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The three of you eat dinner together, and somehow it’s not terrible. Magnus keeps looking from you to Lucretia with his wide eyes, constantly in disbelief. You want to make some smart joke— ask Lucy to draw me, it’ll last longer — but your wit left you somewhere in the pocket spa between cucumber sandwiches.
You feel like shit. Absolute fucking shit. Not in the guilty way, not in the hurting way, just in the way you always do when you talk about how you feel too much, which is why you just don’t . Why do you only do that with her? What has she done to deserve—
But it’s not her fault that you haven’t talked to Lup. You know that now. And when you go home, will you? How can you?
She’s talking to Magnus and you wonder what they’ve talked about. If they’ve talked about it. You’re sure they must have. And still, despite it all, there’s a little smile on her face that you don’t think you’ve seen since… since…
You pick up your fork and listen to the rumble of his laugh and you wonder, when Lucretia goes home, where does she go?
When she’s talking about leaving, you feel uneasy. Exhausted. And Magnus is in the other room, and you’re following her to the front hall, and before you can even think, you’re telling her to stay. You’re making excuses. You’re reasoning— I’m going home anyway, so keep him company for me— and when she interrupts to tell you no, you touch her arm, and she stops talking.
When you tell Maggie, he looks sad, like he always does when you leave, and especially when you leave too soon. He asks if you fought, and you tell him no, and you’re not even sure if that’s a lie or not. You did, until you didn’t, and then you…
You say goodbye to him, and not to Lucretia, because you feel bad, and you won’t admit that. You feel bad about everything, and you’re not sure why, and you came here to get laid, not to panic, and this is stupid, and you don’t want to cry any more than you have, and everything feels wrong , and you walk out the front door and onto the lawn and into the silent cobblestone road and you try so hard to breathe. And you call Kravitz and he comes and he doesn’t ask why. He just takes you home.
You step into your bedroom and you’re crying, and he’s wiping the tears from your face. Still not asking. He tells you to breathe— just breathe, dove— and you try because trying is all you can do.
And now you’re just sorry, sorry, sorry. Sorry for bothering him. Sorry for making this mess his, too. Sorry for going to Raven’s Roost and sorry for telling the truth and sorry for asking her why and sorry that you can’t be good like they’re good or forgive like they forgive. Sorry for finally getting your way, for drowning her spirit there, like that would make up for the decade-long loss of your own. You’re sorry. You’re sorry. You’re sorry.
You’re afraid of her being alone like that, because you’ve been alone like that, and on the worst nights it nearly killed you.
You put on a glamour and you wonder when you stopped wishing it would kill her.
When you go downstairs with Krav, Barry’s doing dishes. Lup’s playing the violin in the porch room, a song you haven’t heard in decades from some world lost in the blur of your adventures. When Barry turns— oh, you’re home early— he stops, and you don’t. The violin cuts out before you’re even in the doorway, and Kravitz isn’t behind you anymore, and Lup’s walking towards you, and she pulls you into a hug. For a moment you wonder if Kravitz told her before he left, or Lucretia called, or Magnus— but no, it’s just Lup, and she just knows before you say. Before you need to say.
She looks at you— Ko? I thought you were staying over Mag’s— searching for an answer that isn’t quite there. The words escape you like they always do. You can’t talk, because she’s here now, she’s right in front of you, and she’s never leaving you again. What’s there to say? What more can you ask of her?
You can’t, so you don’t. You hug her again, tighter this time. You wish so many things that you can’t name a single one of them.
You’re in the kitchen with Barry. He offers you a beer. When you decline, Lup takes it with a mage hand. Her laugh fills the house as she retreats to the living room. Barry looks at you, a question in his eyes.
You make some excuse— I’m beat, I’m just gonna— and you go to bed early and wait for Kravitz to follow you back upstairs. And you hear the rumble of Barry’s voice, the song of Lup’s laughter, and you stand in the bathroom and hold onto the sink and will yourself to brush your teeth. You don’t look like Lup without your glamour.
You lay in bed beside Kravitz, not looking at him, but feeling his stony stillness steady beside you. He breathes deeply and you’re grateful for the sound. You miss Magnus. You always miss Magnus.
It’s a long time before you sleep. You wonder if someone warmer would have lulled you under sooner. You think about Angus and Magnus and Lup and Lucretia. And when you dream, she’s still there in the pocket spa, nineteen again, big tears in her dark eyes. Her chin dips below the water and for a moment you can feel it too, the heaviness, the desire to forget.
You know you’re dreaming, but you can’t bring yourself to surface. You sink like a stone in her sadness. The sadness she’d created. The sadness you’d fueled when you followed your sister’s plans without a second thought and left Lucretia behind. The sadness that hangs humid and hot in the air, still, after all this time.
And you sit there, watching her empty eyes cry. Realizing that there is no second, third, hundredth chance this time. And you want to say you’re sorry, for everything, all of it. And you don’t know why.
And you can’t remember why.
And you don’t know who that is.
And you don’t know where you are.
The static crashing in your ears wakes you, but you don’t startle. You’re used to these nightmares now. As you reacquaint yourself with your bedroom and your love beside you (and gods, he looks so handsome there), you take one deep breath, then let it out slow. You recount your blessings one by one: Your sister. Kravitz. Magnus. Barry. Angus. Even Merle. And Davenport, and Ren, and Joaquin, and the Story, and the Song. You’re here, all memories intact. Everyone where they were meant to be.
And Lucretia, probably tucked under Maggie’s huge arm, just like she used to be. Your static headache isn’t quite gone. You wish that it would just stop so you could sleep.
You used to joke that elves don’t need sleep, but it’s not the same anymore. You wonder if she still has the same trouble, too. How many nights had you spent hours in the kitchen with her as everyone else slept? How many cups of rose tea— with a splash of milk and two sugar cubes— did you make and hold in your weary hands? How many tears were shed? And how many times did you touch her knee and say nothing, because you didn’t have to?
Kravitz stirs beside you and you finally surface from your thoughts. He sits up a little and pulls you in with one arm. His skin is cool, but it’s comforting. Safe.
You let him lure you to sleep, and when you do, it’s dreamless. No static. You wake to the smell of bacon and Lup singing downstairs in the kitchen. Kravitz snoring, and Barry in the shower across the hall.
You’re in the kitchen beside Lup and you’re making breakfast together. It’s been a long time since the two of you have cooked. Really cooked, like you used to. You pour milk into the batter and mix, then reach out without looking for the egg that she’ll surely be—
It’s too short, or too early, or too far. It falls on the floor and breaks. And it’s not a big deal, it’s not a big deal, it’s not, it’s not, it’s not— I’m sorry— and you can’t really breathe for a moment because it’s all so much.
You look up and force yourself back into reality. You smile, and it’s so fucking fake that you’re practically begging her to notice. If she does, she doesn’t mention it; she just grabs another egg and cracks it for you— there, problem solved— and you don’t cry until you’re climbing the stairs to wake Kravitz to come eat.
You spend most of the day in the house, alone with Kravitz. You lay in his lap on the porch and he plays with your hair while the birds flitter between the branches of the trees high above. He doesn’t ask. You almost wish he would, just so you could find something to say about it. But right now it’s just resting there inside you, burning like poison. His hands feel cool on your face.
You take a nap on the couch. You order takeout for dinner. Lup and Barry are gone all day and you can’t help but feel it’s for the best. Kravitz plays piano for you, new songs you haven’t heard before, and they feel good. He hums to you under his breath and rocks you in his arms. You eat pad thai from the box together in bed. It’s not so hard when you’re here with him. It doesn’t hurt. You’re safe.
You’re laying in bed beside him as daylight fades slowly from the window. He’s not looking at you, and you open your mouth to say something, and then you close it because you don’t know what to say. You feel his hand press into your lower back, moving you just a little closer. You nestle beneath his chin.
He draws a small breath, watching sunset through the sheer curtains. Love? And you’re burying your face in his chest because your mouth still won’t work.
He tucks a lock of hair behind your ear. Cups your face in his palm— do you want to talk about it? — yes, yes, you do, you want to, but it’s all stuck in your throat. It’s okay if you— so you nod. Take a fistful of his shirt and close your eyes.
“Yeah, I do.”