‘Why is this necessary?’

Atsumu and Sakusa were delegated to the back seats of the van again, one tension-filled space separating them still. They were on their way to a photography studio because an idea had come to Bokuto in a dream that was just too good to pass up on.

‘For the memories, Lord Sakusa!’ Hinata called from the front seat. Since Sakusa had told them both about the successful security breach, Hinata hadn’t stopped treating him like royalty. They hadn’t been able to stop whooping and smiling, either, Atsumu included. ‘You’ve got to make every moment count on heists like these.’

‘Damn right,’ said Bokuto. ‘Tetsu’s helping me make an album of my best moments. This will be a perfect front page!’

Sakusa made a face. ‘I understand the need for the pictures,’ he said. ‘I just don’t understand why we need to wear these.’

He gestured down to the clothes Atsumu had forced him into. They were all wearing matching sweaters; horrendous mustard yellow turtlenecks tucked into high waisted denim jeans. Atsumu had also spent a whole hour in the office breakroom combing the team’s hair through with gel and styling it into slicked down comb overs.

Trying to get Sakusa to comply was like trying to wrestle a hostile cat, but Atsumu had managed it in the end. He had also gotten Sakusa to put on his glasses too, and bagged himself the chance to run his fingers through Sakusa’s curls multiple times in the process.

It had been a great Monday morning.

‘It all adds to the drama,’ Atsumu told him. ‘The Adlers think they know provocation, but they don’t know the half of it.’

The photos they’d sent of them playing in front of the painting had been infuriating, to say the least. But that just meant the Jackals had to do one better. A few snaps on their phones simply would not cut it.

Sakusa’s scowl looked ten times cuter with his hair slicked back. Atsumu could see both of his eyes clearly and free of shadow. Sakusa asked, ‘Won’t the four-thousand tons of glitter be enough?’

Atsumu laughed, then Hinata joined in, and Bokuto too. ‘When it comes to us, nothin’ is ever enough, Omi-kun. Bigger and stupider is always better. Get used to it.’

When they walked into the photography studio looking like an awkward 80s family, the photographer greeted them with a laugh and said right away that she understood the vibe they were striving for. She pulled some strings and alternated the usual white background for a dark grey that reminded Atsumu of his school pictures, and applied a filter to her lens that she insisted would make the photos look ‘organically vintage’.

They started simple: the classic ‘shortest sit on chairs in front, tallest stand at the back’.

‘Channel Kageyama,’ Atsumu told them when the camera started clicking and flashing. They stretched their faces into smiles so uncomfortable it looked more like they were grimacing, Bokuto’s hands clamped down on Hinata’s shoulders, Sakusa’s resting awkwardly on Atsumu’s.

After that, Hinata hijacked the chairs and took a whole set of photos posed on Bokuto’s lap like his doting son.

Atsumu then pushed the chairs aside and got on to the floor with Bokuto. They laid on their sides and put one leg up and one arm behind their heads like heartthrobs from teen calendars. Bokuto also somehow managed to rope Sakusa into a few; he held himself up on his hands, and Sakusa took his legs like he was steering a wheelbarrow.

After that, Atsumu grabbed Sakusa for their turn. For one, he got Sakusa to hold him in a headlock, and for another they posed back-to-back with prop guns that the photographer provided. At one point, Sakusa and Atsumu held Hinata upside down by his ankles like a freshly caught fish while Bokuto stood beside them with his thumbs up.

They stood in a height ordered line and posed with one hand on their hips, looking over their shoulders at the camera with the same pained grimaces. They took one where they spelled out MSBY with their bodies, one where they lied on top of each other in an uncomfortable dogpile, and one where they held their hands up like Jackal claws.

Then they finished with one of them hugging in a line like a group of happy bridesmaids; Hinata and Atsumu facing each other with connected arms, Bokuto hugging Hinata’s back, Sakusa Atsumu’s. It didn’t escape Atsumu’s notice that Sakusa had been surprisingly OK with touching the rest of the Jackals, maybe it was because Bokuto and Hinata were just as wary of Sakusa’s personal space as Atsumu was.

Flirt relentlessly until he gets so flustered, he has no choice but to just push you up against a wall, Suna’s voice reminded him.

‘Ya gotta get a little closer than that, Omi,’ Atsumu whispered over his shoulder. ‘You might not fit in the frame.’

That was a blatant lie, the frame was huge and Sakusa was already pretty close, arms wrapped timidly around Atsumu’s waist. He sensed the deceit and pinched Atsumu’s side through his sweater so hard that Atsumu hissed.

‘Stop fidgeting,’ Sakusa murmured in to Atsumu’s ear. ‘Look at the camera.’

Atsumu’s face warmed, but then he broke into a grin. Now that he had a game plan, his thoughts no longer scattered like pigeons every time Sakusa breathed in his direction. He removed his hands from Hinata’s for a moment and used them to pull Sakusa’s arms so close that their bodies were flush against each other.

‘That’s better,’ Atsumu said as he wrapped Sakusa’s arms tighter around himself and patted them for good measure. ‘Smile big, yeah?’

Hinata looked at him strangely when Atsumu returned his attention to him. His eyes kept darting from Atsumu to Sakusa and back again in a question. Atsumu winked in response and Bokuto burst out laughing.

Atsumu beamed. ‘Say “Super Sexy Stealth Jackals!”’

They all shouted it in unison, with huge genuine smiles instead of their Kageyama Grimaces.

After much debate, they settled on the picture of them turned over their shoulders for the Gathering Finale, and Atsumu chose several more to frame and hang up in his apartment. Bokuto and Hinata ordered one of each picture, and even Sakusa chose a couple of his favourites; a few for frames, one for a keyring, and one for a mug.

To Sakusa’s mortification and abundant complaints, they didn’t have time to change out of their clothes before they went shopping for suits, and as they walked through the shopping centre, they garnered more than a few strange looks.

While they were waiting in line to order coffees, a group of young girls approached and asked if they were a famous comedic quartet. Atsumu said they were and happily signed the backs of some receipts and scrap pieces of paper under Osamu’s name, then Bokuto started reeling off some awful jokes he’d definitely picked up from Kuroo and Kenma, and Atsumu watched the girls’ excited smiles die in real time as they tried to fake laughter and find a polite way to leave.

‘We’ve gotta look the best at the gatherin’,’ Atsumu insisted as they perused the collection of woollen suits in an upmarket haberdashery. The tailor was busy in the backroom, so Atsumu told everyone to pick out something that they liked ready for his return. ‘We’re gonna be the main characters, so we—What the fuck are you holdin’ Omi? Put that shit down.’

Sakusa was holding the most dreadful suit Atsumu had ever seen up to his chest. It was red and green plaid, with contrasting gold buttons and accents. It would have been fine if the dress code was Celtic Christmas. Or Fuck Ugly.

Atsumu would sooner die before he would let Sakusa put an arm into the sleeve of that atrocity.

‘What’s wrong with this?’ Sakusa asked very seriously.

Atsumu’s eyes widened. ‘Please tell me yer jokin’.’

‘I like green,’ Sakusa said like that was a reasonable explanation.

Hinata joined them and said, ‘I think it brings out milord’s eyes, Atsumu-san!’

‘There’s no saving you,’ he said to Hinata. ‘But I thought you were at least somewhat fashionable. I mean, ya turned up to karaoke lookin’ like that.’

Atsumu still thought about him in that turtleneck quite frequently. The memory was ingrained within his brain; every time he found himself lying on his back to sleep, Sakusa would be there, looming over him.

Sakusa’s nose wrinkled. ‘Motoya picked that out.’

Very suddenly, Atsumu was reminded of what Sakusa had said about almost wearing his sports jacket that night and slapped a hand to his forehead. He needed to get a hold of Komori’s number to thank him.

Bokuto could be trusted: he refused to wear anything other than black tuxedos to fancy events because they looked the coolest, and he had Kuroo ‘Suit Aficionado’ Tetsurou to guide him into picking suitable ties and cufflinks.

But Hinata lived with Kageyama, who thought that graphic t-shirts and blazers were a suitable combination, and now Sakusa ‘Sportswear’ Kiyoomi was apparently a walking fashion disaster.

Of all the things.

That was fine; Atsumu already had more than a few ideas on how to style Sakusa’s underappreciated proportions.

‘Jesus Christ. OK. Put that back before it blinds me. I’ll find ya somethin’.’ He looked to Hinata who was eyeing up a similar suit of blue and orange plaid and pulled him away from it by the back of his collar. ‘Both of you.’

It was when Bokuto had gone to peruse the hat collection and Hinata was having his new navy suit measured by the tailor that Sakusa finally stepped out of the changing room in the dark green three-piece Atsumu had picked out for him.

As Sakusa fiddled with the length of the sleeves, Atsumu couldn’t stop his gaze from wandering. It was a near perfect fit already without adjustments; the low cut of the vest drew the small of his waist in and forced the eye towards the broadness of his shoulders. With his hair slicked back and his glasses on, Atsumu felt the need to reach for his phone and dial 119 as a precaution. Green really was his colour, when it wasn’t the shade of radioactive acid.

He got up and approached Sakusa with a wolfish grin. ‘That’s much better,’ he said and held up the gold tie he’d picked out whilst Sakusa was changing. He raised an eyebrow in a question. ‘Can I?’

Sakusa shrugged and let Atsumu reach around the back of his neck to start putting on the tie. He took his sweet time, eyes focussed on what his fingers were doing, taking extra care not to mess up one of the more impressive knots he knew how to fold. The whole time Sakusa’s eyes were on him, Atsumu could feel the stare like it was a tangible pressure, intense and loaded with tension. But Atsumu only dared to look up when he was through tightening the knot and moving it up to the base of Sakusa’s throat.

‘There,’ Atsumu hummed as he smoothed his hands over the tops of Sakusa’s shoulders and experimentally down the length of his arms. ‘Do you like it?’

Sakusa’s eyes were so dark Atsumu thought he could probably see his own reflection in them if he got close enough. They flickered from Atsumu’s hands on his own arms, to Atsumu’s lips like they had done Saturday night.

They both stopped breathing.

It felt like Sakusa was staring into Atsumu’s soul when he said, low and heavy, ‘Yes.’

Atsumu had a feeling he wasn’t really talking about the suit.

Suna was definitely on to something with that advice.

Tuesday was MSBY’s Monthly Sparring Day. Meian liked to make sure that everyone was able to defend themselves should they encounter guards or hostile threats during heists, so once a month, they cleaned out their largest conference room, covered the floor with thick fighting mats, and tested their strength against each other. After warmups, Meian would host a friendly tournament; the winner got their lunches and coffees bought for them for the rest of the month.

Every month Atsumu got to the final, and every month, no matter how often he went to the gym or practiced beating the shit out of Osamu, Bokuto was crowned the undefeated champion.

In the four years Atsumu had worked at MSBY, Sakusa had never attended it, not even once. He was a tech, after all, and techs usually hid somewhere safe during heists, like a nearby building, or the back of a getaway van. Atsumu had been expecting the same this month - the room could get crowded and sweaty and loud - but ten minutes into the final tournament, Sakusa walked in with a mask on and his hands tucked into his sweatpants pockets. He found Atsumu’s eye immediately and settled into the empty spot next to him to watch Hinata and Adriah’s match.

‘Hm?’ Atsumu leered. ‘What’s this? Omi-sama is gracin’ the rabble with his presence?’

‘I want to see it,’ Sakusa said cryptically as he followed Hinata’s erratic movements around the mat. Adriah was having a hard time keeping up with him. Hinata could dodge just about anything.

‘See what?’

‘You. Fighting Meian. I wanted to see for myself if you were lying.’

Atsumu folded his arms over his chest. ‘Sure yer not just here to watch me and Bokkun roll around all hot and sweaty?’

He’d put on his good spandex sparring shorts and shirt - the ones that were tight against his skin and hard to grab, because he was nothing if not extremely serious and dedicated to beating Bokuto this month - and he’d worked up a healthy glow practicing against Inunaki. ‘I don’t blame you,’ he continued. ‘We’re a spectacle. Whole office is bettin’ on us.’

Well, they were betting on how fast Bokuto would win, but that was besides the point.

Sakusa averted his eyes back to Hinata’s match. He had Adriah pinned and Bokuto was counting him down, crouched on the floor and smacking the mat like a real wrestling referee. Once he'd been declared the winner, Hinata jumped up and cheered and Bokuto picked him up like he was the future king of Pride Rock.

‘Ooh, would ya look at that, Omi-kun?’ Atsumu nodded towards the whiteboard across the room that detailed the fight brackets. His fight with Meian was up next. ‘Looks like yer wish is about to come true. Lucky boy.’

‘I’ll be cheering extra hard for Meian-san,’ Sakusa drawled. ‘I can’t wait to see him suplex slam you into finally shutting up.’

Atsumu laughed and made his way towards the mats. He said over his shoulder with a confident smile, ‘You’ll be waitin’ an awful long time Omi. Watch close.’

‘Miya,’ Meian said as he stepped onto the mat and started circling him. ‘I’ve been looking forward to this rematch. I’m not going to let you get away with your shit this time.’

Atsumu dropped into a low fighting stance. ‘Be careful you don’t throw yer back out, old man.’

Meian fought classically, lots of powerful body shots and sweeping legs, but he didn’t think much when he threw his punches, which was why it was so easy for Atsumu to start predicting his moves. Meian insisted Atsumu fought dirty, but what he really did was focus on exploiting his opponents’ weaknesses to turn the tides in his own favour.

Meian’s was that he always expected Atsumu to dodge, never to catch and counter.

Atsumu deflected a few punches, dipped out of a few attempts to grab at his spandex shirt, and took a few unavoidable kicks to the thigh and back. He bided his time, waiting for Meian to get pissed and a little desperate to make Atsumu eat the floor. The opportunity came when Meian lunged forward and grabbed at Atsumu’s throat with one strong hand. ‘Caught you,’ he grinned.

‘Oh dear,’ Atsumu replied as well as he could manage with half a windpipe.

Meian wound his other fist back to land a guaranteed punch, but then Atsumu slammed his wrists down into the crook of Meian’s elbow, grabbed him by the shoulder to push him forwards and threw a hard knee into his stomach.

Meian doubled over and his laugh was breathless. ‘There it is,’ he wheezed. ‘You conniving little bastard.’

‘Cheer up, boss,’ Atsumu said. He rubbed at his sore throat with one hand and patted Meian on the back with the other. ‘There’s always next month.’

Meian straightened and shook it off. ‘Like hell am I done.’

The next bout was nastier, but Atsumu had been expecting that after provoking him so hard. Meian grew warier of attacking, which meant that Atsumu had time to fight more offensively. He copied some of Meian’s moves; he successfully swept Meian’s legs out from beneath him, threw his kicks a whole lot higher, and landed punches more times than they got blocked.

It wasn’t completely one sided, however. Meian did land a solid right hook to Atsumu’s face that shook his brain around in his skull for a solid ten seconds, but it wasn’t enough to beat him.

It wasn’t the longest they’d ever sparred, but it was definitely the most intensely they’d ever fought. By the time Atsumu finally managed to pin Meian down with one hand at his throat and one knee to his chest, he was panting and eager to get some ice on his face.

After a three count, Bokuto declared him the winner and slapped Atsumu’s ass so hard he swore he saw the eyes of God.

‘Good work, Miya,’ Meian said as he grabbed Atsumu’s hand to shake it. ‘It’s nice to know our Monsters are still Monsters. Sorry about the right hook. You were pissing me off.’

Atsumu beamed despite the pain. Coming from Meian, that was the highest form of compliment Atsumu could ever have wished for. ‘Thanks, boss.’

With a spring to his step, Atsumu made a beeline for the table of drinks and ice and downed a whole bottle of water before grabbing another and a bag of ice. Hinata congratulated him and ran through all of Atsumu’s moves that were his favourites: the arm chop, the thing he did with his elbow, the kick so high that Meian had to block with his forearms.

‘I’m usin’ them on you next, Shouyou-kun, don’t forget that.’

Hinata bristled. ‘Ah! I totally forgot. I’m not going to lose, though, Atsumu-san! I’ve been practising a whole bunch. Bokuto’s taught me a new special move.’

They high fived and Hinata ran off to referee Bokuto’s match against Inunaki. That left Atsumu free to gloat.

Over the last few days, Sakusa’s stares had been frequent and intense, and in as much time Atsumu had grown used to them, expected them, craved them, even. But this time, when he slumped back against the wall at Sakusa’s side, Sakusa avoided meeting his eye at all costs.

Curious, Atsumu leaned forward, cradling the ice pack against his cheek. ‘Did ya see me, Omi-kun?’

‘I saw you,’ came Sakusa’s mask-muffled reply.

‘And?’

Sakusa still wouldn’t turn to look at him. Atsumu wished he could see what was going on beneath his mask. He had a vague idea, judging by the red tint to his ears.

He cleared his throat and said quietly, ‘You were amazing.’

Ordinarily, Atsumu would have jeered at that, would have jumped up and gotten Sakusa to repeat it for the whole room. Hm? What was that, Omi-kun? Why don’t you say it louder so that everyone can hear?

But this time, Atsumu wanted to keep it for himself. That little admission would come so easily and casually from someone else, someone like Meian, or Hinata, or Bokuto. Their flippant praises were abundant. But from Sakusa it meant so much more; he wasn’t the type to mince his words or unnecessarily sugar-coat anything. If he said Atsumu was great, then he truly meant it.

It felt like he’d won more than just a fight.

Atsumu didn’t know how to respond.

Sakusa didn’t miss that. He finally looked over at Atsumu and his brows drew together in concern. ‘What? Why isn’t your head inflating?’ he asked. ‘Did Meian actually break your mouth? That punch looked pretty hard, are you—’

‘I’m fine.’ Atsumu was the first to look away. He pressed the ice bag hard against his cheek to squash his smile and turned his attention to Bokuto’s match, though he wasn’t really paying attention. He said, ‘You just made me real happy, that’s all.’

In his periphery, Atsumu saw Sakusa turn to watch the match too. ‘Oh,’ he said.

‘Yeah.’

Atsumu’s fight with Hinata took longer than Meian’s; he was fast and highly offensive, throwing punches and leaping at Atsumu from distances that should have been impossible. Hinata’s weakness was tougher to exploit in the thick of a bout, Atsumu had to pay careful attention to everything Hinata did and wait patiently for his overzealousness to breed mistakes. When his footing was off, or his eye was distracted, Atsumu would strike with low, unavoidable sweeps of his feet to trip Hinata up and knock the wind out of him. Keeping him down was hard too, even beneath Atsumu’s weight he kept finding ways to wriggle free and keep fighting.

His stamina ran out eventually though, after ten iterations of his ‘special move’ which was actually just a tackle and duck under that didn’t work because Atsumu’s foundations were far too stable to displace.

This time, when he won, he threw a peace sign out at Sakusa that he returned with a hesitant ‘OK’ of his own.

‘Aaagh! I’ll get you next time, Atsumu-san!’ Hinata growled. ‘I promise!’

Atsumu ruffled his hair. ‘Hell no, Shou-kun. I’m prayin’ to god yer in Bokkun’s bracket next month.’

The final against Bokuto went about as well as expected: Atsumu lost. Again.

Thinking didn’t work against Bokuto. His attacks had no rhyme or reason, no rhythm or regularity. He did whatever he thought of in that moment, whatever would look the coolest, and Atsumu still had no idea how to combat it.

They fought without games or pretences, just pure strength and agility, both of which Bokuto had the slight edge in. At one point, he had Atsumu yelling for mercy when he climbed onto a nearby table and attempted a diving elbow drop. Atsumu narrowly missed it cracking his ribs by rolling out of the way in time, but that only gave Bokuto ample opportunity to sit himself down on Atsumu’s back until Atsumu had to tap out.

‘Yer gonna kill me one of these days, Bokkun!’ he cried as Bokuto helped him to his feet. ‘Yer worse than Samu!’

Bokuto laughed and brought him in for a sweaty hug. ‘Hey, hey! I’m supposed to be the best at fighting, aren’t I? I’m the brawn! The muscle! The beefcake!’

That was true. Didn’t make the loss taste any less sour, though.

The only consolation was that out of all the fights that day, only Atsumu’s had made Bokuto reach for the ice table.

After the award ceremony – which was just a vow from everyone present that they would honour Bokuto’s victory - Meian let the office off early to go home, shower, and recuperate. Atsumu, however, lost the losers’ coin toss and bagged himself clean up duty. Everyone else went on ahead and he was left milling about the conference room binning empty water bottles and wiping down icy tables while he gathered the strength and mental fortitude to put the mats away.

He didn’t even notice Sakusa had stayed behind until he cleared his throat in the silence and made Atsumu yelp in surprise.

Atsumu tilted his head. ‘What are you still doin’ here? Everyone else is goin’ home.’

‘I know,’ said Sakusa. He still had his hands tucked into his pockets and his mask high on his face, expression inscrutable beneath.

‘Aww, you feelin’ sorry for me? You here to help me clean up the—’

‘No.’

‘Ah.’

Sakusa’s eyes looked like he wanted to say something else, so Atsumu stayed quiet and waited for him to form the words. For a while, the only sound to fill the room was the rhythmic plonk of plastic bottles hitting the bin.

When the words came, they were not what Atsumu had been expecting. ‘I want to fight you.’

‘Huh?’

‘You heard me.’

Oh, Atsumu had heard him. Perfectly fine. He broke into a smile. ‘You sure about that, Omi-kun? I don’t play nice.’

Sakusa walked over to the mats and stood slightly off centre. He used one of his pocketed hands to gesture to the space in front of him and said, ‘I’m counting on it.’

Atsumu threw the bin aside and jogged over. Ever since he’d felt the strength of Sakusa’s upper body he’d been itching to know how good he was in a fight. He’d never thought he’d ever actually get the chance to find out. It didn’t matter that he was aching and bruised and worn out, all of his energy returned the moment he saw the challenge in Sakusa’s raised brow.

‘Should we set up some rules, first?’ he asked, hopping from foot-to-foot in a warmup. ‘Like, how are ya with touchin’ and grabbin’? I don’t wanna overstep or make you uncomfor—oof!’

Sakusa’s foot whipped out, hooked around the back of Atsumu’s knee and swept him forwards. He went down hard, back against the mat, cuss lodged in his throat. ‘Just fight,’ said Sakusa.

Atsumu scrambled to his feet and dropped into the same low stance he’d used on Meian. He wouldn’t let Sakusa get a shot like that in a second time.

Their first bout was cautious – Atsumu was still apprehensive when it came to manhandling Sakusa, so he spent the first few experimental attacks trying to learn how Sakusa fought, how he moved, and what style he leaned on. True to form, Sakusa remained a mystery; he dodged each attack fluidly with a flexibility Atsumu hadn’t expected from him and his hands still tucked into his pockets.

‘You ever gonna get serious, Omi?’ he asked as Sakusa dipped out of the way of another torso jab.

‘Only once you do,’ he said and kicked at the back of Atsumu’s leg again so that it gave out and he was down on one knee. When Atsumu looked up at Sakusa, he could almost see the smirk beneath his mask, like a cat toying with its prey.

Atsumu forgot everything other than the overwhelmingly petty need to win.

They fought harder after that. Atsumu’s attacks came faster and Sakusa’s breaths came shorter as he tried to keep up. For each punch he threw that Sakusa dodged, he twisted and threw another so that Sakusa had no choice but to pull his hands from his pockets to block it or push it away with his forearms.

‘That’s much better,’ Sakusa crooned as he caught one of Atsumu’s fists with his own. Atsumu’s tongue darted out to wet his lips as he analysed the situation, and then Atsumu learned something very interesting.

In the split second that Sakusa’s gaze flickered to the movement of Atsumu’s tongue, his grip on Atsumu’s fist loosened ever so slightly. Just enough for Atsumu to capitalise on and twist his arm around and out of Sakusa’s.

Now free, Atsumu jumped back and grinned. Sakusa looked bewildered, like not even he knew how that had happened.

Atsumu knew his weakness, all he had to do was exploit it.

To test his theory, Atsumu made it his goal to get as close to Sakusa as he could manage with each attack. When Sakusa’s foot flew out in a sharp roundhouse kick he caught his leg and pulled himself into Sakusa’s space instead of away from it. Sakusa tried to wrangle himself free, but Atsumu winked, Sakusa stuttered, and Atsumu was able to kick at his standing leg and bring him to the floor.

Atsumu clapped and did a lap of the mat like he was hyping up a wrestling crowd while Sakusa got back to his feet.

‘You sure you don’t wanna tap out, Omi? Seems like I’m startin’ to get the upper hand.’

Sakusa scowled and shook himself off. ‘Shut the fuck up, Miya.' He resumed his stance. 'Again.’

The next time Atsumu came at him, Sakusa tried to grab at his shirt to pull him off, but his fingers slipped across the spandex, and he was forced to wrap a strong hand around Atsumu’s bicep instead.

Atsumu glanced down at Sakusa’s hand and said, ‘It’s not just for makin’ my ass look good, huh?’

Sakusa’s grip faltered again and Atsumu used the momentum to shake out of his grip, step around to Sakusa’s back, and force his arms up in a full Nelson hold.

‘Any last words before I make you eat mat?’ Atsumu said into his ear.

‘Yes,’ said Sakusa through gritted teeth.

‘Go ahead,’ Atsumu hummed. Sakusa could probably feel how rapidly Atsumu’s heart was beating against his back. At least he could blame it on the strenuous exercise. ‘I’m always listenin’ to you.’

Sakusa’s head turned slightly, and he said, ‘Let me know what it tastes like.’

'Huh?' It was Atsumu’s turn to falter. Sakusa twisted his shoulders and dipped out of the hold with ease, then he knocked an elbow into Atsumu’s gut, and another onto his back once he’d doubled over.

Atsumu’s face hit the mat and this time it was Sakusa laughing. Atsumu growled, kicked at both of Sakusa’s ankles and brought him down to the ground so he could laugh too.

In a blur, Sakusa was on top of him, sat on Atsumu’s groin, leaning forwards with his hands pinning Atsumu’s hands above his head. Atsumu suddenly forgot that they were fighting and melted beneath the touch.

It wasn’t quite a wall, but he supposed it would do.

‘Oh,’ Atsumu smiled as his laugh petered out. ‘This feels familiar.’

‘Meian was right,’ Sakusa breathed. ‘You do fight dirty.’

‘There’s no such thing,’ Atsumu insisted. ‘Only winners and sore losers.’

Sakusa narrowed his eyes. ‘I am currently pinning you down. If this were real, you’d have lost ten seconds ago.’

‘Ah, but have I really lost though?’

Sakusa swallowed, released Atsumu’s hands, and leaned back so that he was just sitting ordinarily. ‘Yes?’

Atsumu huffed another breathless laugh and pushed himself up onto his elbows to chase after him, to keep their faces close. ‘You should enter next month. You’d do well.’

‘I don’t want to fight anyone else.’

‘Hmm. Why not?’ One of Atsumu’s hands wandered up to the mask still on Sakusa’s face. He waited for Sakusa to bat his hand away as he reached behind his ear for the string, but it never came. ‘You’d probably be a good matchup against Bokkun.’

The mask fell aside, hanging off one ear.

Sakusa said without the fabric muting the words, ‘Because you’re the only one I’m interested in.’

Atsumu pushed himself up higher on to his palms. They could only have been a maximum of five inches apart and yet he still wanted to be closer.

Sakusa’s shoulders squared, and his half-lidded gaze fell to Atsumu’s mouth again. He seemed to do that often, drop his stare and then pick it up like he’d fumbled it unintentionally. Atsumu watched the way his eyelashes drew shadows upon his cheeks, and the way his jaw tensed like he was clenching words behind his teeth.

Do it, Atsumu’s brain encouraged. Do it. Do it. Do it.

Sakusa’s hand came up to Atsumu’s face, but he lowered it again before it made contact with skin. Atsumu reached out and took it.

‘That OK?’ he asked.

Sakusa only seemed capable of nodding.

Atsumu guided Sakusa’s hand back up to his face and placed it on the cheek that Meian had punched. It was warm, they were both sweaty, both nervous and wary of messing whatever this was up.

Sakusa moved his thumb over the bruise Atsumu could feel forming on his cheekbone and what Atsumu saw in his eyes almost scared the fucking hell out of him. For a moment, it looked like Sakusa actually felt—

‘Atsumu-saaaaaan! I left my bag!’

They both whirled around to the sound of Hinata’s voice echoing down the hallway. The moment he burst through the doors, Atsumu took advantage of the distraction and used it to clamp his thighs around Sakusa’s middle and flip them around so that he was on top.

Sakusa made a surprised noise, something between a yelp and a huff, and glared up at Atsumu with a furious blush.

‘One! Two! Three!’ Atsumu called with a smile that was restraining a monumental amount of disappointment and anger. He’d never wanted to smother Hinata so badly in his entire life. ‘Ah, looks like I’m the winner today. Better luck next time, Omi-kun!’

He got up and held a hand out for Sakusa. Briefly, Atsumu was scared that Sakusa would see this as a rejection and shirk him off, but he took Atsumu’s hand and Atsumu gave it a squeeze he hoped Sakusa understood: I wanted it just as much as you.

‘Are you two sparring? Why didn’t you say? I would have stayed behind to watch!’ Hinata cried. ‘I bet it would have been so cool if everyone saw. Nobody’s ever seen Omi-san fight before. You’ve probably got tons of cool secret moves waiting to be showcased, huh, Sakusa-san?’

Atsumu gave Hinata’s back a heavy pat and resisted the urge to body slam him. ‘Omi-kun doesn’t like crowds, remember?’

‘Ohh yeah! Forgot about that, sorry!’

‘It’s fine,’ Sakusa grumbled. He turned to Atsumu and said, voice a little shaky with whatever he was feeling, ‘I got a text from Motoya earlier. The painting’s ready, so I’m going to go and pick it up.’

For the first time in a whole year, Atsumu found himself not giving a damn about the heist. He just wanted to lock Hinata out of the room and pick up where they’d left off, wanted to finally close the distance, wanted to kiss Sakusa senseless until he forgot how to scowl.

‘Cool!’ said Hinata. ‘Can I come, pretty please, Omi-san? I’ve always wanted to meet a real-life art forger!’

Atsumu opened his mouth to decline on Sakusa’s behalf, but Sakusa said, ‘Sure. Grab your bag. We’ll go now.’

‘Omi—’ Atsumu started. He could go too! He didn’t care if three was a crowd, or if he was wanted, or needed, he just knew that he had to stay close to Sakusa or this whole day would feel like a loss.

Sakusa clamped a hand down on his shoulder and smirked. ‘Have fun putting the mats away, Atsumu.’


~*~

Jaskier had rolled into Geralt’s space in the night, of course he had, because luck was not with him lately. It wasn’t the first time it had happened in the history of bedsharing with Geralt over the years, but it was the first time Jaskier had buried his face in the crook of Geralt’s neck, breathing in the clean, sleep-warm scent of him and, and tucked his body in like he belonged there. His hand rested over Geralt’s medallion on his chest. His foot was hooked over Geralt’s muscular calf.

Slowly and carefully he rolled away, knowing that Geralt was awake with his eyes closed, hoping they could both just pretend it hadn’t happened. He stretched and looked out the window at a clear dawn, sighing in relief.

“I, ah, Geralt. If I dreamed--” he said, remembering half-shrouded wisps of longing, glints of golden eyes, and Geralt gave up the pretense of sleep.

“You did,” he murmured, and nothing more was said about it.

Their clean clothes had been laid outside Jaskier’s door, and it made his cheeks flush to realize that everyone knew Geralt had slept there. They both dressed in silence, but the atmosphere wasn’t as awkward as he’d expected it to be. Yennefer summoned them for breakfast out on the garden terrace, and her gaze was inscrutable as she looked them over.

“I hope you’re well rested,” she said neutrally, elegantly spooning some raspberry compote onto her toast.

“Yes, thank you,” Jaskier managed to respond, since it was true, and felt a truly odd urge to explain that nothing had happened between himself and Geralt. He ate a wedge of an orange instead.

“I won’t be joining you,” Yennefer explained after she had pushed her plate away. “I refuse to entangle myself in Aretuza’s business again. I’ll portal you to where you last saw her, and it will be up to you to catch her.”

“And how are we expected to do that?” Jaskier asked. “She could be anywhere by now. There’s nothing that says she stayed there.”

“You’re monster hunters,” Yennefer said, turning to stare unblinking at Geralt. “So hunt.”

Geralt nodded, seemingly at ease. Jaskier didn’t feel nearly as confident.

“What are we to do when we find her? Geralt’s magic might not be enough to subdue her.”

Yennefer indicated a pouch on the table. Geralt opened it and pulled out two slender cuffs linked by a chain. “Those are dimeritium, to use once you catch her. That will constrain her magic completely. And this,” she said as she slid an object across the table to Jaskier, “is what I was searching for last night. It will alert Aretuza’s rectoress that you need her assistance after you’ve cuffed the witch.”

Jaskier picked up a small sapphire brooch, delicately wrought of silver, and pinned it to his doublet. It glinted darkly against the light blue silk. “How does it work?”

“Simply enough. Just hold it in your hand and say, ‘Tissaia.’ She’ll come to you, though she’ll most likely be expecting to find me on the other end.”

“Are you sure you won’t come?” Geralt asked, and his voice was soft but somehow more distant than usual. Jaskier wondered if they had fought the night before, prior to Geralt coming to his room.

“I’ve washed my hands of all the politics. I’ll help you because it’s you.” Her violet eyes held a wealth of memories, and an uncharacteristic sadness.

Jaskier looked at the sky, expecting lightning, but there was just a swirling breeze.

As they left the table Yennefer stopped Jaskier with a touch to his sleeve. “Walk with me,” she said, and it didn’t leave room for refusal. “Geralt, wait for us in the library.”

They walked slowly through the garden, where dew still clung to the petals of flowers and the soil was still dark from rain. Yennefer stopped beside a bed of yellow buttercups and leaned over to trail her fingers over their tops.

“You should tell him,” she said gently, not looking at Jaskier. She shaded her eyes in the morning light and watched the sky, which was grayer than it had been before. Clouds formed and rolled over the sun, and she dropped her hand.

“I should not,” Jaskier replied, a tremble in his voice. “I’d rather keep silent than risk losing him.”

“You should tell him.”

“He’s my whole life,” he said, spreading his arms in distress. The air crackled, static snapping at their hair. “I’ve given it to him, with no expectation of more in return than what he already gives me. And he won’t give me more, that’s clear to me after all these years. And it’s fine! It’s fine. He doesn’t feel that way. He calls me his friend, and do you know how many years went by before he could do that? That’s a gift. It’s enough.”

Lightning flashed jaggedly across the darkening sky. Jaskier looked helplessly at Yennefer, who wouldn’t meet his eyes. Wind tossed the black cloud of her hair.

“You should tell him,” she said, and walked away. Jaskier stood in the garden until the sky cleared, and all he could hear was his own thundering heartbeat.

~*~

After gathering their belongings they met Yennefer in the main courtyard. Geralt brought Roach from the stable, tacked up and ready to go, and he spoke softly to her before placing his hand above her forehead and forming a sign. She nudged him calmly with her nose.

“What did you do?” Jaskier asked, slightly alarmed.

“Just Axii. She doesn’t care for portals. It wears off quickly.”

Yennefer stepped forward and placed an oddly hesitant hand on Geralt’s arm. He looked down at her and covered her hand with his. Jaskier felt that he should look away, but was mesmerized by how small she looked at that moment, how very human.

When she turned away she looked straight at Jaskier, and there was a flinty sort of determination in her eyes, almost a challenge. He recalled her words in the garden and bit his lip until it hurt.

“Find her, subdue her, give her to Aretuza,” Yennefer said to both of them, lifting her arms to form the portal.

“And break the curse,” Jaskier reminded her.

“I doubt she’ll do it out of the goodness of her heart,” she replied, “but I’m sure you’ll find a solution somehow. You’re frustratingly tenacious that way.”

“Thank you?”

Yennefer gave him a hint of a smile over her shoulder and opened the portal. There was the castle wall, the town and the lake. Geralt led Roach forward and Jaskier followed them, then the portal spat him out on the other side and he stumbled to his knees on the dirt road, wheezing.

Geralt looked down at him with amusement. “Maybe I should have used Axii on you as well.”

Jaskier glared up at him. “Now you tell me that was an option?”

“Come on,” Geralt said, offering him a hand up. He pulled him to standing and Jaskier found himself chest to chest with Geralt, close enough to kiss. He couldn’t help the way his eyes flickered down to Geralt’s mouth, but he turned away quickly so he didn’t have to see Geralt’s reaction.

“Well, let’s get to it,” he said, too brightly, glancing at the sky. “Lovely weather we’re having today, don’t you think?”

Geralt smirked and led Roach forward down the road. “Shall we ask at the castle gate if she’s been there?”

“It’s too bad she doesn’t have any memorable features,” Jaskier mused as they walked. “This would go so much easier if her eyes were red, or her hair was blue, or some such thing. It’s never hard to locate Yennefer.”

The guards at the gatehouse had no memory of a woman in a green dress coming to the castle, and directed them to the town instead. One guard suggested that they might ask at the market about any new magic wielders in the area, though that might give them a longer list than they had bargained for. So Jaskier and Geralt rode down into town and found a stable to leave Roach, then set out to find the market.

The town was a bit larger than it had first appeared, vibrant and bustling. Jaskier felt his spirits lift as they passed bakeries and bookshops, clothiers and toymakers. Sometimes he didn’t realize how much he’d missed civilization after weeks on the road, until he found himself surrounded by these little luxuries.

The market wasn’t hard to find, located in the main square in the center of town. There was a large tiered fountain in the middle and the market stalls wrapped all around it, colorful and inviting. Jaskier felt sure that a town this charming must also have a charming gossip mill. It was just a matter of finding the pulse of it.

By the time they arrived and took their measure of the place Geralt’s face was already looking pinched with tension. With this many people around, Jaskier knew that Geralt would not only be dealing with the sudden riot of sounds and smells, but also the inevitable stares as they passed.

“Cheer up, witcher, you’ve received a warmer than usual welcome here so far.” Jaskier nudged Geralt with his elbow.

“Hmm.” Geralt replied, nudging him back. “Perhaps they’ve heard your songs.”

Jaskier grinned. “Do you think so? Ah, Geralt, I’ve just had the most marvelous idea.”

“No.”

“Why do you always assume that my ideas will end badly?”

Geralt arched an eyebrow at him.

“Well, at least I didn’t sleep with anyone questionable this time. And anyway, I just want to make sure that we’re going to get some honest answers from people.” He swung his lute around from back to front with a sunny grin.

“Jaskier,” Geralt warned, reaching for his doublet and swiping at air. “Jaskier!”

He glanced over his shoulder and saw that Geralt was serious, so he paused in the act of climbing up onto the wide edge of the fountain. “What?”

Geralt finally caught him and yanked him back into the shadow of a building. “If we draw attention to ourselves she might see us, and disappear. We’re risking enough just asking around about her. And what happens if your playing brings a storm?”

Jaskier hung his head and scrubbed his hand over his face. “I just wanted to charm them into sharing information.”

“It...wasn’t a bad idea.” Geralt wrapped his hand around Jaskier’s shoulder. “How are you feeling?” He glanced at the sky meaningfully.

“I’m fine,” Jaskier declared, and then Geralt’s thumb swept across his collarbone, right where his doublet hung open from his shirt, and Jaskier amended, “Perhaps I should have an ale just to be sure.” He pulled away from Geralt’s touch and turned to look for a tavern.

“Question first, drink later. Unless you’re content with carrying around someone else’s chaos.”

Jaskier deflated. “I hate it when you’re correct, especially when it deprives me of the pleasure of ale.”

“You’re rarely deprived of pleasure, Jaskier.”

The tone in Geralt’s voice was at odds with the smirk on his face, but Jaskier shrugged it off. “Well, it will be a pleasure to sing a melancholic ballad again without bringing down an entire lake’s worth of rain, so onward we will push.”

They had no luck at the baker’s stall, except to find the most delicious sticky buns Jaskier had ever tasted, and he loudly praised them as they walked. As he sucked the honey from his fingertips Geralt said, “Bard,” in a strangled voice.

“Do not tell me you aren’t enjoying that, Geralt, because I won’t believe you.”

Geralt was staring resolutely at the bun in his hand. “They’re...very good.”

“A fine concession. Come, there’s the jeweler’s stall.”

The jeweler wasn’t aware of anyone like Theda coming to town, but he tempted Jaskier into opening his purse to purchase a new silver ring for his collection. He found one etched with tiny flowers and was pleased to see that it fit his pinky finger perfectly.

“How many rings do you need, anyway?” asked Geralt curiously when Jaskier showed him.

“How many fingers do I have?”

Geralt rolled his eyes.

“May I buy you one, dear witcher? Your fingers are extremely naked.”

“No.”

“But, Geralt--”

“No.”

“Well. I daresay my hands could be considered weapons by this point, with all this silver. I’d send the monsters running from my fists. You could learn from my example.”

Geralt let out an actual chuckle, low and rich, and a shiver ran down Jaskier’s back. “Let’s continue, bard, before you spill all your coin on luxuries. We’ll need it for lodgings tonight.”

The next stall sold ribbons, and the next shoes, and on and on down the row of stalls with no luck until Jaskier thought he would scream. Most people were as helpful as they could be, but no one remembered a stranger in a tattered green dress, and Jaskier had no better description to give. It was probable that she had changed her dress anyway. His exuberance from earlier had evaporated, leaving helplessness weighing down on his chest. Geralt placed a steadying hand between his shoulder blades and tried to encourage him.

“That’s one we haven’t tried,” he said, pointing meaningfully at the stall of a palm reader. Draped in billowing silks that were frayed around the edges with age, the stall contained an older woman with heavy gray braids wrapped in coils at the nape of her neck. Her face was lined and her dark eyes were aloof, and she looked absolutely unfazed to see a witcher at her doorway.

“Good madam,” Jaskier began, sweeping her a courteous bow before stepping into the tent. “My friend and I are in search of someone. Perhaps you’ve seen her, or heard of her--”

The woman held out her hand at Jaskier, who said, “Oh,” and reached for his purse, prepared to pay for answers.

“Your hand, boy,” she said impatiently.

“My dear lady, you flatter me. I haven’t been referred to as ‘boy’ for...well, let’s say a few years, anyway. But you are free to do so as much as you like.” He ignored Geralt’s snort and seated himself in the chair opposite her. He laid his hand in hers and waited.

Her gaze wasn’t on his hand, however, but his eyes. “It won’t last forever. Nothing ever does.”

“What won’t?”

“The weather. Your search. Your secret. Take your pick.” She finally looked down at his hand and traced a line on his palm, after the fact.

Jaskier cleared his throat. “The woman--”

“Ask the apothecary,” she interrupted calmly, and squeezed his hand. “You are stronger than you believe.”

Inexplicably, Jaskier felt the hot sting of tears behind his eyes, but the old palm reader held his hand until the silks stopped tossing in the sudden wind.

Geralt led him away from the stall, guiding him into the mouth of an alley. “What was that about?”

“I…” Jaskier said, his mouth dry and his words gone. Geralt waited, and he slid his hand around to cup the back of Jaskier’s neck. Helplessly, Jaskier leaned into the touch, and didn’t feel strong at all. “The apothecary,” he said hoarsely. “Let’s check there.”

Geralt’s expression seemed oddly disappointed, maybe a little bit resigned, but his hand fell away and he followed Jaskier out into the sunshine.

The apothecary kept a tidy shop tucked back on a side street away from the bustling market, and Jaskier stepped aside to let Geralt take the lead as soon as they went inside. A stooped older gentleman stood behind the counter, shrewdly appraising Geralt while his eyes only skipped dismissively over Jaskier.

“Haven’t seen a witcher in ages,” he said, flattening his palms on the countertop. “Have you brought me anything to trade?”

Geralt shook his head. “Sorry, not this time. We’re looking for information.”

The apothecary gestured at his shop. “I only have tinctures, salves, powders, and oils here, as you see.”

“Surely for the right price,” Jaskier began, but halted when Geralt put up his hand.

“Do you have asphodel? My supply is low.” He hesitated and glanced at Jaskier, then back at the old man. “And chamomile oil. A bottle of that.”

Jaskier was pleased that Geralt remembered his favorite moisturizing oil, though he was a little surprised that he would want to buy it for him. Geralt was being oddly solicitous lately, and for some reason this particular thing brought that into clarity for Jaskier. He supposed that it was because of the curse, that perhaps Geralt pitied him, and that took some of the shine away from the moment. He had been clinging to the little touches that Geralt gave him, the brief, warm glances, the gentle words. He wondered if they would all disappear once Jaskier was free of the curse. They had certainly been few and far between before.

The items were produced and an amount agreed upon, but Geralt slid twice that amount across the counter. The man narrowed his eyes at the coins and then tilted his head, just a bit, letting them know he was listening.

“A sorceress,” Jaskier said, stepping forward, “possibly wearing a green dress. Faded blonde hair, a little crazy around the eyes. She would have arrived three days ago. We were told you might know her.”

“What do you want with her?”

“Does it matter to you?”

“Mere curiosity.”

Jaskier crossed his arms over his chest. “She cursed me, and I’d like her to take it back.”

The old man laughed. “I’ve known a few sorceresses in my day, and not a one of them ever took back a curse for saying ‘please.’”

“I never said we’d give her the option,” Jaskier said seriously. “I don’t believe in pleading with murderers.”

The man sobered and sighed. “She’ll be back tomorrow at noon to pick up some supplies I didn’t have on hand when she visited me.”

Jaskier slumped with relief and found that Geralt was close behind him, propping him up. “I’ll make sure you get your payment from her, for your troubles,” Geralt said, then tucked his purchases away into his pockets and they left.

For the first time in days Jaskier could take a deep breath, filling his lungs and his heart with hope. “Well, I don’t know about you, Geralt, but I could do with some dinner. Shall we find some fine establishment to feed us?”

“I’d settle for some stew in a rented room,” Geralt replied, nodding toward the swinging sign just down the street from the apothecary that advertised ‘The Nesting Hen.’

Jaskier sighed. “Your tastes are so pedestrian.”

“You’re just feeling spoiled after a day with Yen.”

“I will say this about her, the woman does appreciate the finer things in life. It’s been quite some time since I’ve had a bath like that one.”

“Hmm,” Geralt agreed.

Jaskier paid for supper and lodgings, then they were shown to a smallish room on the second floor with a smallish bed and a smallish window.

“We’ve definitely gotten more for less before,” Jaskier pointed out, “but at least the window overlooks the apothecary so we can keep an eye out for her.”

“It’s fine,” Geralt said, shrugging at the state of the room. “Bed looks clean.”

“It really says a lot about our standards that we’re excited about that.”

“You could always go live at Yenn’s. Plenty of bedrooms there.” Geralt smirked faintly as he opened the door for a nervous maid carrying two steaming bowls of stew.

“There’s plenty of Yennefer there,” Jaskier replied. “You’re right, this place is fine.”

The maid looked pleased that he’d said so.

~*~

The stew was actually quite good, with big chunks of carrot and potato, and meat that was recognizably beef, and Jaskier felt his spirits brighten a little with a full belly and a real possibility of breaking his curse. “Well,” he said, patting his stomach, “it may not be up to Yennefer’s standards, but in this case your pedestrian choice was a good one.”

“You seem better,” Geralt said, eyeing him cautiously. “More relaxed.”

“I have hope that we’ll find her, now. Before it seemed hopeless.”

Geralt gave him a lopsided smile. “You know I won’t stop until we find her. Whether that’s tomorrow or a year from now.”

Jaskier’s eyes widened, both at the emotional declaration and the notion of a long term search. “Gods forbid. Can you imagine me, like this for a year? I’d go mad. I’d have to buy boring clothes so as not to excite myself.”

“That would be a tragedy,” Geralt agreed, but his raised eyebrow said otherwise. He leaned back slightly in his chair, rocking on two legs.

“Stop it, you love my colors. I’m a brightly feathered songbird. Think how drab your world would be without me.” Jaskier realized too late that he was skirting a topic too intimate for good sense to allow.

Geralt tilted his head a little, his gaze warm. “Drab indeed.”

Jaskier swallowed hard. “Well. Anyway. It would be a shame if both of us wandered the Continent together garbed in black and gray, with no music to accompany us.”

“I’d probably get more done. The monsters wouldn’t hear us coming.”

Jaskier grinned, but it fell quickly from his face. “Geralt. I’m nothing without music. If I can’t play, if I can’t…feel, what am I? What good am I?”

Geralt’s chair settled with a solid thump on the floor. “Don’t do that.”

“What?”

“You’re worth more than your music, Jaskier.”

Jaskier looked away, his heart in his throat. He was afraid to desire more, having already received more from Geralt in four days than he had in years of knowing him. He shouldn’t be greedy.

“Thank you,” he finally said, clearing his throat and glancing quickly at Geralt, who was looking out the window.

“We’ll find her tomorrow. All this will be nothing more than a song to be written beside a campfire.”

Jaskier took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He watched Geralt’s hand tighten around his tankard of ale, his knuckles whitening, and Jaskier’s own hand felt empty.

~*~


Scott looks like he just ate the last cookie in the jar, and Stiles knows there's nothing good about that look.  Because that's the look he had when they were seven and he broke Stiles' action figure, and when they were twelve and he told the sheriff about them playing with his guns, when he got bitten, and when he and Kira almost missed graduation.

"What did you do?" He asks, narrowing his eyes. Scott  winces.

"So, um. You know that thing you told me never to tell anyone ever?"

"Scott. "

"I told Derek."

"Oh my god." Scott flinches back, looking guilty. "Scott!" He screeches. Honest to god screeches. He may hurt the ears of Beacon Hills' werewolf population. But Scott deserves it. Because he swore – swore, damn it – that he would never tell a soul. Especially not Derek, who has claws and fangs and hates his guts and could kill him.

"I'm sorry! I didn't mean to! It just sort of...slipped?"

There's smoke coming out his nose. Scott gulps.

"Okay, so, you see, we were - well. We were talking about you..."

"Don't you think we should talk to Stiles about this?" Scott asks, raising an eyebrow. He knows he sucks at planning and strategy, okay, but Derek really isn't that much better than him.

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because." He snaps, the way he always does. "He could get hurt." Which, what?

"What? No. We should tell him. He could help. He's way better at this then we are anyway." He frowns. Stiles getting hurt? Over something like this? Scott's only known what Stiles was for a few years now, only since the summer before they started high school, but he's fairly certain that, if everything in the past hadn't hurt him, then this wouldn't either. He's pretty indestructible.

Derek doesn't seem to feel the same.

"What part of 'he could get hurt' don't you understand?"

"Dude, I think it's pretty hard to hurt a dragon." He scoffs. "And besides, he loves you too much not to -" oh.

Oh shit.

He did not do what he thinks he just did. He can't have. Stiles'll –

"What." Derek says, and he sounds angry. Well, he always sounds a bit angry around Scott, but this is angrier. Like, 'rip your throat out angry'.

"Nothing." He tries. "I didn't say anything."

"He what?!" Derek looks pretty pissed, and Scott - well, Scott doesn't care too much about that, because Stiles is so much scarier when he's angry, and he's probably gonna be furious when Scott tells him what happened. Though, he really doesn't get why Derek's so angry. He thought there was maybe something going on between him and Stiles already, so the news that Stiles loves him really shouldn't be such a shock. Does he really not like him this much?

Oh man, this is gonna crush Stiles.

"Um." Scott backs away. "Yeah. I’m gonna go."

Stiles frowns down at his hands.

"He was pissed?" He wonders. Scott nods. "Oh. So he doesn't - oh."

"I'm sorry bro."

"No, it's - it's fine. He's not obligated to like me back. It's okay." He feels pretty far from okay, but he'll get over it. Eventually.

"I just don't get why he was so pissed man. Everyone in the pack can tell, I don't -"

"Please stop talking about it." He sighs. "Just - please." Scott shuts up. "You should go."

"I really am sorry, Stiles."

"Yeah, I know you are buddy." He doesn't even have the energy to be mad at Scott right now. Mostly, he just wishes he was old enough to do a full shift, and fly like his mom used to.

"Are you gonna a be okay?"

"I'll be fine."

Stiles is a dragon?

That doesn't make any sense. He would have seemed if there was something different about Stiles. He doesn't spend much time around humans, sure, but he remembers what they smell like. Lydia always smelled a bit different, but that's because she's a banshee. Right?

But maybe she smells normal, and Stiles is the one who smells off? He's been basing the scent of a normal human off what Stiles normally smells like. But apparently He's the most dangerous creature in the pack, so he's not exactly human at all. But he smelled so familiar. He -

He smells like his mom. Claudia Stilinski, the only other human who ever came to the Hale house. So of course he would smell familiar. His mother was Derek's baby sitter until Laura was old enough to drive.

Claudia was a dragon.

Scott didn't seem surprised. In fact, he seemed to think it was weird Derek didn't know. So does the whole pack know?

Looking back on the past few years, it seems kind of obvious, now. Stiles is never really hurt. If he is, the injuries don't last long. When they were fighting the Alphas, Stiles completely shattered his wooden bat, which now that he thought about it, is impossible for a human to do. And he sleeps in a nest of blankets on his bed (that last one might just be a Stiles thing).

Why didn't he say anything?

It's probably strange that Stiles is used to being slammed into hard surfaces by now.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Derek growls.

Oh, so they’re talking about this now?

“I thought you knew.” Stiles gets out. God, Derek’s really pissed about this. There’s no doubt in his mind now that he’ll be kicked out of the pack for this. It hurts. He probably could have handled a polite let down, maybe even Derek not talking to him. He could. But this? This, he doesn’t think he can handle.

“Don’t you think I would have said something if I did?” Derek snaps. He shoves him harder against the wall before just letting him go. Stiles rubs a hand across his face.

“Maybe you were being nice about it.”

“Nice about it? There’s nothing to be nice about, Stiles. We’re pack. We tell each other things like this.”

“I’m still pack?” After all the growling and snapping?

Derek frowns. “Of course you are. Why would you be?”

“You’re not gonna feel, uh, weird? Around me?” Stiles asks, fidgeting. He kind of wants Derek to leave, so he can deal with the fact that he’s been rejected in peace.

“What? No? I’m just – I’m angry. I wish you’d told me.”

“It took me seven years to even hint at Lydia that I like her. What makes you think I’d tell you I’m in love with you if you don’t even love me back?” He huffs, annoyed.

“I – wait, what?” Derek blinks. “In love with me?”

“Is that not what we’re talking about?” Stiles asks, feeling nauseous all of the sudden. Did Derek really not know?

“Scott told me you’re a dragon, not – you’re in love with me?”

“You didn’t know I’m a dragon?” Stiles shakes his head. “Jesus. Derek, actual smoke comes out of nose sometimes. I warm my coffee just with my hands. The whole pack knows! How oblivious are you?”

“You love me.” Derek says again.

“Yeah.” He takes a breath. “Yeah I do.” Derek just blinks at him. “Look, I get it if you don’t want me to –”

“I – me too.” Derek blurts. Stiles raises an eyebrow. “I mean. I love you too. I’m in love with you. Jesus, Stiles – I’ve been in love with you for years.”

“Oh. I – oh.” His eyes widen. “You –”

“Shut up.” Derek breathes, and then he leans forward, puts his hands on either side of his face, and kisses him. Now, he doesn’t have anything to compare it to, but it’s probably the best kiss he’s ever had.

“Derek didn’t know I was a dragon!” Stiles announces at the next meeting. Derek puts his head in his hands, and Isaac makes a face.

“Oh my god.”


In the next six months they make an effort to cross as many things off of their list as they can.

They finally see Christ the Redeemer when they take off to Brazil after a rainy afternoon spent on the couch when Louis turned to him with mischievous eyes and said, “I wonder what the weather’s like in Rio?”

Peru, a new addition to the list, is only a short plane ride away so they fly across South America to climb the Incan Trail and walk amongst the ancient ruins of Machu Picchu.

They end up on the Greek island of Santorini after a few restless weeks back at home, and then one day out of the blue Louis decides he wants to try surfing, so they catch the next flight out to Australia. They tour the Sydney Opera House and tan on the best beaches they can find. They both learn to surf even though Louis turns out to be the only one who’s actually good at it, and before they leave they get the opportunity to sail out to a small island along the Great Barrier Reef for a dive.

They experience things together that most people only ever dream of and Harry appreciates every memory, but he finds that even with all the bright and colorful distractions around them Louis is never far from his mind or his heart.

Harry gets good at reading his different smiles and grows fond of watching him nap against the windows of airplanes. His chest balloons each time Louis proudly takes his hand as they’re weaving through crowded streets and markets, and his heart nearly stops each time Louis chooses to kiss him rather than marvel at the beautiful things surrounding them.

At first Harry thinks he’s crazy with how much he feels just from being near the boy; it doesn’t take long before he realizes that he’s in love.

It’s not surprising really considering it is something that has always been there, but once Harry can put a name to it, it’s all he can think about. He doesn’t know if he should just say it or wait for Louis to do it first, but he decides that he can’t wait any longer one night when Louis comes over after spending the evening with his family.

He lets himself in with the set of keys that he insisted on having made when they first started dating and finds Harry in the kitchen. He immediately buries his nose in the layers of Harry’s hair when he hugs him from behind. “You smell really good.”

“Took a shower a little while ago,” Harry tells him. He turns away from the pot he had been stirring to give Louis the attention he’s obviously looking for with the way his hands are traveling along his waist. He takes Louis’ chin to tilt his lips up to his level. Louis makes a pleased sound, rising up on his toes to chase Harry’s tongue. His face crumples when Harry pulls back with a soft, “I missed you.”

“Cleary not a whole lot or else you would still be kissing me,” Louis mumbles.  Harry won’t fall for his guilt routine; not again anyway.

“I have to finish cooking.”

Louis sneaks his devious hands under Harry’s shirt to run his nails along the plane of his stomach. “Fuck dinner,” he smirks. “Come hang out with me instead.” Harry laughs at the tempting offer, knowing that a ‘come hang out with me’ from Louis has a completely different meaning than it would coming from most people. Harry has burned a lot of meals from falling for that line.

He politely declines and manages to squirm out of his reach to return to the food. Louis complains about it, but only for a couple of minutes before he takes a seat at the kitchen table to wait him out.

Harry sneaks glances at him from over his shoulder, and the urge to shout out what he’s feeling is overwhelming.  He has loved Louis for months, but tonight the feeling is amplified each time Louis glances up from his phone and meets his eyes. He wonders if Louis can tell how fast his heart is beating when he decides that now is as good of a time as any to let him know.

“Hey Lou? I was thinking about it earlier and I can’t remember the last thing we added to the list…”

Louis frowns, briefly looking up from his phone. “It was The Great Wall,” he says matter-of-factly.

“No, I think that was right before the other one you added... Could you please go get it for me so I can check? I would but,” Harry gestures at the pot of sauce he’s stirring and Louis hangs his head back like it’s a death sentence, but complies.

He returns a minute later with the journal; their list, a handful of pictures, and a pen sticking out from the pages. He places it down on the island before hopping up to perch himself on it as well.

“I’m telling you it’s China. I wrote it myself,” Louis says with absolute certainty.

“Could you check really quick to make sure?” Harry gives him his best puppy eyes as he points to the food he’s busy watching over. Louis rolls his eyes at him and mumbles something about him being hopeless as he pulls the list from the journal and unfolds it.

“I swear you are like the most forgetful person I’ve ever met. It’s going to say The Great Wall and then you’re going to be mad when I gloat because you know I’m always r-”

Harry turns to watch him as his words die on his lips.

“…What does it say, Lou?”

A stubborn grin breaks out on Louis’ face from having to admit that he’s wrong about the last thing written there, yet his voice is soft and full of emotion when he answers.

“It says, ‘to fall in love’.”  When Louis tears his eyes away from the words on the page, the strings of nerves that had wrapped themselves around Harry’s heart fall away. He never really doubted that Louis loves him, but being the first one to voice it is still a bit scary.

Harry takes the pen from beside him and draws a thick, black line right through the center of the words he wrote less than an hour ago. He drops everything he’s holding when Louis reaches for him.

“I love you too,” gets repeated half a dozen times between their lips, causing Harry to smile with each new declaration.

The sauce he’s supposed to be stirring starts bubbling angrily on the stove out of neglect, but Louis is so intent on holding Harry there that he locks him in the triangle of his legs and crosses his ankles so he can’t move.

Harry cackles into his mouth when he isn’t able to step away. “Lou, the food! We can’t just-”

“Yes we can. I already told you, fuck the food,” he says under his breath. Harry manages to break away and has just enough time to turn off the stove before Louis ropes him back in and slots their mouths together in another heated kiss. Harry wants to point out the fact that they’re not going to have anything to eat later, but he loses his train of thought when Louis deliberately shoves his tongue in his mouth.

With him being the most impatient and impulsive person on Earth, Harry had half expected for Louis to strip down right where he is and bend himself over the island or at least the table (it wouldn’t be the first time it’s happened), which is why Harry’s surprised when he chooses instead to slide off the countertop and starts walking them in the direction of Harry’s room.

It’s a long journey through the house that lands them right in the center of the bed. Louis tugs at his waist until his body is flush against him, pressing him down into the mattress with his weight.

Harry could spend all night lying here with Louis beneath him this way. He loves the amount of emotion that Louis brings to their kissing even when it isn’t leading up to something more. Tonight is no exception, especially with the way Louis keeps nipping at his bottom lip to make his heart pound inside of his chest. He savors every bit of it while he can, because he knows from experience that this sweet, tender version of Louis will fade just as soon as arousal hits and his attention span reaches its end.

As if on cue he starts tugging at their clothes with hurried hands. Harry chuckles, causing Louis to narrow his eyes at him.

“What are you laughing at? Take this off,” he complains while trying to pull Harry’s shirt over his head. He throws it somewhere in the room and then heads straight for the drawstring of his joggers. He unties the bow holding them on Harry’s hips and sits up to shove them down his thighs to pool at his knees. He stops, just short of wrapping an eager fist around him when Harry chokes back another laugh.

“You do realize I’m the only one naked here, right?” he asks looking between them.

Louis frowns down at himself and the erection visible against his zipper and immediately starts working to pull off his shirt. Harry helps out by unbuttoning his jeans. He grins when he recognizes them as his own, now realizing why he couldn’t find them a few days ago and also why he thought Louis’ ass looked particularly enticing earlier.

They push their abandoned clothes to the floor when they’re finally bare, and when Harry kisses him, this time it’s not as rushed. Louis is so hard that he’s already leaking between them as Harry sets their new pace.

It has always interested him, how docile Louis becomes once they get to this point. Louis is always the loudest person in the room, no matter what. It’s such a stark contrast to what he’s like when he gets all worked up this way. It’s almost like looking at a different person with the way he lets Harry handle him.

A quick dig around the inside of his bedside table produces the lube and a condom, and Louis’ eyes darken, watching as Harry pops the cap and squeezes a few lines onto his longest fingers. He settles down where Louis’ thighs are open for him. He bites a trail down to his opening and licks over it before gently working the tips of his fingers inside.

Louis’ eyes are closed where he’s resting against the pillows, his chest heavily rising and falling with each shaky breath that his fingers draw from him. “I love you,” Harry whispers just to see his reaction. It’s a glorious one that causes Louis’ dick to twitch where it’s curved up against his stomach. His eyelids flutter open to reveal a sliver of dark blue that has Harry reaching for his own dick when it twitches on instinct.

“I love you too,” he gasps when Harry twists his fingers inside of him and his eyes roll back again. The words are still relatively new. They said them for the first time less than half an hour ago. He’s still getting used to hearing them, but the tingle they leave on Harry’s skin still feels just as wonderful.

He dedicates a few more minutes to opening him up before letting his fingers slip out of him. He moves to align their chests again.

When he meets Louis’ eyes he finds that his face looks pinched from concentrating so hard to not touch himself. Harry kisses his lips and reaches down to give him a few long strokes to take the edge off.

“Ready?” he asks when Louis’ head leaves the pillow from trying to chase his mouth. He flops back down with a soft whine when Harry circles a teasing thumb around the tip of his dick. He bites down on a smirk when Louis is only able to breathe a quiet yes. “You’re sure, Lou?” he asks again, partly to be certain that he won’t hurt him, but mostly because it’s always fun to tease him for a change.

When Louis nods, Harry gathers his lips in another long kiss before sitting back to open the condom and slip it on. He sits between Louis’ thighs, inching forward to line himself up. The two of them lock eyes and take a deep breath before Harry slowly pushes himself inside.

Louis’ face is the picture of concentration as he breathes through the stretch. Harry admires his focus, feeling his own features tightening with each second that passes that he’s not allowed to move. Harry waits for him though, even when the pressure feels so tight that it’s almost painful to stay so still.

“Now?” he grits out when the seconds start to bleed into minutes and he’s honestly hanging on by a thread.

He lets go of the breath he was holding when Louis gives him a quick succession of nods, consent that has Harry immediately retracting his hips to push back in.

Every soft roll of his hips has Louis clinging to him and panting in his ear, holding on as he’s being rocked into. His ankles are hooked together below Harry’s bum to help him get deeper inside. Harry can tell that it isn’t working a few minutes later when he still hasn’t found his spot.

“Turn over,” he instructs as he gently pulls out of him. He strokes himself while Louis hurries to settle down on his stomach.

Harry straddles him, his knees bracketing Louis’ thighs as he sits back to admire the line of golden skin that leads from the nape of Louis’ neck down to the roundness of his ass. His hands grip into as much of it as they can. He bites back a moan seeing how wide he’s already stretched.

He positions himself so that he’s looming over Louis’ body, his front parallel with the slight dip of Louis’ back as he reaches a hand between them to guide himself inside again. Louis’ fists grip into the sheets where his hands are splayed by his side as Harry experiments with different thrusts. He knows he has finally gotten it right when a ragged moan rips from the back of his throat.

Up until now, Louis had been pretty quiet. His silence used to concern Harry, seeing as how any other time he never seems to shut up. He used to spend inordinate amounts of time checking and double checking that he was alright, however the deep sounds he’s making now let Harry know that he’s feeling great without even having to ask.

Harry lets out a cry of his own when Louis rises up a bit on his knees to fit his hand between himself and the bed. It’s an unexpected move that pushes him back and has Harry’ stomach clenching to keep from coming too early.

His grip tightens around Louis’ shoulder as he tries to regain control when he can feel himself going over the edge. “I’m close,” he warns with bated breath. Louis nods, unable to say anything as his hand works somewhere that Harry can’t see. He gets lost watching the muscles of his shoulders work combined with the bit of sweat running down the slope of his spine and he feels himself slipping.  “Lou,” he warns again when he can feel he orgasm building from within. To his relief, Louis comes just a few seconds before him when every sound he suppressed before comes out in a loud whine into the mattress.

The visual, the sounds, and the feeling of Louis tightening around him are all too much. Harry’s stomach tugs downward as he comes, his nails leaving imprints on Louis’ skin when his orgasm tears through him.

The room is blurrier than Harry remembers when he cracks his eyes open. He pulls out and ties the condom off, but he can’t make it any further than that before Louis is grabbing for him. He comes down with Louis lightly scratching against his scalp in the quiet. He kisses his lips, and Harry’s heart starts racing all over again when Louis whispers that he loves him.

It’s still early, but they lie there for so long and he’s so comfortable where Louis’ cradling him against his chest that he feels as though he could drift off for a nap. Unfortunately, he gets dragged back into consciousness when Louis’ voice rumbles against his ear.

“Haz?”

“Hmmm?”

“Are you asleep?”

Well not anymore, he isn’t. “Nope. Wide awake,” he answers sleepily.

“Oh…that’s good…”

There’s a short pause between his words that makes Harry wonder what he wants.

“Why? What’s up?” Harry asks curiously.

There’s another long pause before Louis reluctantly answers him. “Haz, I’m really hungry,” he whines, causing Harry to snort a laugh into his chest. He pulls back to see Louis’ face pinched together from the ‘I told you so’ he thinks is coming. Harry takes pity on him though and refrains from saying it even though he really, really wants to.

Louis gives him the most pitiful expression that Harry’s ever seen. He caves in an instant with a fond roll of his eyes.

“I’ll go finish cooking dinner.” The ‘even though I tried to tell you that you’d be hungry later’ goes unsaid.

Louis sighs with relief and rewards him with a sloppy kiss for not gloating. “Thank you so much! I’m literally starving,” he claims, making Harry laugh again and shake his head at the idiot grinning down at him.

“Remind me why I keep you around again?” Harry asks. His stomach flip flops when Louis’ fixes him with a look of complete adoration.

“Because I’m in love with you, and you love me too,” he says simply, and Harry can’t really argue with him when he knows every word to be true.


“Our visitor has arrived,” announces Urᵭr and her sisters chitter in excitement, the sounds leaving their mouths bouncing off the walls of the cave in an eerie echo once more. The air in the dark cave is so cold that a shiver tears through her body. Moisture hangs in the air, dampening her clothes and hair almost instantly. The atmosphere is oppressive, sucking the air out of her lungs. The Norns themselves are three shapes sitting around a well that is made of cobbled stone and that, covered with moss and grime, looks old and dirty but the surface of the water in the well is as smooth and pristine as polished glass, a distant light shimmering from deep within it.

The light from which once sprung all life in the Nine Realms.

The shapes that are the Norns are wearing dark, hooded cloaks that seem to be one mass of flowing fabric and their faces are gaunt and of a pale turquoise, their eyes black with a sliver of white in them instead of irises and, when Frigga looks closer, it appears that their cloaks are one with the well too. They are not corporeal either, not fully at least, for their form seems to be pulsating between the corporeal and the translucent with every blink of her eye, their existence meant to baffle even the Gods. One of them, Verᵭandi, if the depictions in the old books are to be trusted, is spinning a thread from the water, white sparks erupting around her hands and rising up into the air.

Frigga rises to her feet, silently chanting a healing spell to mend her fractured ankles in the hope that her burned-down glamour will allow her this little mercy, and then bows before them. “Esteemed Norns, I have come to seek—”

Skuld, the third of the sisters, raises her hand and brushes a turquoise, seemingly fleshless finger against her dark lips to silence her before she turns her attention to an entanglement of thick root, behind which Frigga glimpses a flash of gold. “You may step out now,” the Norn says.

The Queen’s lips part in surprise when an all too familiar shape emerges from the shadows, searching for her gaze, stupefied with amazement.

“Odin,” she whispers, her hands clutching her chest as if to take her heart in her hand when a wave of existential dread floods through her. “W-what … Why are you here?”

“Heimdall cannot see her,” replies the Allfather in a gruff voice as he crosses the distance between them in three large strides. He takes her hands in his and gives them a squeeze that is meant to be reassuring but does very little to mask the worry flickering in his seeing eye. “Amora has shrouded herself from the gatekeeper’s gaze.”

“I have not been fortunate either,” Frigga whispers, the failure of her unsuccessful attempts to determine the origin of dark Seiᵭr and her inability to guard the magic of her son sitting on her chest like a boulder. “And I fear she might have stolen the crystal containing Loki’s magic,” she mumbles, for the animal that attacked her only moments ago was no ordinary hawk, no, she thinks, her mind swiftly piecing the puzzle together, no, that was most certainly Amora, she is quite sure of that, because she has never been quite able to shake off the feeling that she was being followed ever since she left Asgard. “I was unable to defend it.”

“The two of us, outwitted by that young thing,” Odin snarls, pounding Gúngnir onto the rock in a sudden flash of hot, white anger, shaking the pebble on the ground and startling the surface of the well. “Tell us,” he demands in an angry growl, turning his attention to the fate weavers, “how this is possible. What bestowed upon the Enchantress such powers?”

“And now?” asks Thor, eyes alight with joy. His brother’s facial expression reminds Loki of the Midgardian animal that the mortals call dog and that communicates its excitement through extensive tail wagging. He is quite certain that, had the God of Thunder had a tail, he would be wagging it at this very moment. Not that Loki does not feel a tingle of excitement as well. Ingesting the ice Thor has brought to his chambers from the part of Midgard where the cold never recedes even when the rest of their world blossoms into summer has indeed fueled his strength, finally allowing him to swing his legs out of the bed he has been chained to for the past days. Ingesting the ice is also fueling his mental strength and he is beginning to understand that none of the spells he practiced in the past will be lost to him because wielding magic is learning how to manipulate energetic impulses drawn from other dimensions to disrupt the code programing the current reality. Luckily, everything he learned about sorcery is still in his mental possession.

Well, luckily for him.

Loki smirks at his brother. “Retribution,” he says and flicks his fingers.

“Nooooooo!” Thor yells as brownish-red slime spreads across his skin and he begins to shrink in size. “Don’t,” he begs until his words trail off. “Loki, please, don’t! Stop … N-n-no no …”

Loki glances down at his brother, whose slug head barely reaches his hips and erupts into a gleeful, self-satisfied chuckle. “You brought this one upon yourself with your inconsiderate ice jokes.” Thor opens his slug mouth, rubbery slime lips moving soundlessly. “Uh-uh. Slugs can’t speak.” He grabs his chest in mock sympathy. “I’m truly inconsolable. Now, if you’ll excuse me,” he says, flitting a nervous glance towards the door leading to his bath, “I need to … refresh myself.”

Loki turns away from Thor, who moves with a faint squish-squash sound that is undoubtedly going to leave a slimy trail on the floor tiles but that will be worth it, will it not, oh yes, and softly pushes the door to his bath open. The room has not changed, of course it hasn’t, why would it, but somehow Loki expected the large bathtub and the sink to look different for it can’t be only you who is no longer the same. The door clicks shut behind him and the familiar sight unsettles him because … He doesn’t even know why exactly, except for maybe the spiteful voice that arises from the cesspit beneath his consciousness into which he has banished his self-destructive, self-rejecting thoughts; that spiteful voice telling him that all of this is a lie. That his existence is a lie. That he is a Frost Giant runt that doesn’t deserve the chambers of an Aesir prince.

Loki tries to smother the thought but his mind is drawn to its fervor as a moth is drawn to a flame.

They are brutish and unruly beasts that know no warmth. They abandoned you. They left you to die. Midget. They didn’t want you. Runt. Mutt. They are beasts. They cast you out. They left you to die. They left you to die. They. Left. You. To. Die. TO DIE. No one wants you, no one.

“Stop it,” Loki whispers because he knows that the voice is lying.

None of these things are ever going to make me love you any less. You are my brother and you will remain my brother until the day Ragnarök befalls us.

Loki steps forth and forces himself to look at his Jötunn face in the mirror. He knows what he is going to see because he saw the blue face with its silver markings and its blood-red eyes before but that knowledge does little to shield him from the shockwave of repulsion exploding in his chest. He sucks in a shaky breath, trying to soothe himself, but the air does not calm him because even though he always suspected that he was not like the other Asgardians, not in a million years would he have expected his otherness to wear such a horrid visage.

He steps even closer, raising his hand, stretching it out towards the mirror’s surface, and recoils when his palm touches that of his reflection. This is you, his accursed inner voice tells him in a grotesque snarl. Unworthy runt. This is what you are. This is how you look. This is you. Putrid monster.

Loki casts a simulacrum of the Aesir face he has been wearing for centuries over his Frost Giant skin almost on impulse because, while having learned to change the form of others, he has not yet mastered the art of shapeshifting. Unfortunately, the sight does not calm him either because it is a lie, isn’t it, yes, everything is a lie, everything, oh yes, that face is as much of a lie as the love Odin claimed to have for him because there is no way in Hel the Allfather could bring himself to ever truly love a Frost Giant.

You are not like them, Loki. I can sense it in you. Do you not see that they are afraid of you? Do you not see that your mother is merely pretending to teach you because she is scared of the power that slumbers within you? Do you not see that, if you were to discover your true potential, they would all tremble before you?

The illusion in the mirror vanishes when a single thought clatters into Loki’s mind.

How did Amora know?

Anger sears through him, almost blinding him.

That scheming little quim.

Loki turns on the faucet of the sink to splash water into his face out of habit but as soon as his hands touch the spurt, he feels the erratic pulse of raw, untamed magic in his fingertips and, before his mind has the time to grasp the implications behind the sensation, the water crystallizes into solid ice upon his touch. He mutters a string of expletives under his breath and flees the bathroom, enraged by the realization that he now possesses powers he will have to learn to control from scratch.

Slug-Thor has made his way to the doors of Loki’s chambers and the sight of his brother in a state of utter helplessness instills in him at least some minimal degree of satisfaction. Yet, he knows deep inside of him how uncalled for the sensation is because this mess is not his gullible, good-hearted twerp of a brother’s fault. Loki blows out a breath and flicks his fingers, dissipating the spell.

“I am going to kill you,” Thor grumbles as soon as he has vocal cords again.

“Yeah, well, I am going to look for Amora,” Loki retorts, despising himself for the slight tremble in his voice.

“Alone?” Thor asks, genuine worry twisting his features when he becomes aware of Loki’s brittle state of mind. “I am coming with you, of course,” he announces forcefully.

“You don’t have to,” Loki growls, snatching the pouch from the armchair where the God of Thunder has so mindlessly tossed it upon the accursed book about accursed Jötunn magic.

“Don’t be foolish, brother,” Thor replies and Loki hates how the moniker makes him feel undeserving of the Aesir life given to him once more. “Father has been looking for her for five days. If he hasn’t returned by now—”

“He clearly isn’t doing an all too marvelous job with tracking her down,” Loki snaps.

“I was going to say, ‘Who knows in which hel-mouth she is lurking?’ but …” Thor swallows audibly. “Do you know where she is?”

Loki shakes his head. “No,” he whispers in defeat. “But I might have a fairly good idea where to start looking.”

“Did you not hear me?” Odin repeats and Frigga is quite certain that the anger dripping from her husband’s every word will not aid their quest for knowledge. The Norns chitter, exchanging glances, their shapes fluttering in and out of translucence once more, their cloaks wafting about them even though there is no breeze. “You rule the destiny of us all! Tell me why you would weave such a thread of fate for my son!”

For the fraction of a moment, the Queen is convinced Odin will level Gúngnir at the Norns and she tugs at his arm, holding him back. “Please,” she urges the beings before her in a solemn whisper, “we wish to help him.”

“The prince will help himself,” says Urᵭr.

“Where dwells the Enchantress?” Odin bellows before Frigga even has a chance to respond. “What gave her the powers she possesses?”

“Amora dwells outside the Realms,” says Verᵭandi and the thread she is weaving begins to glow brighter as her words echo through the darkness cold and damp. “As does the Seiᵭr that poisoned the prince.”

“What did you mean when you said Loki will help himself?” Frigga asks before Odin has a chance to bark at them once more.

“His destiny is no longer in your hands,” says Skuld in a voice that instills a sense of terror and foreboding in the heart of the Queen before the Norn turns to Odin. “You sought our counsel eons past, Allfather, about your firstborn child, and it grieves us to see that you have not yet abandoned your old ways.”

A trembling breath slips past the Queen’s lips because she has always feared the consequences of manipulating Asgard’s memory to help her husband conceal a truth that would later make the Aesir think of Thor as the Allfather’s firstborn child. She feared that those consequences would come back to haunt her one day but she complied anyway, perhaps out of love, perhaps out of naivety, and now the Norns are punishing her for her misdeeds past and present.

“I have,” replies Odin but the tremor in his voice belies the conviction displayed on his face. “I have tried to protect him from the same destiny. I have tried to help him.”

“Your help is not what he needs, Allfather,” says Skuld.

“The prince will help himself,” repeats Urᵭr. “He will help himself with the aid of whom he thinks of as his brother.”

“They are departing Asgard as we speak,” says Verᵭandi and a sense of urgency slams into Frigga, knocking the breath out of her lungs.

“They will travel to the Svartur and they will face grave dangers,” says Skuld and Frigga’s heart stops beating in her chest for a moment because last she saw him, Loki was in no condition to travel anywhere and, even if she has underestimated Thor’s emotional maturity, they are children still, the both of them, they are young and reckless and impulsive and inexperienced and the Svartur …

The Svartur.

“How can we aid our sons?” pleads Odin, his wrath suddenly extinguished at the mention of that name.

“You must not think of aid in the way you thought of it before,” counsels Urᵭr and with that, the Norns lapse into silence.