#prose.

L.A Union Station hums like something wild and alive— loud, chaotic, and constant. A low, breathing kind of motion, like being inside the ribcage of a giant. Footsteps echo against tiled floors worn smooth with time, announcements blur into the vaulted ceilings, and the late morning light filters in through high windows in long, pale gold beams that catch on dust and movement from each corner. There’s a romance to it if you’re looking for one. Francis is. Maybe out of necessity. Otherwise, the very obvious loitering, homelessness, and panhandling would sever their resolve. It was difficult living in Los Angeles. 

They stand for a moment longer than they need to just inside the terminal, guitar case slung over one shoulder, the strap digging in where it always does. The rest of their life — or what qualifies as it right now — is packed into a single worn bag at their hip. A camera tucked carefully between folded shirts, cords knotted together like veins, a small keyboard wedged in at an angle that probably isn’t good for it. They don’t check. They don’t want to start worrying about the details. They feel like maybe they’re running from something. 

It’s strange, the way grief follows them. It’s a second pulse under the skin. Their brother’s absence isn’t a single clean wound; it’s a thousand small distortions. The way silence lingers too long. The way certain thoughts don’t finish themselves. They keep expecting to turn and find him somewhere just behind them. A coffee in hand, a cigarette already between his teeth at 8:05 A.M. Forget it. Just forget it. 

But Toni Sharpe, their good friend, had said it so clearly. Go north. There’s something there for you. Maybe they could try to start over for a minute. 

So they board.

The train smells faintly metallic, layered with coffee and old upholstery. It’s quieter than the station, but not by much — voices low, bags shifting, the subtle clatter of movement settling into place. It’s congested. Seats are difficult to navigate at first. Francis moves down the aisle with that same unhurried energy they carry everywhere, scanning for something that feels right rather than just empty. They pass rows of paired seats before spotting it — a small table between two facing benches, sunlight cutting across it at an angle. 

They slide in, easing the guitar case down carefully beside them, tucking it close. Their bag lands at their feet. For a moment, they just sit there, hands resting loosely on the table, letting the movement of the train settle into their bones before it’s even started moving. Outside, the platform stretches out — people hugging, waving, lingering because they'll miss their loved ones. Francis watches it all without really focusing. Their mind drifts.

It always does now. Everywhere. All the goddamn time.

They think about music, but in fragments. Chords half-formed. Melodies that never quite land. The idea that maybe, somewhere up north, something will click back into place. That whatever broke open inside them didn’t take everything with it. That there’s still something worth following.

They don’t realize how long they’ve been staring out the window until movement in the aisle catches their attention.

Someone’s pausing. Looking.

There’s that small, familiar tension — the quiet, awkward dance of someone searching for a seat that isn’t taken, or worse, deciding whether to impose. Francis shifts slightly, eyes lifting, and that’s when they see her properly.

Her mouth, first. The shape of it — something thoughtful there, or maybe just tired. Then her nose, the subtle line of it. Oh, and then her eyes — Francis catches them last, and they linger there a second longer than they mean to. Honeyed, exuberant. There’s something in them. It’s enough. She’s cute. They’re pathetic. 

Francis shifts their hand slightly on the table, a small, quiet gesture. 

The  clinic  is  too  clean.  That  is  Leon's  initial  thought  as  Noah  Vanek  steps  into  the  consultation  room,  not  because  cleanliness  is  unusual  in  medical  settings,  but  because  this  particular  sterility  feels  excessive  and  intentional.  As  if  someone  tried  to  scrub  out  anything  that  might  hint  at  vulnerability,  stopping  just  short  of  making  the  space  inhuman.  Fluorescent  lighting  hums  faintly  overhead,  and  the  air  smells  faintly  of  disinfectant  and  warmed  plastic.  A  file  folder  rests  open  on  the  desk  between  them,  pages  nearly  aligned,  printed  imaging  results  clipped  into  place  with  surgical  precision.

Leon  doesn't  look  up  immediately.  He  reads  first,  as  he  always  does.  Bone  density  concerns.  Stress  indicators.  Repeated  mentions  of  microfractures  and  fatigue-related  injuries  that  don't  quite  align  with  the  expected  profile  of  a  professional  athlete  in  peak  condition.  There  are  gaps  in  the  data,  too;  subtle  inconsistencies  that  suggest  more  than  just  overtraining.  Leon's  eyes  narrow  slightly.  Interesting.  Noah  Vanek  is,  on  paper,  exactly  what  sports  medicine  expects:  elite  conditioning,  aggressive  physical  output,  repeated  exposure  to  impact  trauma.  The  body  of  someone  built  to  absorb  punishment  and  continue  performing  anyway.  Bodies  don't  usually  present  like  this  unless  something  else  is  happening  underneath.

Leon  finally  looks  up,  and  Noah  is  already  there.  Something  about  him  immediately  tightens  Leon's  attention  in  a  way  he  doesn't  fully  approve  of.  It  isn't  just  athleticism.  Leon  has  seen  that  before,  broken,  rebuilt,  optimized,  repeated  until  it  becomes  almost  mechanical.  This  is  different.  There's  a  controlled  restraint  in  Noah's  posture  that  doesn't  match  the  assumed  chaos  of  his  profession.  A  kind  of  internal  compression,  like  someone  is  actively  holding  themselves  together  through  sheer  force  of  will.  Leon  recognizes  that  kind  of  containment,  and  it  usually  precedes  failure  or  collapse  –  or  both.  His  gaze  lingers  a  fraction  too  long  before  he  adjusts  it  back  to  clinical  neutrality.  “Mr.  Vanekn,”  Leon  says  evenly,  voice  low  and  precise.  “Thanks  for  coming  in.”  There's  a  brief  pause  as  he  taps  the  edge  of  the  file  with  a  finger. 

“I'm  going  to  be  direct  with  you.  Your  scans  show  early  indicators  of  decreased  bone  density  and  stress  response  irregularities.  Not  what  I'd  expect  from  someone  with  your  training  profile.”  He  leans  back  slightly  in  his  chair,  eyes  still  fixed  on  Noah  –  measuring,  assessing,  quietly  recalibrating  assumptions.  “Which  brings  me  to  the  part  I'm  more  interested  in,”  Leon  continues,  tone  unchanged.  “Either  your  body  is  responding  poorly  to  load-bearing  impact,”  a  beat,  “or  something  is  interfering  with  recovery  at  a  systemic  level.” 

He's  quiet.  Just  the  mechanical  whir  of  the  ventilation  system  kicking  in  right  on  queue.  His  expression  tightens  just  slightly,  not  quite  concern  nor  fascination  –  something  in  between  that  sits  uncomfortably  close  to  both.  “You  don't  look  like  someone  who  ignores  physical  warning  signs,”  he  adds.  That,  at  least,  is  honest.  Leon  shifts  forward  again,  elbows  resting  lightly  on  the  desk.  The  sterile  room  seems  to  narrow  around  the  space  between  them.  “I  need  to  understand  what  your  day-to-day  actually  looks  like,”  he  says.  “Because  now,  your  body  is  behaving  like  it's  under  sustained  depletion.”  Yet  another  pause  draws  between  them.  His  gaze  sharpens  in  a  way  that  would  feel  invasive  to  most  people.  “And  I'm  trying  to  figure  out  whether  this  is  something  I  can  correct,”  Leon  says  quietly,  almost  to  himself,  “Or  something  that's  already  been  allowed  to  go  on  too  far.”

He pushes his way through a knot of bodies, stepping over someone half-asleep on the stairs, sidestepping a girl with glitter tears and a cracked phone. His mouth is dry, jaw tight with it, and whatever bottle he’d left behind is definitely long gone. Typical. He’s halfway through cursing it when his eyes catch movement by the counter. Broad shoulders. That familiar slouch. Kerry slows. Grins.

“Noah,” he manages, voice warm and rough around the edges. Doesn’t stop walking—just swings an arm around the other boy’s shoulders like he owns the moment. “You hoardin’ all the good stuff over here, or are you just tryin’ to dodge me?” He leans in, cheek nearly brushing Noah’s collar, a smirk tugging lazy at his lips. “Missed you in the crowd, mate. Could’ve used you on rhythm. Would’ve made me sound halfway decent.” He pulls back just enough to look him over. “You enjoyin’ yourself or just broodin’ in corners?” His eyes crinkle, pale blue eyes blown in the middle from some other substance he can't remember.

the words come so soft and simple and matter-of-fact. it steals shamrock's breath with how it almost seems easy for the priest to say. is it easy for them? to say something so plain about their own heart?

that doesn't make sense to shamrock. sure, he's used to celestial dragons talking plain, simply saying what they want, then demanding it be given to them. this is different, though, for argenti is no celestial dragon, and he is making no demands. he is simply speaking his thoughts aloud, but even that is a seemingly monumental task for the boy.

argenti isn't supposed to remember shamrock. sure, they know of his existence, and they know that they know him, that he'll come and 'borrow' them from saint armonos from time to time (as often as shamrock can get away with), but that's where their familiarity with the holy knight should end. right?

so why does he think he loves him?

the words wrap around shamrock's throat, constricting tightly, choking him of air and a response. he struggles to catch his breath again after, not sure what to do, what to say, to such a confession. what is he to say to hearing something he's longed to hear for a while now? what does he say when something he wants so dearly is so close, within finger tip's reach. all he has to do is reach out, touch their jaw, and maybe, just maybe, he can actually have the boy he's been wanting to dearly, for so long. as long as he can remember. as long as argenti-

well, that's the problem, isn't it? argenti can't remember, so he shouldn't love shamrock. he shouldn't want him too. this is wrong, all wrong. shamrock knows this. shamrock can want, but he can't have. such has always been his life. such it will always be.

at least he can do what he can to protect argenti.

"argenti?" he reaches for the hand still tracing along the page, giving it a squeeze with his own gloved fingers, drawing his attention to the knight. with a soft smile that no one else will ever get to see, he speaks the kindest words he can,

"forget you love me, forget you said as much."

he waits for the pause, the freeze, watching argenti's grey eyes cloud over as if a storm briefly passes through them, before he lets the smile fade, not gone, just less tender. argenti can't even remember that smile, because if he told anyone, especially armonos, about it, then it would only lead them both to danger.

"are you okay? you lost your place, you were right here." he points to the words on the page, the last ones spoken before the confession, nodding at argenti to continue. he's let go of their hand by now, letting them continue reading undisturbed.

it hurts, shamrock's heart aching in his chest with each breath, but he knows he's done the right thing. argenti loving anyone would be a curse on the boy, but especially loving shamrock. what can he do but make him forget?

rests against his chest, dark head weighted and neck slumping. has she fallen asleep? by the soft snores passing the open seam of her mouth, quiet against his collarbone, one might guess that the sleep she's fallen into is a deep one indeed —and one that should not be disturbed.

Desmond sits heavily in the armchair he'd found in town on the side of the road, the wood groaning under his weight. The room is dim, lit only by the warm flicker of a single lantern on the table, which casts shifting shadows across the sharp planes of his face. His unruly dark hair curls damply at the edges, still drying from the splash of water he threw over himself earlier. A faint sheen clings to his temples and the base of his neck, catching the light. His shirt hangs draped over the back of a chair by the fire, alongside his trousers and a towel, all drying after his laborious hand-washing. He wears only his drawers and a loose linen undershirt now, open at the collar, exposing the dark curls of hair on his chest and the faint silvered scars that stretch across his sternum and ribs—etched memories of centuries spent living and not living.

Madonna rests against him, her dark head tipped forward, her neck slumped, as though sleep has claimed her mid-collapse. Her breaths come in slow, quiet pulls, slipping through the parted seam of her lips. He feels the gentle rise and fall of her body against his broad chest, her small frame curling into him as though seeking something solid to hold on to. His chin dips slightly, resting against the crown of her head for a moment, his body warm and unmoving despite the ache settling deep into his shoulders and back.

He moves slowly, one large hand sliding to her back to steady her while the other threads through her hair. His fingers work through the tangles with patient care, the roughness of his calloused skin at odds with the tenderness of the gesture. The strands are long and dark, clinging stubbornly to his fingers as he combs through them. On his wrist, a braided leather bracelet twines tightly, worn dark with age, the fibers fraying slightly at the edges.

Scars map his arms, some faint and others jagged and bold, glinting faintly in the firelight. They tell stories he rarely lets himself think about, let alone speak aloud. His hand pauses briefly, resting gently against Madonna’s head as his chest rises and falls beneath her. His gaze drifts over the room’s sparse furnishings—the flicker of the fire, the cracked edges of the windowpane, and the carefully draped clothing hanging to dry. Everything here feels old, worn, and weathered. Like him.

He looks down at Madonna, his severe eyes softening as they trace the quiet lines of her face. Her hair frames her features in messy waves, her skin pale and drawn, though the furrow in her brow has finally smoothed in sleep. He can still smell the faint traces of alcohol clinging to her, mingled with sweat and the salt of unshed tears. Despite himself, his fingers return to her hair, stroking absently, the motion more instinct than thought. It soothes her. It soothes him.

“You’ve a way o' findin' yerself broken, lass,” he murmurs, his low voice tinged with tiredness. The words aren’t judgmental; they’re just tired, heavy. He'd been hunting for Kerry. He found some things for the kid. He was trying to help as much as he could, anyway. But it involved severed limbs and not getting caught. Blood bags. He was investigating blood bags, now.

His voice hangs in the quiet, as though the words are meant for her, for the room, and for himself all at once. He tips his head back, letting his curls press against the fabric of the chair. His boots, scuffed and splattered with dried mud, rest heavily on the worn rug beneath them, his legs stretched out and braced as if even in rest he refuses to fully let his guard down. He won’t move her. Not yet. Not while her breath steadies against him, her weight growing heavier with the depth of her sleep.