#diary fic

Dear Diary,

I feel grateful for the carer van. It, honestly, kinda seems like I can’t make anything work without them around these days. I mean, if it weren’t for Kokomo being endlessly able to make meaning out of almost nothing, and if it weren’t for Quinn’s creativity, we wouldn’t have been able to really untie the knot for Rotglob. I’m so happy that I have friends who will always find a way to fix my fumbles. But I wish they didn’t have to.

My only job is to care for the dead. My friends have their eyes set on the living. Sometimes I wonder, if I can’t keep things up behind the scenes, what will happen to the carer van? If I can’t do my job, what happens? My friends don’t have my training, and I know that all of them are smart enough to work something out, to carry on in my absence—but, I guess sort’ve selfishly, I don’t want them to be able to. They shouldn’t have to, I mean. I should be able to do my one thing so my friends can continue changing the world. I can’t be carried on their shoulders.

I wonder, too, what I should do to prepare for my future. I know, better than anyone, that death comes for us all. I couldn’t, in my right mind, leave my friends to piece together the craft. So, what? Do I start teaching someone? Who would I teach? Frankly, I don’t even think I have the qualifications to teach someone. The only reason the title of the Best Mortician falls onto my shoulders is because Muni isn’t there to take it. I can’t leave his legacy in the history heap. I won’t.

I’m going to bed soon. Promise. As soon as I get the thoughts out of my head that were keeping me up in the first place. Poppy said keeping up with my journaling was a good habit to pursue developing. I don’t feel good when I write. Well, okay, no, I feel good, I feel fine, really, but I don’t feel better. I keep writing out my feelings, in different words on different days, and it never changes anything. The motivational affirmations Poppy gives me feel… not any better. I feel bad, actually. I feel bad that I can’t take her advice right, or something. Maybe it’s just not for me. Not a lot of things seem to be.

I guess my problem is that I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I know that writing down days isn’t going to turn back time. It’s not a magic subconscious spell, I have to be using it to fix a problem, but I just can’t figure out what that is!! ..

Except I think I do know. Not that it’s a problem. It can’t be. There’s nothing to solve there. We were the same. Two halves. If it had been me, then.

I shouldn’t talk like that. Write like that, I mean. I don’t want to think about that. I can’t bring him back to me. I couldn’t trade my life if I wanted to.

Do I want to?..

???

………..

Dear Diary,

Ough, wow. Big feelings, huh? Well, it’s a new day. Nothing like a fresh start.

I didn’t sleep very well, admittedly. It doesn’t matter now. I’m awake, had some chili that Rubby :) brought to the front of the rig, and we’re about to get off here at Bloodslug in a moment. We had to stop before the front gates to get some fallen rocks from a rock slide a few days back out of the road. Quinn, Connor, and Tess are working on that now, so I had a moment. Rubby went off to go get us some lunch, I think. He’s so sweet. And funny. God, he’s funny. We’ll probably all stop and have sandwiches before we get the blood barrels inside. Maybe Quinn will lend some of her roach jam. That’d be tasty.

……….

Dear Diary,

Falling down twice in one day was stupid of me. Seriously. I’m wondering if I should invest in something like Aunt Freaky’s limb reconstruction surgery to stabilize myself. Or maybe a cane would be easier. But, like, god, I wish I could just stand on my own.

I feel like I can. I stand most of the time. In fact, the time I spend falling is a fraction of the time I spend standing upright. But everyone keeps telling me I should worry about it. Everyone keeps saying I should take care of myself, and stop falling.

Anyway, it kinda feels like, if I can’t even stand up straight on my own, then what’s the point of standing? …

……….

Dear Diary,

I shouldn’t write in metaphor. It makes it seem like I’m lying to myself. Which I’m not. I don’t think I am. Not, like, lying lying to myself, I mean. Just sugarcoating it or something. Avoiding the beast head-on. That’s something I’ve always been pretty good at. Death is less of a beast, and more of a collective journey, the passage of life fizzling out. An experience. Memory is a beast. Untamed and unspoken for. Memories and death are both important though. They’re kind of two sides of the same coin, when you think about it.

Anyway. All that to say, I wasn’t talking about falling down. That feels stupid to write. Like, Obviously, Hugi, we know you weren’t talking about falling down, you don’t have to say that!.. But.. Parcel once told me there was a great deal of power in speaking plainly. Power seems a foreign concept these days.

Everything is slipping out of my hands. I’m so, so thankful for Quinn, and Connor, not only for the fact that they worry for me (though I really wish they wouldn’t too much, it’s still very sweet and all), but for her solving the Laser Discs in a heartbeat. It came so naturally to her. It sort’ve makes me sick. It’s ridiculous. I’m so proud of her. I think she’s really coming into her own here, and she found a fantastic way to help me when she said she wanted to help me, and I’m so, so glad she did! ..and I’m sorry, but I honestly feel jealous. It felt like something I should’ve been able to do. I don’t know why, I guess that’s sort’ve self-aggrandizement, there’s so reason I would’ve been able to have Quinn’s knowledge of the technology of the before times, but.. I guess I just wanted to. I was.. grasping at straws, at an attempt to…redeem myself, I guess.

I think…that might be my problem. I keep ultimately wanting to redeem myself for Him. It’s a heavy burden to fail a safe passage through the grieving process. I think that’s part of why I feel the need to tremble under Aunty like I’m waiting for forgiveness. Because I am.

And wouldn’t it be nice if I had someone?

My teacher, my family. Any friends. Anyone.

That still doesn't feel real. Or it does, but from a distance. Like a calendar notification I dismissed without truly reading. Maybe I only felt the weight when I sliced open the envelope. His handwriting had a tremor, but it was undeniably his. Blue ink, of course. (Always insisted on blue. Said black was impersonal.)

We hadn't seen each other in years. Over a decade. I always told myself I'd visit after the quarter ended, or once the next launch wrapped, or when I had time to breathe again. Postponements that felt reasonable in the moment, when my career grew by leaps and bounds. But time doesn't keep deferrals on record. It simply moves forward.

He left me the farm.

The whole thing. The actual acreage. The decaying infrastructure. The silence. A patch of land on the outskirts of a town I haven't visited since I was fifteen. Back when summers still meant dirt under my nails and rocks in my shoes. Before Dad decided the rustic wouldn't prepare us. Before we rebranded that sunny season into college credits and corporate internships.

There must have been a falling out. I remember the silence more than the words. Grandpa stopped visiting. We stopped answering his letters. And eventually, the distance became a routine. Something maintained out of habit.

Mayor Lewis met me at the gate. He's older, obviously. Shorter now, though in reality I'm simply taller. His handshake was warm, but for a second, it had no bones. Just pressure. Like squeezing a bag of flour left in the sun. He kept saying the word "potential" like it was meant to soothe me. Slower each time, syllables unraveling in his mouth.

I don't recall telling him when I'd be arriving. I hope he wasn't waiting all day needlessly.

Transit involved three trains, a brief dissociative episode in a station bathroom, and a final bus that smelled like mildew and reheated vinyl. Somewhere past hour six, the land opened up, green and unruly. I hadn't realized how long it had been since I saw any greenery that wasn't built to spec. Then the valley came into view like an old, forgotten polaroid. Grainy, a little warped, but familiar.

Robin showed up not long after Lewis. Practical. Efficient. Kind in a way that doesn't collect interest. She offered to help. Broke the repairs down by category, cost, and timeline. Hearing the details in project terms put me back on solid ground for a moment. She kept turning to the trees when Lewis was speaking, pencil tapping absently on her clipboard. And I heard something too—a rustle with no wind behind it. (Probably pests. More good news.)

Both of them agreed it was a shame I'd been unable to make it out in time for the Feast of the Winter Star. I didn't tell them I prefer not to travel in the snow; I offered vagueries about the logistics of the move instead. Which had been difficult, in truth. But I don't owe them those details.

The estate isn't fully settled, even at this late stage. I have presumed possession, not full transfer. My parents attempted to contest the will—claimed I lacked the aptitude, the temperament, the foresight to manage the property. (How quickly their high opinion of my accomplishments turns when it suits them.) They argued it ought to be liquidated. Repurposed into something more efficient.

But he left it to me.

So, the council.

Everyone actually arrived on time. Though somehow Golden Cheese and her entourage managed to be last, despite living closest.

My siblings were doing... fine, given the circumstances.

Sugar is at least as clingy as I am, but Hollyberry seemed fine with that. She was also jittery and nervous, even more so than me. But considering what she's been through, I can't really fault her. I at least wasn't maimed, after all.

She somehow was also even more skittish than me, though I can't blame her. Considering what she lost… I wasn't maimed at least, after all.

Flour was even quieter than usual, but she listened, watched, and stayed close to Dark Cacao and his warriors. She seemed… more or less content like that? Hard to tell, though. She's difficult to read at the best of times.

And Spice… Spice was still loud, but he always is, that's just how he copes. But I could see the cracks underneath clear as day. The jumpiness, the way his body still fought him even after a week of recovery. That isn't like him. And it unsettled me a bit, if I'm honest.

But well, I guess Golden Cheese's healers aren't you, after all. Spice seemed better after you talked him into letting you examine him, so I guess he'll be fine. He always healed faster, stood taller, endured more than the rest of us ever could. I used to envy him for that – still do, if I'm honest. But perhaps, I don't anymore after seeing what They could put him through without breaking him for good.

Surprisingly, my siblings didn't try to corner me. We didn't talk all that much in general. They didn't ignore me or anything – we traded the obligatory Hello's and How-are-you's, of course – but… I don't know, I guess we all rather stayed with our Ancients today.

I think I'm… relieved. I hate seeing them hurt, but I'm not ready for what they might say to me. Better silence than blame.

I doubt it will stay that way tomorrow, though. There's only so much silence one can maintain when trapped together on an airship for hours.

Yeah, okay so... our little trip.

In the middle of the council – shortly after we got the whole "exposition"-stuff out of the way – an important letter arrived. From the Fairy Kingdom. Delivered by a fairy messenger who, apparently, has been here before, back when White Lily attended the first council. (Though Sugar seemed to know her as well for some reason.)

The letter itself wasn't from White Lily, though. No, it was signed by someone called Silverbell Fairy. And judging by the way you looked at me when I asked who that is, I'm apparently supposed to know them too. I'll have to ask again when you return, since we kinda got distracted last time.

Because, honestly, all that letter contained was bad news, followed by worse news, wrapped neatly in an "invitation".

The bad news: White Lily is sick. Suddenly, violently sick, since two days after Silent Salt's arrival. And not just "unwell," but… completely unresponsive. From one moment to the next.

And because that wouldn't be enough on its own, apparently something is wrong with That Tree too. What exactly, no one would say. The letter stayed vague, and the messenger supposedly didn't know. But the implications are clear enough: the two are connected.

How? Why? They don't know – or won't say.

Silverbell only wrote that it was "urgent," and that both the Ancient Heroes and the Beasts are being "invited" to the Fairy Kingdom to deal with it.

Oh, and he even made a point of stressing that they don't believe us responsible. As if that isn't the very first conclusion the fairies would've jumped to the moment something went wrong.

It all sounds so very neat, doesn't it? White Lily falls ill. The Silver Tree falters. A mysterious letter arrives, deliberately vague, but urgently demanding all of us to walk right into the Fairy Kingdom.

Tell me that doesn't reek of a trap.

...

I'm scared.

You told me you trust that fairy who wrote the letter, and even said I could stay behind if I wanted – despite the clear request for both Ancients and Beasts. But… I can't let you leave me go alone.

I can't lose you too.

…But I'm also so, so terrified of going back there.

Still… You also said the fairies might be our best chance to get eyes and ears on the continent. To search for Candy and Sapph.

And I don't want to hope. That only hurts… But there is also no place I wouldn't go for them. Or for you.

So, I guess, I'll trust your judgment. Trust your promise to stay with me no matter what. And follow you back to where our story began. What could possibly go wrong?

~ Shadow Milk

In a savage twist of fate he’d been vacationing in England during the October of 2001 - a three day conference at Oxford in which he’d stood as key speaker on Eudemian and Nicomachean ethics. Miranda - Samuel’s second wife and mother to his young son - had contacted Micol to let them know of his passing, but due to the quick nature of Jewish funerals Oliver had been unable to attend the service. He’d telephoned Annella from his hotel room that evening to offer his condolences, but much like with Vimini, the fact he’d missed his dear friend’s k’vurah felt indefensible.

Your generosity knows no bounds, the note continues, and the first edition of Plato’s Republic you slipped into my duffel bag is something I’ll treasure always.

It feels too formal for the rapport they’d fostered after, and as Oliver skims the rest of the missive he wonders if Sami could tell he was still reeling from his departure. That much like the severed tail of a lizard he was flaying and lashing about, while the rest of his body stayed behind in B. 

Wednesday August 31st, 1983.

I visited the post office today, and mailed you an actual letter, Elio divulges next. It felt a bit odd, truth be told, but Papà wanted you to know he’s found a copy of the literary supplements you discussed last month, and will be sending them on directly. I’m sorry the rest of it was so short. I just didn’t know what to say when all I could think was that I wanted to tell it to you in person. Selfish, I know, but we never really needed words, you and I, so maybe that’s why it felt so prosaic?

Everything stops save for the rivulet raindrops hitting the panelled glazing, the drumbeat pattern barely registering as Elio’s mirroring of his own thoughts strikes a chord deep within.

I miss you, Oliver. Did I remember to tell you that? 

Amidst the overly-polite references and social niceties? “Yes. Yes, you did.”

I miss you so horribly it’s like someone’s carved you out of me. My concentration is all shot up, and I can’t sleep for thinking about you. 

Elio was often out like a light after their night-time exertions, and the sensation of his sated body draped over his - relaxed and trusting - made Oliver want to burn the world to ash in order to keep him.

I miss how our facultés mentales always seemed to travel in parallel, he continues. The solidness of your hand in mine. The way you twiddle your thumbs when you get stuck on a tricky sentence. 

I miss the lazy smiles you used to send me from across my yellow pillowcase. 

An inevitable by-product of watching him blink awake.

I miss how you’d leap off your bike before waiting for it to stop. The unguarded way you’d throw your head back and laugh when no one else was looking. 

Oftentimes, he couldn’t have cared less if they did.

Honnêtement, I even miss your freezing cold feet!

“I miss the me I was when we were together,” Oliver says, taking a hasty gulp of the McCarthy’s as he eyes the journal with dismay; wary of what other secrets it contains.

I wish I could glance out my bedroom window and watch you get out of that ugly green cab, drop your backpack on the driveway, and know that all I’d have to do is run down the staircase and be back in your arms. Being held like I'm the most precious thing on Earth.

“You were,” Oliver blurts, caught up in memories and afterimages of events that never were. 

The heat of a scorching sun upon his skin. 

The salty tang of sea air in his nose. 

The delicate brush of fingertips at his nape. 

A name - his, Elio’s, both - whispered like a serenade in his ear.

My dad showed me the note you sent, he reads next. The one where you thanked him for his hospitality, and told him your time in B has changed you permanently. I’d like to say I didn’t cry, but I did. Then I spent four hours practising Toccata and Fugue in D minor until my fingers cramped, and Mafalda appeared with another plate of sandwiches. 

Did I tell you I miss your massages, too?

He hadn't, and Oliver wrestles through another incursion of tears as he worries the corner of his lip between his teeth.

I found your red trunks today, the following passage begins in what looks suspiciously like the smooth, flowing lines of a Montblanc pen. I was packing for our return to the city, and wondered if you put them in my bureau on purpose.

Oliver drapes a forearm across his eyes. “I promised to let you keep them, didn’t I?” 

Along with Billowy, his espadrilles, and a pair of sunglasses. Elio’s fifth request being that of Oliver himself.

Or did Mafalda add them to my laundry par erreur? he continues. I don’t remember putting them away myself.

A smirk. “As if you ever did your own chores…”

I never told you about them, did I? Elio asks. Your trunks, I mean? Or rather, what I did to them. Back in July? 

Oliver arches a brow. The possibilities are endless.

Porca miseria... even now, I’m not sure whether to be embarrassed or proud. You thought what happened to that poor peach was degenerate? Well, Oliver, one afternoon, when the house was totally empty, I went into your room and took them from the hook in my closet. It was an invasion of your privacy, and for that I apologise, but we hadn’t been swimming that morning, and those shorts knew you intimately.

“Excuse me?”

Knew what you smelt like without the artificial layer of sunscreen and chlorine from the pool. It wasn’t fair that they got to possess you in such a way, so I put those trunks over my head and inhaled the musk of your scent for myself. 

And to think, he’d once felt bad for stashing Elio’s striped polo neck beneath his pillow.

I took you inside me long before we slept together, Oliver, but it wasn’t enough. 

“How could it be?”

That’s why I removed my own suit and slipped yours on instead. Imagined taking you inside my mouth as I started rutting until my come soaked through the inner lining. Then I left them there, used and abused, amongst your rumpled sheets.

Oliver groans at the visual. You could’ve bounced a quarter off Mafalda’s pristine corners, so how the hell he never noticed is a testament to his preoccupation. 

I wanted you to catch me, mio caro, the entry continues. I wanted you to know. 

And now you do.

He certainly does, and the thought he might have slipped those trunks back on the next day - the stains of Elio’s release mixing with his own sweat as he cycled into town - is enough to have him reaching for the decanter. 

“You little libertine…”

I learned from the best.

Oliver sways a touch. “Never took you for a revisionist,” he mutters, concentrating on his pour, but the two inch raised scar at his wrist distracts him enough to overfill the glass anyhow. 

“You’re unfortunate, I’m afraid,” the doctor had told his twelve-year-old self. “If this were a clean break, it would heal much faster. As it is, the messy ones have a tendency to hurt all our lives.”