Julian's painted into every corner of Tay's life; his fingerprints trail over the crystal glass of Tay's heart, streak through the bits of their soul they keep hidden away. There's no piece of Tay that Julian's left unmarked - not that he knows that.

"Julian," Tay says lightly, spring sun making them both glow golden. "I love you."

"Love you," Julian echoes. His eyes scrunch up, little happy slivers.

Tay knows, deep down in their gut, that the way the two of them speak of love is different. The gaping maw of that difference stares back at them as Julian kisses their cheek, skipping off to flirt with the woman eyeing him at the bar one night, the man at the coffee shop the next day.

Love you, Julian says. But - he doesn't mean it, like Tay does. Isn't distracted by it, persistent buzz of affection and soul-ache, feeling the warmth of Julian's love like they’re wrapped in silk voile. Muted touch through featherweight fabric.

It's enough, though. Having Julian like this is enough. If they can't remember the last time they didn't think of Julian, it's only because they spend nearly every day together. The bright spark of his laughter fills Tay up, like they’re a little teapot. It's enough.

(They tell themselves it's enough.)

There are moments where Tay thinks- maybe. Maybe if they take Julian's hand, press lips to the palm, Julian will understand; will reflect the fractious light of Tay's love back to them.

Or maybe, Julian won't. Maybe the soul string tying them together is really just spider silk, a wisp of illusion that Tay's chased after with hope withering slow and soft in their chest. So Tay bundles all their maybes up, tucks them away. Adds to them every now and then.

It's a summer day when one maybe comes true.

"Wow," Tay says. The words taste like mangled steel, sharp in their mouth as they work to make them sweet. Make them happy. "Sounds like you really like him."

Tay’s heart is bruising deep purple-blue, breath stoppered up in their shallow lungs. Did it really have to be this maybe?

"He's lovely," Julian sighs, a little lovestruck, a little moon-eyed. Tay thinks that hurling themselves through the very pretty crystal window across the restaurant would hurt less than this. "Third date's the charm, right?"

But - there's something in Julian's voice, then, as he looks at Tay. The maybes in their chest flutter. Small. Annoying.

"Right," Tay says. "Yeah."

"Yeah," Julian echoes.

Ollie comes over that night, shuffles Tay over to the couch and lets them cry themselves out in earnest against his shoulder.

"Babe," Ollie rumbles. "It'll be okay." Tay can't really speak but, they know. It'll be okay because they'll still have Julian they way they’ve always had him, and it’s enough, it is, and-

the door buzzer rings.

"Expecting someone?" Ollie asks, patting their back. Tay's confused, because they’re definitely not.

They take Ollie's proffered tissue to wipe their eyes and nose, letting Ollie get up to answer. Tay sees him check the video feed, eyebrows shooting up in surprise. "Who is it?" Tay rasps.

"It's Julian," Ollie says calmly, granting access from the keypad.

"Wha-" Tay barely has the space to scramble upright before Ollie's opening the door, the click of Julian's boots sounding down the corridor. He appears in the doorway a moment later, flustered and breathing heavy.

"I'll be outside, okay?" Ollie says, glancing at both Tay and Julian to check with them. Whatever he sees in Julian's eyes, he nods, satisfied, before slipping into his shoes and stepping outside. The door snicks shut behind him.

Anticipation stretches between them like an aggressive rubber band; Tay's afraid of when it snaps.

"You were crying," Julian blurts out. His forehead furrows with a frown.

Tay's laugh startles out of them, rusted and clanging around their mouth on the way. "Yes." Julian's jaw works, clenching down around words. Tay watches the way he arranges them together, then throws them all away.

"Why?" Julian finally asks.

Tay regards him for a long moment. He’s still so beautiful, even as he’s fidgeting in his impatience. He’s clenching his jaw like he’s anticipating needing to put up a fight, all that energy wiring through his body, his cute little fingers clenching into fists at his sides.

Tay sighs. They’re a little tired of the maybes, having lived with them so long. Perhaps it’s time to let them rattle loose of their cage.

"Why are you here?" Tay asks in reply. Julian comes closer, boots kicked off. His socks are mismatched - Tay's been looking for those.

"Because," Julian says. "Because I looked at him over the table and-" he blows out a breath. Comes ever closer. Stops with his feet tucked in between Tay's. His eyes are open in a new way, and they see something they haven't before, peeking out at them. The maybes shatter and crack somewhere in the ether of Tay’s body, split apart to make way for new growth.

"And he wasn't you," Julian says. He settles himself down into Tay's lap, a familiar place, made new with the certainty of Julian's words. He breathes them again over Tay's cheek, maps the swell of it with his thumb. Their eyes are level, and shine with the same light. "He wasn't you."

Mary loves Sooyoung the most in morning light, soft hues and softer touch.

Sooyoung in the morning is love half-asleep, rasped words tickling over the skin of Mary's neck, pressed close to her ear, lips ghosting over the slow, steady thrum of her pulse. Everything is warm warm warm.

Mornings make Sooyoung heavy, not so conscious of her body; she drapes herself over Mary to anchor her down, squish her pleasantly to the bed. It's easy to card her fingers through Sooyoung's hair, draw a finger down her nose, across her eyebrows.

Easy to kiss the sleepy pout of her lips, the divot of her collarbones. and when Sooyoung smiles, squinting up at Mary with tired eyes, Mary feels love like a lump in her throat, too big to speak around, so she breathes it out instead.

I love you, she exhales over Sooyoung's cheek, and feels Sooyoung answer in kind. I love you I love you I love you.

Overflow

You think that loving June is like being able to hold the sun in your palms. Something huge and wonderful and wild, made smaller to tuck close to your heart, a warmth that burns in the best way.

Loving June fills you up, makes you full to brimming, overflow of emotion spilt down your chest, pooling at your feet. You soak it back up like roots, like June's treasured bonsai, try your hardest to breathe even a fraction of that love back out to the world.

You love June in the press of fingers to the tired slope of her shoulders, the brush of your lips against June's flushing cheek. You curve around June's softest parts, a shield and shelter all at once.

If there are stars in your eyes, it's only because June is the sun, the cosmic glow from which you’re born and die and are reborn again. In abundance, in simple joy.

You think of loving June in all of these ways, and you'll continue to think up every other way until there are no more.

I’m working on figuring out a new med dosage to see if that helps the practical drive to create return, but in the meantime, I thought I’d look back over things buried in my draft docs. Luckily, I found something from half an idea I’ve dropped and picked up a few times over the years.

This is a totally raw snippet, not fully edited, and I don’t even really have a clue where it was leading - but I’ve always had the faraway dream of doing some truly ridiculous world-building with high fantasy names, and a plot that spans several novels. Who knows? Maybe this’ll make it there someday. Hope you enjoy.

In the deep recesses of the dimly candlelit hall, on the edge of the dark, murmuring throng, Roian of Blackwood watched all comings and goings with hooded eyes. He was a picture of unstudied elegance; hands in pockets, a slow, deliberate gaze, and a slant to his mouth that belied either cruelty or amusement. A curl or two of blonde hair cut across his brow, adding to the shadows wreathing his face, and every so often he would reach up and brush it away. In the corner of his eye he kept the sight of the grand throne.

Any moment now, the Duke would step out to announce the fate of the king, and tonight would be the night everything changed - if the old bastard actually had the decency to die. 

The king was as far past his prime as anyone could possibly be - and for those who often lived for millennia, that was saying something. It was common enough to see in Amaris, where rulers regularly aged beyond their good reason and spirit to succeed and have their people thrive; in the twilight lands, where a misstep in court could mean a slit throat or a spear through the heart, it was exceedingly rare. Helver - the “Destroyer”, they’d called him - had managed to remain alive through a mixture of deeply loyal advisors and a cunning gift for weaseling his way out of conflicts of war. His six children, four of whom had died in various skirmishes and years-long battles, had inherited their grandmother’s talent and skill for combat. It was a terrible shame that not a single one of them had any interest in ruling; still, Helver kept them at a distance, to mitigate the already slim chance they would get the urge to inherit the throne by murder. 

Roian hadn’t even been a twinkle in his great grandmother’s eye when Helver spilt the old queen’s blood to claim the throne, but he’d been just about into his prime when the king’s corruption and disinterest in the actual act of ruling became clear. Countless years of zero competition for rule had led him to become lazy with power, and the realms were suffering for it. The council hadn’t undergone any significant change in dozens of decades; the inner circle remained comprised of the king’s closest allies and conspirators. 

A light shiver whispered down his spine as someone sidled up to him, magical energy tickling along his senses in warning. 

“It seems you’ve come out to play, after all,” Roian sighed lowly, eyes never ceasing their leisurely sweep along the crowd. A husky chuckle reached his ears, and he smiled in answer.

“You thought I’d miss this? As if anyone is staying home tonight, dear boy. I think I passed Countess Devine on my way in, and we both know she’s pushing her third millennia.” 

Roian, finally content that he’d witnessed the last of the spectators to make an appearance, glanced to his right to acknowledge his oldest friend. 

Verine Greyhearth could best be described as danger in its most pleasant disguise. Full rosy cheeks, waves of long, gunmetal hair, and lush curves a goddess would cry over. Verine could even pass for a rather lovely and un-intimidating young woman, but for her eyes. Glittering and fathomless and incomprehensibly old, they had driven mad more than a few who were careless enough to challenge her. Her magical signature was large enough to blow up several planes of existence, which to some made her all the more alluring, and for others kept them further away. Roian could hardly think of anyone who knew exactly how old Verine was, but it was widely accepted that she had come into existence around the beginning of time and had been terrifying all beings alike since then. Why she deigned to spend her time with anyone at all instead of conquering the realms was a mystery, but Roian was glad she did.

“I forgot how much you enjoyed court intrigue,” Roian murmured thoughtfully, flicking his gaze over the aforementioned countess, who did indeed look well into her three-thousands. The wavering light deepened and twisted every crevice and gnarl on her face, and the open skin on display by her plunging neckline. 

“Yes, well. As long as something interesting happens, I’ll make sure to stick around for the bloodshed. If not, there’s another event I’m to attend.” Verine looked amused for a moment, before sobering. “Besides, we’re all fucked if the old man doesn’t do us all a favour and die. He’s been holding on to the tatters of this life for too long and he’s doing an absolute shit job of keeping it together. Also, if Meryl doesn’t try for the throne after the announcement, I’ll eat my fucking hat.”

“You’re not wearing a hat.”

Verine scoffed. “I meant metaphorically, you prick.” 

Just then, a rippling hush fell over the crowd to reach them, as all attention was drawn to the front of the hall. Duke Marek Etteren the Ninth, Keeper of Beasts, Lord of Easterlyn, Master of Reverie - more informally known as simply the Duke - stepped onto the center of the dais where the grand throne sat. Tall and angularly striking, the Duke had an arrogant cast to his features and a perpetual sneer that unfortunately did nothing to dim his attractiveness. Close-cropped black hair crowned him, dark and slick as an oil spill, and his deeply yellow-gold eyes were reluctantly intriguing. 

Atop the dais, the Duke let the weight of the moment grow, the slight smug smirk on his lips letting everyone know he understood how much power he had then. Dramatic, pompous asshole, Roian thought, internally rolling his eyes. Verine’s elbow gleefully jabbed him in the side, as if she could hear his thoughts.

“Good evening to all present,” Marek began, voice rich and dark as thunder as it carried easily over the stillness. “I am here to inform you that the king, may his soul rest in everlasting peace among the halls of his great ancestors forever and ever, has passed.” A low whisper rushed through those closest to them, and Roian bit back a smirk at the unmasked relief he could hear in those sighs. Verine, entitled to irreverence due to her general and genuinely terrifying aura, grinned as widely as she could. 

Marek let the chatter die down before continuing, clearly enjoying being at the center of the drama. “As is tradition, we ask all houses to send forth a candidate to vie for the throne. In a year’s passing, the tournament will commence, and a new liege will be crowned. Are we in accordance?”

A din of “Aye!” answered him. 

“Each house has until the next full moon to deliberate. The naming shall take place in the Dardes Grove. Are we in accordance?” Another “Aye!” resounded.

“We are agreed. My lords, my ladies; I take my leave.” With one last lingering glance at those gathered, he departed with a flourish of his cape.

One is, most noticeably, that feeling of otherness, of belonging-but-not-quite, like the weight of his body is unknown but still functions as it always has, and always will.

The second is James.

“Hello, Kel,” James says, mouth soft and round and pleasant with the curve of his smile. His eyes are so, so dark, here in this twilight-daytime-shadowed landscape. Fathomless and deep and knowing.

Kel thinks he’s smiling; can’t really feel the muscles of his face contract and relax in the way he knows it does, when he smiles, but it’s like the ghost of one molds itself to his lips. When he speaks, it sounds like he’s smiling, so - he must be. He must be.

“Hello again,” Kel says, because it’s polite, and also rote, habit drilled into him through timeless familiarity, because James is always here. Always. That’s how he knows he’s Somewhere Else. But also: “I missed you.”

“Silly man,” James says, fondly mocking. “Of course you did.” His voice is rich and sweet, curling around Kel in ribboned whispers. James has always seemed smaller than he ought to be, Kel thinks; there’s an impression of a secondary figure, huge and hulking and beastly, superimposed over James’ form whenever Kel catches him in his periphery. Huge, monstrous teeth in a gaping maw, drooling with the urge to hunt down prey. 

But. 

This is a dream, and James is lovely. The loveliest thing Kel could have conjured up, actually, in his tired mind. Something ethereal and fun and ever-so-slightly mean. He thinks he’s in love.

“You’re not in love.” Kel hadn’t said the words aloud (did he?), but James acts like he did. He taps a finger against his chin, an impish look of mischief pinching his eyes into crescents, bares his straight, perfect teeth. “At least, not yet.”

“Okay,” says Kel, because he doesn't have to think here, in a dream. Doesn’t have to go beyond placidly agreeing with whatever James says, because James is lovely, and he loves James. 

“This is only a dream, after all,” James sighs. “You can’t know all of somebody from a dream, can you?” James shakes his head no, so Kel does the same. He thinks he does the same. Movement here doesn’t follow the rules of the real world, out there where his body is hindered by gravity and motion and taxes. 

“I’m watered-down here, you know. This isn’t even the real me, just a sad, pale imitation.” James pouts, and Kel feels something surge in his chest, the rapid thump of his heart banging painfully against his ribs. Is that happening in his body right now, out there? There’s a phantom slide of fabric against his arm, his body turning over in bed. 

James cocks his head, as if he can hear the rabbiting of his heart as well, gaze shifting into something hungry. “That’s okay, though,” he says, serene once again. “You don’t have to know me just yet.”

His hand reaches up to cup Kel’s cheek, and Kel feels it, he feels it. 

“Because I know you.”

Kel jolts awake.

Kel’s nodding off at his desk when there’s a knock on his office door. There’s a mad dash to straighten himself out, rising to bow when his manager walks in. 

“Ah, Kel! Sorry for the intrusion, but I thought you’d like to meet our newest team member.”

James peers up at him from his open doorway, solid and real and completely ordinary. Kel’s shock lasts about as long as it takes for him to reason his way around it - maybe his brain is backfilling all of his dreams with the image of James in front of him, maybe he’d walked past James before on the street and his mind snagged on that randomly, maybe maybe maybe.

Kel thinks all of that, but when he locks eyes with James - the person that can’t possibly be James - he knows. He knows. 

“Hello! I’m excited to get to know you,” James says, mouth soft and round and pleasant with the curve of his smile. His eyes are so, so dark, here in Kel’s air-conditioned office. Fathomless and deep and knowing.

And because it’s rote, and familiar, and he doesn’t know what else to do, Kel replies. “Hello again.”

He thinks he’s smiling.