#au!

“Well,” you said, voice lilting with mischief, “you always correct me when I’m wrong, sigh dramatically when I make bad notes, and act like you’re being tortured whenever I smile-so yes, Professor.”

He bit back a smirk, dropping into the chair across from you. “You’re insufferable.”

“Mm. You love it.”

He didn’t respond. Because maybe he did.

You pushed the plate toward him. “Snickerdoodles. My mum always made them when we studied together. Cinnamon helps memory, apparently. You need that.”

Mattheo blinked at you, half amused, half baffled. “You baked these?”

You nodded, curls bouncing. “Of course. What kind of study session doesn’t have snacks? Don’t worry, I didn’t poison them-though, if you’re mean about my handwriting again, I might next time.”

He stared at you for a second longer than he meant to, then reached for one. The sugar cracked slightly under his fingers, still warm. He took a bite-and something in him stilled.

Sweet, soft, familiar.

You were watching him, chin in your hand, that ever-present gleam in your eye like you were seeing the world through some invisible bit of sunlight no one else could find. “Good?”

He swallowed, nodding once. “Too good.”

You grinned. “Perfect. Fuel for the tortured genius.”

He shook his head, smiling despite himself. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I prefer whimsical,” you corrected, flipping through your notes. “It sounds more mysterious.”

“Mysterious isn’t the word I’d use.”

“What word would you use, then?” you asked, scribbling something onto parchment without looking up.

He hesitated, leaning back in his chair, the corners of his mouth tugging faintly. “Sweet.”

You looked up then, surprise flickering across your features before softening into something gentler-quieter. “Well,” you said finally, with a shy little smile, “you’re sweeter than you think too, Mattheo.”

He didn’t answer. Just reached for another cookie, pretending to study while your soft humming filled the air between them. The candlelight flickered over your face-your nose scrunched in concentration, your hair messy from running your hands through it.

And for the first time that week, maybe that month, Mattheo Riddle didn’t feel quite so cold inside.

it's probably got a happy ending, honestly. instead of fighting omori avery has a fun little headspace battle with derek against the king and wins and derek is free, yay! the ending scene is avery opening the door to see derek there :)

(i could also make it a 'derek is in fact gone and avery has to learn to keep moving forward' thing, which is technically more in line with omori, but that makes me sad too, they deserve to be happy.)

Smoke trails upwards from the cigarette resting between your fingertips.

It’s almost therapeutic, you think to yourself, as you watch the dark tendrils making a variety of shapes on their way up towards the ceiling. You’ve already envisioned a whole world of little characters, eyes clinging to their forms until they dissolve into nothing when they reach the space close to the ceiling fan.

“If you’re going to do that in here, at least use an ashtray.”

Mor’s voice cuts through your daydreaming, making you lose track of the specific shape you’d been studying. It was a good one as well, your intense focus on it making it look particularly detailed. It looked a little bit like a bat. Or maybe a man. A man bat?

Snorting softly at the idea of a man with bat wings, you look over to your friend studying herself in the mirror. She pulls the fabric of her skin tight dress down, turning slightly from left to right to admire herself from all angles.

As always, she looks like sin incarnate. The slightly shimmering dress hugs her curved figure flawlessly and she’s painted her lips a bright red, her character shade. She recently cut her long golden hair into a messy, shoulder length style that perfectly accentuates the shape of her face, and her eyes are heavily lined with black kohl.

You ignore her comment about the ashtray.

“Stop fussing, you look amazing. Emerie is going to lose her mind.”

She reaches over to the vanity beside her, quickly tipping some jewelry out of a little bowl and shoving it underneath your cigarette before the ash can reach the carpet clad floor.

“You have to say that. As my dearest, closest friend it’s your duty to talk me up at all times.” You spot the twinkle in her eyes though and you know that she’s aware she’s nailed this outfit.

She steals the cigarette from between your fingers as she sits down on her bed beside you, taking a quick drag before putting it out on the makeshift ashtray.

Your hand isn’t empty for long, as she quickly replaces the space the cigarette leaves behind with a small glass containing a clear liquid. She clinks your glass with her own, knocking back its contents in one go, motioning for you to do the same.

“Liquid courage.”

You roll your eyes, but you do as she says, the alcohol leaving a pleasant burn when it makes its way down your throat. You needed this.

“Liquid courage for what? I’m not the one with the hot date tonight.”

She studies you and you try not to cringe at the slight concern shining through in her gaze.

Ever since Azriel left to tour the world with his stupid band, she’s been walking on eggshells around you. You’ve steered clear of the subject every time it’s threatened to come up, but you have a feeling your expertly crafted avoidance strategy is about to come to an end.

“Speaking of hot dates… What happened between you and Az before he left?”

You think back to the last conversation you had with him. Even though it was months ago, the sting of his words still echoes in your mind.

You’re standing in the hallway of your small apartment, breaths coming out in laboured bursts.

The air feels heavy with the angered words hanging in the space between you.

He speaks after what feels like an eternity, voice hoarse from shouting. “I think we should take a break.”

A lump starts forming in your throat as you avert your gaze, the reality of what he’s saying hitting home. He knows how much those words will sting.

When you’d first started seeing each other, admitting that your years of friendships were blossoming into something else, you’d told him that you were scared of being too much for him, too broken. He’d taken your hands in his own, his eyes full of promise as he told you that your broken pieces fit perfectly with his own. That he didn’t want something perfect, he wanted something real.

The room feels like it’s starting to spin while you’re trying to keep your breathing in check, the familiar feeling of a panic attack bubbling under the surface. It’s becoming harder and harder to breathe and you feel as if you are watching yourself from outside your body as your worst fear becomes a reality.

“I just can’t keep doing this. It’s exhausting.” When you don’t reply, he speaks your name, softly but firmly.

You look up at him, willing your eyes to convey the words you so desperately want to speak, but that somehow refuse to leave your lips.

“I can’t let anything mess this up, you get that right? This tour is our last chance.” The desperation in his voice is becoming more and more apparent as he continues. “It’s my career.” He almost whispers last part.

Your heart breaks at his words but you can’t seem to force yourself to stop him as he makes his way to the door. You know where he’s coming from, the last few weeks have been filled with endless arguments and shouting matches, but the last thing you want or need is space.

You're wanting to reach out and wrap yourself around him. You want to beg him not to go on tour, want to hide him away in the depths of your apartment without the weight of the world crashing down on you both.

But most of all, you want him to read between the lines of the angry words you have been spewing at him for weeks.

The whole reason the fighting started in the first place is because you’re struggling with the idea of him going away at all, not used to being without him for such a long period of time. You’ve come to rely on him being by your side, his presence a steadying comfort.

You started pushing him away, convincing yourself it would be easier to let him go like this, easier than letting yourself be vulnerable and talking to him, anyway. Your anxiety fueled mind had thrown all logic out the window.

The results of your actions are now playing out in front of you, creating a scenario so far removed from what you actually want it’s making you feel ill.

A small, selfish part of you is hurt that Azriel hasn’t recognised the patterns in your behaviour. You both know he’s guilty of acting in similar ways when things get tough, a stupid coping mechanism you’d both adopted at a young age. A lingering side effect from your difficult childhoods. Both so used to needing to survive on your own, that letting anyone get close was rare. You’d both worked so hard to get to the place you’re in and you feel as if the last few weeks have erased all of your progress. Still, you can’t bring yourself to speak, completely paralysed and rooted in place.

“DAMMIT, SAY SOMETHING!” You flinch slightly at his angered outburst, mind going into overdrive. Your emotional state is rendering you unable to form any words, no matter how hard you wish them to fall from your lips.

You will the tears to stay at bay as you watch him turn around and disappear through the front door, still not finding the courage to speak.

The loud noise of it slamming shut behind him vibrates through the hallway, the impact knocking a little glass vase from your hallway table.

You stare at it as it shatters all over the floor, a perfect mirror of your heart falling to pieces in your chest.

You hadn’t spoken to him since.

Mor is still looking at you intently, your silence at her question speaking volumes about how the subject is making you feel.

“I don’t want to talk about it Mor.” You reach over to the bottle of flavoured vodka sitting on her bedside table, and pour both of you another shot.

“I just don’t get it. You two seemed better than ever, you know?” She puts her hand on yours and gives it a soft squeeze before continuing.

“I feel like I’m caught in the middle between you two. Az refuses to talk about it as well. It’s driving me mad seeing you two like this. We’re a family first. You guys promised.” Her voice sounds pleading, almost desperate. You know you’re hurting your best friend but you can’t talk about this without crumbling.

“We’re just taking some space from each other. He needs to focus on his tour. It’s fine.” You try to give her your most reassuring smile as you pass her the shot you’ve just poured. “Don’t worry about it. Tonight is about you and Emerie. We’ll talk about it soon, I swear.”

If she notices how empty the promise sounds she doesn’t let on, admitting defeat for now by accepting the drink from you and once again touching her glass against your own.

But as continue to help Mor get ready for her anniversary dinner, all you can think about is the look on Azriel’s face when you let him walk out the door all those months ago, and the ever growing distance you’re feeling between you.

———

After Mor leaves you wander around her apartment. You try to distract yourself from thinking about Azriel by picking up some of the little trinkets she’s put out all over the place. You study each of them with care, turning them over in your hands before putting them back. Everything to try and stop the thoughts racing through your head. The memories of hazel eyes and soft lips, strong tattoo covered arms wrapping around you, pulling you close.

All you want right now is to be held. By one specific person. It’s driving you insane.

When you reach the living room, your eyes glide over the thousands of books on display in the massive bookcase. A familiar picture catches your eye and you feel your pulse quicken as you gravitate towards it. Your fingers reach out to touch the cool glass, and you wrap your hands around the frame before carefully lifting it up. Three happy faces stare back at you from the frame and your heart hurts at the sight.

Az is standing in the middle with a massive smile on his face, arms wrapped around both your shoulders and pulling you close to his side. The picture was taken years ago but you remember the moment as if it was yesterday.

It was the day the Shadows signed their first record deal.

The manager had been desperate to take a picture of the band together but Azriel had refused, saying he needed to take a picture with his best girls first. The incredulous look on her face as she realised he was being serious is forever edged into your brain.

“Come on, it’s fine.” Azriel beckons both of you to come closer, an exasperated Amren watching from the corner, arms crossed. To be completely honest, you were kinda worried she was going to kill you all from the way she was glaring at the both of you, scowling at the scene unfolding.

Rhys and Cassian were watching from the other end of the room, highly amused by the whole thing and not bothered one bit that their bandmate wanted to share this moment with his two best friends first. They knew you were like family to him, known you came as a package deal. Truth be told, they’d come to expect behaviour like this.

Despite the ache in your chest a small smile tugs on the corner of your lips when you take in the scene. You wish you could go back to that moment, back to when everything was still simple between you. Still good.

That thought is enough to bring you back to the reality of the situation you’ve created for yourself. You feel so far removed from the girl smiling back in the picture in front of you.

Your earlier conversation with Mor has left a hollow feeling in your chest that is threatening to consume you. You are meant to meet a few girls from work for a night out, but you cancelled as soon as Mor stepped out the door, not ready to face anyone else tonight. You should really be going home, but ever since that night a few months ago your apartment has felt like anything but a safe haven .

As if the shadows Azriel left behind are haunting you.

You trace the outline of Azriel’s face, hoping the cold feeling of the glass will ground you, before placing the picture back on its shelf.

Nestling into one of the big armchairs in the living room, you grab your phone out of your pocket and open your notes app.

Scrolling through shopping lists and notes filled with useless information, you keep going until you find the one you’re looking for labeled ‘A’.

As you click on it, your fingers immediately start typing frantically while you try to voice all the thoughts that are in your head and force them out onto the blank canvas in front of you.

It’s become a bit of a habit, writing notes to Az while you’re in this state. There’s hundreds of them, all the words you wish you could speak to him but never had the courage to say or send.

Your sight is slightly blurry from the additional drinks you downed after Mor left, another stupid coping mechanism you could really do without.

There have been a lot of days like this the last few months. Days where you wake up feeling empty and broken, that end with you having a few drinks too many. The slight buzz the alcohol provides sometimes seems to be the only thing that helps you rest. Without it, you stare at the ceiling all night, fading in and out of sleep.

It started a few days after your big fight, about a week before the band was meant to leave for the European leg of their big tour.

You’d been a mess, waking up to a hollowness so all consuming you’d have some drinks to take the edge off. You cried, the shadows Azriel’s absence left behind curling around you, and you wrote out all the words you didn’t speak to him before he left that night.

Multiple messages, all piling up as drafts in the text app on your phone.

“I’m sorry Az, please come back.”

“I didn’t mean to hurt you, I’m just scared of losing you.”

“I don’t want to push you away, I went about it the wrong way, I get it.”

“Come see me before you leave?”

“I love you.”

You were writing them for hours.

Each one written with tears streaming down your face but none ever sent. What was there to say? You had royally fucked up and he’d asked you for space, the least you could do was honour that, though a part of you wasn’t even sure space is what he really wanted.

Whenever you heard a knock on your door, your traitorous mind would wish it was him standing on the other side.

You started dreaming up ridiculous scenarios of him standing outside in the rain, begging at your door to let you in. Visions of him standing in that same hallway he broke your heart in, curls dripping with water as he told you all he wanted was to be by your side.

The messages started piling up and as you realised writing out the words was making you feel better, you moved the writing session to your notes.

You’ve built up an impressive collection over the last few months.

The familiar buzz of your phone cuts through the silence and you glance at the notification that pops up. Your treacherous heart skips a beat, always hoping it’s him reaching out.

All the colour drains from your face as you read the words on your screen. Surely this can’t be right?

“Breaking News: Guitarist of up and coming rock sensation the Shadows hospitalised after freak accident on stage.”

You feel as if your heart is beating out of your chest as you click on the article and start scanning the words. It’s becoming harder and harder to breathe by the second as you absorb the information.

There was a small fire on stage, no one really knows what started it, but it spread quickly and Azriel somehow got caught in the middle of it. They got him out, but he’s got burns, mainly on his hands, some so bad they are described as potentially “career altering”.

You feel as if your heart is breaking all over again, the small destroyed pieces that have been floating in your chest becoming even smaller, until you’re sure there is nothing but a pile of dust floating where your heart should be.

The band is his life, playing guitar is his life. This can’t be happening, it can’t be real. You’re going to be sick.

Everything feels like a blur as you jump up and throw your phone onto your seat, sprinting to the bathroom as fast as your legs can carry you. The cold tiles next to the toilet come into sight and you drop down onto your knees, emptying the contents of your stomach until you’re practically dry heaving.

After what feels like an eternity, you manage to push yourself up. Your shaky legs carry you to the sink and you go through the motions like a robot, running the tap to rinse your mouth and splash water in your face.

When you’ve calmed down enough to start moving again, you stumble your way back to the chair and grab your phone. The screen is flashing, showing one missed call from Rhys and a text message from Cassian.

Lifting your phone towards you with trembling hands, your eyes fill up with tears as you look at the words you’ve longed to see for weeks - stripped of any comfort by the horror they’re framed in. In your fantasies they were meant to bring you joy, not this hollow, stinging ache in your chest.

Through the tears streaming down your face you focus on them again, your throat squeezing so tightly it feels as if all air has been stolen from your lungs.

– I said… Ace and Gene are so.. strong, so powerful… and I? I only…

– You only hear everything, see everything, smell everything? You only can communicate with humans as if you were one of them? Listen, Eric. Maybe they are powerful and all, but look at them! They scare people with their behavior and appearance! And you? You are… cute. You never scare anyone. Even with your mask.

– My mask that I can’t even hide!

– I already told you, I‘m working on it.

– You should do something about my limbs as well!

– Really? Are you saying that you know better than I do?

– No but…