#cricket writes

Cold or otherwise, that’s the wonderful thing about pizza, you could eat it regardless— well, if you didn’t mind the pineapple. They’d both eaten far worse, or not at all. Besides, his tastes changed like the wind—

Her ears pricked sharply at the sound of a shoe sole scraping against potholed concrete, clunky and uneven. Her nose twitched fearfully. She should’ve pulled the box further into the shadows of the alley.

Pulse racing, she curled up tighter, spines splayed until the bootprints stopped abruptly, drowned out by the distant honking, shouting, screaming of East London on a Friday night.

Then the wind changed, and all at once her panic immediately soothed into relief.

‘Ruth? You there?”

The massive pizza box slid across the wet pavement with her scrabbling claws as she zoomed towards the end of their hiding spot; a nostalgic pull tugging at her tiny heartstrings as she snuffled at the air. “Over ‘ere! Took you long enough, where the bloody hell you been?” She could almost feel the responding eyeroll as the flickering, looming shadow at the alley’s maw rounded the corner and Hobie Brown stumbled in — joy bubbled and fizzed from her brightly glowing chest and into a resounding chirp — empty handed. Ah.

"Foodbank was sold out when I got there. ‘S fine though, we’ll— I’ll jus-“

“Nono, gimmie a sec,” she croaked and shuffled back the way she’d scurried. The sogginess of the ground nearly proved too strong for her teeth as it sucked on the cardboard, but she managed to drag it just far enough to cut her young charge’s dejection short. “Ta-da! We’ve got ourselves a chicken-dinner! The crowd goes wild, n’ we have full bellies.” Her words were muffled, but from the relieved laugh he’d barked out it was clear he’d understood the gist.

“Oh my days, Ruth you’ve outdone yourself! Also, you should know, you look ridiculous. Never thought I’d see a hedgehog carrying a takeaway box that big, come ‘ere,” the box was lifted effortlessly up into the sky before the boy slumped down next to her. Hobie opened the box with the reverence of a present he’d been counting down the days for, and wolfed down the first slice like a dying man. Well, that…that wasn’t exactly far off. “Where’d you even get this? It’s huge! Could last us two days easy.” Ruth sniffed the food eagerly, climbing up and using his thigh to balance her front paws on so that she could get a better look. Hobie then passed Ruth her single slice so she sat down next to him and set to nibbling away at it. She was rather proud of herself that she’d held out long enough for her charge to have the first piece. Taking care of him was, after all, her entire reason for existing in the very literal, physical, cosmic sense.

“Stole it from a Spaceship Pizza delivery bike while the driver was havin’ a natter. She saw but apparently thought it was funny enough to fight the good fight with her boss.”

Hobie nodded in approval, speaking around his third slice in under as many minutes, “good girl, she gets it. Fuck capitalism, feed hedgehogs.”

“Mm, found your new motto then.”

“‘Course.”

The silence between them as they ate was comfortable, well lived in, homey. Ruth was munching away at a chunky strip of cheap, processed ham when her beady eyes locked onto the dip of Hobie’s hollow cheek as he grinned, and all of a sudden they were seven years old again. The worry wrinkles, far too premature for someone who’s only just turned fifteen forming on his forehead, his sharp edges and his first, shiny, new nose piecing he’d convinced a friend to give him for free we’re gone. "Do you remember we used to eat this in school? You hated pineapple. You don’t now.”

“Nah, I don’t believe in consistency. You of all people should know that.” His bordered edges shifted and his skin turned from grey newspaper clippings about threats of anarchist uprisings to a happy, relatable, empathetic pink. “You haven’t changed a bit. Just a big ol’ hoglet.”

Ruth looked at him aghast, squeaking in disapproval, spines puffing in defiance. “You’re havin’ a tin-bath.” The stripes on her spines and the glowing patch on her chest turned from a happy, relatable, empathetic pink to the grainy grey of tv static.

“Oh no, you still look like a pup to me. Jus’ with more spines. Hey, remember when I tried to count ‘em all again last week? Think I got to 561 this time.”

Ruth huffed. She had waaaay more spines than that. “I could say the same thing, you had all the grace of a toddler the way you nicked your finger. Thought you’d be used to my spines after all this time. Guess I’ll just be free of your cuddles an’ keep warm on my lonesome.”

“Woah, hey now, I’m only playin.’”

"’Course,” Ruth snorted and licked BBQ sauce off of her nose, then sighed wistfully, “blimey, I miss moments like this more than anythin’"

Hobie’s crooked smile waned and seemed to wobble a bit. Seven years old and they’d already been kicked out of their second orphanage. School gave them hot food served with kind, pitying smiles. Their new placement did neither. "Yeah…Y’know, this is the only thing that's made the last three years bearable.”

“Pizza?”

Hobie’s laugh was small, humourless and tired, and Ruth felt a pang of something sharp in her chest that was anything but starvation.

“You. Company. Jus’ ‘avin someone who actually gives a damn about whether or not I live or die tomorrow. Can’t imagine what it’s like for those blokes n’ birds who ain’t got Guardians of their own anymore. Must be propper rough. I’ve heard that…sometimes, when it gets too hard, Guardians can just leave. Sever that bond from birth completely. It happened to ol’ loopy Louis on George Street, at least, that’s what he tells everyone. But I’ve seen others too, I’ve seen two different Guardians before just wandering around alone an’ feral. They looked so lost.”

Ruth suddenly felt sick. She couldn’t think of anything worse than loosing Hobie. She was supposed to take care of him. He was her best friend, her partner in crime, her reason to keep going through these first few years of surviving on the streets. He’d been through so much already for someone so young, he’s wise far beyond his barely 15 years and she wanted to cry. “You couldn’t get rid of me if you tried.”

“I know, I’m jus’ really grateful. You’re a stellar Guardian, Ruth.”

“Well, I don’t know about that” Her voice cracked and she abandoned her half-eaten pizza crust to climb up onto his thigh again, pushing down a couple of times with her front paws to signal that she wanted up. Hobie put down his own 5th slice and picked Ruth up by the armpits to perch her on his sight shoulder. She had to grip onto his thin winter jacket to avoid falling off, but she managed, laying her spines down flat to avoid hurting him. She glanced down to their food through teary eyes, then the pins adorning the jacket’s leather collar, the cheap, patched, fraying jumper underneath and the crochet hook poking out of his top pocket where he kept the bands he was using to try out something new. He’d wanted wicks for a while.

“I do. No one else would go outta their way to steal a pizza three times their size for me.”

“No one worth knowing.” Ruth sniffed wetly, and Hobie, with carefully practiced ease tilted his head and rested his cheek on her back. “One day, you’ll meet people who will do anything for you, Hobie, jus’ like me. People who’d- who’d stop busses an,’ an’ planes and trains for you. They’ll shout your name whenever they see you, and talk about you all the time when you ain’t there, ‘cause they’ll love you millions. You jus’ haven’t met ‘em yet. I know it.

For once, Dex doesn’t have to have his captain hat on, doesn’t have an assignment looming over his head, and all the appliances and fixtures are currently behaving themselves. It’s like somehow the universe knew Dex needed a break and provided. He doesn’t believe in God or anything, but an occasionally benevolent universe is a comforting thought. 

Of course, as soon as he lets himself fully relax into his solitude, the screen door springs squeal open and startle him. At least he didn’t spill his coffee. With an internal sigh and a mental note to pick up some more WD-40, he turns to greet his teammate with a smile he doesn’t truly feel. When he catches sight of a teal sweatshirt, he exhales in relief and his lips turn up in genuine pleasure. 

Chowder, for all his boundless enthusiasm, is not a morning person. 

Dex hums a greeting as Chowder artlessly drops onto the top step next to him and slumps against his shoulder, eyes already closed. Dex, careful not to jostle his best friend too much, extracts his arm from between them and wraps it around Chowder’s shoulders. He lets out a pleased noise into Dex’s hoodie and then silence falls again. 

The warmth of his coffee seeps through his body, warming Dex almost as much as his dozing goalie at his side. The breeze ruffles the turning leaves and does its best to sneak through the gap between his sweats and his socks. It’s an almost perfect morning, reminiscent of walking to school in Maine, back when his siblings had all entered high school, leaving him the only Poindexter attending the local middle school. 

The only thing that would make it better would be if Nursey was bracketing his other side. It’s an open secret on SMH that Dex, tough-as-nails captain and defenseman, craves cuddles and human contact whenever he’s not on the ice. Any teammate will do—there was one infamous away game bus ride where he accidentally trapped Lardo in place by falling asleep on her—but Nursey and Chowder are the best at it. 

As he drains the last of his coffee and sets the mug down, there’s a thump and a pained fuck from just inside the door. Dex outright grins as the springs screech again, this time the Haus disgorging a stumbling, grumbling Nursey. 

“Shut up, Dexy,” Nursey mumbles as he drops down on Dex’s free side on the steps. “The chair attacked me. Hate crime.”

Dex just makes an amused noise and lets his arm slip around Nursey’s waist in silent solidarity. It’s possible the ghosts are having fun at Nursey’s expense. Unlikely—probably he was just as clumsy as usual if not more so in his half-awake state—but still possible. He’ll chirp Nursey about it later. 

Silence falls again as his best friends doze on his shoulders and Dex can barely even come up with words to describe his contentment. It’s hard to explain how happy he is at this precise moment. Nothing is actually going on, not even a conversation. He’s just sitting here, crowded up with Nursey and Chowder while the world wakes up slowly. It’s so completely uneventful, no sagas will be written about it, it won’t go down in history books. But Dex knows he’ll keep this moment close as he grows old. He doesn’t need grand choirs to sing about his life. 

Leaving aside the royalty of it all, Henry’s got the worst case of insomnia of anyone he knows, and a few people he’s only ever heard of. He’s become begrudgingly fond of the liminal time between evening and early morning. He’d rather be sleeping of course, but if he is going to lie awake counting non-existent cracks in the ceiling, he may as well lean into it and get something done. He’s finished whole books, gotten his inbox to zero, done enough research to consider fighting Gram for a PhD, gone down porn rabbit holes that even Pez would blush at, and a whole host of other tasks both fantastic and mundane. 

But tonight, like a thousand nights before, Henry can’t sleep. And tonight, the siren song of overfilled bookshelves calls to him. He sorts through the titles methodically, discarding those he knows he won’t read again, occasionally pausing to read the inscriptions of those he was gifted. In between weeding out a handful of narrative non-fiction and deciding that yes, he does actually need all eight copies of Pride and Prejudice, his phone buzzes on the nightstand. It heralds the other reason he’s been up past normal bedtimes more often than not the past few months.

Alex: one day they’ll serve actual food at one of these things instead of just like

Alex: trays of gross looking ‘bites’ Alex: actually maybe you’d like this stuff Alex: nice and bland like other british food Alex: related:  Alex: i am BORED

Perhaps the best thing about him and Alex becoming friends—if that’s what they are—is that there’s someone else who gets it. Gets the tedium and the banality of public events, of constantly having to hobnob with people who only care about furthering their own agenda, of having to bow to society’s expectations. Henry used to drift through his own life, accepting a life full of fine and then Alex had knocked him into a cake and out of his fog. The transparent cage Henry had resigned himself to living in is no longer fine, no longer acceptable. He yearns to break the locks, to pull apart the bars, to step out of his routines and live. And it’s all thanks to Alex.

Alex, whose brash confidence and easy smiles have awoken Henry—have shone a light on his life and shown him how dusty it is. Alex, who texts like he talks, who can spit out the most absurd insults then turn around and reveal a part of his soul in the next line. Alex, who couldn’t possibly know how obsessed with the idea of him Henry has been since they met. Alex, who would be shocked at how much the reality of his person surpasses Henry’s daydreams with ease.

Henry, when he does sleep, dreams of Alex. His unconscious mind presents scenarios that have never happened—and never will—but in such a way that they feel like memories. He has to be careful when talking with Alex not to reference these things they never did, not to fall into wishful thinking whenever Alex sends him another shirtless photo as casually as he talks about the weather. Henry keeps those locked deep inside himself, and when he can’t hold anymore, he imagines pressing them into tree leaves, reciting them to the Waterloo Vase—there are too many desires to fit into any room, real or imagined.

Always, Henry is aware of the cage, of the heavy cape of his grandmother’s expectations, of how he can see out, but no one will ever find the key to let him leave. No matter how many times he dreams of him and Alex—holding hands in a cafe, kissing over a plate of pasta, curled up on a soft couch, tumbling half-dressed into bed—the Crown demands a stiff upper lip, a certain image, propriety. The Crown demands—

Well. The Crown demands. Full stop.

It’ll take and leech and drain and steal and order without compunction or consideration for anything but the perfect royal facade. Uncaring who or what it tramples in its unceasing stride. It would leave Henry flat, if he was foolish enough to leave his heart in its path. The Crown may know he’s gay, but they don’t have any idea just who his heart belongs to.

Not that Alex has any idea either.

It’s not quite the consolation Henry would like it to be. How he’s going to manage at Alex’s New Year’s party, he doesn’t know.

For tonight, he has his books to go through. He has a cup of chamomile to try and trick his brain into letting him rest. And he has Alex texting him live updates about his night, a bedtime story anyone would be jealous of. 

Forty-seven seconds.

Alex wishes he could pause time, could turn away from the harsh reality ticking away in front of him. He wants more time, more chances, more plans. But there’s nothing else to do, no more tricks to pull out. All he can do is force himself to watch what’s coming. And he does have to force himself. There’s nothing he wants more than to turn into Henry’s chest and sob, to close his eyes and pretend this isn’t happening. But he takes support of Henry’s arms, and watches the clock count down. All those people on the planet have no idea what’s about to happen. They deserve the dignity of Alex and Henry bearing witness. They have failed these people in every other way, the very least they can do is stand vigil.

Thirty-eight seconds.

He can feel Henry’s breath stutter, can feel his chest heave. He knows that pattern as well as his own heartbeat, knows that if he turned around right now, silent tears would be sliding down Henry’s cheeks. He feels wetness gather in his own eyes and clings to Henry as tightly as he can. Alex may not have any words and less than one idea what he would even say, but he can remind Henry he’s here. That they’re still together. He doesn’t know where Pez or Liam are being held on this ship, but he’s fairly sure they’re still alive. If they’d been killed, the Empire would have gloated about it, proclaiming it far and wide by now. Would certainly have tried to use their deaths to break Alex and Henry. So while Alex’s hope is rapidly draining away, a small nugget stubbornly remains.

Twenty-three seconds.

There’s a slim chance they can live to fight another day. As long as his ship is still in one piece. As long as he and Henry don’t get separated. As long as they find their crew. As long as they evade recapture. As long as they get the plans they came for to the Alliance. There’s a chance. A chance to take down the Empire for good.

Sixteen seconds.

Alex’s heart is breaking, his soul is screaming. It seems impossible that the very universe isn’t crying out with despair for what’s about to happen to all the people on the planet. It’s not even an Alliance planet. It’s not strategically important for the Rebellion. If Alex remembers his school days, the planet is populated mostly by farmers and artisans. They still use a barter system, never having integrated into the Republic, choosing to remain independent all those years ago. And now they’re going to be wiped out with the flip of a switch, with the push of a button. The Empire just picked a planet at random. One big enough and close enough to show what their weapon can do. An entire planet is about to be killed to show the rest of the galaxy what it means to defy the Empire.

Nine seconds.

It infuriates Alex. Senseless, careless, ruthless. That’s the Empire in a nutshell—lacking in humanity by any metric. The rest of the galaxy may think they know what it means to be under the Empire’s control, but they have no idea what this weapon can do. It’ll make everything the Alliance is trying to do harder by an unimaginable magnitude. 

Five seconds.

But he’s going to keep trying. Going to keep fighting to overthrow the Empire. Going to keep working for a brighter future. A free future. As long as there is breath in his body and Henry next to him he’ll keep trying.

Two seconds.

But first, he’ll watch. He’ll stand at the mouth of hell and hope that somehow, all the souls about to be erased will know he and Henry are here, seeing them, and be comforted that they aren’t completely alone in the universe. That someone was there.

One second.

Alex feels Henry’s tears drip onto his head as the laser powers up, making a noise like a hurricane. With the last beat of time before everything explodes, Alex prays. And promises. And cries as he and Henry hold each other as tightly as they can.