he  didn’t  know  what  day  it  was  anymore.

time  stretched  long  and  thin  in  this  place,  like  something  half-remembered.  the  days  blurred  together  in  the  stale  warmth  of  the  chalet  —  five  weeks  now,  maybe  more,  since  the  floor  beneath  him  turned  red.  since  his  body  gave  out  under  someone  else's  justice.

he’d  bled  here.  right  here.  the  fire  had  been  going  when  it  happened  —  cruel  thing,  casting  light  on  everything  they  did  to  him.  shotgun  blast.  fists.  the  club.  no  mercy.

he  should’ve  died.

but  he  didn’t.  someone  —  dina  —  had  known  what  to  do.  they  worked  with  what  little  they  had,  patched  him  up  in  panic  with  shaking  hands  and  bad  odds.  kept  him  breathing.  made  sure  the  fire  didn’t  go  out.  he’d  been  propped  up  on  a  mattress  they  dragged  in  front  of  it,  unable  to  move,  drifting  in  and  out  of  fever  dreams  and  pain  so  thick  it  made  him  want  to  stop  trying  altogether.

his  leg  was  splinted.  barely.  every  shift  sent  sparks  screaming  up  his  spine.  his  face  wasn’t  much  better  —  the  left  side  still  tender  and  bruised,  his  brow  swollen,  the  kind  of  ache  that  throbbed  behind  his  eye  and  pulsed  with  his  heartbeat.  sometimes  he  could  see  out  of  it.  sometimes  not.  didn’t  matter.  he  didn’t  want  to  look  in  a  mirror  anyway.

the  others  came  and  went.  checking  on  him.  feeding  him.  whispering  when  they  thought  he  couldn’t  hear.  for  the  most  part  he  didn't,  but  it  didn't  help  when  he  did,  either  as  it  only  confirmed  what  he  knew  everybody  deep  down  was  thinking.  he  was  a  dead  man  walking.  or  not  walking. 

but  none  of  that  mattered,  the  only  thing  that  did  matter  was  who  wasn't  at  the  lodge  with  him.  not  once.  they  told  him  when  he  asked. 

ellie  was  gone.

she’d  left  soon  after.  headed  to  seattle  with  dina.  it  made  sense.  he  wasn’t  supposed  to  make  it.  nobody  expected  him  to.  even  now,  he  wasn’t  sure  he  really  had.

the  fire  cracked.  joel  blinked  at  it,  unfocused.

then—

the  door  creaked.

for  a  second  he  thought  he  imagined  it.  just  another  sound  folded  into  the  haze.  but  then  came  footsteps  —  real,  dragging  in  snow,  hesitant.

he  turned  his  head  slowly.  the  pain  lanced  through  his  side  like  always,  but  he  was  used  to  it  now.  he  squinted,  blinking  back  the  blur,  trying  to  make  sense  of  the  shape  that  filled  the  doorway.

and  then  he  saw  her.

ellie.

her  boots  were  wet.  her  face  drawn  and  pale  from  cold  and  travel.  older,  somehow.  harder.  but  she  was  standing  there.  alive.  breathing.

his  breath  caught.  not  sharp.  more  like  something  breaking  open  in  his  chest  —  slow  and  stunned.

he  couldn’t  sit  up.  hell,  he  could  barely  move.  but  his  fingers  curled  against  the  blanket  on  instinct.

“…ellie.”

it  came  out  raw.  cracked  and  low.  didn’t  matter.  it  was  her  name.  and  for  the  first  time  in  five  weeks,  something  inside  him  reached  forward  instead  of  letting  go.

she  was  alive.

and  that  alone  was  enough  to  keep  him  breathing.

       ❝ i'm glad, ❞   come her easy words, tone light and clear. her expression had finally eased over, concentration smoothed out with the presence of a smile to return mitsuri's in kind. she always had such a brightness to her. like a singing ray of light.  radiant and warming.  her eyes travel from that very smile to her hands as she inspects the work done   ( with the same easiness as her smile;   no scrutiny ).   shinobu knows, just as when she'd held her wrist delicately but firmly in place, exactly when mitsuri would reach out to her again. this time her hands are held open,  inviting,  accepting. callouses felt tremendously tender when they were built akin to each other. like shinobu could tell how each groove in mitsuri's palm came to be;   they matched the valleys of her own.

       ❝ you   should   rest, ❞   shinobu weakly attempts to chastise. it held no weight with the state of her smile, with how easily she yields and rises to her feet with the pinkette. fingers curl to her own, careful of the bandages, securing them together.   ❝ what would you like to eat? ❞   shinobu would prepare it herself. it'd give her more of a reason to be able to listen to mitsuri -   to have more time together before and after they eat. it was rare they had moments of reprieve like this. shinobu would  like  to savor it.

there was something so easily enchanting about the sea that no matter where she was, saya always felt a particular comfort and  wonder  in it's presence. on any coast, in any weather, the ocean and its sandy shores would never fail to lift her spirits one way or another. she's knelt as close to the sand as she can get without getting  too  wet, hand wading in the water as she beckons choso in closer.

       ❝ you can  touch  these ones. ❞   she's hopeful he will. saya reaches, running a tender finger along the spine of one of the starfish clinging to the wall of the rocky ledge they were occupying. as she continues petting the little starfish, her eyes wander along the rest of the crystal - clear waters, trying to pick out any other little critters she could show him.

       ❝ ...   i like remembering how  amazing  life can be. ❞

her tone is so very gentle for something so seemingly out of no where and thought provoking. matter of fact, there hadn't been much thought behind the sentiment at all. saya had simply been in awe, as she often were, of all the life she was surrounded by. she realized, often, how easy it was to forget that there was more to the world than herself -   than humans, curses, and conflicts.   there were fish and birds and cats, too. trees and flowers and the ocean.

       ❝ it's  nice,  remembering there's more to life than  humans  and  curses... ❞   and, of course, them -   so oddly nestled in that space between. at least, she thinks, she doesn't feel  out of place  beside him.

her hand closes over the handle of the umbrella just a little tighter as the first drops land right on her lashes. she blinks them away, looking up at the clouded sky, watching as the sun shrinks further and further behind the clouds. saya thinks about how riku scolded her that morning about catching a cold, all 'cause she left without the umbrella in the first place.   didn't he know by now?   her hand falls to meet it's other at the umbrella, unfurling it with a little push. it's as she lifts it over her head that she sees choso in the distance, like lifting a curtain and he suddenly appears.

she hesitates to call out his name. not because she didn't want to be noticed, but because she'd still been watching him under the rain.

ah...   he'd catch a cold...

being on the ledge gives her just enough height to shield him from the downpour. as he looks up, her expression meets his just as plainly. vacant, but warm. now she's hesitant to do something, not wanting to do it. she felt bad, relinquishing the umbrella entirely to choso, but she understood why he'd want to hold it. there wasn't a chance they'd walk comfortably with her being so much shorter. gently her hand slips from the handle, pushing both of them into her pockets instead as she carefully steps down beside him.

       ❝ just walking? ❞   an innocent question. saya's already given a little noise that was meant to be short for   i do care to walk with you,   but it was lost in her efforts not to slip off of the damp concrete. warm amber hues are lifted back to choso, head tilted. his hair was sticking to his forehead. an idle hand reaches best she can to gently push the strands from his brow.   ❝ where are you headed? ❞

"uh, neat." not too convincing in tone, crease between brows probably giving away doubts about the truthfulness of utahime's first statement. "maybe a glass of water next?" akari's only half joking, her own beer nursed between palms as she enjoys the music playing over the speakers. "we could order something too." the idea of food sounds great now - not to mention she hasn't had a single break throughout the day to actually eat something.

jean’s question had been simple : something bothering you ? armin answers answers, ‘ i can’t talk about it — ‘

the concession is one that should not have been granted. armin should have instead offered the scripted answer that was waiting at the tip of his tongue. it would have been so easy to say the right thing.

but the misstep means that armin apologizes for his candor with the softer curl of a smile, illuminated blue from the light of his computer screen.

he’s been trying to sign off the same email for too long.

armin has a habit sometimes, of turning wide-eyed anxious when he steps into error & says too much. he’s boyish that way, always painted young that way. it works in his favor most times & then splits him at the seams the rest of the time.

‘ work thing — i really can’t talk about it. i’m trying to stay professional & keep my hands clean, you know. saying too much feels like gossip, or something. you know ? ‘

he means it. it’s only recently that he’s been hired for a shadowing job that’s only supposed to last for the year —- & he’s yet to sign any clauses for confidentially, but he’s overheard enough in the past week. things about where the money is allocated, about who gets raises & who gets none, who gets laughed at. he learns things about all the things that don’t get done.

he’s learning the things with which he disagrees & the things he cannot yet oppose. he weighs these things like restlessness like indignation (could-be rage) in the pit of his stomach.

jean, to his credit, weighs armin’s restlessness as though it were his habit. he’s good with people that way, good with armin. he saddles his chair & sits with the shameless spread of a man. he props his chin on his arms atop the chair’s back, & he eggs armin on anyway. my hands are not clean, my friend, @springmournings says. it’s a clean way of inviting armin to gossip, & it's charming enough that it startles armin into a laugh.

my hands are not clean, my friend. * jean and armin

‘ your hands are plenty clean. the closest you get to gossip is every time you accidentally wind up third-wheeling something. & even then, you barely come back with a story — you just look . . . mildly miserable & long-suffering. if you’re going to gossip, jean, you might need to start getting your hands in the dirt. ‘

restlessness scratches beneath his skin, & armin still fits the space he’s in.

akari's just about to leave the argument at that but of course, a lawyer always needs to have the last word. heels turns smoothly as head snaps back, a mean glare in her eyes - she's not that type of person anymore, yet as time goes by it seems she just can't help but make a comeback whenever pressured enough. "how dare you," almost a whisper, an accusatory finger pointed at hiromi's taller frame anyway. "you don't know what you're talking about."

by now she's lived long enough to see what this lifestyle does to a person - plenty of coworkers have tried to leave, or coexist between regular world and the secret work sorcerers do every day; neither ever worked. "you think it's easy to exist knowing what lurks in the shadows and just turn the other way?" some can do it fine for a while, yet everyone always gets sucked back eventually. "getting away from this life is the bravest thing someone can do, because in our society nobody cares if we live or die. and believe me, i know that well because i was raised in it."