilt that still weighed. would it finally find release? "I thought I nearly destroyed us with my cruelty, but there is no destroying us, is there?"

there is a sarcastic chuckle that bellows from bloodstained lips. he's always attempted to destroy those little beautiful things– those tiny brilliant confessions are always ruined by his own hands. he knows that he is a problem. he knows that Simon has always put up with that problem. and certainly he's never needed to hear those words of affirmation ( that's what he told himself to get by ) – he had prided himself on carrying on without them for years. that suffering and pining was the way of life when it came to his and Simon's story, and that he'd forever languish in those soft embraces they had shared in the past.

he'd considered it– that maybe their love language was so cruel because of how unstated and how unexpressed it had always been between them– that the reason why they were so awful to each other was because there was only room for that silent aggression and frustration with the reality of it all. that those emotions were teeming on edge in the instant that either one of them so much as looked at each other in the wrong way. perhaps it was that if there was ghost of their love and undying devotion that haunted their pretty little heads, that it would never materialize– it would never truly be tangible. it would haunt and hover and disgrace that which was denied purity, nutriment, and decency. benevolence isn't a courtesy given to such ghosts. they would forever remain in a veil of blight and other decadent spoils. it was always skinny, yet flammable slow burning love.

Han was so certain that he'd carry around unspoken chains of fealty and fidelity around that organ in his chest forever. chains that were only meant for one, Simon Muhn. that even if there were others to come close to curing that ache he had craved, none of them would ever match the intimacy of looking into the depths of dark eyes. none of them would ever make him feel as warm as Simon's arms felt around him as they slumbered in his bed so many times so many years ago. umber and cedar colored irises sparked so much more in that soul of the man, and Simon was hardly one to ever grant him that eye contact. he hangs on every second of it, awed, and terrified all the same.

he speaks a single truth not only with words, but a lock in their gaze, "I apologize." he offers but one explanation, "I'm rotten." peripherals  trace an invisible halo around Simon's head, and as he stares at his soul's one true counterpart, he's never felt closer. he gawks with a weakness, but letting his guard down, he realized poses no threat. honesty, it seemed, had only made things better between them, "I appreciate this gift." the words feel cheap in their admission as if they aren't good enough for what he's received. as if he couldn't properly state just how lucky of a man Simon had made him. there were so many ways he lacked expression, and this time he was certain he was failing. he's too drawn in by the mere fact of it all– consuming the blood of his heart’s desire had that euphoric pull over him. he tries to continue, his tongue tracing his upper lip as he withers and swoons, yet again, against the taste of soup, "And I treasure it as it melts on my tongue." he sets his spoon down, a napkin pats at the residue on his lips, and he rises to his feet, ready to impart that taste, "I will never receive a greater gift."

the man swears he will be holding on to this moment tightly until the end of time. delusions are easier to cling to, but these are not delusions– not anymore. there was always a sense of a one-sided nature to the feelings he carried with him. it felt as if his erratic beating heart was a burden to carry since there was always something in the way of him and Simon. he feels lightheaded– but he doesn't know if this is because of Simon's soup, or a second chance he finally is granted. does he deserve these chances? and would they be allowed to let the world fade into the background? could it be that they were the only pair in that kitchen while the rest of humanity remained ignored? his mouth ghosts the word– traces that word– unspoken but whispering in agreement–ours. it's a necessary term in explaining how things should be, how they always felt, and where he intends on them to go. he knows that teacup can be fixed– it has to be fixed. he would rather die without that union.

he likes the sound of that shared pronoun as it rolls off of Simon's tongue– a tongue he wishes it to be entwined with his own. soon. the ease of the word traces the inside of his mouth to pick up on the taste Han's committed to his memory. but there is a hard truth he has yet to swallow with blood soup continuing to soothe him. his anxious mind continues to plague him– he had killed for that man, would die for that man, do anything for him, but finally speaking his devotion felt far more difficult than receiving stitches from a gunshot wound. "Giving somebody your heart is the most profoundly horrifying action, and yet–" his simpering swells into a smile. his statement flourishes into a question, "We're in agreement?" a delighted gasp of air expands into low chuckles as he nods this approval. a bite on his bottom lip attempts to sink that smile– despite how wide it spread on his mouth. his slow steps intend to corner Simon into saying yes, but would this at all be predacious?

"Would you swear an oath?" his smile continues to twinkle as his hand reaches out for Simon's. a silent laughter speaks in his tone. he is happy. he realizes he's never felt happier. "And would you take mine in return?" he takes a pause, rephrasing, as fingers intwine with the other pair. he holds Simon's hand so tenderly in his– this is new. this is a change, but welcomed, he hopes. "Would you swear it?" despite this giant act of service granted to Han Jae Song– and despite how passionately eyes burn into the other pair, he wants Simon's word. he places a kiss upon a single set of knuckles– his lips press hard yet delicately so. "That you won't punish yourself anymore- that as long as I promise not to punish either of us that you'll do the same." he feels breathless in speaking of such ultimatums. even more breathless does he feel as he brings Simon's hand to the spot where he'd pointed that gun. he presses their palms against that edge of his shoulder and his chest feels full– the wound no longer aches. the past no longer burns.  "Simon, this can be your home again– as it was supposed to be." he tilts his head to the side, examining and trying to connect the once unraveled threads he'd snipped. "It's my wish too."

the gaze held isn't strong enough and falls to floor. his forehead rests upon Simon's for a moment as he takes his hallowed defeated breaths. he's never excelled with vulnerability nor intimacy in a way where it mattered. this felt like life and death, and perhaps until death it'd remain so inescapably true– the realness– the rawness ; it felt like an itch finally cured with jagged fingernails. he scrapes and scratches at the surface wanting so much more than he's ready to give. he's scared that even in these confessions, disclosure could be used against him. in the past it's always been pain– sweet unyielding gnawing pain. apologies are never good enough and they are buried– but now it resurfaces with an uncharacteristic timidness. maybe he is ready to give it all? he places his hands around Simon's neck– two thumbs encircle the adam's apple he's historically fixated upon. he could end it all–  and though hands feel the need to squeeze and though his hands are horrid in longing to take that life for his own, they don't. they instead caress– they linger and hold steady and pull Simon even closer. they tenderly wrap around the throat– and through skin and muscle and tendons, Han closes his eyes to the balanced thrumming of the pulse under his palms. he feels that heart beating, and he wants it continue beating so long as his matched that same rhythm. slowly he lifts Simon's chin– a thumb grazes the corner of the other's mouth. and as hands smooth away from that grasp upon his neck, fingertips entangle with the tufts at the back of the nape. words refuse to express how intoxicated Han feels in the moment– he doesn't know how to explain how painful that longing had been.

and though he intends on speaking, only a whisper dances upon Simon's face. warm breath in its grave utterance brings fourth even more life. his nose nudges against Simon's as his face continues to nuzzle against the other's. he takes his time. he places more meaning on his words. he speaks so brashly, yet softly against Simon's features. "I never want to be without you again." and though words are spoken– Han can't say with confidence they left his tongue. he was distracted in pressing the first inch of a kiss upon Simon's lips. it's placed delicately– softly pecked against a mouth he desired to always hear from. lips caress the other’s as fingertips remain entangled in the back of Simon's head. phalanges entangle in knots as his placements help guide his movements as he slowly teases the taste–

the regularly prescribed sleep medication intended for Simon Muhn’s insomnia was well under what Han Jae Song had in his arsenal. unfortunate for the doctor of pathology were the premeditated side effects: nausea, vomiting, dizziness, blurred vision and dry mouth. the medication was not easy to get. you can’t buy medication for the intended use through a drug dealer. drug dealers don’t care to sell high grade SARIs to help with mood swings and lack of sleep. so it was a series of formalities– BIDS, PHQ-9, GAD-7, paperwork after paperwork– it took almost a year for them to finally ( and falsely ) diagnose Han Jae Song as a depressive insomniac. but, honestly, that’s why the plan had been set in motion far longer than an anniversary should be planned for… 

though the doctor prescribing Han Jae the sleep aid would not recommend going over 375 mgs a day– Han was risky in his choices. He knew better than to poison his lover one more time– he didn’t want increased blood clots to torture Simon Muhn any more than he was already naturally tortured. there was a very specific dose laced in that teacup since the medication, though prescribed on the white label of the orange bottle to Han Jae Song, were meant for Simon’s consumption. the psychologist’s reflection in the piece of china was one of endearing nature as  the ceramics finally Simon’s lips. a droplet of blood would metallicize the crushed bitterness of the pills, and soon Simon would fall into a spell of drowsiness.

watching as eyeballs dance behind eyelids– causes a swelling of his cheeks. he’s already apologized for his husband’s mumbling. the nonsense was not the only thing dripping from Simon’s mouth, no there was a string of drool that Han had aptly wiped from his thin sleeping smile– to then press his finger between his own lips and suck tenderly. and while he savored the taste of the sleeping man, Simon had spoken of many things in his well adjusted REM cycle– red ladies sitting in the corner of the room, cabbages, and Han’s favorite, the repetitions of hello? – as if Simon was on the telephone with someone in his dreams. he apologizes once more taking a champagne flute from the first class flight attendant. “He’ got anxiety while flying– so we gave him a bit of a sedative to settle his nerves, but I–“ he steals a glance at his watch, “Suspect we’ll be landing soon?” he doesn’t mean to hassle the poor woman once more. the charm in his smile spreads wider as he leans close, “Would it be too much to ask for an arrangement of a wheelchair once more? Just in case I have trouble waking him?” he lays the doting husband caricature thicker, “I won’t be entirely remiss if he sleeps through our cab to the hotel, but I also don’t wish to spend our anniversary with his grumpy nature.” he chuckles– as the tone in his low voice carries.

though matrimony wasn’t entirely something the two had agreed on just yet, Han was playing the part well. the cogs of that mechanical mind of his was, no sooner, finding reasons for them to ACTUALLY be unified. he tells himself he need not a piece of paper, and the symbolisms they had already subscribed to were enough. he’s told himself that even if Simon were to wake up in a fit of wrath for the minor abduction to occur, that perhaps the final resolution would end in what he’s always dreamed. like the Lovers of Modena, the pair of men would lie dying together in each other’s arms– how fitting for that trip to Italy.

the flight attendant has assured Han that his husband would absolutely be able to receive a wheelchair, and that Han would not have to go through with lugging around an unconscious body ( much as he had already done– before they were finally boarded on the plane ) it’s what he loves about first class– how accommodating they truly were… “Thank you so much–“ he bats his eyes at her, before Simon begins speaking again. 

Han watches as graceful features begin stirring– he begins cooing at the groaning man– “It’s alright, Simon. I’m here. We’ll be arriving shortly, I’ve been told and we’ll finally get to have our honeymoon, love.” he pets Simon’s face, pulling his chin towards his slightly taller shoulder for Simon to rest his head– “What is it that your dreaming of again? Cabbages? And who is this lady in red? Should I be jealous?” he doesn’t know for certain that Simon is coming to– he continues to chide, “You’re so silly when you’re sleeping– pity that I’m only seeing it now–“ typically they were a pair to sleep together, safely in arms– wrapped in ghost-like bedsheets with appendages securely locking the other close. “Simon are you finally awake? Do you like your surprise? We’re almost there.” 

he speaks softly, as if to butter him up. –as if he’s the witch from hansel and gretel, feeding Simon sweets for his own duplicitous nature. his fingertips trace Simon’s hairline, pushing his hair away from his slightly clammy face. “Does sleeping beauty require a kiss before waking?” the sinister tone mocks– just before chapel lips finally place a peck on each of Simon’s closed eyelids. perhaps that would finally wake him. 

she wonders—if pax ever tires from over analyzing things; jasmine able to see the wheels in his head spin, causing her feel to nausea and drowsiness at the same time or perhaps, that was just an effect of pregnancy. her nose sensitive to the smell of ramen seasoning, which jasmine would have normally enjoyed or ignored all together. “they don’t push her, pax. she walks out into the street then BAM–is hit by a bus. and yes, it’s a comedy. a dark comedy. no one is advocating assault. it’s a satirical commentary on the relationships between adolescent girls.” jasmine sighed, combing her fingers through her long, dark, raven locks. she missed her colorfully dyed hair but thought it a safer option now that her pregnancy was further along. come the last trimester, she wouldn’t want to deal with retouches and upkeep.

jasmine scoffs, rolling her eyes as pax lists their favorite classic films. and of course, he’s right. each is a juggernaut on its own but there’s something about the early 2000s that also tugs on her heart strings, reminds her of her youth and all the fun that came along with it. and none of the responsibilities either. man, did she miss that part especially. “we do not mention la la land in this house,” jasmine began, face scrunched up in distaste by the mention of that whitewashed monstrosity. “pax, you’re putting way more thought into this than necessary. they’re like every mean girl in the history of mean girls portrayed on screen!” she exclaims, laughing as ella barks along with her, voicing her agreement.

“brownies and ice cream, make sure to get those doggy scoops for the girls too. don’t want them left out either.” jasmine responds as pax begins to order their food online while she searches through various streaming services until she finds one that hosts the film.

“Right... so the moral of the story is look both ways before crossing the street?” he doesn’t realize that this is something he has to put even more attention into. he’s already read books on the gestation cycles– and the different phases of childhood development. his family, while not entirely helpful, were the best at expanding his reading materials. every chance he saw his mother, she was dropping off yet another book. he’s tried to keep himself educated on the differences in parenting and the type of care he’s going to be providing. and on that front he’s not worried– they were a team of very competent parents ready to share that life with each other. he was even prematurely preparing himself with learning how to style his daughter’s hair–   

the life and relationships between adolescent girls– however, it was something so far in the future that he hadn’t at all had time to think about it. he sits quietly as he dials the phone number to the nearest pizza delivery place. perhaps if it weren’t entertaining, the movie would, at least, be a bit educational in it’s apparent nuances and satire. he chews on his bottom lip as he nods, “I suppose we’ll need something to eat our pizza to... Yes– It’s Mr. Min again–” he begins speaking to the Papa John’s CSR, of whom, knows him by the number on the Caller ID. he laces his fingers in hers, holding her hand as she flips through channels and as pizza delivery totals are tallied. he’s certain to include everything his queen has requested, of course. 

he then moves on to the uber eats app– “Okay that’s fair– but that’s karma for you. That’s why Moonlight one the best picture that year at the Oscars.” he speaks with a shrug. he doesn’t put in a second thought to ordering from two different places. But McDonalds has the fries, and the pup scoops. “ So not only is this movie terrible in its premise, but I’m also going to be reliving trauma from my high school days. Got it.” a humorless chuckle follows as he clicks on his apps on his phone. “I suppose there are worse things...” he trails off. “How about... to sweaten the deal, I get a kiss for every time a girl is mean on the show.” 

— “You have to admit, the kid has a point,” he shrugged. Gilbert took the insult in stride. Everything he’d done in life to not only survive, but thrive was the antithesis of the lives he wanted to fit into. A conman’s life is to lie, to steal, to even hurt if it served a means to an end. That couldn’t be unlearned overnight. Objectively speaking, he agreed that he could be a bit of a prick. Gilbert studied the pain interwoven to his daughter’s expressions – her features even, from the resigned smile to the soulful eyes that gatekept all the pain of her past. He wished he could take that pain away.

He broke into a wry smile.

“If you aren’t well-adjusted, that just means you’re carrying on the family tradition,” he said. “I’d expect nothing less. Gladstones come from a very distinguished line of egomaniacs, alcoholics, and severe manic-depressives.” Hearing himself admit it aloud stung. The truth of his upbringing, no matter how he tried hiding it, tarnished the glamour of his aliases. It dawned upon him that the genetic odds he’d just presented weren’t the most pleasant information for the mother of his unborn child to hear. He shot a quick look to Jessica, his dark gaze apologetic. “But maybe it skips a generation?”

The name Kieran St. Claire sounded familiar, but he couldn’t quite place a name to the face. Gilbert went quiet, so close to woefully admitting he couldn’t tell Lowe’s mother apart from the revolving door of faces he took for company at night over the years. But then, a memory hit him. “I remember…” he said, slowly, “I remember because I gave her my real name, which is something a good con shouldn’t do. Your mother figured out that I wasn’t, in fact, a wealthy descendant of Boston Brahmin like I was pretending to be. I’d just arrived in New York – lost as all hell, unable to tell up from down, staying in this apartment that was more of a closet. She sniffed out that I was just some punk from the Midwest – said she could tell I wasn’t really from New England because how I held my cigarette. I remember that – what she told me – that country boys smoke Marlboro Reds and hold a cigarette between their finger and thumb. I was so shocked, I think I fell in love instantly.” 

Marlowe snorted at the con’s agreeance. At the very least, she could’ve appreciated his unabated honesty above all else, even if at times she outright despised it. “I don’t know if we’re that special,” she told Jessica. “Might even be unfortunate you have to have us as company.” As much as she boasted herself as the world renowned expressionist she was, allowing the gross inflation of her pride and ego to distract her from the more harrowing alleyways of her person, she mostly experienced the clarity that came with knowing you were the product of a monumental mistake and that a sardonic attitude didn’t cure everyone else’s negative perception of who you really were.

She felt the distinct gaze of a sorrowful father’s eyes on the face of a dejected daughter and shrunk instinctively. Shit, this was so much harder than she fucking thought it’d be. Maybe because it wasn’t taking place in the pouring rain, words exchanged at maximum volume and imploding vocal chords, no swelling orchestra as the truth was uncoiled in a simple one-liner that had an imaginary crowd gasping and gripping onto their seats. “That’d be reassuring if I didn’t already know St. Clairs descend from an egregiously cunty line of egomaniacs, alcoholics, and severe personality disorders.” she returned — it was good to know that the cards had never been in her favor, that her hand was predetermined to shit out early on. Whenever she noticed the exchanged glance between Gilbert and his much too compliant girlfriend, she released a chuckle. “I think the, uh, Claus genes could win out. Her and her brother seem… Sprightly enough for it.” Sure, she did also hold close the belief that Ellie was recklessly annoying and she wanted absolutely nothing to do with him, but she was beginning to cope with the fact that soon he’d be an uncle to what would be the baby of the fragmented Gladstone family, and that would guarantee interaction among them.

Rather than assume the disposition of a wounded fawn, Marlowe straightened her posture as the story was told. If she hadn’t been herself; jaded and burdened with an unsinkable anger directed toward the mother he spoke somewhat fondly of, if she’d been a younger Marlowe — Marley, the only affection that Kieran spared her apart from the praises she received after a successful exhibit — she would’ve thought it charming and romantic. That poor, broken little thing. She wouldn’t have had any clue. Maybe that would’ve been for the better. “Fell in love?” she repeated. “Lucky you. I got less of the bewitching quick wittedness and more of the authoritarianism from making me her trophy by the age of five through isolation and verbal abuse. Y’know, broken dreams and promises impact a woman a helluva lot, I’ve come to find.” It was only a matter of time before the true nature of her childhood was unveiled, why drag it out even longer than the twenty-one years it took for anyone to pluck up the courage to inform Gilbert of her existence? Eyes flickering upward to the blonde woman accompanying them, she tried to seem somewhat supportive. “At least this kid has a better chance.”

on the contrary, Jessie feels blessed to be a part of this meeting. it’s a precious moment, and though there is a tiny voice inside her head that tells her she’s overstepping and maybe even taking this moment away from the two, she’s thankful, quiet in her seat and there for support. for both of them– for Gilbert, the love of her life, and Marlowe, someone she hoped would be in her life too. she shakes her head in that honesty, and a smile speaks for her words. she’s so fortunate– and she’d continue to feel those fortunes. her hopeful heart is already planning more dinners between the three of them, and she can’t wait to feel better in her pregnancy. she has cookies to bake, and more scarves to knit and outings to plan. she giggles at Marlowe’s words that seemingly echo Gilbert’s. and she wonders why she didn’t put two and two together sooner. they were so alike sitting at the table. the more she fixated on the similarities, the more it started to make sense. and though one Gilbert, she’d joked was enough– it is interesting to her to see how those minds work together. 

as Gilbert’s words continue to give life to the past, Jessie reaches over. a hand steadies itself over his, first softly patting, and then taking his hand in his. she means to give him comfort and warmth and assurance that this is all okay. though– she doesn’t know if she forgives the cigarettes, just yet.  ( they were such a nasty habit ) she speaks in her ever optimistic tone, “ I’m hoping for health above all else with this one.” the looks down at her barely changed tummy. “I think the little strawberry is going to be lucky to have you watching out for her.” she gives Marlowe an even softened look. “And I know it’s odd circumstances we’ve found ourselves in, but I think she’s gonna need your influence. She’s gotta be as strong as her big sister. And who best to teach her about art than the best artist I know?” she feels even her heart pull a wides smile in her chest. “I’m hoping she gets an ounce of your creativity, and that the pair of you will make me only the best macaroni art when she’s old enough not to choke on it.” it would be years before then, but a woman could dream, couldn’t she?

“Admittedly the Claus genes are a bit funky too. We’ve got that alcoholism running in our past, as well, but, yes, she has that wonderful funcle of hers ready for her to come out. I can’t wait to see how he is with her.” she takes a big inhale, sinking down on her bottom lip– the hormones were making it a bit overwhelming for her, but she’s trying not to get too sappy. “I’m excited for her to meet the family.” and yes, Marlowe is a part of that family. “And if it just so happens that she finds herself lost–” she places her words carefully on the dinning room table.  though they are meant for the daughter still brewing, there is every reason for Marlowe to believe they are for her too, “I think it’s safe to say that we believe in second chances.” 

Accepting the flyers, Zelma bowed their head gratefully that they were being allowed to help the grieving sister. There was no question in forgiving the outburst —— they’d been told much worse things before, and besides, they were apt in handling those who were suffering most, so while this had been a peculiar and terrible day it wasn’t one that they were entirely unequipped for. “Of course. I’ll do anything I can to help,” they said, softening their words even more. Not to seem patronizing, only because they couldn’t imagine the screams that must’ve been echoing in Charlotte’s head ever since learning of her sisters’ disappearance. That’s surely how they would’ve felt if something that awful happened to their family, even though at the moment they weren’t on the best of terms. “No need for apologies. You have every right to be frustrated.”

The raven-haired clutched the flyers close to their chest as they listened to Charlotte divulge their worries and doubts, eyebrows knitted attentively. “I understand. Sometimes, one stranger isn’t enough,” they said. It was more than reasonable. With a few patients, it’d take multiple sessions to actually see who they were rather than the front they were putting up as they got a feel for Zelma just as much as they were trying to get a feel for them. It was a silent game of chess, they found. “They’ll be found. That I believe. I see that the whole town is up in arms over these girls, they have so many people that are worried and want them found. And if you’re the one leading the charge, I think that’s more than enough.” they reassured, not knowing if their words would ultimately mean anything but still wanting the third sister to hear them.

entranced by kind words, and real sentiment, she stays quiet. it’s hard to focus with her own thoughts buzzing a million miles per second. she hasn’t felt a sense of calm in the past couple of days, and finally now she’s been teased an ounce of it– it makes her hopeful that there are some people still listening. the authorities seemed to be no help– word of mouth seemed as if it were getting hopeless– and she was tired of seeing her sisters on newsfeeds. she really didn’t appreciate the spectacle of it, but could she have expected? her sisters were well known. “If you ask anyone, they’d say it runs in our genes.” she gives a heartless giggle. “I think Rosie, now, is the only one without a scandal attached to her name.” lucky girl, in her opinion, but maybe that was her good karma for being the sweetest of the sisters? “And typically the universe allows us one sister, one scandal per year, but this time we got a double whammy on our hands...” technically Dorothy was met with far worse with the public, but it was nothing Josie couldn’t keep quiet. “It does make me feel better knowing I’m not the only one who cares...” a small defeated hum catches in her throat as she feels the sadness welling up again, though, she’s telling herself not to break– she has to be strong.

“I hope you’re right stranger–” she can’t help but pout. “You know, you’re really good at listening– I should take some pointers from you honestly.” 

Dinah’s expression softened, and for a split second, they saw their mother standing in front of them. “Right now the best you can do is look after yourself. Burning out and running yourself into ground won’t do you or your sisters any good. I know this is a difficult time for you, but you have to be kind and patient with yourself.” They looked the woman over again, unable to shake off the sight of their mother. “Do you need me to call someone for you?”

the chilling reality of it all sinks in and it causes a wisp of cold air to numb her body. goosebumps stand in fear as her heart sinks. if anything happened to her sisters, she’d make sure whoever did it paid with the same amount of torment they caused her. but even trying to come up with a plan out of it is pointless, her thoughts latch onto that grim reality as she rubs at her arms. “Is it cold in here or is it just me?” she chuckles to herself, as she continues to try and warm herself up– but like the color in her face that’s been washed out– she’s losing that intensity. her flame is running cold– without her sisters, it’s hardly a flame. “Do– do you think you could maybe talk to me some more and distract me?” she offers a half-hearted smile. “I think I just need to focus on something else for a minute.” 

“I kiss my favorite person all the time.” denali responds, pointing at her mother, who still has that shameless and lovelorn look about her. nadia unable to contain the glow she has, thanks to charlotte. of course, denali notices and yes, it does make her happy because she has the very best moms in the world but still, this is HER moment. and like most divas, she doesn’t want to share it. with anyone. quickly, denali adjusts the silver bangles she proudly wears on her arm, working to maintain the image she has built up so carefully in her mindscape. “I am already lucky, mommy lottie. I know what love is. I love you and mommy and auntie dottie, rosie, josie, and dollie. and everyone else in my family.” denali declares, hands on her hips while she strikes a pose. the superstar is here.

nadia giggles, amused yet impressed by the sound logic denali possesses to counter her wife’s argument. and while the child has yet to learn to the true meaning of charlotte’s words (and won’t for at least another decade, praise jesus) she does know of love, clearly surrounded and shaped by it. “thank you.” denali replies, speaking into the mic before she starts to sing, keeping in tune while her face morphs into various expressions she believes are fitting of the lyrics. nadia, in response, rests her head on lottie’s shoulders, proud of the life she’s created here. it’s a damn good one.

“I guess we have the same favorite person then!” she learns forward listening with a glint in her eye, parting lips softly at the words their baby girl speaks. “but I wonder–” she tilts her head in an overly inquisitive fashion. a thinking face complete with an index finger at her temple, taps in comical fashion, “Who takes the cake for Mommy’s favorite person? Me, or you... or Kiwi.” melodic laughter follows as she gives Denali a sparkling wink. her chuckles are calm. where her sounds of amusement typically sound cackling and grating, there is a light lift to those giggles. they are effervescent, full of life and love and Lottie’s heart inside her chest cherishes the moments like these. to think– just weeks ago– her whole world felt like it was shroud in nothing but darkness. there is a pull at her lips– the aftermath of her sisters’ disappearance was weighing on her, but she was finally happy they were safe at home. “And they love you too, baby. And we’ll get to visit them real soon, I promise !” 

tiny footsteps take front in center– as the star of the center stage takes her place. Lottie thinks to herself, just how necessary a set of pink spotlights are as she settles closely. she places one more kiss upon Nadia’s forehead. a soft whisper to speak how grateful she was with the patience and grounding the other gave her in that time of desperation. the tiniest assurance and tiniest reminder pulls at her lips in the whisper– “I love–”  yet before she can finish the you that trailed on her lips, she hears it.  “FUCK WOLVERINE– first he rides my coattails with the R-rating, and then, that hairy motherfucker ups the ante by dying. What a dick...” 

before her twelve year old foster son can finish his quoting of the Deadpool 2 opening monologue– she sits up– spine fully alert, and ready to chew that boy out for his language ( when really she had no room to talk ), “Did you just say the f worD ?!?!”  until she realizes it, “Wait... he’s performing that and calling it talent?!” she gives her wife a raised eyebrow. though, she couldn’t really be mad, at least, he was performing... she didn’t know if she should be proud of Kieran, or if she should be appalled at the normalization of the f word in their home. maybe this was all her fault.

it wasn’t uncommon for nadia and charlotte to share heated kisses in the brief moments they had alone together. denali taking up all their attention since the child refused to be ignored and un-kissed. one of the things nadia loved most about her daughter, denali’s willingness to share the affection she held for her mother with someone else. and that’s not always easy when your parent is your favorite person in the whole, wide world. nadia wraps her arms tightly around charlotte’s waist, keeping her close while she nibbles on her wife’s bottom lip, chuckling as she indulges her, providing all the kisses she can in such a short window of time. she almost loses herself until the padded footsteps of denali become even clearer and soon, their daughter is in front of them, freshly costumed and with a mic in her hand.

nadia can’t help but burst out into laughter, not at her daughter’s suspicions when narrowing her eyes at lottie; but due to the curly dark wig she has on top her head, looking every bit of whitney houston in the moment. “you were kissing!” denali accuses charlotte but walks over to her stepmom, making the wish anyway. she then waddles over, thanks to the heels she’s wearing, to the karaoke machine, pressing the play button as the instrumental to I will always love you begins.

there is a pout on her lips as she realizes she’s been found out. popcorn liters the floor, but even now, she’s not worried about it. Ivan would soon set the roomba for its course to vacuum up those little pieces along with tiger fur hairs on the extravagant carpets they shipped in from overseas. Lottie can’t trick such a clever little girl even if she tried. and for that she not only has herself to blame, but also Nadia, for being the most inspiring woman she knows. and everyday she sees that magic come out of their little girl– making her fall in love with her little sugar plum more and more. of course, Denali would learn from the best. she has to share her wife, yes, but this is never an issue for Charlotte Degraves. there was plenty of her love to go around, and she wanted nothing but the best lessons of adoration and respect for Denali. of the two years they’ve been married, she’s learned that loving the woman before her meant loving that little girl too. and she did. “Maybe it was one kiss... and maybe one day when you’re older you’ll know what it’s like to want to kiss your favorite person all the time.” the hopeless romantic nods her head at Denali. “In fact, I hope you get to feel as lucky as your mommy makes me feel. Love is a beautiful feeling, and I want you to know what that feels like.” 

the bowl of popcorn in her lap is toppled over without a care as she pulls on her wife’s face. her lips press softly at first, and then they sink in for a more passionate kiss– one she’s been holding back since her step-daughter gets a little jealous sometimes. there is a tiny nimble pulling away as eyes flutter back open to take in her favorite features in the entire world. her love swirls in Nadia’s irises– there is a reflection of herself that she sees– one she’s finally been able to accept. one that makes her heart flutter everytime. after two years, still the other woman was able to give her millions of butterflies. Denali’s run down the hallway for yet another costume change for the impromptu talent show she’s put on and Lottie has been waiting for two whole renditions of Lady Marmalade to kiss her wife. now that Denali is now ready to perform a scene from the Bodyguard– the instrumental sounds of Whitney’s I Will Always Love You plays from the karaoke machine they got for their little girl some weeks ago. “One more–“ she pecks at lips again, “Before she comes back.” 

and another– on her forehead and finally– the tiny footsteps come barreling back down the hallway. echoing against fancy art– modern furniture and, of course the high ceilings of their humble yet glorious home, Denali takes charge. Lottie explains herself, “I definitely wasn’t kissing mommy, my little sugarplum.” she holds a finger up, “I was just picking an eyelash off her face, and you know what? I forgot to make a wish…” she feigns a pout, “Do you think you can make a wish for me, sweetie?”