#northcest

"I burnt the dinner."

"I know sweetie, I can both see and smell that.”

He smiles off the glare she shoots him, moving over to examine the bird to see if there was anything left worth salvaging only to determine that no, nothing could be salvaged off of this and he wouldn’t feed this to a half starved werewolf. 

"Take Aeron, I’ll cook the pork for tomorrow and we can just make do for dinner tomorrow."

"What makes you think I am letting you cook, Christmas is my time to shine, not yours.”

There’s a moment between them where glares collide, Chloe’s oven gloved hands on her hips and Patrick immitating her the best he can whilst supporting a 4 month old child. 

That is until she wakes up, the banshee’s attention immediately going to the baby one whilst his Pooka wife continued to glare at him, the babe looking confused before spotting the supposed christmas dinner and crying.

When they meet, Garret is six and Ciaran is five. The blonde, not much taller than him at this point just appears from out of a bush and sits next to him, making the older boy jump and drop his food on the floor, leaving him with nothing to eat and the bugs and birds with plenty.

Starting to cry, Garret nearly lashes out at the blonde for that only to have a peanut butter sandwich of all things shoved in his mouth, the dark haired child blinking at the other as he started inspecting his food over before putting bits on his lap. A squished sausage roll and a packet of crisps that they share, they almost forget about the spoiled lunch until the wasps arrived and both get stung.

Garret starts eating his food quickly then, scared of when Ciaran would appear again and make him drop it all over the floor and ruin it. He manages this for a week, until the following Monday when Garret forgets about it and lets out a miserable whine when yet another cheese sandwich ends up all over the dusty floor of the quad.

“Why are you crying?”

“I dropped my favourite sandwich.” Garret mumbles back, sniffing and wiping his eyes with the sleeve of his uniform jumper, temporarily forgetting about the hankie in his backpack. There’s a long pause then, as if the other had left but the bright blue pack lunch box on scraped knees was still there.

“What kinda sandwich?”

“Cheese.”

The next day when Ciaran appears and Garret spills his lunch again, a cheese sandwich is shoved in his mouth before he starts crying or shouting at him. It’s then that the black haired child decides that the taller child can stay.

---

It’s been two years since they met, the majority of one spent convincing his family that Ciaran wasn’t his imaginary friend, and though with his uncanny ability to appear without warning, it wouldn’t be hard to think he’d just made the other up.

His lack of boundary awareness is no better, the simplest of tasks becoming near impossible around the blonde boy, Garret’s fingers covered in plasters from mess ups with the scissors and his hand writing often containing sharp spikes from where the other boy would just appear and loom over him before loudly announcing “hello” or “what’re you doing?”

But this was something new, something strange even for the excitable blonde, Garret oblivious to the other peering over his shoulder as the child attempted to relieve himself. “Wow, you’re tiny all over.” On reflex he panics, moving to cover his self and, in the process, getting urine all over his trousers and hands, face burning with embarrassment and eyes watering as the blonde started laughing at him.

They’re caught by a teacher, Garret sodden and embarrassed still, glaring at Ciaran who was staring at the other with shock, hand covering a red, slightly swollen cheek. It’s the first time Garret gets in trouble, sat in his PE kit beside his friend, blue eyes looking at the ground and looking so small that for a brief moment, the blonde feels sorry.

Both sets of parents are furious, though it’s without question most of it is directed at Garret and his protests to this are silenced by a withering look not only from his mother but also his friend’s, though it could be argued Garret’s mothers held much more disdain and disgust accompanied by a warning of how she doesn’t want Ciaran near her son again.

Three weeks pass before the blonde boy finds his friend again, sat on his own, away from people and, as always, eating something brimming with dairy. Upon sitting next to him, he finds the silence awkward and uncomfortable, Garret not seeming to acknowledge his existence before finally speaking up.

“Mother says I’m not allowed to talk to you or be your friend.”

“My mum says that if you eat seeds a tree will grow in your belly but does it anyway.”

Garret stops and finally looks at him then, looking utterly confused by everything the other had just stated. It was nonsense, utter nonsense that made little to no sense but then that could be argued as an excuse for everything the other came out with not to mention his juvenile antics.

“What are you even talking about?”

“Well you said something silly so I said something even sillier.”

After a blink and muffled laugh, Ciaran finds himself grinning as the other gives a small smile.

---

Ciaran hits puberty first, growing to his full height almost immediately, meaning that Garret had gone from being one inch shorter to four and the taller teenager teasing him about it constantly to the point the others couldn’t return fire with quips about the others voice cracking every two seconds, making him sound more like a hamster on helium than ever.

It’s easy to shrug off the glares Garret send shim over the height thing, his high soft voice not being as effective as he would like it to be and so he settled on glaring. Glaring when Ciaran tried to make him jump, turning venomous or icy when he peered at the other trying to pee, even if he had gone as far as to using cubicles.

He’d adapted to the others weird quirks but he, by no means, tolerated them.

So when summer comes by, Ciaran is disappointed by the news that Garret is spending the entirety of it away from home, visiting his aunt in Ireland and then his cousin in Australia, meaning the blonde had no one to bother until September.

A lot can happen in two months, it would seem.

He doesn’t get a tiny, high voiced Garret back, he gets the opposite, the blonde pausing at the giant that gets into the seat beside him in their first lesson of the term, Ciaran prepared to snap at how that wasn’t his seat to take, glaring up at the other teen and pausing. Oh, you’ve got to be kidding him.

It was Garret.

How was that Garret?

To say he was taller would be an understatement, the forever tiny dark haired boy was now, at least, 3 inches taller than him, his face thinner with light freckles splattering sharp cheekbones and when his eyes turn and look at him with bemusement, asking ‘what the hell are you looking at?’ his voice is deeper than sin but still soft and Ciaran has no idea what to think.

Bar, perhaps, how dare the other crash into puberty without him there to mock him for it.

“How dare you!?”

“How dare I what?” He sounds confused, raising a brow at Ciaran like he honestly has no idea what Ciaran is so offended about. Which, frankly, just annoys him more, the blond refraining from slamming his head on the desk as he lets out an aspirated groan, tugging on his hair,

“How dare you go through puberty without me there to mock you for it!”

The bemused look turns amused, Garret smirking at him and chuckling, an action that only serves to infuriate Ciaran more. “There was nothing to mock; I didn’t sound like a hamster off my tits on helium every time I got frustrated like a certain short arse did.”

There’s a five second silence before Ciaran punches the other.

---

He thinks he’s coming down with something, Ciaran finding himself staring at Garret for moments too long, eyes always focusing on the others pale lips and finding a strange comfort in the sound of the others voice and the fact his eyes were flecked with green and not as blue as he had first thought.

Clearly he had indigestion.

Bids to scare and unnerve Garret at urinals cease to work; the other utterly over and used to the act to the point he doesn’t even look at the other but just engages in conversation like this was a usual thing. Though, it could be argued it was considering the nature of their unusual friendship.

“Are you looking at my cock again? Anyone would think you’re obsessed.”

He’s smug, of course he’s smug. Not only was he bit by puberty bug and turned into some vaguely attractive man creature but he’d also developed this annoyingly smug, cocky and mocking attitude that had sprung up from nowhere, like the teen himself. Frustration only added when, upon being asked about it, he’d just get enigmatic response of ‘what happens in Australia at my cousin’s wedding, stays in Australia.”

“I’m not obsessed with your dick.”

“Of course you’re not,” the reply is sarcastic, a shake of the shoulders before the cock in question is gone and the immaculately dressed teen is at the sink, wash, dry and a hair check, for lord forbid his hair be anything bar perfect, finishing off his sarcastic reply as he did as much. “That’s why you’ve attempted to look at it every time I go to the bathroom, and we’re together, since we were eight.”

“Yeah, I’m not taking critique and assumptions from someone who takes an hour to get ready in the morning.”

“Well, one of us needs to look like we weren’t dragged through a bush backwards and you have that look down so perfectly that it works well for you.”

Ciaran isn’t sure what to make of that, just watching the other go not sure if he should be insulted, complimented and if Garret’s trousers had always made his arse look that great.

---

If he’s ever messed up his friendship with Garret before, none of them would stand to be worse than this. A push away or a pull closer, angry and flustered or just angry, even a mocking comment about how shit he was at it or a snap to never do it again would be better than the response of nothing.

He’d kissed him and didn’t so much as get a response.

Maybe Ciaran could blame alcohol, he’d drunk more than the other, sure, but then again that wasn’t exactly hard when Garret hardly drank anything than a vintage red and it wasn’t like this poor excuse of a party had anything to that standard. What else was he supposed to blame for him having waited it out until everyone was distracted by fireworks to kiss him?

What had even brought it on though? Sure he didn’t see the other as often anymore since they went to separate colleges but that was no excuse to kiss him, he doesn’t do this with his new friends, the only real difference between the new ones and Garret being that it’s only the latter who knows how to make him feel like he’s possibly got a bad case of food poisoning.

Stumbling to his feet and walking away in a similar manner, his head throbbing, or was that his heart? As his hearing became blocked with the thrum of a rapid beating, embarrassment and joyous, raucous cheering of another new year arriving, not catching a shout of his name and inhaling sharply as he stepped out into the cold night of New Years.

Avoiding Garret is easy enough when you put your mind to it, 3 days of self-loathing, listening to the Spice Girls on full blast and eating jelly in various flavours with colours that were akin to toxic waste from 80s television. He ignores the knocks on the door, assuming whoever it is to be for his sister or one of his brothers, groaning as the knocking doesn’t stop, muttering under his breath about some persistent bastard, opening the door to the house and almost wishing he hadn’t.

Why did it have to be Garret?

“You left your jacket at the party; figured you’d want it back since it’s your favourite thing to wear even if it is a piece of trash.” He’s confused over how to feel again, confused, happy or annoyed that even now the other is insulting his fashion choices.

Taking back the offered jacket, Ciaran sighs biting his lip before finally speaking up about the night 3 days previous, avoiding looking at anything bar the others feet and knees. “Look, about that kiss, I di…” He trails off as the other holds up a hand to stop him, looking like the 6 year old nerd he’d met some 10 years ago, something completely out of character for him now.

“Well, about that, I wanted to…well…god how do I put this…umm…” Garret runs a hand through his hair, letting out a nervous laugh and avoiding looking at Ciaran before doing as much and letting out a heavy sigh. “Oh, fuck it.” The momentary surprise from the swear is replaced with the surprise of being kissed.

“Did you just swear at me?”

Of the many things he could have asked, such examples being ‘Why are you wearing that stupid hat I bought you?’ or, more on point ‘did you just kiss me?’, he had to ask that?

“I just kissed you and that’s all you have to say?”

“Well, the question of why you’re wearing that hat also comes to mind.”

It’s probably the ugliest hat in existence, a black and red bobble hat monstrosity with ties that hung past his shoulders and the ever so loving message of ‘posh bastard’ knitted into it, curtsey of his grandma. He’d given it to Garret in a bid to make the other cringe, feel disgusted and watch with glee at the discomfort on his face when Ciaran forced the other to wear it.

But here he was wearing it.

“I liked it.”

“You liked it?” He can’t keep his scepticism from his voice because the whole idea of Garret liking it was ludicrous, more so when the memory of the other stating that he was going to burn the thing for being an offense against fashion the first chance he got. “I bought you that hat as a joke, there’s like only one advantage to you wearing it.”

“Oh? And what’s that then?”

Taking hold of the ties, he yanks hard, the others eyes covered by the insult, clear to see as the other was more or less bent in half, kissing him before he can complain about the treatment or the possibility of the terrible hat being destroyed.

Whilst that queasy feeling is still there, he can’t help but note that the gross feeling isn’t half as bad when the other actually kisses him back.

---

His breath hitches at the mouth on his neck, the pressure of a bite and of finger tips tracing and teasing his skin as they slowly made their way down to his waistband, growing ever more slowly the more the other whined and grew impatient. Garret may have been good at what he was doing but Ciaran can’t help but curse the man when he got in one of those moods.

Voicing his complaint would only provoke him to do it more, taking longer to tease, to murmur words in that thick Irish accent he could turn on and off like clockwork and probably go as far as orgasm delay or even denial, depending on his mood.

But the mix of the biting on his neck and the hand palming him through his briefs make words hard to form bar the odd curse and groan, kisses trailing up Ciaran’s neck as Garret’s hand slips beneath the waist band of his underwear. There’s a moment of hesitation, a small chuckle slipping from his lips before Garret whispers.

“Wow, you’re tiny all over, aren’t you?”

The moment is gone, Ciaran’s eyes snapping open, glaring up at the other who looks like he’s about to burst out laughing and kicking him. The mood was gone, dead and buried with little hope of coming back even if the others hand was still on his junk.

“Are you fucking kidding me?!” He snaps, Garret’s hand now removed, the other now laid next to him and practically howling with laughter like he’d planned this all along. Like he had specifically initiated this just to kill the mood with those seven words like it was nothing. “Stop laughing! This isn’t fucking funny!”

“No, it’s hilarious.”

Hitting him does nothing, if anything it would appear to tickle him if the way the other’s laughter seemed to increase in volume was to go by, Ciaran unsure of if he should be furious with him or impressed that he’d managed this, pausing as the other chokes out words breathlessly between the laughter. “I have been waiting 10 years to say that to you.”

“YOU RUINED THE MOOD OVER SOMETHING I SAID WHEN WE WERE 8?!”

As Garret nods, Ciaran merely hits him in the face with a pillow, annoyed by the fact the laughter only dimmed in volume and didn’t cease all together.

---

There are few times when Ciaran is completely bearable. When he’s been given something sweet and sticky to eat so his mouth sticks together for a good five minutes. That brief five minutes after an orgasm when he just lays there trying to regulate his breathing and doesn’t say a word bar ‘oh god’ if it was particularly good for him.  Those Saturday mornings when he watches his god awful cartoons and played with Garret’s hair.

But the most often is when he sleeps.

He’s clingy and has a penchant for drooling on Garret’s chest, often waking up to record Garret snoring in a bid to annoy and embarrass him in front of their siblings and friends, the few that they had. Though, all that said, he’s still not annoying as he can be, Garret always waking up at least 5 minutes before the other and the other always seeming to sense it and tightening his already death like grip on him.

It’s strange to love, he feels, finding himself spending another sleepless day spent staring at the sun below, dancing and walking through the gardens between their towers, a picture of beauty if he ever saw one. He should be sleeping. He should be at rest. For he is the moon and the beauty the sun, and what fool would ever wager the moon would fall for the sun so deeply as this?

None. That’s how many would.

He should sleep, he knows he should sleep, eyes heavy and aching from the light outside. What’s the point of loving the sun if you can’t bear to look for more than five minutes? It’s a pointless infatuation, time wasted on an object he’d never reach despite his endless means to attempt.

Summers are always strangling, the monotonous days that accompanied a love sickened insomnia that plagued him. He longed for winter, the endless nights and dark gardens, the chill on his spine and that endless expanse of black and rich dark blue of the night sky, unblotted and unmarked, no light to pollute it bar his faint glimmer that was restricted to the garden.

Garret craved it and yet he didn’t, endless night and cold meant no sun and warmth, meant little and few glimpses of his red headed love. The thought alone pained him, a frustrated sigh slipping from his lips before an exasperated one followed, slumping on his bed as the exhaustion seeped in.

Lune was an idiot, falling for Sol and now he was reaping the result. His shine seemed to be diminishing, seem small and insignificant in comparison to the other’s that was frankly blinding in how captivating it was. In the silence of his thoughts another presses his mind, a small and sincere smile gracing his lips as his eyes find the wall chart.

There’d be an eclipse soon, in some months time, when he’d come face to face with The Sun, carefully avoiding to touch as he’d colour the land with darkness for a few, brief minutes.

What an adventure it would be, he feels, to kiss The Sun.

---

He’s watching again, the autumn mist that had been present since the night before still lingering, even if The Sun had burnt it off somewhat, a faint silhouette of light reaching the others eyes from within his tower. He feels it’s voyeuristic to watch yet he can’t turn away, not that he’s even sure he wants to.

It’s not hard to picture Sol, biting his lower lip as they curved into a smirk as he imagines the long red hair that would, no doubt, be hanging in his face, volume lost in the cold and damp, the gold, white and green clothing that never clung but his mind always wanders to that. The pink hue across his cheeks and nose from the cold and rosy lips that simply begged to be kissed and oh how he wanted to.

There was less need to hide his desire now, the eclipse grew near and so his hunger, his obsession bloomed, would a kiss even be enough anymore? He didn’t know, he didn’t care for the answer anyway. The Sun would be his regardless of if a kiss alone would be enough to satisfy him.

The first drop sends him bristling, unexpected and yet not unwelcomed, eyes moving from the object of his lewd affections to the sky above, darkness seeping in with the rain clouds and it appeared his shining tonight would go unnoticed and unbeloved, much like that of Sol’s efforts in the mist.

Eye’s flicking back to the other, there’s a sharp inhale upon the sight of the Sun stood beneath the downpour, at utter ease with his eyes closed as he looked to the sky and just exists for a few moments longer before retiring for the night.

Garret’s not too sure why but his heart falters for a moment, forgetting to almost breathe as he takes the sight in. He’s too beautiful, too gorgeous for words to describe, fingers gripping the sill tightly as the other graces him with his gaze, confused and curious only to turn and head back to his tower, ushered back in before the darkness consumed the sky.

He doesn’t care how vulgar his staring became and looked; his love had shown interest in him, a wild and reckless excitement bubbling inside as the other looks back one more time, intrigue as present as ever.

Maybe The Moon had a chance with The Sun after all.

---

Only a few days now, he’s been counting down for months and in this final week he hasn’t moved from his bed, hasn’t gazed upon the sun outside whose glow grew dimmer as winter bloomed and the hours of night grew vast and almost endless.

Soon they’d be united, those dreams where the other dances around him and explodes into vapour when touched would cease as he’d pull Sol into his arms, over him in darkness and claim him as his own, Lune no longer caring about wallowing in darkness so long as he had the other with him, with him as both his property and lover, though perhaps that was one in the same when it came to him.

He’d never cared for these events before now, always meeting them with such a brutal resistance whenever his privacy and welcomed loneliness was invaded by the preparations for the ceremony that he found naught but frivolous, despite all seriousness of them. Suited and fitted, fussed over like a small child as his ceremonial clothes where pieced together to form the great black and silver number in the corner.

A gown fit for a wedding perhaps, a laugh slipping from his lips before curling into an almost mocking grin, whispering out Sol’s true name before licking his lips as if to savour the taste of it there, a few moments longer of sweet bliss before he’s back in the present.

“Patrick. Sweet and lovely Patrick,” He laughs, a certain lunacy creeping into his bones and nerves as he laughs again, a lunar sickness upon him. “Oh how I crave to now and wonder if you lips and flesh is as sweet as your name.”

---

The days were always noisy, an abundance of noise from the ever present and ever annoying thrum of bird song slowly drawing to a halt as he stepped from his tower and toward the gardens, towards Sol, the light dimming with every step and the dimmer it got the more the excitement curled and wrapped around his innards long since contaminated by lust and greed.

The time was now. The eclipse was here.

A thrill runs up his spine at the confusion upon the Sun’s face, too focused on the sky and the encroaching darkness to notice the other creep up behind him, a coo slipping from his lips as confusion transforms into worry and then into shock and maybe even fear as he turns to face the Moon, taking a step back only to be caught and pulled into an unwilling embrace.

“Don’t touch m-”

He ignores the panic stricken voice, the hands pushing at his chest as Garret forcefully kisses the red head, the burning upon his lips only seeming to drive him on. It’s perfect, always how he’d imagined even if the other would not return his affection, pushed away with flame licked violence, watching the redhead turn and stagger off, a fools bid to escape as his body shuddered and convulsed on itself.

Garret’s following is leisurely at best, in no hurry to catch up to Patrick who barely seemed able to stay upon his own two feet, stalking through the gardens and the splattering of night upon the sky that had burned brightly just seconds before, as if suffocated by the weight of the man trailing behind.

He could have only dreamt it would have been this easy, catching the other once more and nearly laughing as the other near tripped, smiling open mouthed as the other trembled in his grasp, quivering like a new born in the face of the monster under the bed, in the face of death, Sol flinching as Lune’s thumb brushed away the blackness from his lips.

“Why so scared, my darling Sun?” Moving him back to the centre, away from his golden tower is a task easier though than done, even weakened like this he continues his fight, never enough room between the two of them at a given time, the touch of the Sun upon his skin feeling more like fires bite than a warm caress like it had been before.

But he doesn’t have long left, the eclipse was nearly over.

“I won’t hurt you, I only mean to love you.” His laughter as he speaks carries the full brunt of the lunacy he’d been harbouring these past weeks, as I daring the other to refuse him, to scream he hated him and didn’t return the twisted affection.

He’s still fighting? Why is he still fighting?

The sheer weight means nothing as Garret holds the other aloft, smirking at the momentary change of heart as blackened fingers grip his shoulders and arms tightly, scared of being dropped, the surprise of his actions seeming to over throw the sheer anxiety and dread that was overloading the redhead.

“Don’t you love me, Patrick?”

He’s not granted a response, the other staring at him in muted horror, lips moving to form words that never came to completion as the blackness polluted pallid skin, mottled with blues, purples and deep umbers with fissures stretching the expanses of skin, leaking both night and white light as the metamorphosis took place.

“Let me go.”

“Not until you say you love me.”

His voice is firm and resolute, grip tightening as the fighting became more desperate, despite the frailty behind the blows and pushes, as the corruption escalated along the others skin, hair and even his eyes, the deep red of his hair burning in oranges and blues along with his eyes as his pleas to be let go developed into panicked screams and the grip upon him grew tighter and tighter.

“LET ME GO!”

It feels like he’s on fire, skin an inferno as marbled fingers pressed and scratched against flesh and cloth, tears like nebulas falling from molten white eyes as it drew to a close, a momentary lapse in heat and fight, silence falling over the pair before there grew a catastrophe so immense in blinded out the night, an explosion of light and fire that burnt and scarred everything in its path as what he held became weightless and yet so heavy it crushed and smothered him.

And then there was nothing.

The Sun was gone, the cindered and black stained remnants of his clothing in the Moon’s hands as he stared blankly at the canvas that was the night sky. He’d lost him, he’d lost the sun, he’d lost his love and whilst a night of constellations and that faintest murmur of a heartbeat eased him.

He’s outside again.

He knows he is. 

Fingers run through short fur as he made a vage attempt to calm himself down, to relax despite the fact it felt like the other was boring a whole into his back, Marlow seeming to sense this and whining a little.

Patrick knows he shuldn’t sit this close to the window, looking out of the corner of his eye and in haling sharply as he sees him. He hates being right, he hates knowing how the other thinks, apologising to the puppy as his grip in the fur gets a little too tight.

Maybe he hadn’t seen him, maybe it had been someone else stood outside. It wasn’t like the apartment block was always bustling with people coming and going. It was just someone looking for their keys. 

He jumps as the buzzer goes off, forgetting how to breath as he hears his voice filter through the speaker.

“Patrick, won’t you let me in, Patrick?”

Patrick soothes the puppy as it moves restlessly, as if sensing the danger and yet Marlow doesn’t bark of growl, simply moving between his master and the door to the flat as if the doppleganger would appear there.

“I know you’re in there, I’ve been watching all day…”

He trembles at the chuckle, not understanding how the other could find amusement from this. He can’t move again, he can’t move back in with Arthur. Cities have more eyes than the English countryside, maybe someone would phone the police again.

“You looked really pretty today, smiling and laughing as you played with that mutt of yours, in that old green jacket that’s not yours, nose all pink from the cold~”

His stomach churns at whispered words, the clothing he’d been wearing no lnger seeming clean and the urge, no, need to tear off his skin in a bid to feel less violated as he started to talk about the other in ways that made his very skin crawl.

“Why so quiet, my love? You know I like it when you talk back, when you beg and…" A Shiver runs down Patrick’s spine as a pleased little sigh escapes Garret’s lips, making it sound like he’s in the flat with him. "And when you’re screaming in fear.”

There’s nothing but silence then, just hearing a few breaths down the tannoy and it’s like he’s in the room with him. He can smell the aftershave, picture the black tailored suit with the red shirt and black tie, feel the leather gloves slowly clamp around his throat, the ghost of a kiss just bellow his ear as he whispers “I’ll be back tomorrow, my queen.”