#snailfic

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Honolulu Blue (2004) Rating: Not Rated Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Relationships: Antonin Lhotsky/Jim Fisher Additional Tags: Temporary Character Death, Semi-Accurate Physics, Blood (Lots of it), two (2) instances of untranslated russian, i feel like the rest is fairly self-explanatory Summary:

in which there is a kingdom with two princes (not actually related). the eldest, Alex, is serious and detail-oriented. the younger, Brian, is cheerful and never loses sight of the people’s welfare. they balance each other out and things are good for a while, until one day Alex follows— something, I dunno, a white stag, maybe— deep into the wilds of Rosswood Forest. when he catches up to it he finds only rotten wood, the antlers now twisting cracking branches. deep within the Forest lies a crumbling ruin, its purpose long lost to time. no one lingers long there. the fog has a way of creeping in and curling around your bones as every nerve in your body screams that you should not be here. he’s unnerved, obviously, and runs home. something follows him.

you know this part. it’s the part where the good prince Alex is slowly overtaken by something very very old and very very hungry. he hides his blackened veins beneath long sleeves, and his smile is tight, teeth gritted. Brian is many things, but not unobservant, and he soon notices the change and confronts Alex about it. it goes badly. when the smoke clears, the castle is on fire and both princes have vanished.

meanwhile: in a wooden shack on the very edge of the Forest lives a woodsman. you’ll know he’s a woodsman by his red checked shirt and the axe in his hand, and the silent way he moves between the trees. he has lived here as long as he can remember— which, granted, is not as long as you’d expect. Tim has no family and no friends except for the creatures of the wild, which recognize him as one of their own. he knows their names and their voices, and he follows their trails around bogs and thick briars. he’s gotten pretty good at this wilderness-survival thing. one day a new visitor comes to his window: a blue jay, screaming loud enough to wake the dead like some kind of demented cockerel. Tim tells it this, and the bird cocks its head and says: “You’re Tim Wright, right?” in the language of birds.

Tim does not actually know if he is Tim Wright, or the right Tim Wright, or— forget it. But the bluejay is pretty convinced and alarmingly persistent, and so eventually they set off into the Forest together. Tim slips soundlessly over tangled roots and thick moss. The jay flies overhead, making an unholy racket. Neither of them spots the huge, shaggy shadow trailing them through the Forest. Neither of them catches a glimpse of its burning red eyes. eventually they come to the place where the fog starts to rise and strange stones jut from the earth. something about it is familiar. mostly, it’s just really unsettling. Tim Does Not want to be here, which he makes very clear. The bluejay, unheeding, flits away between the remains of long forgotten arches. furious, Tim chases it.

he sees glimpses of the white stag, and glimpses of deadly white mushrooms sprouting up from its decaying form. fleeting shadows of a man, two men, a wolf: there and gone. he breaks into a sprint, and suddenly finds himself in a clearing ringed by standing stones. in the middle of it stands something too tall to be a man. its face is beautiful, captivating. Tim blinks. it has no face. it sweeps one long, twisting, cracking arm at the bluejay, nearly knocking it from the sky. Tim and the bird don’t waste any time. they run (and fly) as if the devil is at their heels, although the thing sending curling roots and branches to trip and hinder them is much, much older than the devil. in their single-minded drive to get AWAY they crash through the brambles into another clearing. in it stands a man(?), his face hidden by a blue hooded cloak. he draws his sword and advances. Tim and the bird are, to put it lightly, fucked. (or Tim is, and the bluejay refuses to leave him. take your pick.)

just then a great dark shape lunges from the trees: a terrible beast covered in black fur. its teeth are very big and very sharp, its gums red, red, red as it bares them in a snarl. its eyes burn like coals in the hearth. it closes its massive jaws around the stranger’s arm. he overcomes his surprise quickly and turns his blade on the wolf (for that is what it is, a wolf) but eventually sees sense and flees. the wolf starts after him, as if considering pursuit, but turns its fiery gaze on our unlucky heroes. Tim swallows hard and holds his axe between the wolf and himself and the bird on his shoulder. His knuckles are white on the handle and his hands tremble. The wolf comes closer. Closer still, until he can feel its hot breath on his face and watch the blood dripping red red red from its maw. Tim stands before death and keeps his gaze steady. He hopes it doesn’t eat the bird, which is probably too small to be anything more than a snack. The woodsman, on the other hand…

The wolf licks Tim’s face. It’s awful, and disgusting, and gross. The wolf does it again. the wolf crouches on its massive front paws and wags its ponderous tail. Then rises, and plants those paws on his shoulders, and bears him down to the earth. the bluejay darts into the air, squawking. Tim is rethinking this whole death with dignity thing and considering maybe just closing his eyes and waiting for it to be over. but the wolf just huffs and presses its cold, wet nose to the underside of his jaw. he waits. it doesn’t budge. actually, it seems quite content to stay there forever, until the bluejay dives at its head and it rolls off, snapping its teeth (playfully?)

there are no wolves in Rosswood Forest, and there haven’t been for many, many years. but the wolf-shaped shadow trots after Tim and the bird as they continue their trek through the forest. at one point the bluejay notices that the wolf’s uneven gate. it screeches and swoops and makes a general nuisance of itself until the wolf, guiltily (can a wolf ever truly feel guilt?), shows Tim the wicked thorn lodged in its footpad. gently, carefully, Tim draws it out, the jay on his shoulder offering unwanted advice the whole time. he binds the wound with a torn piece of red flannel. the wolf butts its great shaggy head into his chest in gratitude. it does not seem to talk, in the long silent tongue of wolves or any other.

so they continue on, through many troubles and arguments and wrong turns (for they are nearing the heart of the Forest again, where trails may shift and disappear as soon as you turn your back on them). and with the three of them the path seems less rocky, the nights less frightening, the shadows less sinister.

they come once again to the mist, the crumbled arches. they sneak through a graveyard of shattered stones, and this time they lose sight of each other through the fog. it is very very obvious that this is not a silence that should be disturbed, so they stumble blindly through the ruins. Tim finds himself again at the edge of the great stone circle. something about this place is so very very familiar. something about the sense of unease that radiates from these ancient stones strikes a chord in some forgotten memory. he knows this place, as well as he knows the rest of Rosswood. he’s never once gotten lost in its twisting labyrinth of stone. and suddenly he remembers being very small and very frightened, crouching behind a toppled pillar as a long shadow swept across his hiding place. he remembers holding his breath against the sickly sweet smell of decay. he remembers running, and running, and running until his feet knew every cracked flagstone, until he could navigate the maze and find himself in a part of the forest he’d never seen before, where sunlight poured like honey through the canopy.

he has no time to think about that now, though, because a figure in a tattered blue cloak materializes from the fog. he draws his sword with a spine-chilling scrape of metal on metal. Tim tightens his grip on the axe. they circle warily. let’s be real for a second. considering the average level of training for a nobleman compared to a peasant who probably hasn’t seen another sword before this one: let’s just say the odds are not in Tim’s favor. they never have been before. Tim puts his all into one desperate swing. a flash of metal swipes the axe from his hand. the swordsman laughs, mockingly, and charges. he probably would have skewered Tim if not for the desperate plunge of the bluejay, diving out of the mist with a battle cry. the jay swoops around the swordsman’s head, sharp beak and sharp talons aiming for his eyes. the swordsman curses and Tim scrambles for his fallen weapon.

he looks up just in time to see a spray of blue feathers flecked with red, the sharp point jutting from the bird’s breast.

a howl of grief tears itself from his throat. it is a sound not found in any language spoken, except perhaps the vanished language of wolves. he charges the swordsman again. their blades clash and strain against each other. what Tim lacks in practice he certainly makes up for in strength— the swordsman is lanky, spindly, even. unfortunately, he’s also very, very fast, and with a flick of his wrist the edge of his blade is pressing into Tim’s throat. beneath the hood, Tim gets a glimpse of a strange cold smile. then: a growl like thunder rolling across the sky. the wolf barrels into the swordsman, knocking him down. its teeth are very very big and very very sharp.

the swordsman’s face contorts with rage. it’s something inhuman— something very very old, and pretty used to getting its way. he snarls, matching the wolf for ferocity, and slashes at its great black flank. this time, he draws blood. it drips red red red on the broken tiles as they separate to face off once more. (while all of this is going on, Tim studies the battlefield— the arrangement of stones. if he can just surprise their opponent—) the wolf has done just that, its massive jaws snapping shut on the swordsman’s ragged blue cloak, which tears easily. the swordsman staggers back, now exposed to the world. black veins of rot twine around his arms and throat like creeping vines, and cross his face like cracks in porcelain. the wolf pauses too, as if struck by the sight. then the fight is on again. the swordsman’s strikes are wild now, his motions jerky with fury. on one of these uncontrolled attacks, the wolf closes its jaws around the wrist attached to the hand holding the sword. with a vicious wrench it bites down. the swordsman screams, his weapon clattering to the stones.

the wolf wastes no time in pressing its advantage, pinning the swordsman to the ground with its paws on his shoulders. there’s blood on its teeth and it drips to run down his face. the wolf’s breath is hot and laced with iron, its prey finally brought low. it closes in for the kill, and— stops. the scent of the swordsman’s skin is familiar. too familiar, in the way of something once well loved. so is his face, once beloved, now twisted into a mask of hatred. once it had licked this face affectionately— or if not that, then something close. when had that love changed? what happened? the wolf noses at the swordsman’s bloody cheek as if to find the answers there. the swordsman lifts his mangled hand to the wolf’s neck. with the other he plunges a dagger into its heart.

this time grief is silent. it does not speak a word, not in any language spoken now or ever. we must imagine it, though, as something like a lightning strike, sending a wave of energy radiating out from the site of contact. leaves skitter outwards, away from fallen stones. the canopy rustles as if stirred by the wind. throughout Rosswood Forest, the birds fall silent.

Tim lunges from behind the pillar supporting the last standing arch and collides with the swordsman. there is no hesitation now. he swings the axe as if it’s as light as a feather, and the butt end smashes into the swordsman’s ribs with the force of a hammer coming down on an anvil. the dagger glances against his ribs, he wraps his hand around the blade and flings it across the stone circle. the swordsman makes a grab for the axe and Tim tosses it aside. his knuckles split on the swordsman’s jaw and they go down together in a flurry of blows. the swordsman lies below him now, bruised and bloodied. three parallel scratches across his cheek, a gift from the jay. blood running from his hairline courtesy of the wolf. bruises blooming on his too-pale skin. Tim shoves himself up and away, half horrified at his own ferocity, half crowing victory and the sweet song of survival.

the swordsman rises shakily to his knees. Tim approaches with caution. it is never wise to assume that a swordsman has no blades left on his person. the swordsman’s nose is broken, his lip split, red red red streaking from his mouth. he watches Tim with hollow eyes. his lips move soundlessly, a creaking breath scraping from his throat. Tim isn’t fool enough to lean in. the swordsman narrows his eyes in irritation and repeats himself. it’s no louder than a whisper, but it carries.

the axe separates his head from his shoulders in one swing.

Tim sinks to his knees, panting, gasping, laughing, sobbing. out of the corner of his eye he registers movement: something white darting between the stones. he sees antlers, bone-white and deadly, then blackened and crumbling to ash. he sees the stag silhouetted in the archway and then he sees something very old, and beautiful in its terror and terrible in its beauty. something very, very tall, towering above the standing stones. something very still. something very familiar.

Tim stands on shaky legs and steps over the swordsman’s body. He steps closer to something that might have been eyeing him with interest if it had eyes to do it with. An ancient fear grips his heart in its icy fingers, something older than mankind screaming run, now, leave this place, survive. Tim squares his shoulders and takes another step. “I know you,” he tells something that has existed long before words, before thoughts. “I remember you.”

the something in question may have inclined its featureless head, or maybe it had always done so, since the beginning of time. Tim’s blood freezes in his veins and his hands begin to tremble. He curls them into fists.

“I know that you are older than trees, older than stone. I know that you are very strong and very hungry. Years you’ve chased me, years you’ve stolen from me. I know axes and swords can never kill you, and you can take my life in an instant.”

“But I’ll tell you what’s about to happen. When I’ve said my piece, I’m turning around and walking out of here. What you do then is up to you. But I won’t run, and I won’t cower. I’m sick of you, sick of death, sick of rot. But I’m not afraid of you. Not anymore.”

with that the woodsman turns and does exactly as he said. he turns and walks out of the stone circle, then the twisting paths. at any moment a cold and terrible hand might land on his shoulder and yank him back. but he never looks backwards, and the cold and terrible touch never comes. eventually he arrives to the place where the stones end and the mist disappears in the honey-gold sun. he closes his eyes and breathes in the smell of life and green growing things and listens to the cries of birds in the treetops (a robin, a crow, a cardinal, not—) and knows that it never will. when he opens his eyes again he finds himself surrounded by a very strange company. before he can get a good look at any of them he’s pulled into a crushing embrace.

“Tim!” exclaims a beanpole of a man, all elbows and bony edges digging into his sides. It hurts, a little, but the joy in the stranger’s voice tugs sharply at his heart. He has never heard his name said like that before, let alone by a man he’s never seen before in his life.

“…do I know you?” he asks, leaning back to peer at the man’s face, searching for something, anything he recognized. all he finds is a frustrating hint of— something, warm and fond.

“I’d hope so,” says the stranger. “Did you forget my voice?” He tips his head back and laughs, and the sound of his laughter is a distinctive teasing cackle Tim has heard many times before. The language of birds always sounds strange coming from a human throat, but a woodsman always knows it when he hears it. “My name’s Jay,” says the man who up until very recently had been small and blue and covered in feathers.

Tim blinks, dazed. before he can ask any of the thousand questions on his mind his attention is pulled to the other man currently burying his face in Tim’s hair. he jerks back, affronted. “were you sniffing me?!”

the other man doesn’t have the decency to look embarrassed. he shrugs halfheartedly, and breaks out into a brilliant smile. it’s like the sun coming out. Tim feels like maybe he shouldn’t be staring directly at it, except that his eyes keep catching on the gap between the stranger’s… oddly sharp front teeth. the man steps back into Tim’s personal space easily, wrapping strong arms around his middle and burying his face in the crook of Tim’s neck.

“so you’re— the wolf,” Tim manages, still a little dumbstruck. the man wrapped around him like a clinging vine looks nothing like the tremendous shaggy beast that followed him through the forest, but again something feels the same.

“Brian,” the man whose eyes no longer burn says into the skin of his jaw. Brian lifts his head and fixes Tim with adoring eyes. There’s really no other word for it. Then a smile tugs at his lips and Tim’s eyes narrow and soon he’s got a hand shoving Brian’s face away.

“Don’t even think about it,” Tim warns. Something hot and wet slides across the palm of his hand. He drops it, disgusted, and wipes the spit off on Brian’s coat. Which is, for the record, very finely made, and very very yellow. Jay snickers and Tim looks between the two of them like he can’t believe his eyes. “But— you were dead,” he says flatly. “I saw it, I saw you both—“

Jay squeezes the back of his neck and scuffs his shoe on the ground. “It’s kind of a long story,” he tries. Tim glares. “Okay, long story short— we were cursed. Him as a wolf, me as— well, you know.” Tim raises an eyebrow. He’s never really gone in for curses and associated woo-woo bullshit, but the day he’s had is the kind that makes a man believe in the impossible. “Anyways— I was stuck. As a bird. Until I did something truly selfless,” Jay continues. His hand hovers over the place where not long before a sword point had burst through.

“And I,” Brian cuts in, “had to do something truly honest. Which I guess I did. I looked at the man I hated most in the world and knew that I still loved him. And then he stabbed me, but, well.” He runs a hand through his hair, suddenly sheepish. “Hey, Tim, listen, don’t freak out—“

“About what?”

“I said don’t freak out!”

“About WHAT?”

“About me,” says a third voice. This man is no stranger. Tim has seen his face in a rictus mask of anger, has seen him cold and remorseless, has seen him bloodied, bruised, and broken. His blood runs cold and he instinctively takes a step backward, arms spread in front of Jay and Brian to shield them. But the swordsman carries no blade, and there’s no hatred in his eyes. Only relief and regret. “I’m Alex, by the way. And I am sorry about. Well. All of it.” Alex shakes his head ruefully. Tim stares.

“And I owe you more than I can ever repay,” Alex continues. “The decay made me a monster. It rotted me from the inside out. I could feel myself slipping away, deeper and deeper into the nightmare. I watched the people I love die at my own hands and I wished more than anything for the strength to end it.” He meets Tim’s incredulous gaze. “I didn’t have it. You did.” He falls silent and looks away.

Tim takes a deep breath, and a leap of faith. He reaches out to touch Alex’s hand where it hangs limp by his side. Alex looks at him again, startled.

“One thing you can be sure of,” Alex says quietly, “is that none of us would be standing here right now if you hadn’t done your part.”

Tim gives him an questioning look. “Which was?”

Alex squeezes his hand. “It took an act of true bravery to break that— that thing’s hold on all of us. That one was all yours.”

And they all lived happily ever after—

Gideon is warm. Hotch takes a deep breath, and through the musty smell of old sweater he catches a sharp hint of pine. Gideon is warm, and his arms are strong, and Hotch lets himself relax into the embrace, his face tucked into Gideon’s shoulder. They stand there for a moment that stretches itself out like molasses, slow and sweet. Neither feels the need to speak. Hotch feels the sting of tears and screws his eyes shut, hands tightening in the soft, slightly scratchy wool of Gideon’s sweater. He draws in another shaky breath and listens to the echoing rise and fall beneath his cheek. Gideon’s here, and he’s breathing, and Hotch’s own racing heart begins to slow. A large hand comes to rest gingerly on his back. Gideon waits, and when Hotch doesn’t flinch away he slowly moves it up the curve of his spine. Callused fingers card briefly through his sweat-damp hair.

Hotch lifts his head and steps back. Gideon lets him go, dark eyes studying him intently. 

“I’m just going to clean up,” he says, feeling wrong-footed in a way he hasn’t since he was Hotshot Hotchner, new kid in town. Gideon’s stare softens.

“Bathroom’s through there,” he offers, gesturing towards the bedroom. He tugs playfully at the end of Hotch’s tie. “Thought I told you to take this off once in a while,” he adds. The laugh lines at the corners of his eyes deepen. The haunted look that’s been there since Boston (how many years ago, now?) recedes.

Hotch swallows. “Yeah,” he says, inelegantly, and turns.

Gideon’s voice follows him through the doorway. “Should be some spare pajamas in the drawer. Help yourself.” 

Fortunately, Gideon’s stalwart commitment to rustic austerity does not extend to indoor plumbing. Hotch thinks about it as he scrubs the dust and dirt— not dried blood— from his body, and says a silent thanks for David Rossi. He emerges from the shower warm, damp and blessedly clean. Goosebumps prickle where the cold air hits his skin. There’s a pair of flannel pajama pants and an old t-shirt laid out neatly on the bed. He glances towards the door and finds it shut.

The pants are short and the shirt hangs off his narrower frame. It’s alright. Better than sleeping in the suit, which is a level of pathetic desperation he’s tried and occasionally failed to avoid. Since he started spending more and more time in the office. Since the divorce. Since— 

He cuts that train of thought off at the pass and shoves it aside. Gideon looks up as he steps back through the doorway. Hotch narrows in on the book in his hand— The Defense, Nabokov— before Gideon sets it down along with his glasses. He braces his hands on his knees and hauls himself upright with a sound like a sputtering engine. Hotch tamps down a laugh, but Gideon catches his expression and narrows his eyes.

“Alright, to bed with you,” he grumbles, moving towards the bedroom door with the throw blanket tossed over his shoulder. He stops upon finding Hotch frozen and directly in the way.

“That’s— very kind, Gideon, but I can take the couch—“ Hotch tries. 

Gideon huffs. “That thing is hard and lumpy enough to qualify as a torture device.” He fixes Hotch with an unimpressed look. “Humor an old man. Get in bed.” He slips past Hotch and makes for the bathroom, adding over his shoulder, “And call me Jason.” The door swings shut behind him.

Hotch has heard thar tone enough times to know that arguing is futile. He makes his way over and flips the covers down before tentatively slipping underneath. The sheets are cold on his skin. No one’s slept in this bed for a very long time. He shifts, trying to settle the unease buzzing in his veins. The events of the morning— sirens, gunshots, and the eerie silence that followed— seem hazy and distant. His borrowed shirt is soft with wear, the collar stretched, and smells faintly of pine. Maybe just of Gideon. Jason, he tries, the word rusty even in his mind. Hotch traces the pattern on the quilt idly, running his fingers over rows of triangles all lined up in the same direction.

“Flying geese.” Hotch glances up as Gideon’s weight settles on the other side of the mattress. Gideon indicates the pattern. “That’s what they’re called.“ He leans against the headboard and stares into the middle distance, contemplative. “Spotted a skein headed north a few days ago in Charlotte. They’ll be back by November.”

Hotch nods, and hums in vague affirmation. He’s always appreciated these seemingly random offerings of knowledge, from Gideon and from Spencer. It’s a gift held out in an open palm, whether they consciously know it or not. His eyelids droop. Their combined body heat has started to warm the covers, and suddenly the tiredness he’s been fighting all— day? week? year?— seizes him and drags him down into the quiet dark. He blinks a few times, fighting the pull on principle, but his heart’s not in it and each time his eyes stay shut for longer. 

He feels a rough palm gently cup the side of his face. Gideon’s hands have changed— the softness of books and chess games replaced with the cracked toughness that comes from lifting, carrying, physical work. A thought flickers through Hotch’s mind— what was Gideon doing in Charlotte?— but the rough pad of a thumb brushes over his cheek and he’s so tired.

“Sigils”

2012. The night before they head out to the Childress place, Rust and Marty eat dinner together. It’s late and they’re talking and laughing like they haven’t in years, trying their best to keep from thinking about tomorrow and failing. Marty’s just about at his limit (hate to have a hangover in the morning) and he accidentally knocks his last beer into Rust. Rust takes his beer-drenched shirt off and Marty catches sight of the blue symbol inked into his chest and asks about it. Gets told it has something to do with protection. Makes an offhand comment about being able to use some of that tomorrow.

Rust draws one on him with a sharpie. They’re close, too close and not close enough. The air is humming and crackling with electricity. Perfect weather for a summer storm. When Marty tries to close the gap between them, Rust tells him: later, later, I can’t lose this too. They watch each other in the hazy amber glow of the bar long after closing time. It takes everything Marty’s got to walk away, but he steps out into the velvety darkness with a “See you in the morning” and drives home feeling whatever inscrutable thing it is between him and Rust like fishing line tangled in his ribs, tugging at his chest.

Later comes and goes, and when the dust settles, they’re not dead after all. The healing wound is a jagged furrow up Rust’s side, rippling over too-prominent ribs. The gash in Marty’s shoulder cuts straight through the smudged marker lines just south of his collarbone. They go home, anyway, under a sky slowly filling with stars. Marty wraps an arm around Rust’s waist to shore him up. He’s surprisingly substantial, warmth seeping through the thin fabric of his hospital gown. They make it to the bedroom with some degree of stumbling and swearing. Marty gets Rust settled— as settled as someone like him can ever be— on top of the comforter and steps into the bathroom for bacitracin and fresh gauze.

When he comes back, Rust’s watching him, dark-eyed and unreadable again except that his cheeks are still wet. He begrudgingly allows Marty to move the hospital gown out of the way to get at the wound. Looking at him, Marty gets this feeling that he’s seeing something only a few other people have been lucky enough to lay eyes on: the soul of this battered (but not broken) man. Without stopping to think or ask himself what the hell he thinks he’s doing, he reaches out and traces Rust’s tattoo with a fingertip. Rust follows his gaze and raises his eyebrows.

“Protection, huh,” Marty says, voice barely above a whisper.

Rust makes a dismissive hm sound. “Lot of good it did us.” He gestures at his stomach and at Marty’s shoulder. His hand brushes over the place he’d drawn careful lines with a steady hand and Marty feels the touch burn through the fabric of his t-shirt.

this is my train station, which is one of the most beautiful places I’ve ever seen AND the best possible location for a chase scene lmao (we missed the first train by a minute and I maybe cried a little afterwards but we caught the next one)

and this is the bridge over the reserved channel (reserved for what? no fucking clue)

this is the book sale shelf at the south boston public library, which I was not expecting to be open today (they don’t have cosmos. I checked. and the librarian thought I was asking about spice instead of space because my accent gets stronger when I’m trying to be polite ;-;)

but THIS is the Boston Municipal Court, South Boston Division— photo taken at 2:30 pm, exactly TWENTY FUCKING YEARS AND FIFTEEN MINUTES after the events of chapter five of “say yes”!!! I didn’t even plan that it just happened that way :D

extremely relevant graffiti seen about a mile up the wrong street ;-; incidentally I didn’t realize until I saw a bunch of them outside a bar but the lesbian flag really is dunkin colors huh

pictured: the author feeling like the king of the world. turns out you CAN see the ocean from the bleachers at moakley park :) I was so fucking giddy just to be here lmao

the narrow strip of sand that is carson beach, plus some intriguing dead things I almost stepped on there!

seeing stars and say yes were originally supposed to be one fic spanning seven years and obviously that didn’t happen because it turns out seven years is a long fucking time

but there’s one deleted scene from the time between that’s near and dear to my heart in which Chuckie was gonna be working on some trade school related homework to do with geometry (cause if you’re gonna build houses you do have to understand spatial relationships) and maybe it’s taking a while

and Will sits down beside him and looks over his shoulder and starts pointing out the answers— and this becomes their first real argument that we see. obviously it’s ripping off the organic chem scene with Skylar in the movie because I think it’s something we see over and over from Will, that it’s SO easy for him and he just doesn’t get how other people have to work so much harder at it— and he really does think he’s helping, is the thing

because for him it’s just oh let me do this in fifteen seconds so it’s done and we can spend some time together— almost like “oh don’t worry about it I’ll do the dishes” XD— because for him homework was only ever busywork

but for Chuckie, this is something he has to do himself, because he’s gotta learn this stuff, and it kinda feels like— what, you don’t think I can learn this? you think I’m too stupid to figure this out on my own? because I think for a long long time he’s been struggling with the idea that he’s not good enough for Will in the same way that little league and patriots games and Southie itself aren’t good enough, and that’s part of what lead to the California thing in the first place

and obviously he knows it’s all bullshit— because Will came back, because Will chose him, because he knows Will loves him and would never think he’s stupid just because he’s no Ramanujan, he KNOWS all this— but still. those insecurities are still there, and it stings