March Writing Challenge: 100 Stories. 1 Month.

[Garrett Hale]

1. Mellow.

"Garrett."

Distant. Unrefined. Dark eyes stared at nothing in particular out the passenger's side window of his brother's car. They didn't live too far apart, and so it was nice to be able to see each other, but there was little back home for the shadow walker. 

"Garrett?"

An elbow pressed to the rest and his chin in his hand, he inhaled and exhaled on a small, barely audible sigh. A bright blue sky. He missed the greener notes of the grass, though. Hopefully the snow would pass in time. Not that he really minded it. He wasn't ever one for change, and somehow he missed what he was lacking.

"Garrett!"

Still, nothing. Gareth Hale was driving his brother home and calling his name multiple times. But his brother was busy catching something out the window. With a sudden shift of his foot, he hit the breaks suddenly. The quickly slowed pace caused Garrett to jolt, his face slipping from his hand and his elbow slipping from the rest. Snapped from a daze, he literally shook his head, running fingers through his hair as if it would somehow catch him again.

"What?"

"I've been calling you for like a year." Gareth exaggerated.

"Oh." No apologies. Nothing else. Just a little sound from his mouth. He pressed his elbow to the rest, placed his chin in his hand and looked out again.

"What's the matter?"

"Nothing."

"Doesn't seem like nothing." There was a slight edge to his tone, but Garrett took no mind. He shrugged his shoulders, and immediately felt the his of an open palm against one of them.

Still, he didn't flinch.

"Why do I have to go home?" He asked genuinely.

Gareth stared at his brother's back for the moments he could before he looked to the road again. "It's Christmas, Gar. It's the kind of thing you go home for." Not that it seemed to matter. Ever since his brother manifested he'd been distant in more ways than one. More time in the shadows. More sessions in therapy with the memory reader chick from back home.

"Right." He replied.

Distant. Vague. Irksome for someone sitting beside him.

"You don't want to?" Gareth asked, raising his eyebrows. He'd have missed his brother for the holidays. So would their father. And his wife. And his mother And her wife.

"Not really, I guess. I don't know."

"Why not?"

Garrett offered a delicate pause. How easy it would have been to allow himself to be swallowed by the adjacent shadows in the backseat. Just a small place where he might hide away as opposed to sit in scrutiny in the car. Gareth wasn't usually like this. He knew he had nothing to be concerned with by Garrett's proposed apathy. Maybe something was different.

"I've got a friend."

How he stressed the word warranted him another hit from Gareth, the kind that expressed how unbelievable that seemed. Because he was hardly talking about a friend at all. But it was all Garrett would give him. Now was hardly the time to talk about Salem Hirch.

[Ella Robbinson]

40. Vital.

Hearts. Of everything in the world, it had to be built around hearts.

Blood flow, and everything it told her.

Of nights, Ella would have to walk the halls of Hammel's dormitory. Every so often, never more than once an hour. It wasn't a particularly straining task. Rather, it was always to ensure that no person would be found out of their dorm unless absolutely necessary. Trips to the bathroom and all that. The few students she ever found trying to sneak out were promptly turned around and escorted back to their rooms. Every night. Multiple times. From the floor where she lived to the very top, and back again. Quick steps always dragged her past the most infamous dorms.

202. 204. 205. 210. 212. 406. 502. 507.

Because she was in the business of hearts. Of blood flow, and everything it told her.

And never could she rightly understand the overt need. There was always a disinterest to the most physical aspect of things because she was in the business of hearts. In the easiest way, a normal rhythm could deafen her ears if she let it. She never rightly understood putting herself through the torturous idea of anything else before. Not to say she never had; it was just overwhelming.

But ever since she returned from the best worst trip she'd ever made with another person, everything seemed - and sounded - dull.

Nothing outweighed the heavier tempos of the heart in his chest as per her memory. Nothing could beat it. Every attuned sound fell short, because it was still so painfully ripe in her ears. It wasn't enough to simply feel it by way of a sixth sense, but she knew the rhythm beneath her own hand. Fingertips brushed across the bare nature of his skin. Eyes to the barely noticeable jump in his chest when he'd settled on his back. Not that he'd ever settled. It was all there, literally in the flesh, knocked into every available sense in a single night.

It was a Friday night, now. He'd been gone for hours after trying to get her to open the door. But steps through the doorway of the apartment where she lived reminded her that not too long ago he'd been standing where she was now.

For once, the nightly walk was quiet. In her ears. In her mind. Every notorious dorm suddenly sounded shallow, like no one was home despite the fact that they always were.

In the business of hearts, nothing could catch her now that his had.

[Lucy Serrano-Blaise]

60. Reap.

The ink manipulator's room had changed a lot over the single year. It'd been invaded ample times by a girl who jumped through mirrors. She'd shared a bed with a girl who clung to a bat in her sleep out of intent paranoia. She'd shared that same bed with a distant voice mimic on several drunken encounters. It'd been immaculately cleaned. Pulled apart. She'd pulled it apart. She'd strewn every single thing she owned all over the floor multiple times and somehow found the drive to pick it all up again afterwards. Or wake to find it done for her.

The floors were spotless. Every stain from paint or ink, removed. She'd lost her green and purple sheets and bed covers in favour of orange or blue. Pictures had been tacked high like scales atop the other and ripped down again. Features still hung high; eyes, lips, noses, jaw lines. Smiles. Waterfalls of curls. The field on her wall had moved from piece of paper to the direct wall itself, strung with lights low in the proverbial printed grass. At night, it offered the faintest of light, and it was better that way. She loved to stare at night.

On her own bed, she had her shoes off. Lucy would have rarely ever thought to remove her boots before she found comfort atop the covers in her clothes. She looked at the ceiling. White. Stark, but it'd always been that way. It never changed.

"So like," The body beside her started. Years her junior but a string of the same family, Nica clasped her hands together over her stomach. Her first day back in Pilot Ridge and there she was. The little beds provided were enough space for two. Where Lucy stared at the ceiling, she simply looked. Her hands furled out; "Is it gonna be a big thing?"

"Jesus," Lucy swore, crinkling her nose, "I thought we weren't gonna talk about it."

"Um, you're getting married." Nica reminded her, "We're gonna talk about it. A lot." She felt the urge to sit up. To get a proper look at her sister. But she didn't. She doubted she'd catch her eyes anyway.

"Fine." She rolled her eyes, fingers still interlaced behind her head. "Probably not."

"But your'e gonna wear a dress?"

"Fuck, I hope not."

"You're gonna invite like, everyone. Right?"

"No." Lucy replied quickly. There were far too many Serrano's to fit on a plane and bring to another country. They might overrun the state itself.

"But mum and dad for sure, though." Nica finished the sentence for her.

Except she was met with silence.

"Lucy." Scolding.

Why did it always have to be scolding? "What?"

"You can't!"

"I woulda told them about it!" She quickly reasoned, and it was enough to draw her sister up. To have her sitting upright so she could stare down at the tatted-up meta and the confused expression she wore.

"Oh right, cause that's exactly how people want to learn that." She shot out, sarcasm lining her tone as well as it did the ink manipulator. Too bad it didn't suit her quite so well; "After it happens!"

Lucy hauled herself up, then. To bring herself to the same level as the younger Serrano. There was something slightly off about the entire ordeal. Something distressed. She felt her eyebrows lower in her own concern; it worked to override her confusion slowly, and that was enough to panic over. Lucy was an over analysing person by nature; Nica knew what that look was slowly dwindling to.

"Stop."

"What?"

"You're doing that thing."

"I'm not doing a thing."

"It's a thing." She pointed out, "A thing you do. You're about to ask me what this is really about."

Damn. Caught. No point in leaving it to the time manipulator's imagination now. "What is this really about?" Lucy asked. And there was a defined stall once it happened. How they just looked at each other; Lucy knew she wasn't anywhere near hearing an answer. She raised a hand, pressing it gently to the side of her face. A little more contact for a moment too hectic for what it seemed.

"I suck, I know." Lucy started, and she felt the way she shook her head in her hand at the notion. Physical disagreement, but there was something more to her eyes. "People shouldn't learn about things after they happen. I get it. I get it. It was a shit thing to do. I should've told you." The disclaimer. All of it. But at least it worked to ease some of the tension from her face; "But if I told you, you woulda stayed. And you woulda missed everything about the stupid holiday, and you woulda regretted it. I'm not gonna be sorry about it."

"You don't know." She was quick to fight, easing Lucy's hand away without resistance. The attempt to argue might have worked, if it'd been remotely genuine. If she were remotely wrong.

"Yeah, I do." Lucy replied, easily. Far too easily; "Trust me, I know."

[Penelope Serrano-Blaise]

49. Remain

November, 2013

Breathe. That was the trick. To just breathe. She’d red it a hundred times before. Dozens of books covered the most basic concept of calming down. In most instances, it was the first set of advice offered to anyone.

Inhale. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Hold. Exhale. One. Two. Three. Four. Five.

As if it were ever really that simple. As if it would really be able to slow the strange new beat of her pulse. She still tried; if the exercise failed, then maybe the willpower she put behind it would help.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five.

It didn't.

Dark eyes squeezed shut, fingers curling tightly around the edge of the sink. A glance towards her hands would show the reddened nature of them. How they were scrubbed clean. Raw. Any and every was gone – but she still felt it, even under the burn of her skin.

Hold.

When she finally forced her eyes opened, they refused to look into the small mirror hanging in front of her. Rather, they narrowed down on the sink. On her reddened hands and how they shook.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five.

Finally, she released the sink, fingers instead curling around the faucet as she turned the water on with a flick of her wrist. Hot. Burning hot. Mixed with the load of soap, her skin stung, and although any sign of ink had been effectively washed away, Penelope kept at it. They weren't clean enough; there was still evidence left behind. She couldn't see it under her reddened skin, but it must have still been there for her to feel this.

As much as it hurt, it still didn’t shake whatever this new shift in her pulse meant. It only meant she'd continue scrubbing until all of it was stripped away.

And repeat.

[Dr. Sean Neville]

#23 – Worst Day

Through the corridors of sleep, past shadows dark and deep, my mind dances and leaps in confusion.

Every night, his parents argued about him.

They waited until he and his sister were in bed, and then they resumed the argument from the night before. Or maybe they started fresh every night, but they only had one topic, and so they went through it over and over again.

However it went, every night, they argued about him.

Every night, they grew a little bit more worried. Every night, they had exhausted one more option than the night before, had another door closed on them. Supposedly, the Lord opened a window every time he shut a door, but the Neville family had yet to find a single open window.

Sean heard every word of every argument.

It didn’t matter that he was supposed to be asleep. Who could sleep with all of the noise?

It didn’t matter that his room was on the other side of the house from his parents’ bedroom. He heard their voices as clearly as if they were standing right in front of him. Except when the other noise drowned it out, but, even then, it wasn’t that he couldn’t hear them; it was that he heard other voices even louder than theirs.

One question emerged every night. Brought up with dread and a growing sense of resignation.

“What are we going to do with him?”


I don’t know what is real. I can’t touch what I feel. And I hide behind the shield of my illusion.

The voices grew louder with each passing day.

Nothing Sean did provided any protection or any relief.

Prayer didn’t work. Reading didn’t work. Watching television didn’t work. Being around other people didn’t work and in fact seemed to make it worse. Being alone in his room didn’t work. Hiding under the covers didn’t work.

Sleep was the only thing that silenced the voices, but he slept so poorly. Fear kept him awake. The cacophony made it nearly impossible to fall asleep, as though the voices knew that he might gain a few hours of relief and wanted to prevent that.

As scary as that could be, he felt more frightened by what the voices said than by the fact that they existed at all.

They lied to him, all of the time. Telling him ghastly things about everyone he knew. Secrets that dug under his skin like bugs, trying to poison him against them. Told him that the adults were untrustworthy because some cheated on their spouses or cheated on their taxes. Because some were violence and abusive and others thought violent things but had yet to act on them. Because some had lost their faith in God although they professed otherwise.

Because they thought he was crazy.

Worst of all, sometimes when the voices became too much to handle, something happened, and everything grew quiet for a few moments. People around him simply stopped whatever they were doing, and the voices simply stopped. As though they had gone to sleep and needed a few minutes to wake up and start again.

Sean didn’t know what made that happen. He didn’t think it was a good thing, and he hated himself for how grateful he was whenever it occurred.

The mirror on my wall casts an image dark and small. But I’m not sure at all it’s my reflection.

He had stopped eating.

He could barely keep water down. Anything more viscous or solid than that came right up, and then he had to cope not only with the nausea and the pain, but with the residual burning in his throat from the stomach acid he’d coughed up.

He knew he had lost weight, but he didn’t know how much. The only scale was in his parents’ master bathroom, and he never went in there. He had never gone in there before all this had started, and now his parents’ bedroom only reminded him of the voices and the argument which kept him away like the plague.

He had bags under his eyes and dark rings around them. He looked sick.

He felt sick.

How often did he shiver with chills? How often did he sweat too much causing his hair to flop around and get all sticky? How many days had it been where his formerly rosy complexion had turned ashen?

Whenever he looked in the mirror, he was reminded of how badly he was taking this. He couldn’t hide it at all.

Worst of all, sometimes when he looked in the mirror, he thought he saw the monster that everyone else was afraid of.

I’m blinded by the light of God and truth and right.

“What are we going to do with him?”

His parents were arguing again.

It had been so many weeks. Or maybe months. He had lost all sense of time since the days blended together. The voices transcended time. Time existed only to allow people to gain more secrets and to slowly bleed of dry of whatever inner strength he had left.

Tonight was worst, though.

Tonight his parents had come up with an answer to that question.

A mental hospital. A crazy house.

“We’ll take him on Monday,” his father’s voice permeated his brain. Followed by his mother’s concern for him and her fear for the family as a whole.

They were going to lock him away.

Monday was a few days from now, but no time at all compared with what would happen in a mental hospital.

The voices began to whisper secrets about his parents, and he covered his ears and began to whisper the Lord’s prayer. He couldn’t listen to this. He had to come up with some other solution.

He thought about his closet. All he could do was pack a bag. Pack a bag and run away, before he hurt someone, before he got worse, before they locked him up.

And I wander through the night without direction.

That night, after his parents had finished arguing and finally fell asleep, he snuck out the back door and disappeared.

[Dr. Sean Neville]

#92 – Morals

A group of very young, very drunk college students spilled out of the subway exit and into the street. One was so drunk that he could barely walk.

Despite that, they all looked so healthy and fit. Obviously, these were the athletes rather than the more sedentary gamers.

Joshua’s nostrils flared. Their blood smelled so good.

A few years ago, he would have been all over them in an instant. It would take little convincing, likely no supernatural charm whatsoever, to get at least one to separate from the group and come back to his lair with him. If he had felt magnanimous, he might have tried to bring back the entire group to share with his coven.

Now, however, he watched longingly as they tottered down the street back to campus.

Joshua sighed as he continued walking in the opposite direction.

There was nothing inferior about the blood of fetishists per se. For the most part, it tasted the same, although their blood lacked the additional flavor that fear provided. They brought their own additions, and the experience certainly came more easily and readily than having to hunt.

But he was a vampire, and hunting was in his nature. He felt neutered if he couldn’t stalk his prey, or at least charm them into coming back with him.

Joshua sighed again as he reached the doors to the club where the fetishists and the tamer vampires intermingled. His stomach growled, and he needed to eat soon.

Fortunately, nobody here had the chutzpah to refer to him as a tame vampire. His obligation and his vow extended only to feeding, not to defending himself or his sense of honor.

At least Joshua believed that his right to defend his sense of honor transcended his vow.

Sean would fight for his person.

That felt strange to think about, although he knew it was true. Perhaps that, more than the vow not to hunt humans for food and only to take from willing parties, made him tame.

That thought rankled him.

He was Joshua Bernstein, Lord of an old and powerful coven! He was feared by many vampires, ghouls, and other creatures throughout New York City and beyond. He didn’t need to rely on the protection from a hunter. Even a hunter as skilled and infamous as the Baby Hopkins himself.

Yet wasn’t that precisely what he had been promised, what he had asked for, when he had made this Faustian bargain? He abided by Sean’s outmoded notions of morality in exchange for safety for himself and is entire coven. They each lived to see another night at the price of providing fetishist clubs with a constant supply of business.

Sometimes he provided Sean with aid in selling out other creatures of the night. But never his own coven members, and they were the only ones to whom he owed a duty of protection when they followed the rules. In that sense, trading the information provided other tangible benefits, just like submitting to archaic human constructs in exchange for his dignity and sense of self provided the tangible benefit that he wouldn’t wake up to find a stake driven through his heart.

Joshua pressed his hand to his forehead. He must be hungrier than he had previously thought, as his blood was boiling over something that had been long-settled.

If he cheated and bent the bargain, the hunter would know. He remembered quite clearly the last time that he had taken home an inebriated stranger with the intent of taking advantage.

Sean had found him.

Sean had broken his window.

Sean had nearly shot him with his crossbow, and the vampire knew that the hunter had missed deliberately in order to put a bit of fear in him.

Sean had lied to him and tied him up.

Sean had threatened him and exacted another promise to abide by his promise.

While the being tied up part had been fun, Joshua had no desire to repeat the experience. He couldn’t take that risk.

Not merely for his own life or for those of his coven members.

Truthfully, Joshua couldn’t stand to see his lover disappointed in him.

Anger, he expected. Frustration, he expected. In fact, sometimes he deliberately incited the hunter because he liked how his nose flared when irritated and he considered it a form of flirtation. He even found the anger exciting in its own right, because he liked that Sean was his equal rather than a subservient waif aroused by his power or his position.

But the disappointment...when the hunter looked at him as though he could not be trusted, that got to Joshua. His ego often prevented him from apologizing, but even he could admit that occasionally he deserved it. And he wanted to avoid that.

So, tonight, he kept his word.

Smiling at the young woman at whose table he had been seated. He introduced himself and then bared his fangs.

[Dr. Sean Neville]

#14 – Pauses

Despite practicing law for over twenty years and having the highest law degree that a person could possess, Josh didn’t often go to trial.

Not comparatively, at least. Not the way that his colleagues who practiced criminal law were on trial, or at least the way they used to be. With the heavy reliance on plea bargains, people went to trial less in the criminal arena as well.

However, most companies, businesses, or services sued for discrimination chose to settle their cases. They didn’t want to risk going to jury, where they could find themselves on the line for damages many magnitudes greater than what they would pay in a settlement. Moreover, they did not want to have liability carved in stone, or deal with the negative publicity of a trial, or risk changing the law in a way that would negatively impact them in the long-term.

Yet his client’s former employer, a small business capitalizing on the Supreme Court’s decision in Hobby Lobby had denied his client access to his HIV medication, on the grounds that they believed HIV to be divine punishment, and thus, they found treating it to be a violation of their religious beliefs.

In no universe should anyone be able to walk into a court and claim that without being laughed out two minutes later. And yet he had to prepare for a lengthy trial to get his client basic medical care.

This was why Josh had become a lawyer.

Unfortunately, the trial preparation was not going as well as he had expected.

Or, it had, this morning when he had been at the office.

But Sean had an important afternoon session, followed by a weekly staff meeting, and so they had switched off so that one of them was home with Eleanor at all times.

Typically, they sent her to day care, but she was sick.

Typically, when Eleanor was sick, Josh was so panicked about potential causes or results that he could only focus on her.

But it was only a cold. Her pediatrician had assured both himself and Sean of that, and so Josh could focus on other concerns.

Rather, he could try to focus on other concerns.

He had never noticed how needy she could be when sick before.

“Papa!” She called through the baby monitor.

She had outgrown the baby monitor when she had become verbal, but the house was so big that both men kept them active for when she was sick. Especially Josh, since Sean could rely on telepathy instead of technology.

Sighing, Josh set aside the pile of discovery and trudged down the hall from his office to Eleanor’s room. Poking his head inside, he asked, “Yes, Sweetie?”

“I need the potty.”

He frowned. She was potty trained. She had her own bathroom that had been outfitted entirely for a small child. They had embedded a special toilet seat so that she wouldn’t fall in. Why was she telling him this?

“You can go potty.”

“Need help.”

He knew that wasn’t true, but he sighed in resignation. It would be quicker just to help her with whatever she wanted rather than argue about it. “I’ll help.”

Five minutes later, they had each washed their hands, and he had deposited her back in bed. With a kiss on her forehead, he retreated back to his office to work.

For another fifteen minutes.

“Papa!”

She couldn’t possibly need the potty again.

Josh appeared in her doorway a couple of moments after her call. “What is it, Eleanor?”

“I’m hungry.”

Sean had warned him about this. She hadn’t eaten much breakfast, and she had thrown up her lunch. So she would be hungry.

“What do you want to eat?”

“Mac and cheese.”

Josh was not making her macaroni and cheese. Sean always said not to feed her anything too heavy as the next meal after she vomited, because her stomach wouldn’t take it well.

“I’ll make you some soup,” he offered instead.

She pouted and repeated. “Mac and cheese.”

He didn’t want to argue about this. Just as he hadn’t wanted to argue about her needing assistance in the bathroom. He also didn’t want to have to clean up after her.

“I’ll be back in a couple of minutes.”

He returned with a melamine bowl filled with chicken noodle soup, a bag of goldfish, and a sippy cup filled with apple juice.

She pouted about the lack of macaroni and cheese for a moment but then started to eat her soup.

Josh went back to his office to work some more.

“Papa!”

This was getting ridiculous.

Josh walked slowly down the hall to his daughter’s room. Opening the door, he found her covered in spit up.

Poor Eleanor.

“Let me get you a bath,” he told his sick little girl.

The trial preparation would have to wait.

[Dr. Sean Neville]

#73 – Delivery

The women in his Lamaze class weighed their options carefully, read endlessly about every possible decision to make during, prior to, and after, labor.

By contrast, Sean had made his plan months ago, about two hours after his internist had informed him of his pregnancy. Those two hours had been spent waiting for the practice OB-GYN to come in and perform the necessary tests as confirmation, and for the telepath to cope with the reality of the situation, since by all metrics it should be impossible.

Then they had calculated his due date and he had scheduled a C-section for then. They had made the hospital plan to begin the day before, just so that he could settle in his room and get comfortable, as he would be there for a few days. Not only would they want to keep him as per post-surgical policy, but as the world’s first pregnant cisgendered man, medical science had questions.

Lots of questions.

Sean left those to his team of medical specialists.

Not that he wasn’t curious. Of course he was curious, but he had more pressing concerns.

Like the fact that, in six months, he was going to have a baby. He and Josh would have a baby together and their house was a death trap waiting to happen.

Nothing in their home was baby-proofed, because they were two middle-aged men who shared a house with a rabbit. They had dozens of outlets to cover, because they had over a dozen rooms. They had to worry about the stairs. They had to worry about the garage, and the basement, and the attic. They had to worry about the washing machine and the dryer; they had to worry about the oven and the dishwasher and the trash compactor. They had to worry about the front door, and the back porch, and all of the windows.

The telepath couldn’t muster any concern about the C-section when he had to think about everything that came after that.

He couldn’t muster any concern about the C-section because he had no other options. The only way that he could give birth to his baby would be via C-section, and he had no love for the naturalistic fallacy. He was a man of science, a doctor himself, and he was grateful for the advent of surgical procedures that would facilitate this. That would give him his baby.

He didn’t envy the women in his Lamaze class for the tremendous pressure on them. Pressure to give birth without pain medication or any form of medical intervention. Pressure to exclusively breastfeed for far longer than most of them could, let alone wanted to. Pressure to stay home rather than to work. Pressure not to sleep train. Pressure to carry their baby and never use a stroller. Pressure to use cloth diapers so that they had to spend what little time they didn’t have a baby hanging off them doing laundry. Pressure to co-sleep. Pressure to attachment parent and never take time to themselves. The view that motherhood meant that they ceased to have individual needs, and that anything that might make their lives easier, or might allow them to share childcare duties with their co-parents would irreparably harm their children. The fact that this came from both more conservative sectors as well as from supposedly progressive ones.

The fact that the young hipsters of Vermont shared opinions about gender roles with the Sean’s grandparents, the ones that had been born at the turn of the last century was frustrating and sad.

Sean couldn’t solve that alone, even if he encouraged his Lamaze friends to branch out and read scientific studies rather than mommy blogs.

Instead, all he could do was prepare for bringing a baby into his home. The baby that he would have via scheduled C-section with an epidural and a local anesthetic.

In theory, he was grateful for all three. He knew that, by the time he was in labor, he would be even more grateful.

[Dr. Sean Neville]

#66 – Rule

The newspapers reported on the court decision with shock, appall, and derision. All except for the Flame and the Advocate, each of which was pleased with the Court’s unexpected ruling.

Sean’s entire family had been appalled, but they also didn’t consider anything remotely related to sex to be appropriate supper conversation. Or appropriate telephone conversation, which spared Sean from having to listen to it.

Josh’s mother had been appalled, and he believed his father had been as well. Mostly because his father had said nothing at all about it, and his mother had glared at him. Josh assumed that was to keep him from saying something truly judgmental, and, despite his mother’s opinions, the college student was grateful for that. He couldn’t imagine how disgusted his father must have been by the ruling.

Yet, Josh was ecstatic.

Sean was ecstatic.

Greg was ecstatic.

Everyone in their social circle was ecstatic, whether it directly impacted their lives or not.

Sean had bought every newspaper that had an article about the court ruling, which had taken several days and had earned them a tidy pile in the living room. He wanted to commemorate this occasion, which, legally, was the greatest thing to happen to him since Congress passed the Twenty-Sixth Amendment back in 1971, allowing him to vote in 1975 rather than in 1978. Allowing Josh to vote in 1978 rather than in 1981. They planned to vote for Jimmy Carter together in November.

But this decision? For the first time in over a year of dating, they didn’t have to worry about being arrested for being together.

New York had decriminalized sodomy.

Although the fears of parental rejection, of societal rejection, and of retaliatory violence remained, at least they no longer had to worry about the police breaking down their front door in a raid and dragging them both off under charges in the middle of the night.

For the first time since they had begun dating, the way they made love with each other was legally the same as the way straight people made love. The same as the way that Sean had made love with his past girlfriends.

The telepath hadn’t stopped smiling in days.

The Village hadn’t stopped celebrating in days.

Banners that proclaimed “Thank you Appellate Division” and “Hooray for Onofre!” adorned shop windows and inside of the more popular clubs.

It was the greatest time in the Village since Stonewall. Tangible proof of progress. The beginning of everything that the men and women at Stonewall had fought for when they had thrown the first bottle.

Their love was legal.

“Now we can be safe here and in Vermont and in New Jersey,” the telepath remarked to his boyfriend when they came home from class. Vermont had repealed their sodomy laws three years earlier, before he and Josh had met, back when Sean had identified as straight. He had been happy then too, for Greg and for any gay guys living in Vermont. He had seen it as progress for those who might need it. New Jersey had repealed the laws two years ago, the same way that Vermont had. Still before he had met Josh.

Back then, he had never thought that he might be among those who might need it.

Now he was, and he felt so happy now.

Their love was legal, and both Sean and Josh intended to take full advantage.

[Glads Thompson]

78. "Stormy"
((just a little scifi au))

It started as a slight crackle, like the kind of sound a television makes when it goes to static. Then, it slowly became a light rumble, a little shaking and then a very loud crack of lightening. For a brief moment the barren looking planet was lit up by the sudden flash of light. It made visible the windows of some of the buildings that were nestled into the sides of the tall hills. This place was far from barren, it was only abandoned. With good reason it would seem. 

From the safety of the patrol rover, Glads Thompson jotted down a few notes on a clip bored about the weather of the planet. How there was no rain, and yet lightening storms were fairly regular. His science team was sent out to investigate this place to see if it could be of some use to their race. A race of beings that appeared human, but all had special abilities. Which was why the current electrical storm went almost unnoticed by him. The young man could cause the same effect just by pointing his fingers and concentrating hard enough. 

This was one of the many reasons he was stuck in the rover, while the rest of the team was out exploring. They couldn't take the risk of this storm effecting his power in any way. That, and he was still young. Seventeen, he was lucky just to be on the mission in general. If his mother had not been a medical officer, he more than likely wouldn't be there. Of course this was what he was thinking about when the ship's communications forwarded a call to the rover. From his dark corner, a green light lit up the area around Glads and a man's face appeared on his screen. 

"Well, this certainly is a surprise." The man's face cracked an ugly smile as he eyed Glads. "Didn't expect to find you down on a planet yet. How are ya boy?" Glads blinked at the man a little and sighed. "I'm fine...dad." The parental term held no love for the young man, and Gerald Burgess seemed to notice. "Is that any way to talk to your old man?" Glads didn't respond to this. In fact, he was rather tempted to just turn the com off, but he didn't. So, Gerry continued. 

"Seems like you lot are scouting out an abandoned planet in the Verbous region. Run into any pirates yet?" The old man asked as he kept his heartless eyes on the boy. "Nope, then again...science teams that don't want to strip the planet clean and leave and empty husk usually don't" Glads wore a little smirk as he said this. "Now listen here boy, you mind your tone or..."

His words were cut short but a woman who just entered the room behind the boy. "Or you'll what Gerry?" It was Angie, Glads' mother, she had an even more strained relationship with Gerry than her son did. "He was speaking his mind...and the truth. Your company does nothing but destroy." That's when the argument started, and that's when the young man thought it may be best to slip away from this conversation. As he walked down the length of the rover, he could still hear the two yelling and screaming at one another. So, he made his way through an inflatable walkway, into one of the small research bunkers that jutted off the rover. He was honestly just looking to be alone. 

Not long after settling down on top of a supply crate, he felt something brush against his ankle. Looking down, he saw a strange creature. It was almost lizard like, but felt soft and didn't appear threatening at all. Which, naturally was deceiving. The noise of a phaser gun let the young man know in advance, that something wrong. He had barely yanked his legs up when the creature hissed and lunged, but it's attack was halted by a fast shot. "Th..thanks." Glads stammered as he looked up to see his rescuer. 

It was one of the grunts that had been assigned to their mission as well, to keep things safe. Glads knew the man well, after all they had practically grown up together. The guy was five years older than he, but always looked out for the lightening maker. He was always there when Glads seemed to need him most. "Oh...Travis, I didn't know you were in here...and thanks...really." He smiled.  The other blonde man stepped closer and kicked the limp creature out of the way. "It's quite alright Glads, I heard your momma yelling and figured it had to be your old man. Knew you'd be out and about." The young man shook his head a little and then nodded. "You do know your daddy owns this planet right?"

Glads looked up, shocked to say the least. "I had no idea he had already gotten his grubby paws on it. No wonder he called, and why momma's so upset." He ran a hand through his own hair and shook it a bit, trying to relax and forget about. "I mean, my life's been pretty turbulent. More so with my father around, then he was gone...now he's back and doing all this...I just..I give up." Glads seemed mentally exhausted, and only after a brief encounter with his father. "I wouldn't worry about it too much Glads." Travis quipped with a wry little smile and he stepped a bit closer. "Things look stormy now, but after the rain always comes the sun. You just remember that." With that, he gently touched the young man's cheek. In that moment, Glads saw something in Travis' eyes he'd never noticed before and a blush came to his face. No time for that now though, not when his eyes caught something else.

A small flash of silver from the collar of Travis' shirt, gave Glads a glimpse of a symbol. One of the pirates that helped save these small planets from industrialist like Gerry. His eyes must of shown what he saw, because Travis backed away a little. "Just you be sure you got your momma and everyone else ready to go when I say so." It was all that really needed to be said. Glads wasn't fully aware of what was going to happen, but he knew it was going to be big. "Be careful Trav." Glads nodded as the older man began to walk away. "Don't worry about me, I plan on living, besides...got something important to tell ya when I get back." And with that, he was out the door, leaving Glads to wonder and worry. As he did sit and think, he remembered what Travis said and noticed that the electrical storm outside, was gone.

[Lucy Serrano-Blaise]

95. Enter.

December, 2013

Uncertainty was the most dangerous emotional discourse for the Australian. She hated it more than anything. More than vulnerability, uncertainty was the vessel of doubt. It was the thing that made people question others without a reason to. And for herself – the person who liked a little definition and a lot of carefree qualities – feeling uncertain was an unwelcomed rarity.

It had happened twice now.

Once as she'd left the book by her doorstep with every intention of getting out. She wasn't even sure if Penny realised she'd left it behind. If she'd gone looking for the seemingly insignificant object she didn't come back for. Maybe she didn't care about it either way. Maybe she'd have just gotten irritated by the evident vandalism of the book itself. Uncertainty overthrew confidence, and the ink manipulator had tried to leave. But she'd been caught. And she was so grateful for it.

The next night – after she'd slept with the psychometrist in both senses of the phrase – she'd returned to the girl's dormitory. Not too early, but the light of the day had sunken behind the horizon a while ago. She reached the door that was slowly becoming more and more familiar. And as she went to raise her hand, she took a breath and stopped.

She withdrew her hand, running her fingers over her jaw. Leaning back slightly, Lucy glanced down the hallway; first one side, then the other. What if it was a one-time thing? What did it look like for her to come back here again, at the time she'd chosen? Penny had been grateful she stayed. She'd agreed it didn't need to be defined; was her presence there on the next night a defining factor? Lucy had told her she'd leave if she'd wanted, and she’d come back equally so if it was what she wanted.

Of course, she'd said. Of course I want you to come back.

But was it what she wanted now? She couldn't be certain.

Lucy took a step back, glancing across the common room door a final time before turning away.

Such a defiance to the hand of uncertainty had prompted days of no contact. The occasional hit in the hallway but for the most part, the ink manipulator had been distant. Rightfully nervous and equally cold. It wasn't until she came looking for her that she realised the fault in her ways. Someone wanted her, and someone was waiting for her. For nights. The very night she contemplated her presence at the door, someone was waiting for that very presence to find certainty.

So the next night, she didn’t wait. She didn't feel that stint of uncertainty. At least, not until she was there. Again. At the door with her hand raised to it.

"Fuck." The Australian seethed, drawing her hand back and running it along the back of her head.

Penny trusted her. That much had been said, and Lucy believed that at the very least, she very much wanted to place that trust in her. She even believed that a part of the psychometrist did trust her. But when she went and threatened to falter on the line she was stuck at, she was certain she didn't deserve it.

Raising her hand again, she squeezed it into a fist before losing the tension. She could do this. She released the fist she carried and curled her hands around the door. Who even knocked on common room doors anyway?

But the moment she opened it, she opened her door. Lucy froze and glanced up, catching the dark eyes of the Brit as she froze in her place, too. There, in suspension, they both stared.

"Hello." Penny had said, and Lucy let the door go as she moved into the common room without a word. Just a wave of her hand before she turned back to close the door behind her.

"Hey."

Standing in her doorway, Penny held her hand on the door and opened it a little more, but she still made no motion either way. "I didn't know if you were going to visit."

Lucy shrugged her shoulders, drowning her hands in her pockets as the tension in her neck built. She wanted to look. She had once before. She'd seen it all before. A few times, now. But it wasn't enough.

"Were you going to leave?" Penny asked her, and she unfurled her arms once she realised she'd folded them. Despite the subtle harsh qualities, there was something more alarming lining her words.

Uncertainty.

Lucy raised her eyebrows, surprise forcing her eyes to widen at the realisation. A great danger, shared.

"No." She finally replied, and she stepped forward towards her, "I want to stay."

Without a word, the Brit pulled the door open a little more and stepped to the side; "Good."

[Penelope Serrano-Blaise]

75. All I Ask

March, 2034

The phone sat in front of her, face up on the kitchen table. She looked at it. Stared, even. Not in the way she looked at the Australian, but the conflict was evident in her features. How her lips pressed into such a precise line.

Lucy pushed herself from her own seat, taking the few steps necessary to breach the distance between them. Fingertips trailed lightly across her wife’s shoulder blades, settling at the opposite shoulder as she, too looked at the phone.

Until Penny looked up, and then Lucy quickly met her gaze. As hard as it was not to offer some form of verbal comfort, the silence felt more fitting. As if saying anything might change her mind. So she offered a smile. A light squeeze of her shoulder.

She still looked tired. Of course she did. The past two days had been exhausting on both of them. Sleepless nights upon the discovery of their eldest son’s ability. Nobody had this. It wasn’t going to get easier, but they still had to stay strong. Penny for Lincoln, and Lucy for her.

Penny’s hand left her lap, fingers curling into Lucy’s as she tilted her head. A break in eye contact in favor of pressing her lips to the back of the ink manipulator’s hand. And there she lingered.

“Do you need me to—”

“It’s fine.” Lucy couldn’t help but to break the silence, but the interjection her wife made was more than enough. She wanted her to stay, at least until she dialed the number she had hunted down to find.

Still, Penny hadn’t made a move towards her phone. Lucy kept her gaze fixed on the Brit, who in turn looked at the device, watching the mental process unfold in front of her. Her free hand moved to the hem of her own shirt, fiddling with the material as she failed to remain completely still.

“You know you don’t have—”

“I know.”

Finally, she reached for the phone. With precise movement of her thumb, she tapped the screen, punching in the numbers neatly written on a yellow sticky note. Another beat, and Lucy realized she was holding her breath until her wife finally hit the dial button.

As Penny placed the phone against her ear, Lucy leaned downward, lightly kissing the psychometrist. She could barely hear the ringing on the other side before she slowly drew away. The boys were just out of earshot, and she intended to keep them that way. Her foot dragged a moment too long against the floor as she made her way from the kitchen, and she caught the exhaustion within her wife’s voice, just barely noticeable under the neutral tone she masked it with.

“Percival, it’s Penelope Blaise.”

[Lucy Serrano-Blaise]

48. Nimble.

July, 2014

"Lucy."

"What!"

"Lucy Ellis Serrano."

Ouch. The middle name. It was always harsher when the middle name was involved. Lucy felt herself squint her eyes instinctively, allowing them to narrow on the one who uttered it in the first place. The person who wore it first.

"What is wrong with you today?" Her mother had asked, her voice strained. Strained in such a way that expressed her evident anger. In a clearer mind, Lucy would suppose that she had a right to be angry.

But she wouldn't say it now. She wouldn't even think it. She was snapping over nothing.

"Oh, what." The ink manipulator replied flatly, the tiger at the forefront of her arm shaking its head with a quick twitch, ears brushing down with the indication of a greater sound. Something to focus on. Something to drag its attention forth in an almost familiar sense. "We're gonna talk about this again. You're gonna say the same shit-"

"Lucy."

"-again, and I'm not gonna take it." After all, it was the same argument over and over again. It was the third time since she'd come home for the holidays that they'd entered it, and every time it exploded in the harshest way.

"Enough."

"Because maybe you are right. You think there's no bloody point to it, because maybe I might fail again." She took a shallow breath; "And then what?"

Her mother carried the calmer, clearer head. She allowed herself the time to breathe; to close her dark eyes for a brief moment, collect her thoughts, and start fresh as Lucy seemed to stew in her aggression, "All I'm trying to say to you is that I'd like for you to try." She reasoned, like it was so simple, yet somehow her daughter lacked the sense to find it. "Because I'd like for you to graduate. And I'd like for you to come home."

After all, she herself was a high school teacher. She'd seen complacency in those smarter than they gave themselves credit for. She was sure her child fell into that category.

"Jesus."

"And there's nothing wrong with wanting you to come home." The Matriarch of the Serrano household was quick to dwindle her negative emotions, but it always gave way to something fresher, "It's bad enough to lose one of you for years on end, but the both of you?"

Nica. They lost their second child to another country, too.

"I-"

"I know you've never liked it there, baby." Her mother tried, and Lucy held her eyes shut at the simple nickname she'd never quite shaken, "And - selfishly - that was always a good thing. But lately..."

Lucy cringed. Lately. How her voice drawled off the thought. "Yeah."

"You seem like-"

"Yeah."

There was a definite stint of silence, then. The mutual agreement of a similar thought pattern meant that no one needed to articulate the point behind it. Standing at opposite ends of a small room Lucy would once call her own, she felt the urge to hang her head. And she did, after a moment, which felt like a minute of solitary confinement under scrutinising dark eyes. She was nineteen; why did she always feel nine when she was being stared at?

"So what are your plans, then?" She'd asked, almost desperately. The colour lined her tone so obviously, like there were no longer aggressive walls keeping her truer protocol at bay, "Do you know?"

Taking the time, Lucy ran her tongue across her lower lip. Slowly. Purposefully as she tried to drag the words out of her mouth. She looked up to the woman she still very much looked up to, and as she caught the saddened look in her eyes, she felt guilty. Guilty for the way she hated her prior home more than her current one; guilty for loving the set of dormitories she shared with another entity she never wanted to leave behind.

"No." She lied, her voice suddenly weak.

Guilty. Like she'd made a choice already, and no one knew about it.

[Lucy Serrano-Blaise]

30. Collide.

March, 2014

True to form, six in the morning was far too early for Lucy Serrano. Even as she'd stayed awake long enough to tease the psychometrist, offering sobered words of love were some of the last she managed before she fell away to sleep again.

It was an accident. She closed her eyes for what she thought was a few spare moments, and drifted off facing her counterpart.

Even if she was exhausted, Penny couldn't find the means to do the same. Still, she stayed, her eyes on the settled ink manipulator beside her. Close enough to feel the rhythm of her breathing settle completely. She looked different. Settled. Peaceful, even. And while she always did, the Brit couldn't help but believe that this was different.

Of course it was different. Everything was different, now.

But eventually, she thought to drag herself away. She needed to.

Slowly, Penny retracted herself from her counterpart's side. And she went for clothes. Specifically her own. But as her fingers curled around the dress she'd worn the night before, she changed her mind. The ink manipulator's discarded shirt would do. For now.

Because it was the rest of the room that flickered in her senses, dwelling in the back of her mind.

Order. There used to be order. She herself helped create the order.

The clothes in disarray, ripped from their places in the near-perfect closet and tossed across the room in her evident frustration. Penny openly understood why the Australian had been frustrated and upset, but the initial reason behind the dishevelled mess wasn't entirely clear. She folded and organised the mess of jeans, first. Back in their place. The same with her shorts. Then to the array of shirts, careful to place them all back where they were as quietly as she could. Her jackets went back to their allocated hangers. One by one as the ink manipulator idly stirred and muttered something in her sleep as she stretched involuntarily.

Glancing towards her over her shoulder, Penny remained stagnant until she settled again. She couldn't help the smile at the corner of her mouth as she leaned down, fingers touching down on the last piece of flannel that remained out of place.

She took a breath.

In the definite fury, fingers curled into the folded set of shirts on the shelf. With a heavy haul, she dragged them from their place with excessive effort and allowed them to fly wherever they did. Her heartbeat rang heavy in her ears, hard in her throat as quick, albeit shaking hands worked through each pile. Each hung item. Tension harried in her jaw as she refused to take a breath. Refused to acknowledge her own stupidity despite how it burned her senses and blurred her vision.

Why would she say that. Why try. Why bother.

Reeling away, the psychometrist instinctively straightened her back at the sudden rush of a memory. She felt the residual desperation. The shred of questionable self-doubt. Something else, too. But pinpointing it was difficult. As she considered retrieving the last of Lucy's clothes again, even the simplest brush with her fingers seared her skin with the threat of a memory. The same, or something similar. It was the kind of impact she didn't want.

So regrettably, she left it. The floor was mostly clear, and Lucy's desk wasn't. How she managed such an incoherent mess shouldn't have been a surprise - practically every pen she seemed to own had split.

Surely, nothing could come of the mess at the desk. It was clearly derived of the ink manipulator's ability. Did she need to touch anything to make it work?

Clearing away most of the mess and salvaging what she could was relatively easy; the last few empty pens were all the same.

Without a second thought, she rested her hands down into the mess of ink.

Red. From the mess, red was missing. She dragged the red away, feeling the movement along her hands with a shift in colour. She had a sudden disdain for the colour red. She doubted it was possible to hate a colour more.

Quickly, she dropped the busted pen she held, the plastic hitting the stained desk with its own hollow sound. Pulling back instantly, Penny looked to her hands. What she was sure were leftover speckled notions of black ink across her skin. Marks she chose to leave there on purpose. But now, they were gone.

They felt clean, but they didn't.

A minor glance to the mess of paper nearby, still pinned to the wall. Had they always been there? It seemed odd for an ink manipulator to bother creating anything with a pencil.

She looked back finally to the one in question. To the way she still looked so at peace considering the chaos she'd inflicted the night before. Penny still felt the remnants of that induced rage, interwoven with underlying emotions still not-quite readable. Nothing seemed clear passed the Australian's overbearing temper.

With purposeful, quiet steps, she made her way back again, sitting at the edge briefly before making a move to rejoin her counterpart.

The moment she settled beside her, she felt Lucy stir. It was the most prominent thought; it was more pressing to keep her resting than it was to douse the flames of another surge to her system.

A backwards sword against her arm, an arm against her eyes. There was nothing to see but the darkness of the blackened room she created on purpose.

The threat of regret burned at the back of her mind, but she knew it wasn't prominent. In the end, she didn't want to take back what she said. It wouldn't make a difference. It wasn't good enough. She wasn't good enough. Not enough to deter a definite decision. Not enough to keep a person from creating distance; from choosing to run over wanting to stay. The fabled notion of self-worth covered perfectly by obvious aggression.

Leaving. She was always leaving.

A shallow breath hit Lucy's back, pressed against it as she was. Though most of it still didn't make sense, Penny knew she had hours to consider it.

And now, she wasn't going anywhere.

[Lani Hunter]

61. Search
((Credit to REO Speedwagon, "Keep on Loving You"))

It was all going according to plan. Lani had, with a great deal of effort, gotten up earlier than the redhead and snuck out of their apartment leaving a note on the table:

Odion,
Happy birthday, love!

I have a surprise for you, but you’re going to have to find it! ;) You should try starting where we first met.

All my love,
Lani

Notes like this would continue and knowing that Odion was sharp, Lani had made them varying degrees of difficulty, some were old memories, others were just puzzles, all in the effort to keep Odion occupied for the duration of the day. Lani texted Odion midway through his preparations.

To: Odion
How’s it going?

From: Odion
You’re an ass <3

Lani chuckled at the return message.

To: Odion
Stuck?

From: Odion
No.

To: Odion
Want to meet for lunch? I can give you a hint ;P

From: Odion
Only if it is ‘Due North’ of the place I ‘first caught you’.

To: Odion
Roger.

He laughed and when he didn’t get a message back from Odion, he realized it was either that Odion wasn’t sure where to go or was just annoyed at the whole game. He found the bar manager and told him that he was stepping out and thanked him again for helping out. The barkeep smiled and waved him on.

The telekinetic was standing outside the old diner where he had first forced Odion to swallow a burger. He leaned against the storefront, his arms crossed before him as he waited. Soon enough he spotted a redhead coming through the crowd. Pushing himself off the wall he walked toward Odion. The redhead was grinning, his faced excited, “You know how hard it is to figure out ‘due North’? There is a restaurant in almost every direction!” Odion said pointing an accusing finger at Lani.

“Oh come on, you’re not enjoying it?” Lani teased, “I thought it was very easy.” He fingered the chain around his neck and gave Odion a wink. Odion took a step forward and drew Lani into a kiss. Lani wrapped his arms around Odion. “Happy birthday, love,” he said when he could breathe again.

“Thanks,” Odion smiled back in reply and pointed at the restaurant, “You’re not gonna make me eat a burger are you?”

“Nah, c’mon,” Lani said linking his arm with his boyfriend and leading him inside. For the price of a rare diamond the head chief had made a special dish of soup he’d learned while he was running his business in Paris.

He’d debated and argued with himself for weeks trying to figure out what to get Odion for his birthday, it wasn’t enough to just get him something, not after they’d been together for five years. Odion didn’t need things.  Back outside Lani held out a small bag he had hidden behind his back. 

“Happy birthday, Odion!”

Odion took the bag and pulled out the contents which included a plush teddy bear. He paused before looking back at Lani. “Lani, you… thank you.” On the bear was a ring, one that wasn’t ‘girly’, one that reminded Lani of Odion. The ring had three smaller rings that rotated independently. Each had roman numerals that mimicked the hours, minutes and seconds on a clock. The point wasn’t to be accurate.  Odion slipped it on his finger, testing it on a few before he found one that fit, reminding Lani he needed to actually get a good idea of Odion's ring size by now.

While Odion was distracted Lani dug out and handed over a note to Odion. A sly grin on his face.

Odion looked up at Lani with disbelief. “What?  There’s more?  Lani!” Lani nodded and waved the paper at Odion, flashing it by his face as annoyingly as possible until Odion broke and snatched it out of his hands. “What’s the surprise?”

“You’ll see,” Lani said an impish smile on his face.

“Aw come on Lani,” Odion said drawling out Lani’s name like he did when the telekinetic was annoying him.

Lani shook his head. “You’ll see,” he insisted.  He gave Odion a kiss before turning. He turned and pointed from his eyes to Odion. “And don’t you even try to follow me, you’ll ruin it.”

After wandering around for a half hour, Lani decided Odion wasn’t going to follow him and breathed a sigh of relief and returned to the bar to make sure everything was set up. These clues would lead Odion all over Pilot Ridge and even back to their apartment and in some places that now had to be snuck into.

Night fell and the bar was starting to fill with people. Lani was waiting nervously, any minute now Odion should be finding his way here. It had taken a lot of courage to talk himself into this and now Lani couldn’t back out. It was all coming to this.

His breath caught as he saw Odion walk in the door his head swinging around searching for something. With a nod to the guitarist next to him music suddenly filled the air. Odion’s eyes turned toward the stage and even at this distance Lani could see the shock cross his face.

Lani took a deep breath and he sang, “You should’ve seen by the look in my eyes, baby, there was something missin…” A hush and small ripple of whispers flowed through the small crowd but Lani’s eyes were on Odion.

“You should’ve known by the tone of my voice, maybe, but you didn’t listen. You played dead, but you never bled, instead you lay still in the grass, all coiled up and hissin!” Odion was walking toward him now, his mouth slightly ajar.

Lani swallowed and continued, never taking his eyes off of Odion. “And though I know all about those men, still I don’t remember. Cause it was us baby, way before them and we’re still together.” Lani rose a hand and grinned at Odion, who now had a bright red coloring. These were more than lyrics, Lani didn’t know how to be poetic on his own but this… “And I meant, every word I said. When I said that I love you, I meant that I love you forever.

“And I’m gonna keep on loving you! ‘Cause it’s the only thing I wanna do. I don’t wanna sleep, I just wanna keep on lovin’ you!” Lani hoped off the stage and took Odion in his arms and kissed him with all of the words he couldn’t articulate. A few cheers went up around them and now Lani pulled back his face just as red as Odion’s.

Taking Odion’s hands in his Lani took up the chorus again. “And I mean every word I said. When I said I love you, I mean that I love you forever!” He held Odion’s hands to his heart. “And I’m gonna keep on loving you! ‘Cause it’s the only thing I wanna do. I don’t wanna sleep, I just wanna keep on lovin’ you! Hey, I’m gonna keep on loving you! ‘Cause it’s the only thing I wanna do. I don’t wanna sleep, I just wanna keep on lovin’ you.”

Lani could barely breathe, his heart racing. Odion’s eyes were wide with surprise and warm with love and he was speechless, his mouth gaping open and closed as if he were searching for the right words. As the band finished out the last chords and the crowd applauded, Lani was already alone in his world with Odion, “Happy birthday,” he whispered and Odion closed off all other words with a kiss.