#kalixus

𝐋𝐈𝐅𝐄, 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐄𝐍𝐃, had found a way to begin repeating itself. even now, even here: in the thick of a so-called new beginning. it had done so discreetly, sneaking up on her not with the tightening of a noose or an overwhelming sense of claustrophobia: her routine had settled in gently, comfortable almost, like a blanket, like a well rehearsed line that somehow always got the laugh. behind the counter of st. peter’s, freddie dawson reinvented herself as the patron saint of purgatory and stood among bottles and glasses, as she had for the past four years or so. waltzing up and down her path like a guardian well acquainted with her kingdom: patrons would gesture for whiskey, for sherry, and once or twice entice her creativity with a cocktail she hadn’t been able to try her hand at yet, and she would smile, crack a joke, dutifully head towards her task as if that, too, was a test meant to prove her belonging to such a place. she would pour this and that, and take whatever conversation they were willing to produce with grace, like an offering to an altar: looks like rain, doesn’t it ? sure does, ned —— it’s about time. it all went along predictably, a script she knew by heart — only the weather still presented its fair share of variability. and though this dull life was peaceful to her, and she’d caught herself calling it shelter more than once, freddie surprised herself when the smell of a gathering storm came in through the door, and she caught herself harboring a nervous excitement at the prospect.

the gentleman who’d carried it with him, upon opening the door to st. peter’s, seemed tall enough to have to crouch through the entrance — or perhaps it was just her imagination, drawing cartoonish details where there were none, drawing a light grin from her lips where there was no amusement. the motions were mechanical, these too aptly rehearsed: she’d put down her glass of water, wipe her hands, step closer to the bar top. “ just in time, uh ? ”. freddie nodded towards the windows, where the stained glass couldn’t hide the wind picking up, streetlamps trembling, and the thickening darkness of clouds gathering up above. but the shadow of mesmerized concern crossed her face only briefly: step four in the usual routine was a smile, reassuring any lost soul who’d wandered in st. peter’s that they’d stumbled into the right place. nevermind their ailments, the scars. she saw one on his face, across the bridge of his nose: if this was a book, she thought briefly, that’d be the passing detail introducing a major character. the unwilling hero of the story, marked for tragedy from the very first page. fred smiled. “ hi. what can i do ya for ? ”. 

there is a tested breath that peter draws in order to keep himself calm. it wouldn’t do anybody any good ( least of all him ) if his blood pressure rose before nine in the goddamned morning. florence would then keep urging him to take his meds for said high blood pressure, and peter andrews was a man of principle, if nothing else. 

he doesn’t dignify the young man with a response. usually a man of very few words in the first place, peter practically goes mute and mysteriously unresponsive whenever kal decided to pay a visit -- which, in recent weeks had start to become more frequent. knows why, of course, and his eyes flicker over to a particular bartender who was currently placing an order for new stock. and as mute and as unresponsive as he could get, one could also say that peter also gave out a bit of a...helicopter-parent vibe in these very specific times. god, does he wish he was still working at the family ranch in times like these. this sort of back-talk and uppity comments wouldn’t have even dared be thought, and a hard day’s work usually meant he didn’t have to interact with people.

sat at the far end of the bar where he could directly oversee what was going on in his bar, the older man was perturbed when kal decided to sit right next to him when there was clearly more than enough space to sit anywhere else.

scoffs, shoulders rigid as he continues scrawling illegible notes onto his notepad ( illegible to everyone except for himself and occasionally his wife. ) when fred’s new beau still does not vacate his seat, peter will finally look up, shooting him an unresponsive stare. 

𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐆𝐎𝐎𝐃, 𝐁𝐔𝐓 𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐒𝐄𝐍𝐒𝐄𝐒 𝐖𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐒𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐏: there was only so much sneaking he could do. in the thick of the night, the alley suddenly seemed to flare up with his presence. ten or so seconds after she’d turned the corner fred heard him, and there was a weird sense of satisfaction that settled in, a quiet, warm feeling rising slowly inside of her. it was quite possible she’d missed him. it was quite possible he’d burrowed a place for himself beneath her skin, in a way very few, if anybody, had ever succeeded in, before — that alone should have alarmed her. instead, agent dawson walked on: and with each careful, quick step along the sidewalk, she heard it echoed by his boots along the cobblestone behind her, a rhythmic back-and-forth that soon became enticing. fred lost herself in the groove: didn’t quite ask how long it was gonna take for him to catch up, or if he even wanted to. this game seemed perfectly funny the way it was.

as she walked, she recalled the odd in-between in which they’d left things, the last time: a momentary pause of their joined efforts, just until the waters calmed a little. the controlled chaos they’d spread around their surrounding network of more or less dishonorable men should’ve been testament to their success, but fred knew better than to let her guard down, and bite off more than either of them could chew — best to keep it quiet, for a while. let them all forget about threats, then sneak in a little deeper. which was not to say she hadn’t regretted the hiatus: not just because idleness did not suite her any more, and lacking a battle to wage she was unsure who she was, what she had, if not a vast endless nothing.

but because in spite of everything, she believed they made a good team. a great one, actually — at times it felt like their minds shared a special secret code that would allow them the gift of telepathy: as they did now, when she felt him approach her right before he touched her shoulder, and could quickly turn around, grip his forearm in a lock and pin him to the wall at the side of the alley. a beat, just enough time for a smirk — he pushed again, threw her off, and within seconds she was slithering out of his grasp, but being pulled she snapped back again to the beginning and suddenly found herself back to the wall, trapped.

fred grinned.

“ getting better. ” the smirk, mischievous at first, faltered lightly. he was close, a little too much: enough that the scent of him could fill her senses. enough that she could remember the taste of his skin, and catch herself wanting more. but it wasn’t just that —— though she’d hardly employed her sharpest instincts with him, he’d still caught her. a nervous, uneasy feeling followed: muscles tensing on her back, a weird sort of anxiety brewing lightly deep within her. this made the game less funny, much trickier. and still she didn’t push — instead tilted her head slightly at his touch, almost as if to expose more of herself, and let out a sigh when she felt his hand run through her hair. part instinct, part show: let him think she could be putty. let him think she could melt.

“ just not the best yet ”. fred’s lips curled once more into a playful grin, as only a whisper left, and then let her lips touch his: hesitant first, recalling the last time, but growing hungrier by the second. hungrier for him, for his taste, for the anger he could share and match hers — and when that still wasn’t enough she bit on his lower lip, hard, and let her hand get tangled in his hair so she could push him harder against herself, her whole body against his, wanting him to know that he could have the whole of her, right then and there …

… or believe it, at least.

she hoped the gun would catch him by surprise, just as much as he had. the barrel pressed against his side, beneath his coat so he’d feel the cold steel against his skin. fred didn’t pull away, but smiled once more against his lips.

freddie cocked the gun, then moved it further down.

“ sneak up on me again, i’m blowing your balls off. ”

𝐋𝐈𝐋𝐀𝐂 𝐒𝐔𝐑𝐑𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐃 𝐇𝐄𝐑. a shade so thick with color she could've drowned in it - not just the sky, bouncing off a billion windows from a million buildings. not just the moon, as bright as a spotlight, so much so it looked made up. but him, too: electrified and bright. vivid, tangible. one or two steps could bridge the distance, one or two steps felt like a canyon. his answer lingered in the air, mildly disappointing: after all, her own question had been imprudent. why’d you look so surprised when i asked you to meet me ? but she knew why. like many of her favorite characters, the ones she so enjoyed portraying on a screen, freddie dawson had been split in two: one part of her endlessly longing for more of his company, more of his talks and his gaze upon her, and the other forever fleeing from him, rejecting his very existence as unwanted disruption.

but on this terrace, on a new york evening, with the lilac soaking him up in the hues of a dream : how could she pretend she belonged anywhere else ? and he, one or two steps away. 

ah, but he’d been around for a while now. in her thoughts, in her atmosphere: in fact not a moment had gone by, since the second they’d met, that she hadn’t found herself wondering about his opinion, seeking his advice. for all her pushing he’d cast a strange spell on her, in which every fragment of reality now seemed to give off a reflection of him — and in those deep indigo moments where loneliness wrapped her up and it seemed as though the world was a hundred light years away from him, even something as feeble as a nocturnal breeze would catch her by surprise, and remind her of his presence.

“ no one’s closer to me than you. ” fred let the melancholia in her words tint her smile a little, just a passing smirk — and as her own words joined his in the air, and like his lingered, she allowed her gaze to drift away, leap off the terrace and take in every shade of lilac it could catch. this career had held an odd promise in the beginning, a magician’s trick: she believed it would draw her closer to lives she could not touch, as if trapped behind a glass. she felt herself trapped behind glass, too, and thought perhaps all the fear came from knowing that just one more knock of his knuckles against it would cause it to shatter. he, the way his words could cut right through her — it seemed so clear, that no matter the distance she would pray for, he would still find a way to bridge that distance. one or two steps away.

her forearms pressed against the railing, the iron still carrying some of the warmth stored through the day — freddie felt her skin burning lightly and closed her eyes, reveling in the warmth, and remembering the flush in her face, the bubbles, the champagne, a dozen parties each looking like the other, and then meeting him… him in a crowd, and then erasing everybody else. him on a terrace with her, on top of the world. “ i’m glad you came, anyway. this night... ” would not have been the same. could never be the same.

𝟒 𝐏𝐌 𝐇𝐈𝐓𝐒 𝐈𝐍 𝐒𝐐𝐔𝐀𝐑𝐄𝐒 𝐎𝐅 𝐒𝐔𝐍𝐋𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓. it cuts through the windshield, it paints half his face: a lopsided cut that slices him in half. he looks different in the sunlight — as if a secret code, the flavor of an ancient tenderness can only betray itself when brought forth by the warmth of the rays reflecting over him. she can see it in his left eye, the way the sun ignites it: molten gold, a tribute to summer. he speaks and she doesn’t answer, she only turns, her head leaning over the headrest, looking at him the way she looks at sunsets over the ocean: begging for more, more of that warmth, more of that burning — equal parts restless and at ease. the tide is a kind shelter, too: it can save its shipwrecked souls. his nose is a mellow curve, only the tip is bathed in light — his lips, from the side, have the gentleness of a cherub in an ancient painting. no sneering, no grinning: in the light he looks like a child. and she imagines him, before. with all his organs in the right place, the blood spinning with the imperative to live, not to survive. she wonders, sometimes, when he smiles at her — is that the child’s smile ? is that the tenderness he’d have reserved for the first winter snowfall, or the unexpected gift of a kitten’s quiet purring ? he bleeds in her, still. his sorrow, echoed tenfold, latched onto her own scars — but in the sunlight, it doesn’t hurt.

freddie has no magic trick to offer, no way to make the illusion disappear. she has nothing but the hope inside of her: the stubborn candle refusing to let the storm snuff her out. there was a time he would turn away from that flame, and she knew a part of him called her stupid, and a part of him called her naive, and no candle can ever bear the cold fangs of winter when they close in on its flame. but something’s different now, she can tell — something’s changed in the way his gaze looks forward and lets the light in, in the way she reaches out, her hand on the side of his face, and it’s imperceptible almost, but he pushes his cheek back against her hand, and welcomes her. his skin is warm, she lets her thumb draw one circle over his cheek, and it’s a small ritual: this fire is shared. though it flickers, and it wavers, it won’t give in to the winter.

“ hey ”, her voice is quiet: there’s a sacred silence in here, the quiet that has wrapped them up for the best of two weeks. she’s careful not to startle it, even now that they dip their feet back into a world that never quite looked as tragic and hungry as it does now. the parking lot outside means nothing to either of them — cars and passer-bys go by towards their own tragedies, each unaware of the essence of storms, how everything could blow up, how their very world could end. but in it lies the moral of the story: freddie dawson’s world has ended, and somehow it has begun again. how does a storm, or the winter, snuff out a flame like that ?

“ there will be. we’ll make it work ”, she speaks in whispers, and she speaks not to the man but the child. the part of his heart that made him come back: his very own flame, unrelenting in the face of oblivion. when she gets closer still, forehead against his, the tips of their noses graze each other and their silhouettes dance in the sunlight, hide-and-seek through shadows and light. she imagines them both as children, restless and wild, sun-soaked with mud under their fingernails and a hunger much bigger than the world could ever have for them. there is a version of events where nothing goes wrong —— but still this is the version of events where both their hearts have been carved in half and traded between them, and now hers belongs to him, and his to her, and distance has become akin to abuse, no survival can exist with half a heart ripped from its chest. love is a story of gore, but it can be tender. it is still tender.

outside, over the crest of the arkansas mountains, the setting sun battles fiercely against gathering storm clouds. it’ll be a long way still. at night she swears she can hear the wind sowing threats along its currents, telling tales of the tempest that awaits: but it’s strange, for the first time in decades, freddie dawson is not afraid.

as her right hand cups his face, her left hand looks for ilias’ — and when she holds it it’s tight, it’s unforgiving, it’s the unspoken oath to live and die by his side, should it come to it. “ we made a promise, yeah ? you and me. ”. pulling away, her nose grazes his once more — her kiss, on the cheek, is tender. “ whatever comes for us, wherever we end up — it’s gonna be you and me again. we’ll be happy again.  ”