#arin writes

Carlos stared at the lights, at their ever-shifting colors and the way they grew brighter and dimmer, seemingly at random. Sometimes, patches of lights would swirl around each other or merge, but mostly they seemed content to just float there, drifting aimlessly. It was the first time he had studied the lights closely, and though he couldn’t yet see a pattern, he was almost certain one could be found. It was just a matter careful measurement and-

Footsteps behind him. The sound of someone running up to the car jolted him back to the reason he was there in the first place. Carlos turned to see Cecil looking at him with an expression of anticipation.

“What is it?” they asked. “What danger are we in? What mystery needs to be explored?”

Carlos smiled and shook his head. “Nothing.” He paused, trying to figure out what exactly to say. “After everything that happened… I just wanted to see you.”

“O-Oh?”

Carlos was struck, then, by just how different this Cecil in the parking lot was from the Cecil on the radio, so calm and detached. This Cecil’s eyes were wide with… surprise? disbelief? concern? all three? Their face was flushed and they kept nervously twisting their hands. Carlos realized all of this, and knew the correct response to none of it, so instead he turned to look at the sun. “I used to think it was setting at the wrong time. But then I realized that time doesn’t work in Night Vale, and that none of the clocks are real.” He turned to look back at Cecil and gave a little shrug. “Sometimes things seem so strange or malevolent, and then you find that, underneath, it was something else together, something pure and innocent.”

Cecil nodded. “I know what you mean.”

“Come up here,” Carlos said, gesturing to the spot next to him on the trunk of the car, and Cecil did, leaving a little space between the two them, as though unsure how close was too close.

Carlos wasn’t sure, either. “Is there a pattern, do you think?” he asked, pointing up at the lights.

“I don’t know.” Cecil frowned. “Be careful trying to find one, though. The lights are almost hypnotic, and before you know it, the weather’s been done for who knows how long, and Station Management has some choice words for you about the three hours of dead air.”

“Speaking from experience?”

“Maybe.”

Carlos laughed, and moved his hand ever so slightly, so that it rested on top of Cecil’s.

I went in for awe this time. My guise was whirling column of sand. I made my voice deep and rocky. “Name your desire, mortal.

“Djinni,” the magician in the pentacle opposite said, “answer me a question.”

I admit I was pleasantly surprised by his use of the word “djinni” rather than “demon”, but I didn’t show it. I had a theme going that I had to maintain. I whirled faster. “I know the secrets of the earth and the mysteries of the air; I know the key to the minds of women(1). What do you wish? Speak.”

(1) Patently all lies. Especially the last bit.

“What is essence?”I stopped my whirling and stared(2). “Eh?”

(2) I know sand doesn’t have eyes. Work with me here.

“Your substance. What exactly is it? How does it work?”

“Well, um...”

“And the Other Place. Tell me of it. Is time there synchronous with ours? What form do its denizens take? Have they a king or leader? Is it a dimension of solid substance, or a whirling inferno, or otherwise? What are the boundaries between your realm and this earth, and to what degree are they permeable?”

“Um...”

He stared at me. “Well?”

By way of answer, the sand congealed into a young, dark-skinned man, the form I’d typically worn as Gilgamesh’s spear-bearer, who regarded him skeptically. The magician stared coolly back. “All right,” I said. “Well done. That threw me off, I admit. What do you really want?”

“Why are you so reluctant to answer?” he wondered aloud. “It’s not as though sharing this information will do you any harm. Several other djinn I have summoned were just as hesitant. A rather interesting insight into how magicians treat the very beings they rely so heavily on, don’t you think?”

I ignored his musings and took my first real look at him. He was short and extremely skinny, with dark skin, onyx-colored eyes, and dark brown hair. He looked very young. It was his scrawny size and extreme youth in particular that caught my attention. “How old are you?”

He blinked. “Me? Twelve. Why?”

“Twelve!” I raised my eyebrows. “Surprises unceasing! Looking at you, I’d have guessed, oh, maybe around eight?”

The magician laughed, which was more than a trifle unexpected. “Yes, I’ve been told I look younger than I am. But what of my questions, Bartimaeus? Are you going to answer them?”

There was something in his voice that raised my eyebrows. Perhaps it was the underlying tone of casual command. This child was apparently used to exerting authority, which made me deeply uneasy. That was never a good sign. “Perhaps,” I said mysteriously. I was hunting for something in his command I could exploit, some loophole or ambiguity- and I found one.

“There’s no need to be all mysterious,” he said, showing impatience for the first time. “Just answer the questions. What is essence?”

“I don’t have to,” I told him, grinning.

The magician blinked. “Oh?”

“Your exact phrasing was “answer me a question”.”

“Go on.”

“A question. One. Singular. And you didn’t specify which one. And I did give you an answer when you I asked if I would answer your questions. One question answered. Charge fulfilled. And if you really want to be technical, you didn’t actually phrase it as a charge, so it could be argued that I didn’t have to answer anything.” I mock-bowed. “Now. Dismissal, please.”

The magician pressed his lips together into a thin, flat line. “You are determined to be difficult, I see. Very well. I intentionally phrased my request so it was not a command, so as to be more courteous, but I will order you to answer if I must(3).”

(3) It really wasn’t much of a threat, especially when you considered that at this point, most magicians would have already Stippled me several times, and that he had said this more in the tone of an exasperated mother than an angry magician.

I snorted. “Ooh, such a terrifying threat.”

“Threats will get us nowhere. I-”

“Look at you, taking the moral high road. It won’t last, I can tell you that.”

He ignored me, plowing right over my interruption. “I charge you to answer any questions I ask you between now and my Dismissal of you to The Other Place.”

I glowered but said nothing.

“What is essence?”

I grinned. “Essence: noun; the intrinsic nature or indispensable quality of something, especially something abstract, that determines its character.”

“You insolent little-” he stopped himself. “What exactly is the makeup of the substance that you yourself and all other demons are made up of?”

I coughed. “We’re not demons; I’m a djinni.”

The magician frowned. “I know that. Is “demon” not the general non-specific term for your kind?”

“It is not,” I said irritably. “The general term is “spirits”, thank you very much.”

“You are offended,” he noted, writing something down on a scroll.

“Yes, I am. “Demon” is an insulting and abusive term(4).”

(4) I feel I was rather restrained here, considering the circumstances.

“Really?” He sounded fascinated.

“Yes, really.”

He chewed the end of his stylus(5). “So you prefer to be referred to by your type when possible, and in general as spirits, yes?”

(5) This was a habit I’d seen before in temple scribes. I could never understand the appeal of it. To me, it looked like a good way to either break the stylus or get some sort of disease.

“Yes.”

The magician wrote this down. “Thank you. This has been immensely helpful.”

I made a face. “It wasn’t intended to be.”

The magician opened his mouth to reply, but stopped upon hearing someone coming. “It seems we must continue this conversation later.”

He stood, spoke the incantation flawlessly(6). I went.

(6) I will admit I was impressed by his mastery of his craft at such a young age. His Summons had been equally as powerful.

He got possessive when the opposing team would threaten theirs, when they would say that he couldn’t change their middle school team.

He got possessive when people insulted his friends, or when the mailman had been a bit too rough, or when someone touched what belonged to him.

He took care of all of those people- told them off, trash talked, or ignored them. He knew possessive was a bad trait, and that it was easy to slip out of hand. So he had a hold on it. He was getting better, so much better.

Until he had met Kageyama Tobio.

Kageyama was so annoying. At least, at first. And then they spent time together practicing, and learning each other, and understanding how the other ticked. After all, they couldn’t perform their ‘insane quick’ if they didn’t know each other, could they?

And Hinata hadn’t realized it until then, but he was falling back into his old habits. He noticed how people shrunk away from Kageyama and him when they were together, as though he would end them, lest they look at him wrong.

He started to notice how their other teammates stopped touching Kageyama.

He pulled himself back, for a while. He really tried.

But the shackles of jealousy were stronger than he thought, and again he was imprisoned in a cycle of destructive love, a path that would inevitably wear him down, over and over and over.

Kageyama confronted him. Asked him why he stopped hanging out after school. Why he wasn't allowed to come over anymore. Why Hinata stopped coming to morning practice.

His throat had closed up. Constructed upon itself. Prevented him from saying anything weird or untoward.

It was his personal hell.

It was his personal hell, to see himself isolate himself, to see Kageyama walking by himself, or worse, with some girl.

It was leading him on a path of self destruction. He had to do something about this, otherwise he would wither up and die inside.

He starts going back to morning practice. Starts to un-alienate himself from his friends. He won’t tell them what had been bothering him, but they figure if he’s here, something good must have happened. They don’t know. They don’t know how bad he is.

To want something so unattainable.

He starts talking to Kageyama again; his lips still remain shut on the matter.

They reform their bond. They become inseparable and invincible.

Hinata feels invisible. He’s hiding, hiding a true part of himself. Hiding who he really is.

Hinata Shoyo is a liar, a liar, a liar. The words echo in his head from their first win.

It becomes a constant undertone in his life. An echo, a part of him. He pulls away.

Kageyama breaks. He comes to his house in the dead of night, no call, no text, no warning.

He doesn’t have to; Hinata will always welcome him, no matter what, and that night, they finally talk.

And god, oh god, Kageyama understands. He tells Hinata that he’s not a liar, he’s not a fake, he’s not a creep.

Kageyama tells him it’s okay.

Hinata Shoyo may be possessive.