Summary:Jiang Cheng wakes up to a perfectly fine, perfectly normal day… and a six year old brother-in-law. It falls to him to take care of Lan Wangji, who has only just lost his mother, is wary of being touched, and doesn’t ask as many questions as he should. Can Jiang Cheng put history aside or will old bitter memories get the better of him?
My comments: Ah, this was so sweet.
Excerpt:A-Zhan carefully inspects the dozens of stuffed pandas, dragons, and monkeys, and eventually reaches for – a plush watermelon. It has, horrifyingly, arms and legs, as well as one single glass bead as an eye. The other eye is missing, probably fell down out of shame over being part of such a crappy toy.
“That one,” A-Zhan says.
Although he has learned a lot today, Jin Ling proves that he still has a long way to go by saying, “Really? Are you sure? But they have way better ones!”
Jiang Cheng wholeheartedly agrees, but he also knows this is not going to work. Predictably, A-Zhan shakes his head, clutches the creepy watermelon thing to his chest, and repeats, “That one.”
“Fine,” Jin Ling says, paying for it like he promised while A-Zhan cuddles the toy triumphantly. One of its arms falls off; undeterred, A-Zhan picks it up, brushes off the dirt, and clumsily reattaches it. Watching him like this, Jiang Cheng is suddenly struck by a revelation. For the first time, he thinks he knows just how Lan Wangji could fall in love with someone as terrible as Wei Wuxian.
age regression/de-aging, child lan wangji, six-year-old lan wangji, caretaking, jiang cheng has a good heart, fluff, light angst, eating ice cream, trust, jiang cheng’s avuncular powers, protective jiang cheng, how jiang cheng and lan wangji begin to repair their relationship, post canon, @vamillepudding
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Relationship: Yuuri Katsuki/Viktor Nikiforov, background Viktor Nikiforov & Makkachin, background Viktor Nikiforov & Chris
Characters: Yuuri Katsuki, Viktor Nikiforov, mention of Makkachin, mention of Chris
Summary:
The door at the front of the class opens. A tall Russian man, probably in his late twenties walks in. He has ash blond hair that’s half in a messy bun and half spilling down his shoulders. He’s wearing a suit vest, dress shirt, dark jeans and a messenger bag. He’s definitely the professor.
Although it is strange, a Russian with a Japanese last name, Katsuki. Eileen mentally shrugs. She’s seen weirder things.
Eileen watches as the Russian looks at the front of the classroom, checks his phone and frowns. He climbs up to the third row and smiles. Eileen distantly notices that his lips are heart shaped. “Hi! Is this, Japanese 101?”
Eileen nods. “Yeah.”
The man smiles again and Eileen blinks. “Great! Mind if I sit next to you?”
Despite asking, the man barely waits for Eileen to nod before he slides behind her chair and sits in the empty one on her right. Huh. Guess he’s a student then.
Alright, so I promised soft old men, but then this happened, and well…
E/R, canon divergent post-Barricades. Canon compliant character death, canon-typical violence and mistreatment of prisoners.
It was barely dawn when Enjolras slipped out of bed, trying not to wake the man snoring next to him. But even the simple act of trying to get out of bed without rousing his companion seemed beyond him now, as the lump wrapped in the majority of the blankets let out a disgruntled noise, a hand emerging from under the covers to reach for the emptiness where Enjolras had just lain.
“Come back,” Grantaire said grumpily, and Enjolras just laughed lightly, bending down and reaching for Grantaire’s hand and entwining their fingers together.
He ran his thumb lightly over Grantaire’s gnarled knuckles and the veins that stood out starkly against the liver-spotted back of his hand before raising Grantaire’s hand to his lips. “Go back to bed,” he ordered, his voice quiet but no less commanding than it had once been.
Grantaire’s head emerged finally from under the covers, his grizzled features thrown into shadowy relief in the dim light. “Only if you come back to bed with me,” he said, his voice pitched low to suggest Enjolras return to bed for reasons other than resuming sleep.
Alright, so I promised soft old men, but then this happened, and well…
E/R, canon divergent post-Barricades. Canon compliant character death, canon-typical violence and mistreatment of prisoners.
It was barely dawn when Enjolras slipped out of bed, trying not to wake the man snoring next to him. But even the simple act of trying to get out of bed without rousing his companion seemed beyond him now, as the lump wrapped in the majority of the blankets let out a disgruntled noise, a hand emerging from under the covers to reach for the emptiness where Enjolras had just lain.
“Come back,” Grantaire said grumpily, and Enjolras just laughed lightly, bending down and reaching for Grantaire’s hand and entwining their fingers together.
He ran his thumb lightly over Grantaire’s gnarled knuckles and the veins that stood out starkly against the liver-spotted back of his hand before raising Grantaire’s hand to his lips. “Go back to bed,” he ordered, his voice quiet but no less commanding than it had once been.
Grantaire’s head emerged finally from under the covers, his grizzled features thrown into shadowy relief in the dim light. “Only if you come back to bed with me,” he said, his voice pitched low to suggest Enjolras return to bed for reasons other than resuming sleep.
Alright, so I promised soft old men, but then this happened, and well…
E/R, canon divergent post-Barricades. Canon compliant character death, canon-typical violence and mistreatment of prisoners.
It was barely dawn when Enjolras slipped out of bed, trying not to wake the man snoring next to him. But even the simple act of trying to get out of bed without rousing his companion seemed beyond him now, as the lump wrapped in the majority of the blankets let out a disgruntled noise, a hand emerging from under the covers to reach for the emptiness where Enjolras had just lain.
“Come back,” Grantaire said grumpily, and Enjolras just laughed lightly, bending down and reaching for Grantaire’s hand and entwining their fingers together.
He ran his thumb lightly over Grantaire’s gnarled knuckles and the veins that stood out starkly against the liver-spotted back of his hand before raising Grantaire’s hand to his lips. “Go back to bed,” he ordered, his voice quiet but no less commanding than it had once been.
Grantaire’s head emerged finally from under the covers, his grizzled features thrown into shadowy relief in the dim light. “Only if you come back to bed with me,” he said, his voice pitched low to suggest Enjolras return to bed for reasons other than resuming sleep.
Enjolras laughed lightly. “I’m not certain my back has recovered enough from last evening’s activities, and your knees absolutely have not.” He arched an eyebrow at Grantaire. “Of course, you are welcome to remove yourself from bed and prove me incorrect.”
Never one to forgo a challenge, Grantaire attempted to sit up, only to give up with a groan. “Fiend,” he muttered, waving a dismissive hand at Enjolras. “Leave me be to suffer in peace.”
Laughing again, Enjolras hastily dressed before shuffling around the side of the bed so that he could bend over and kiss the top of Grantaire’s head. “Sleep,” he murmured. “I shall return before you wake again.”
Grantaire rallied himself enough to kiss Enjolras properly, cupping Enjolras’s wrinkled cheek with his hand. “You had best,” he said. “Or else I shall have to content myself to seeing you solely in my dreams.”
Enjolras rolled his eyes affectionately, turning his head to kiss the palm of Grantaire’s hand. “I’m certain you would see me in your dreams regardless.”
Grantaire smiled softly at him. “You know I shall.”
Enjolras straightened again, wincing as he did, and by the time he made it to the door, Grantaire was snoring once more. He shook his head before starting slowly down the stairs, wishing he had thought to bring his cane upstairs with him the previous night.
Of course, the prior evening he had been rather preoccupied by the man now asleep again in their bed, their shared enthusiasm leading them to act, and at least temporarily feel, far younger than their current ages. And if his body protested this morning, he still couldn’t quite find it in himself to regret it.
Well, he regretted that they had not been able to do this when they were in their prime, when one night of lovemaking would not leave them both with well-earned aches for the next week, but better now than never.
He retrieved his cane from its spot by the front door and made his way outside where the sun was just beginning to peak over the rooftops that lined the narrow street, and he turned his face up to it instinctively, pausing for a moment just to feel its warmth on his face.
Then he strode determinedly in the direction of the baker’s, to fetch the breakfast that both men desperately needed after the previous night.
He walked slower now, but no less proud despite age and a bayonet wound to his knee having finally caught up with him. His hair glinted more silver than gold these days, the youth once embodied by his most-hated nickname ‘Apollo’ as well as his visage now lost to the wrinkles and creases that mapped the life he had lived.
Of course, he carried with him more evidence than that of the hardships he had faced over the years, but those scars were seen only by Grantaire these days.
The baker did not look surprised to see him despite the early hour, instead reaching automatically for a loaf of the bread that Grantaire favored. “Fine morning,” he said warmly, passing the bread to Enjolras, who nodded.
“That it certainly is,” he agreed, handing his coins to the baker, including, as always, a little extra in case any came in begging later that day. It was not much, but it was a small gesture for Enjolras to couple with the work he and Grantaire did to uplift those who needed it most.
“But where is your companion this fine morning?” the baker asked.
“Where else?” Enjolras grumbled, pretending to be put out, as if he and the baker did not have this conversation at least once a week. “In bed still, lazing the day away.”
The baker laughed. “Then give M. Grantaire my best when finally he rouses himself,” he said, and Enjolras just smiled.
“I certainly shall,” he promised, tucking the bread under his arm before continuing up the street.
He had a few more stops to make to complete their meal, and by the time he returned home, the sun had eclipsed the rooftops fully and the housekeeper was already bustling in the kitchen. “Oh, M. Enjolras!” she said when he came in to deposit the food on the table. “I thought you and M. Grantaire were still asleep.”
“He is,” Enjolras told her, breaking off the end of the baguette and taking a bite. “But one of us had to seek provisions, and I appear to have been the unlucky one.”
Her face softened. “I don’t think M. Grantaire would ever dispute you on who is the lucky one between you two,” she told him. “And not just because you let him sleep in.”
Enjolras nodded, his chest suddenly feeling tight, and it took a moment for him to speak. “On that count, I believe we are both lucky,” he managed finally.
She smiled at him. “Best take that up to him, then,” she said, hurrying to grab some cutlery and a napkin for him to take along with the food. “You know how he gets when he’s hungry.”
“Don’t I ever,” Enjolras said with a short laugh.
He turned to head upstairs but she stopped him. “I know it’s not my place to say anything, but I worked for M. Grantaire for a long time,” she said, and Enjolras paused, glancing back at her.
“Yes?” he said, curious where she was going with this.
“I just wanted to tell you that I don’t think he was ever truly alive until you returned,” she said, and Enjolras’s heart clenched painfully. “For whatever that is worth.”
“Everything,” Enjolras told her, the starkness of the word underlining its sincerity. “It means everything.
— — — — —
Enjolras had thought his life over when the barricade was taken, but life – or at least, the National Guard – had a crueler fate in mind. While his companions had perished, he had been dragged before a mockery of a court and promptly convicted of treason before being handed over to the prison system.
“Kill me, then,” he had snarled once while being beaten for the minor offense of, seemingly, continuing to exist.
His jailer, a paragon of cruelty, had just laughed. “You think we would be foolish enough to make a martyr of you?” he had asked. “Oh, no. Your punishment will be far worse than death.” He had grabbed Enjolras by the hair, yanking his head back as he sneered in his face, “His Majesty’s grace will allow you to live the rest of your miserable days in prison where you will suffer the worst fate of all: to be forgotten.”
And he had been, relegated to stints of hard labor in between prolonged periods of solitary confinement, seemingly at his guard’s whim. At first he counted the days, but as they stretched to years, he found he could no longer keep track. There was little point in counting, after all, when the number mattered not: five, ten, twenty years, his fate remained the same.
It would have been enough to break any man, as Enjolras had quickly learned that fortitude held little bearing on those who survived. Those who made it, it seemed, were driven by something far deeper than hope and stronger than courage.
Enjolras had thought, at first, that the Cause he had given so much for might be what drove him, but as the days dragged onward, he found himself tiptoeing closer and closer to despair. What good was believing in a Cause that presented no change to his circumstances, or those of any of his fellow prisoners?
For that matter, what good was believing in a Cause that had left all those he had ever loved in this world dead in the streets?
That thought plagued him most of all, haunting his nightmares with specters of his dead friends. Most of the time, he just saw their lifeless bodies in a horrifying tableau, but on occasion, they spoke to him, mocking and taunting him. Those were his darkest nights of all.
It was one of those such nights when he lay alone in a damp, cold cell, feverish and delusional, that he had seen them again, first Combeferre, eyes vacant and staring, then Courfeyrac, crumpled in a heap. “No,” Enjolras moaned, covering his face with his hands. “No, please.”
“Enjolras,” a voice whispered, and Enjolras shook his head wildly.
“No,” he repeated, pleading. “Not again—”
“Enjolras,” the voice said again, stronger this time, and different from the jeering tone the apparitions normally had.
Slowly, he lowered his trembling hands, staring at the figure of the man crouching in front of him. “Grantaire?” he managed, his voice a croak.
The figure nodded. “Enjolras,” he said, and Enjolras gasped at the familiar sound of his name from Grantaire’s mouth. He rarely pictured Grantaire in his hallucinations, but this was different. This was as if the man himself was there in the cell with him.
“This is a dream,” he said, and Grantaire cocked his head.
“Is it?” he asked.
Enjolras shook his head. “No, I mean—” He pushed his hair from his face. “This is not a nightmare. It is a dream.”
Something softened in Grantaire’s shadowy features. “A good dream, then, I hope,” he said. “A dream that might take away some of the pain in your heart.”
Enjolras’s expression tightened. “How can it?” he whispered. “When you – when they—”
He couldn’t continue, and Grantaire just nodded slowly.
By knowing that those you love will never truly leave you.
That is an answer for a child. I know better. With all I have seen—
With all you have seen, perhaps what you need is to feel like a child again, however fleeting it may be. You have seen loss, and pain, more than anyone should in one lifetime. Would it be so terrible to at least pretend, for a moment, that you haven’t?
It won’t change anything to pretend.
Won’t it?
How can I, though? It is too much to bear alone.
But you are not alone. I am here.
But you’re not. You’re not here. You’re—
He couldn’t continue, burying his head in his hands. “Peace,” Grantaire whispered in Enjolras’s ear, and he could almost imagine that he felt Grantaire’s arm around his shoulders. “I am here. I have you.”
Perhaps it was just that Enjolras had been exhausted, and ill, but for the first time in more nights than he could count, Enjolras had slept, wrapped in Grantaire’s lingering presence.
Maybe it was just that there was no one else he would rather have there, no one else he would tolerate to see him like this.
Or maybe it was that there was so much that he had wished he had told Grantaire, so many moments that he wished they had shared. All those late nights in the Musain…
But that was a different dream entirely, and when the morning dawned, when the guard banged on the bars of his cell, Enjolras woke up alone.
For one dark moment, he had felt worse than he had the night before, stricken as he was with the clarity that Grantaire was gone, that he had never really been there, that he, too, was dead, that he had inevitably been struck by a cannon blast or a rifle shot or pierced by the point of a bayonet, just like the rest of them.
But then Enjolras had sat bolt upright, realization hitting like a thunderbolt, because Grantaire had not been like the rest of them. Grantaire alone had not fought, had not stared down the cannons and bayonets.
That Grantaire alone had slept.
That Grantaire alone might have lived.
Enjolras had found what was to drive him, a singular obsession that held the despair just far enough at bay that he could survive. Even if he was to spend the rest of his life behind bars, knowing that Grantaire might still live meant that all hope could never truly be lost.
And while he would never be happy with his circumstances, he thought perhaps he could live with this kind of peace.
At least, until one day which later he learned was 22 years after their failed revolution, when he was escorted by the guard to the front door of the prison he’d spent some time in and told, roughly, “Your conviction is overturned.”
“Overturned?” Enjolras had questioned, squinting against the sunlight streaming through the window in the door. “But the king—”
“—Is no longer the king,” the guard told him curtly. “You’re free to go.”
With that, he has been all but shoved outside to a world that looked very little like the one he had left or even the one he had lost. In looking back on it, he had no idea what he would have done, put out on the street with nothing but the clothes on his back, save for—
“Enjolras!”
The years had been hard on Enjolras’s body just as well as his spirit, but still he would know the voice that called to him from the crowd even if 50 years had passed – even if 50 lifetimes had passed. “Grantaire,” he had gasped, clinging to the name and the memory like a buoy.
And there had been the man himself, like the vision from his dream. Time had perhaps been kinder on him than it had been on Enjolras, but he could mark its passage nonetheless in the gray that streaked Grantaire’s still-unruly curls, in the creases in Grantaire’s brow, even in the way he hurried forward to Enjolras, not quite moving as fast as he once had and lacking some of his usual grace.
But the hand that had closed on Enjolras’s elbow was as strong as ever, and Enjolras let out a wordless cry before embracing Grantaire, not caring that he was covered in dirt and grime and all the evidence of the horrors he had faced. Grantaire, it seemed, equally did not care, as he had pulled Enjolras closer still, burying his head against Enjolras’s shoulder.
“You lived,” Enjolras breathed, clutching Grantaire as if he could not bear to let him go.
Grantaire nodded. “I lived.”
Enjolras pulled back just far enough to search Grantaire’s face. “But this whole time, I thought – I feared—”
His voice broke, but Grantaire seemed to understand. “I know,” he said, his voice low. “And I do not know how I can ask you to forgive me for letting you—”
“But why did you?” Enjolras interrupted. “Why, when but one visit from you…”
“I wanted to,” Grantaire told him, his voice pained. “I asked the court to keep me apprised of your well-being – well, actually, I had Marius do it. He’s a baron now, did you know that? But—”
“But you did not come see me.”
Grantaire bowed his head. “I did not think you would want to see me,” he said, his voice soft. “To know that I survived, when all else was lost—”
“My friend,” Enjolras interrupted again, the word feeling strange on his tongue for how it failed to capture everything Grantaire was to him, everything he had always been, even if only in his dreams. “The thought that you still might live is what has sustained me these dark years. Knowing that you slept, hoping that you were not roused, that the National Guard might mistake you for one already dead…”
He trailed off and Grantaire shook his head slowly, doubt flickering in his features. “Truly?” he asked quietly. “You do not begrudge the libertine whose survival hinged solely on the overindulgence of wine?”
Enjolras shook his head. “No more than I begrudge those who could not be stirred from their beds. Besides, you were always where I pinned my hope. If I could convince no other but you, I would never consider myself to have failed. And this means I have time yet still to try.”
That realization hit him as he spoke the words, and his knees buckled. He would have fallen were it not for Grantaire’s arms holding him upright. “I have you,” Grantaire whispered, and Enjolras let out a wordless sob at the words he had dreamed so many times being spoken to him.
“I know,” he managed. “I know.”
When finally he was able to straighten, Grantaire gave him a slightly shaky smile. “Well,” he said briskly, clearly attempting to change the subject, “since you have consented to forgive me, or at the very least not begrudge me, I must tell you what I have done, or what I have tried to do, in your absence—”
“Beloved,” Enjolras said, and while he had never before called Grantaire that, it felt more right than friend ever had or ever could. “There is nothing you have ever needed to do.”
Grantaire had looked as if he wished very much to argue with that, but for once, he had said nothing. “Then let me, at the very least, bring you to my house, that there you might find food, clean clothes, and some respite.”
“Very well,” Enjolras said.
Grantaire had reached for his hand, then hesitated. “Do you permit it?” he asked, almost shyly, and wasn’t that a revelation – Grantaire, shyer as he neared 60 than he had ever been when Enjolras had known him before.
Enjolras had wordlessly taken his hand, squeezing it once.
Their hands had stayed clasped as Grantaire had led him through the streets of Paris, at once achingly familiar and hauntingly foreign. As they walked, Grantaire filled him in on the political happenings, but Enjolras found it hard to muster the enthusiasm that was perhaps expected of him for the revolution that had, this time, succeeded.
It would return, in time, and in no small part because of Grantaire – the cynic leading the believer back to faith! – but even the thought of it seemed too far away for Enjolras to then grasp.
When they had arrived at Grantaire’s house, a modest lodging, Enjolras spared barely a glance at the building before setting upon the food Grantaire’s housekeeper had thoughtfully prepared, wolfing it down as if he knew not when he would find his last meal.
“What next?” Grantaire had asked when he had finished, having watching all of this silently.
Enjolras had swallowed before hesitantly saying, “I thought, perhaps, to bathe?”
Grantaire had silently taken his hand once more and led him upstairs. There, he had a bath drawn for Enjolras
Again he had asked, so soft and low that Enjolras might have missed it had he not been listening for it, “Do you permit it?”
Enjolras nodded, and Grantaire’s fingers trembled for just a moment before he helped Enjolras remove his clothing. For a fleeting second, Enjolras wondered if he should be embarrassed, to be naked in front of Grantaire, but he could not bring himself to be, even as Grantaire’s fingers gently skimmed his ribs, sticking painfully from his thin frame, or traced a bruise against Enjolras’s thigh.
This was Grantaire. Even after all this time, Enjolras knew that he had no need to be embarrassed with him.
Then Grantaire helped Enjolras into the bathtub, and without asking this time, rolled up his sleeves before picking up the soap and carefully, reverently, beginning to wash Enjolras’s back.
His touch grew firmer but no less reverent as he continued, moving Enjolras as if he weighed nothing to lather and scrub seemingly every inch of his skin without flinching. Enjolras offered no protest, trusting Grantaire as he always had. He closed his eyes and leaned against the bathtub, drifting into a sort of half-sleep as Grantaire cleaned him.
When he was finally clean of at least the dirt that stained his outside, Enjolras stood shakily with Grantaire’s help, letting him towel him dry before dressing automatically. “I am sorry that I have no better fitting clothes—” Grantaire started, but Enjolras just shook his head.
“They will do,” he said softly. “Thank you. For – for everything.”
Grantaire’s expression softened. “There is no need to thank me. It is the least I could do.” He paused before adding, a little hesitantly, “And this house, I know it is not much, but—”
“It is more than enough,” Enjolras told him.
Grantaire worried his lower lip between his teeth for a moment before blurting, “Then I hope you will consent to stay, here, with me.” Enjolras stared at him and a mottled flush rose in Grantaire’s sagging cheeks. “This house, the life I have built, the work I have done – there has always been something missing, something I left room for – someone I left room for.”
“Grantaire—”
But Grantaire did not let him interrupt. “I know what you will say. You are predictable even now, at least to me.” Enjolras shook his head, but Grantaire did not pause. “You will say that you have changed, that you are no longer the man whom I loved all those years ago, and that may well be true. But I never stopped believing in you, and I hope in time I can convince you to believe in me, too.”
“I already do,” Enjolras told him honestly. “I always have.”
Grantaire searched his expression for a moment. “And yet you hesitate.”
“Because I have changed,” Enjolras said. “You have seen what the past years have done to my body but you have not yet witnessed what they’ve done to my mind, or to my spirit. And those are wounds that I fear may never heal. So to offer to shackle yourself to someone who may be broken beyond repair—”
“Did you love me, all those years ago?” Grantaire interrupted, and Enjolras flinched at the question.
It was one thing they had never said to each other, but even with all the time that had passed, he knew that they had never needed to. “You know that I did.”
“In spite of my drinking, and my cynicism, and the darkness that always threatened to overwhelm.”
He didn’t phrase it as a question but Enjolras still answered. “Yes.”
“Why?”
The question took Enjolras by surprise, and it took him a long moment to answer. “I do not know,” he admitted.. “I just did.”
Grantaire didn’t look surprised. “Then is it truly so hard for you to believe that, just as you loved me at my most broken, I too may still love you at yours?”
Enjolras did not smile. “Belief and I parted ways some years back, I’m afraid.”
Now Grantaire’s expression softened, just a little, and he took a step closer to Enjolras. “Then how is this for belief: I do not believe you beyond repair. But even if you were, it would temper my love no less.” He reached for Enjolras’s hand, lacing their fingers together. “And if you and belief have truly parted ways, then I shall simply have to believe it enough for the both of us.”
He said it with the conviction that Enjolras had once hoped Grantaire would espouse, and a part of his heart he thought might never heal seemed to beat just a little stronger. “I love you,” he told Grantaire, a little helplessly. “Still, always. You—” He swallowed, hard. “—you kept me alive when I thought I could not go on.”
“As you have always done for me,” Grantaire told him. “So will you stay with me? Will you make this house our home so that we can keep each other alive?”
Enjolras managed a small, tired smile, his first real smile in what was almost certainly years. “I have nowhere better to be,” he told Grantaire before asking, “Do you permit it?”
Wordlessly, Grantaire kissed him.
And after Grantaire had led him to bed, Enjolras had laid in Grantaire’s arms, feeling safe for the first time in years. And for the first time in years, he had allowed himself to cry.
“Peace,” Grantaire had whispered, his lips brushing against Enjolras’s forehead. “I am here. I have you.”
— — — — —
Enjolras stood in the doorway, watching Grantaire sleep, warmth spreading throughout his chest. Wordlessly, he set their breakfast down on the dressing table and with as much grace as his old bones would allow, he clambered back into bed.
Grantaire let out a snuffling noise before turning to squint at him. “What are you doing?” he asked.
Enjolras just pulled him close. “What does it look like I’m doing?”
Grantaire just hummed, his eyes already closing as he pillowed his head on Enjolras’s chest. Enjolras stroked Grantaire’s gray curls, marveling at how much had changed, and how much hadn’t. How much never would.
He closed his eyes, resting his cheek against the top of Grantaire’s head. “Peace,” he whispered. “I am here. I have you.”
Dean takes his time, running his fingers over the banister of the porch. The white paint is chipping and worn down, but the wood, he can tell, is quality. No splinters, no cracking, no warping. It’s nice. He drags in a deep breath, his senses flooding with the scent of pine trees as the warm early-autumn air blows through them. The sky is clear, save for a couple little puffs of cloud here and there. And as his eyes scan the sky, he waits for it – that impending sense of doom and dread. Even when he’s trying to relax, it’s always there, bubbling beneath the surface. There’s a reason he’s slept with a gun under his pillow for three decades.
But he’s struck with the sudden realization: it’s not there. All he feels is calm and peace. Something he’s never really known.
Well, that’s not true, he silently amends.
He felt peace with Cas.
Frowning, Dean drops his head and closes his eyes. Cas… Fuck, he misses him. He misses everything about him. He misses telling Cas jokes that land like a fucking brick in front of him. He misses the tie that’s always askew. He misses that mess of hair. He misses those eyes Dean can, and often has, get lost in. He misses that trench coat. He misses Cas, plain and simple. And while he feels calm and peaceful here… it does feel like a piece of him is missing. It’s probably not supposed to. Not here. But it does.
It’s comforting to know he escaped the torment of the Empty… but, “Damn it, Cas,” he breathes, wrapping both hands around the banister.
“Hello, Dean.”
Standing suddenly, Dean opens his eyes and whips around. Cas is standing beside the battered screen door, smiling warmly at Dean. “Cas,” he breathes, his eyes wide as he looks him over, like he’s taking inventory of all his favorite things. Messy hair, check; crooked tie, check; trench coat, check; breathtaking eyes, check… Cas, check. “It’s–”
“Yes,” Cas nods. “It’s me.”
Dean surges forward, throwing his arms around him in a crushing hug. He buries his face against Cas’s neck and closes his eyes, breathing him in. It’s another thing he’d previously forgotten to add to his list of things he missed. That clean, earthy smell that was somehow distinctlyCastiel.
When he pulls away, his hand slips down Cas’s arm to his hand, his thumb brushing the inside of Cas’s wrist. He heaves a breath, the line between his brows deepening. “You’re a dick, you know that?” He says suddenly.
Cas blinks in surprise and tilts his head. “I– what?”
Dean purses his lips and shakes his head. “You drop somethin’ like that on me and then just fuck off to the netherworld?”
“I wasn’t in the Netherworld, I was–”
“In the Empty, whatever. You’re still a dick.”
Cas lifts his eyes to the ceiling of the porch, as if the answer to Dean’s outburst is written there. “I still don’t underst–”
“You drop that on me and then you die, and you didn’t give me a chance to say anything.”
“I didn’t think there was anything for you to say.”
Dean scoffs, incredulous. Didn’t think there was anything for him to say? “What show have you been watching, huh?”
“I haven’t been watching television.”
Though outwardly, Dean appears frustrated, he fucking missed this. But something suddenly occurs to him. “Wait.” He shakes his head, those lines between his brows growing deeper. “You really didn’t think I’d have somethin’ to say? You didn’t think I–”
“Reciprocated?” Cas says. He frowns, casting his glance downward. “No, Dean. I didn’t.”
“Well you’re dead wrong.”
One corner of Cas’s lips turn up in a smirk. “I believe we’re both deceased now.”
Scoffing, Dean’s eyebrows shoot up. “Did you just make a joke?”
“Yes,” Cas’s smile widens, “I believe I did.”
“Alright, listen.” Dean grasps the back of Cas’s neck, his fingers brushing up into his hair. There’s no sense of fear or uncertainty welling up inside of him anymore. He’s in Heaven. He gets what he wants. There’s no fear of judgment or self-sacrifice anymore. He’s just gonna fucking go for it. “I love you, Cas. I shoulda said somethin’ a long time ago, but I-I-I was scared, okay? I’m sorry. But–” He cuts himself off and glances out over the farmhouse’s property; the sprawling lawn (that he can’t wait to mow) surrounded by lush trees; the path that leads to the garage that houses Baby. The house he’s always imagined for himself, but always knew wasn’t a possibility. “This is about havin’ peace, right?” His gaze turns back to Cas’s, and he swallows the emotion rising in his throat. “We get forever here.”
“That is the idea, yes.”
Dean licks his lips and takes a step closer. His shoes bump Cas’s, and his hands slips further into the back of Cas’s hair. “Then that means I get forever with you, right?”
Cas is smiling, and he pulls his free hand out of the coat pocket. He grabs a fistful of Dean’s jacket and Dean watches his Adam’s Apple bob as he swallows, Cas’s eyes roaming Dean’s face. “Of course, Dean.”
Dean breathes out in relief. All at once, that feeling that a puzzle piece was askew; the feeling that something was missing dissipates. Forty-one years of sacrifice and loss earned him this: a life of peace with the love of his life – the love that had come completely out of left field and left him breathless. Forty-one years of sacrifice and loneliness and loss earned him the love of a millennia-old angel who thought he was worth something. Worth everything.
He kisses Cas then. It’s soft and slow and gentle. There’s no sense of urgency or fear or desperation behind it. It’s being lovingly handed what he’s always wanted; what he’d always been missing. And, well… he’s in Heaven, so that makes a whole lot of sense.
When they part, Dean keeps his forehead against Cas’s, and they’re both smiling. Finally, Dean rocks back enough to meet Cas’s eyes. He tips his head toward the house and raises a brow. “Wanna come in. Stay a while?” He presses his lips together and shrugs. “I’m thinkin’ maybe forever?”
“I’d like nothing more.” Cas smiles, and Dean feels warmth flooding his chest. In Cas’s smile, Dean feels content. He feels like he’s home. He’s waited his whole life to feel like this. He tried, with Lisa and Ben, but that piece of the puzzle just wasn’t there. He tried with the Bunker, and while he loved that place… there was always just something not quite right. But here, he has Cas. He feels calm. He has no feeling of cosmic obligation or the feeling that he’s running the clock. He has everything he’s ever wanted.
For the first time, and for the rest of time, Dean Winchester is at peace.
Shout out to @fawn-eyed-girl for beta-ing my work on the fly (my writing and life has been such a mess lately and I just greatly appreciate her for being so supportive).
or: in which Wei Wuxian, for once, doesn’t speak. Set in CQL verse, post-canon.
Lan Zhan is kissing him.
Lan Zhan is kissing him and Wei Wuxian is not sure exactly what is going on.
Lan Zhan is kissing him, lips warm on his, breath soft against his face, and Wei Wuxian is inhaling his scent and absorbing his body heat as Lan Zhan presses him against the wall of the Jingshi and please won’t somebody tell Wei Wuxian what is happening here.
Lan Zhan brought him back here after they reunited on that mountaintop, after months of corresponding by letter, and everything had been perfectly normal until this. Maybe not perfectly normal - when he’d heard Lan Zhan’s voice and then Lan Zhan was there, something deep as instinct moved him and and Wei Wuxian had thrown his arms around him, he couldn’t not. But a hug is totally different, a hug can mean a million things but a kiss only means one, at least a kiss the way Lan Zhan is kissing him only means one, but Wei Wuxian is too shocked to let himself think of what exactly that meaning is and can only concentrate on how did this happen?
They’d conversed all the way down the mountain and up to Cloud Recesses and it had been wonderful, friendly and meaningless, Wei Wuxian regaling him with tales of his travel and peppering him with questions about life as the Chief Cultivator, as though they hadn’t already written all of this to each other for months. And then they were home, the sect leader just out of isolation greeting him with a smile. A smile, but a face gaunt with the aftereffects of grief, Wei Wuxian had noticed, eyes that much dimmer for what they had seen. But that’s one thing and this is another, why is he thinking about Sect Leader Lan when Lan Zhan is cupping his face with one hand, palm brushing Wei Wuxian’s flushed skin, and he’s kissinghim Lan Zhan is kissinghim Wei Wuxian keeps coming back to that…
Lan Zhan is kissing him steadily, breathing soft against Wei Wuxian’s face, a kiss like he’s meditating. Like he’s memorizing the moment, at least, that’s what Wei Wuxian imagines he’s doing, but that would mean this means something, and Wei Wuxian’s not ready to figure out what that is yet.
They’d eaten some horrible Lan Clan dinner and then taken a walk by the waterfall before retiring here to the Jingshi. There was never a doubt that Wei Wuxian would stay there; he’d stayed there before, after all, and nobody questioned it when he’d put his possessions there (such as they are, limited to the contents of one lopsided cloth bag), nobody questioned as they returned. He’d sat down and pulled one half-empty jar of liquor from his bag, and Lan Zhan had sat across from him with tea, and they drank and talked and drank a little more and talked a little less, until they were just blinking at each other in the candlelight. Lan Zhan had gazed at him with that steady look of his.
The silence had been too much, that look had been too much, and Wei Wuxian had jumped to his feet, mumbling some nonsense about bathing before sleep. Lan Zhan had stood, said, “Wait,” and backed Wei Wuxian into the wall and kissed him.
And he’s stillkissing him.
It’s maybe only been ten seconds that Wei Wuxian has thought all of this, but it feels like it’s been minutes, every soft movement of Lan Zhan’s mouth on his has happened in slow motion. Every press and release, the silk-soft texture, Lan Zhan’s lips parting just slightly against his. Wei Wuxian tries to take stock of the situation. One of Lan Zhan’s hands is on his jaw, gently cupping his face and tilting his chin so their lips meet just so. The other hand is pinning his arm to the wall, fingers entangled with his. Lan Zhan’s breathing is coming a little short.
And Wei Wuxian’s own body is … responding. Sparks fly across his vision as Lan Zhan kisses him, and a shuddering wave of heat rolls through his body, slow and delicious. His fingers itch to reach out, to pull Lan Zhan closer. The only reason he doesn’t is because he’s still not sure what’s going on here, and it seems wise to assess the situation before taking action.
Why is Lan Zhan doing this? Is it just that he missed him over these months? Is it some sort of extended welcome-back? But that doesn’t seem right. It can’t be that Lan Zhan likes him, like that, could it? Why didn’t he do anything before now, if that was the case? Certainly a Lan Zhan who liked him would have asked him to stay, all those months ago. Certainly he would have told him.
Because Lan Zhan so often asks for things for himself and so often talks about how he’s feeling? his mind reminds him. What kind of alternate Lan Zhan are you thinking about?
But it can’t be. It can’t, because that would make Wei Wuxian so wildly happy, and he doesn’t get to feel that kind of happiness, usually. It’s so far outside the realm of Wei Wuxian’s experience, and he wants it so badly that he knows it can never happen.
Lan Zhan purses his lips once more and then breaks the kiss, retreating just a few inches so they are face-to-face. It will be just a moment before he realizes his mistake, Wei Wuxian thinks, and then everything will go back to normal. He will be able to breathe easier. But just thinking of it, his heart plummets.
He’s not saying anything. He’s just breathing, looking at Wei Wuxian, in the sort of way that he did before. A soft blink, like a cat’s, and then that unyielding gaze. He’s beautiful, pale skin like a fresh snowfall, eyes clear and shining. Those eyes are telling him something, Wei Wuxian realizes. He gazes back, trying to interpret that message.
What he sees makes him want to cry.
He smiles instead, a slow grin spreading over his face. His breath comes out in a rush, a huff that’s almost laughter. So it’s true then. And what’s more, it’s always been there. How did he not see it before? It’s been in every glance Lan Zhan has ever given him, from the moment he came back to life – no, before that, even. That spark has always been in Lan Zhan’s eyes, and Wei Wuxian never opened his own eyes wide enough to see it.
Lan Zhan takes a breath, opens his lips as if to speak. Wei Wuxian doesn’t let him.
He surges forward and captures those lips again.
His heart is flying and his body is warm all the way through as he cups Lan Zhan’s face in both hands, pulls him close. They kiss and kiss, Lan Zhan’s hands coming down to wrap around his waist, his mouth parting eagerly under Wei Wuxian’s. Wei Wuxian licks into his mouth, bold, and he feels Lan Zhan shudder. Gods, yes, he thinks wildly, amidst the heat and the closeness and the fragmented sound of Lan Zhan’s breathing. At last, at last, at last.
Lan Zhan tugs him in closer, wrapping his arms snugly around him, his hands spread-fingered on Wei Wuxian’s back. He makes a small sound, like a growl, and then his tongue is pressing against Wei Wuxian’s, licking hungrily as he bends Wei Wuxian back at the waist, as though he’s going to lower him down to the floor. Dimly, Wei Wuxian realizes that he’s unleashed something that’s been caged for years, and wild excitement floods him. Lan Zhan thought about him in this way all this time. Since he came back. Maybe earlier than that. Wei Wuxian wants to know when it started. He wants to know why Lan Zhan’s been silent all this time. Oh, there are so many questions he wants to ask.
But not now. Now is for the feelings that can’t be expressed in words, for the love that has just now found its home. His eyes flutter closed, and he surrenders himself to emotion and sensation. For once, the words can wait.
[ID: A pen doodle of Jon from TMA, a skinny, scarred south Asian man with short hair wearing nothing but swim trunks. He’s standing casually, shrugging with one arm while the other holds a beach ball to his hip. His eyes are closed and he’s smiling slightly. Notably, there’s a large scar on his chest. End ID]
Something about picturing Jon alive and happy with a scar on his chest from, you know, makes me feel a little more at peace
classics scholar percy getting a huge grant to do fuck all and go hunt for shipwrecks in the aegean
percy has to request diving equipment, including a $2,000 air compressor to refill his tanks, that will never get used
he also has to pass a diving certification despite the fact that. i mean you all know.
before he left for his trip poseidon sent a map of all the ships he sunk up to roughly 1000 AD (…thanks dad…) but the map is in like, ancient pre-mycenaean text and is basically just a map of ocean currents. who knows if those are still accurate to today
so percy has to log frequent stops on semi deserted islands/random lagoons to uh… Consult with Local Experts (random nymphs and schools of fish)
speaking of logs, percy is notoriously shit at keeping records of his progress, partially bc how on earth can you explain to your overseeing committee that yes, you really did find a 2nd century shipwreck exactly where your dad said it would be by asking a very nice blue shark where the hell he could find an underwater rock that looks like a perfect profile of the face of famed athenian actor hegelochus after he made his epic weasel mistake
percy ends up finding, like, at least 50 usable wrecks, by which i mean wrecks with semi intact hulls and salvageable artifacts (amphorae, jewelry, etc.) in terms of actual wreckage, he finds like, 200.
he has a zoom call with his overseeing committee one day and they ask him for a progress update, and percy, with no notes or monetary records to speak of, panics and announces that he’s found five new shipwrecks
(at this point he’s logged roughly eighty)
the committee is shook
FIVE????
HOW?????????
EVEN ONE WOULD HAVE BEEN THE FIND OF A CENTURY BUT–FIVE!!!!!!!
annabeth just shakes her head in the background
and percy names the wrecks after his wife and kids who were also with him the whole time and got to go on undersea adventures with him
and if annabeth comes back with some super fancy jewelry which looks suspiciously like a set of crown jewels belonging to some random italian noble which were famously lost somewhere in the adriatic sea….. well that’s nobody’s business
Prompt: It’s few years after the show ended and it’s Allura Day. It’s morphed in a pretty large celebration over the years, and Lance is involved with the planning. This year is particularly hectic, and he’s late to the Paladin dinner. He and Keith end up kissing, Lance has a mild crisis, and then they have their first time together.
Klance - post season 8 - getting together - 8,242 words It’s been years since they saved the universe, and Lance is… good. He’s good. He feels whole and steady once more. He has a job at the Garrison. And he no longer feel the ache in his chest where Allura once resided. Allura Day, however, has become an intergalactic celebration, and people from all over the universe flock to New Altea to celebrate. So every year, Lance helps Coran wade through the chaos of planning for a planet-wide celebration.
This year, however, things are more hectic than ever, and Lance finds that he can barely focus, distracted by the simmering anticipation of seeing Keith again.
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He can’t wait to see his friends— his family— but there’s a lot of work to do before then. Allura Day has become an intergalactic holiday, and people from all over the universe flock to New Altea to celebrate it. It started out as a little banquet at the castle and has grown into a planet wide all-day festival.
Which unfortunately means a lot of planning, organizing, and diplomatic greetings as distinguished guests start to pour in. He and Coran spearhead the whole operation, but thankfully they have plenty of people to lean on. They’ve formed a whole committee for Allura Day, and volunteers all over the planet have been getting ready for guests for weeks.
Hunk is coming in soon to help set up the catering for at least the capitol. The Atlas won’t be that far behind. They’ve never had any trouble around Allura Day, but it definitely helps to have the diplomatic force of the Atlas hovering in their atmosphere.
Pidge won’t make it until the day before, running a tight schedule with all her experiments and newfound responsibilities. She’ll be bringing the entire Holt clan with her this time.
And Keith… it feels like betrayal to his best buddy in the whole wide universe to say it, but he’s looking forward to seeing Keith the most.
It’s been months since Keith last visited Earth, staying for a whole three weeks with Acxa on the McClain family farm. It had been… a dream, really. The chores around the farm were nothing with Keith at his side. Lazy afternoons and evenings filled with laughter and content companionship. They talked for hours about everything and nothing at all. They fell asleep on the couch because neither of them wanted to end the night and go to bed. And he’d be woken with Keith’s gentle hands nudging his shoulder and offering a cup of coffee.
Keith— formerly the stoic, bristly, grumpy, anti-social leader of Voltron— fit in perfectly with Lance’s family. He laughed. He smiled.
Beautiful violet eyes crinkled at the corners. A cocky smirk, lopsided and playful. The way he always lightly bumps into Lance as they walk. How Lance feels just as comfortable in silence as he does in conversation, which is still so strange to comprehend.
He’ll admit that during that stay, they were attached at the hip. And he’ll admit that they’ve talked a lot since then. Daily. Every morning he looks forward to seeing a message waiting for him, and falling asleep on call has become more and more common.
Keith is just— he’s just— he’s important, okay? He’s important to the universe, and to their little space family, but he’s important to Lance, too.
Who would have guessed that his once-rival would have become one of his best friends?
He just does… things to Lance’s stomach and his sanity.
Seriously, how is it possible to feel sick and elated all at once? To be both tongue-tied and unable to stoprambling.
But Keith has always done funny things to him. Has always made him feel just a little off balance. Has always made him act out in impulsive ways without quite thinking. Has always made his chest a little tight and his head a little light.
It’s just… Keith things.
“Ah-ha!” He says as the conference room doors slide open, spotting his bright orange, Garrison issued phone sitting on the table. He swipes it up, thumbing through the notifications on his screen.
A few from Hunk. Couple from Shay about the ETA of the Balmera. A few fucking dozen from foreign dignitaries and other groups. Not to mention the group chat him and Coran created to keep the wormhole network and shuttle ships in the same loop has blown up.
But—
A single message catches his eye. One that makes his chest tighten and his head feel light. Just… you know. Keith things.
Keith: Can’t wait to see you :)
His stomach does a full on tumble, knotting itself up so tight that Lance wraps an arm around it, wondering if his morning breakfast is hitting him wrong. Sometimes alien cuisine just doesn’t sit right.
There’s an ache in his cheeks as he types out a reply.
Lance: Same to you, Samurai
Lance’s heart beats quick as he leaves the conference room, making his blood run hot beneath his flushed skin. Making him dizzy and his legs shaky as he hurries down the halls of the castle. He has a million and ten things to do before Allura Day, and yet his mind keeps turning back to Keith. About how he can’t wait to show him how well his sword training has been going and about how good it’s going to feel to be wrapped up in those strong arms once more, held tight to a firm chest and yet with a gentle sort of reverence that makes Keith’s hugs special.
![[insert classy thing to say here]](https://64.media.tumblr.com/61e228762d04937e3381413e4ee35d1e/5d4246b3e46d73f2-01/s30x30u_c1/fc83cebaeee54b84f40ef9948c92c365bec90e0d.jpg){kind=small}
