Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

 i of iii.

well i, i’m just like you / i've got, got no name at all

By the time Declan Lynch is freshly fourteen, he knows the value of patience.

It’s a learned thing, expanded upon by years of practice. Watch Ronan for hours on end, because you don't know when REM sleep will hit. Stay at the window and keep an eye on the driveway, because you don't know when the Sheriff's office might send over a wellness check of dubious intent. It doesn't matter if the drive is boring, because we have to be at this Fairy Market. It's responsibility, bred right into his bones. He's smart. He understands.

Today is different, but largely the same. He doesn’t know how long he's been staring at this yellowing motel wall, but it’s been enough for his numb bones to twinge uncomfortably. He always waits next to the door. It's the best position to keep one attentive ear focused. Listening in won't ensure that no gunshots ring through the drywall, but it makes him feel better to be on top of things. It’s one of those days where Niall Lynch has told him to sit this one the fuck out lad go on now, but his father is his father— prone to badmouthing the wrong people. So he waits. There is a gun tucked into his too-big jacket, but it’s a model he doesn’t yet know how to work. Push to shove, he can adapt fast, but he hasn't carved out the space he needs to learn it today. The schedule is set: things are supposed to go a certain way, and it unsettles him when that does not happen.

( He hopes his father will give him back the matte-black pistol, which fits easier in his sweaty, pubescent fingers. He hopes his father will survive long enough to make the exchange. )

Routine isn't on his side today. A member of the party is late, which is rarely a good sign. The elevator down the hall dings, and he swallows the sudden burst of ice in his limbs. People are late because they're drunk, because they're busy clearing out every floor below, because they're planning to not be polite. He wants to get up, stand at attention, but his traitorous legs are jelly. It's a fight to will away the overwhelming panic, to coax his locked knee to the ground. There's two ways to display power: flashy weapons, or outrageous confidence. His father's a proponent of the latter, he can learn to do the same. With effort, he could make himself stand. It brings with itself new stresses; Declan can’t imagine how he’d handle his legs buckling publicly. Sitting is safer because it looks intentional, which is everything that matters.

His hand drifts into the hidden pocket all the same, fingers fumbling, trying to find the safety by touch alone. Sometimes Dad's weapons are dreamt, which makes them inconsistent, which makes them terrifying to rely on. He sucks a breath in through his nose, exhales through gritted teeth. A clingy premolar wiggles in annoyance, and he can't manage to disguise his wince. The elevator's brought with it footfalls that echo around the hall, dingy wallpaper and paper-thin doors unable to absorb the sound of unsensible heels. Declan's eyeline is skewed - he sees a burst of red, soles blinking against ratty carpet. It's accompanied by the shine of black, and then a skirt that make him turn his gaze away. There’s two other men with her— or no, a man and a woman, her cropped short hair and bulk painting her alien to the women he lives his life with. Cataloguing is natural, and it makes him feel better, so he does it. There are two bodyguards. No doubt a concealed weapon in a patterned purse. It's all par for the course. What is surprising is the muffled sound of yet more footsteps, fast, stomping; belonging to a smaller stature entirely hidden behind the larger man. Too small.

Declan knows that there’s other kids in the market. He hears about them all the time, sure, but it is still always a surprise to see one.

( Did you hear, Deckie? Mick's rat got kidnapped and murdered, or was it sashimied? Ha-Ha! Better watch out, kiddo. I hear he was your age. )

This boy gets tinier the longer he looks, skinny and hidden under the bulk of his own hoodie. His shoes are good though, overly white and overly sized and no doubt overly priced. The woman leading the pack tucks her sunglasses into the V of her blouse, leaning over to pat sympathetically at his head. The boy jerks away, grumbling. Her necklace swings. “Do learn to be decent company, Henry. Look how well Lynch trains them.”

There's an accent to her he can't place, but her voice is low and musical, authoritative but nearly whispered. She’s inside before he can blink, her hired muscle darting in before the door can swing shut on its own. He sighs at the definitive click. More moving pieces to keep track of, to discern through muffled arguing. Declan half-expects the child to do the same, linger nervously and hope for no casualties. Instead, in all his four feet of glory, he kicks at the wall. One, twice, again. Declan, still seated, still wincing at the blood-flow in his calf, watches him go through an entirely silent tantrum. It’s still violent, though, in that desperately hungry way of someone who can’t afford to really complain. It’s recognizable. Declan continues to wait. He shoves back his hood when he finishes, sliding down the wall to rest across from Declan. He's disproportionate. His legs are the bulk of him, thin and long enough to almost touch across the hall.

“Hello,” he greets finally. “I suppose we’re the fucking dogs they keep in the goddamn-fuck kennel.”

Declan stares. He doesn't know what to say. “Goddamn fuck-kennel?”

His voice is reedy. “Do Americans not say kennel? Doghouse. Lickers of plates and bones and scraps.”

“Oh. I think of it more, like, guarding,” Declan replies, even though he knows he should be shutting the fuck up and ignoring him. But it's good to finally recognize someone here, even though Seondeok’s son doesn’t have the same mass of hair he's used to. He’s buzzed it and bleached it; and the yellow contrasts horribly with his black eyebrows. It’s pink at the edges, like it was dyed red once. His hoodie is extremely red; it wouldn’t be surprising. This is the first time he's ever looked at Declan long enough to talk, and he feels inordinately pleased about it, like he's passed a test he never expected to give. 

Henry clicks his tongue, and snaps his fingers in a gotcha! -motion he’s undoubtedly picked up from someone very old. “Still dogs,” he says, sing-song.

“Still dogs,” Declan agrees, a traitorous smile straining the edges of his control. 

The Baader-Meinhof phenomenon is disquieting. Once they break the vase, Declan sees Henry everywhere. Across the room here, pouting in the parking lot there. ( Though, really, it's likely just confirmation bias. Something like changing the way you see things to make sure you're never wrong. It's another phrase he's learned through eavesdropping on suited men: he likes the way they talk, using all the same words. It's a glimpse into a world with a language everyone understands. He likes the idea of succinct and classic; phrases used because they've been proven to work. It feels better than speaking without a script, inducing ire even when Declan never has any idea what he's said wrong. Henry still very rarely talks at all, and he finds it perversely relieving. ) In truth, the Market itself has been more active this season, shifting and shuffling like a perturbed animal. It's a tough quarter of business for his father, rectifying a miscommunication between giants that requires several flights and several weeks and several Dreamed items. Ronan's apoplectic in the rare times they find solace at home, hugging and punching in equal measure. He's been convinced he's all grown up ever since he hit double-digits, and finds it an unforgivable offense that Declan kicks him out of the trunk every time they leave. 

He misses his brother, but he cannot deny the elicit thrill that sleeping through the night gives him. 

Declan's managed to find his way inside the closed doors, finally. It is not much better. Niall Lynch is a figure so big it doesn't allow room for partners, so he gets bodyguard statusㅡ stand still, hold a gun, and keep an ear open. Instead of his hips, his calves hurt now, standing through meeting (deal) after meeting (deal). He looks forward to the actual Fairy Market, where Niall will leave him be; safe enough to stare longingly at things he cannot afford. Though even that seems to be taken from him tonight; the throng of people forcing him outside. Declan is leaned against the balcony doors now, barely avoiding the tense air inside. There's something clearly desired on the listing tonight, possibly a culmination of every month leading up to it.

All of every month leading up to his birthday. Which isn't relevant, but sometimes he wishes it was.

He emerges into the sharp coldness of the air, and barely manages to take a breath before he's interrupted.

“We must stop meeting like this,” Henry Cheng says. 

He cracks a smile when Declan whips his head around. He's an awkwardly stacked thing, swaying like the breeze will take him up with it. His hair is growing aggressively upright, spiked black with tinges of straw-yellow. He’s still short, which Declan internalizes with a distinct feeling of smugness. Henry blows a cloud of faux-mango smoke at him, the vape clunky in his thin fingers. The breeze instantly whisks it away, but he still pretends to wave it off his face. "You're too old for me to be safe."

“Whatever will people think,” Declan murmurs back. Henry kicks at the edge of his shoe before turning around to look over the city. He has to get on his tip-toes for it, which a glance confirms. His sneakers are still very clunky and very white; near-glowing in the dark. They've scuffed with the polish of Declan’s borrowed brogues. "Also prosumptuous. I'm only fourteen, by the way."

"Leaning hard on that technicality, loser. It's like, eleven o' clock. Look, my watch lights up about it."

Declan leans forward, letting the cold metal of the railing bite into his elbows. Surprise makes his voice voice higher, still not broken through. "You know my birthday," he says, aiming for awed and landing at suspicious. "Whatever. You can't be that young. You know, Dad says you're jailbait."

“Everyone keeps saying that. Weird as fuck. I'll be fifteen end of the year."

Declan digs his chin into his elbow, keeping a single eye free to act interested. People don't like when he looks at them head-on, though he's been told you're supposed to look at people if you speak to them. “Huh. I thought you were older.”

“Yes, you deeply intelligent creature, that is the point of the phrase. Fuck off. You look eighty-five. You look like you went to the old factory and got old and died. 'Cause you were old.”

“Thanks.”

They look back over the pollution-flared lights. It's silence for a few minutes, laced with awkwardness, inching to unbearable. Something's shuffling in Declan's esophagus, some bubbling excitement counting down the minutes to twelve. There's something humiliating about another person keeping track of the date, someone who knows what he's never been told. The sound of the wind disguises the worst of it, lets him pretend the heat in his cheeks in from the January air. This Market’s at the edge of a city, the last building with six-or-more floors before an expanse of flat, identical housing. “Your dad’s kind of a freak,” Henry adds abruptly. 

“Yeah,” Declan says. And then, because he knows it'll make him laugh, “I would know.” 

Henry turns to look at him for a long moment; both of them frozen, until he breaks down in laughter, contagious enough that Declan has to turn his face away. It feels good to make someone laugh, hard enough that his phone fumbles in his grasp and clatters to the floor. He bends to grab it, his fingers barely brushing Henry’s before the boy rips his hand away, clutching the phone in a white-knuckled grip. The sudden shift in behavior is startling to both of them. His eyes are wide, irises stark against the white surrounding them, dull panic making him wheel backward. It feels like stepping on a dog's tail, like accidentally flinging a rock on a stray kitten. Declan feels horrible, regret rearing up deep as Henry pretends he isn't struggling to even his breath. 

There’s a feeling here of fucking up, and he opens his uncooperative mouth to apologize, but nobody's looking at him. It takes a second for Cheng to unfreeze, and he mumbles out some jumble of words, half-stuttered, half-blurted, empty placations before he slips back inside faster than anything. 

Declan doesn't go after him. He turns fifteen in silence, alone with the cold air, before he slinks back to stand next to a very satisfied Niall Lynch. One of them has been extremely successful tonight; he can feel glares from nearly every door in the lobby.

"Look, boyoㅡ this fucker lights up. Sings whatever the fuck you want it to. Tune in your head? It's got it right here. Feckin' deadly. Nearly took Seondeok's head off for it."

"What are you going to do with it?"

Niall looks down at him, uncharacteristically thoughtful. "I thought it would look good on the mantle," he says, and has enough decency to act sheepish. "It's got a nice shape, no?"

Declan sighs.

Truth be told, it's the last decent birthday he has. He celebrates the weekend of sixteen by greeting his father's body on the pavement, next to a murder weapon slash threat for him. Ronan will never understand it, Matthew thankfully won't look at it, but there's nothing else he can make out except a blinking banner that says, I'm coming for you. It's the angle it was left inㅡ if you'd squinted the right way, it met with the slope of Niall Lynch's neck to make a bloody D. Spectacular artsmanship, though Declan would really have preferred more normal threats, like fingers in the mail. 

Of course, Niall's Will is a piece of shit, because his father had the foresight of a bat. Declan makes do. Ronan makes do, too, in a way that requires screaming and violence and Declan nearly breaking a rib because he didn't dodge in time. Aglionby's dorms are atrocious, but Matthew likes not having to wake up ungodly early, so he makes do, too.

Declan’s seventeen when Henry comes to Henrietta. Not publicly, of course— legally, he's nineteen, Niall’s fudged papers have made sure he’s been an official guardian for a year now. There’s a surprisingly short window of time between being made aware of his existence, and before receiving a nameless call on a number that he has never shared. It's a work phone, a magenta Razr that requires maneuvering a keypad and being concise. The sender has the luxuries of a touchscreen, and Declan chooses not to dive into the open pit of cybersecurity panic waiting for him.

Sender Unknown
hello□□.
Do u know anything about waste disposal in this state?? -HC

What kind of disposal?

Sender Unknown
Biohazard...
yhere may be objectionable fluids seeping into my cargo liner
NOT my fualt

I’ll have to see.

Sender Unknown
sure princesss<3. □ thxxx.

There is, in fact, a body in the trunk.

There's a surprising amount of space in the back of the Fisker too, a fact that Declan files away just in case. It's good to have options, when you're looking for a new car. Gas prices aren't the best to deal with. He's open to trying electric.

Henry's managed to get taller in the years its been, every bit of flesh in his body usurped for height, though his bones remain as obviously weak as a shambling fawn. Declan's known this, through no little amount of sleuthing that he would nonetheless describe as keeping a cursory eye open. Seeing it up close is a nearly funny thing. It's a bit like a Monetㅡ it's easy to mistake the child model for being elegant and gazellian, not displaying symptoms of an eating disorder that would put the early 2000s to shame.

He's leaned against the passenger door now, hands on his knees, lopsided in that precarious way people are before they empty their guts out. Given how white and haunted he looks, Declan internally amends his statement. He probably already has. The joke there writes itself, I bet you're used to that, but it seems too hostile for now, so he files it away. He slams the trunk closed. The smell is— awful, sour and actively souring, closing the trunk having no impact on its presence. It lingers behind his eyes too, brown seeping everywhere that isn’t red. He takes a moment to thank the Lord for the forethought involved in meeting off-road, in the middle of nowhere, barely avoiding a ditch Cheng had nearly driven into.

“Mary help me,” Declan says aloud. “How long has he been in there?”

Henry's eyes blink wide in Declan's vague direction, but the way his arms tighten around his slender middle further betray how shaken he is. There's a tremble in his lip, flushed where his teeth have dug in. The roundness of his cheeks, vestigial and stubborn baby fat, makes his open mouthed frown a little comical, like he's running on contradictions. There's a whine to him when he speaks, a higher pitch so similar to what Declan remembers that it nearly jolts him. “A day? I don’t know, I didn't look — Don’t fucking worry about it, Lynch. Where do I put him?”

Declan busies himself with slathering a copious amount of hand sanitizer over his palms. Miniscule cuts over his knuckles burn, but he supposes that’s better than getting infected with whatever it is that oozes off corpses. He’s not a doctor, but he cannot imagine it’s good. His father’s modus operandi for unwieldy bodies had been to dream conveniently large, exclusively human-eating pigs. The extra special part was that they faded into dust the second they were finished. Of course, everyone in the house would sneeze for days after, but that's minor compared to the decomposition process. He remembers dealing with dreamed half-people, culled because they had to be, a pain to dispose of because they looked a little too close to human. 

Niall had been bad enough at doing it the non-magical way that Declan himself had filled in the blanks of his skill. He's a little perversely proud at being called on it, like he's proven himself extra special. Ronan could never bury a body like he did. “Well, first, you can’t put him anywhere. It’s too bad. Either you rip the whole back out, or trash the car. It can’t survive a forensic check," Henry moves closer, he clears his throat. "Do whatever suits your interests.”

“Ah.” Cheng watches him drum his fingers on the car’s silver-chrome finish. He looks mournful, dejected like a cartoon rabbit, all drooped ears and crumpled hoodie. “You’re certain? Certain-certain? Old man certain?” The edge of hope lilts his tone, like he thinks he can convince Declan to suddenly fix the fact that humans are deeply, impossibly wet, and to wet they return. The knowledge that he's going to crush that hope is pleasing, a little thrill in his toes that makes driving out here worth it.

“Mm-hm. Absolutely impossible. You're probably covered in the human fumes, too, if you managed to drive it out here."

Cheng's teetering bottom lip crumples. Whatever force of will had been keeping the younger boy upright is zapped out of him, and he drops heavily on the ground. “My father is going to fucking kill me,” he moans. "My life is fucking over. There's no good public transport in this country. I can't walk! I'm fragile!" 

It really is a pleasant day, human remains notwithstanding. The sun is bright above them, the birds are singing, and the ditch is nearly surrounded by trees. They muffle the sound of cars not too far away, but it nearly feels like nature. The WiFi kind, not the camping one. Declan refrains from taking a deep breath in, but cranes his neck to the tops of the evergreens.

"You could stage an accident,” he suggests. He allows himself a single tight, dry smile. “For an Aglionby student, it wouldn’t be out of character.”

unlabelled entry: 01

Willing or not, appreciated or not, useful or not ㅡ a not insignificant portion of Henry’s life was spent mediating. Switzerland in a trade deal, politely offering a middle ground of payment, young enough and courteous enough to skeeve past male egos. So what if his advice always ended up suspiciously in Seondeok’s favor? That’s the point of it all ㅡ he’s unfit for this line of work, but that can be made an advantage. It’s all about perspective. About presentation. His mother had always stressed the importance of knowing how to act. Dark and mysterious was suspicious, loud and vain was not, stupid and earnest was not. It was an exhausting truth to live, but it is what it is. C’est la vie.

It was certainly a reason to be slinking around the parking lot of the town church, vehemently ignoring the early April chill. A google alert had declared it something called Saint Mark’s Eve. The least Mark could’ve done, he thought, was warn a man to put on a jacket. He grit his teeth, and deliberately relaxed his core -- he didn’t want to shake for this. The second car in the lot was dark, and silent, tinted well enough that you’d think it was empty. If you didn’t have a tiny spy tippy-tapping against your ear, that was.

Knock-knock-knock, said the metal of Henry's very thick rings. Or, krick-krack-krack. It was a nasty sound, too close to gunshots for comfort. Smack-smack-SMACK, said the palm of his hand to the Volvo window. It wasn’t fully tinted, but the lights were off inside, and he was not going to peer through the glass. That’s weak. He's not an animal. The window rolled down, just the inch. 

Hard to get, Lynch. 

“Hello. Hello. Fucking, uh, birdie told me you were out here. Open the fucking door, man. I'll attract all the white vans in the area at this rate.”

.

On the unfortunate occasions his rented storage unit became too stuffy, he had to take a moment to himself. It was all in the recovery methods. Isolate and decompress. Inventing a happy place to live in. Bullshit breathing techniques he'd picked up from watching silly movies, scarce scenes only ever caught over Matthew's shoulders. Phrases snipped from brochures handed over at the doctors’ offices he hates going to. It probably wasn’t the best coping mechanism, but it was what Declan had. He didn’t enjoy being interrupted, and while he didn’t flinch at the knock at the window, he somehow did manage to get even tenser. Just being around Cheng elicited that kind of response. He paused for a moment, thought about ignoring it altogether, about rolling his window back up and speeding away. But that was far too fucking dramatic for St. Agnes. The lock unstuck, louder than one would think possible, and Declan was patient enough to wait until Henry made himself comfortable before asking, "Your birdie didn't tell you it’s a bad time? What is it that you want?"

Henry clicked his tongue. For a moment he was nearly somber, picking up his voice before it fell. “You say that like there’s ever a good time.” He did not slide the seat belt close, swallowing to quell the immediate shock of ice that ran through his knees at the click of the lock. You are here of your own will, Henry Cheng. You are not a child. You know this man well enough to ruin his life if he makes an attempt on yours. Fear, though, was rarely ever rational. He cleared his throat, resting his cheek on his knee. His shoes were scuffing the Volvo seats, and they both knew it, but Declan didn't say anything. His thin lips get thinner, though. His discomfort was palpable; the smallest of victories. Every business transaction is about gaining the upper hand, after all. 

Declan was unsure if Henry had meant to be reassuring as he ignored the seatbelt, but nonetheless, he managed to relax minutely. His shoulders fell about an inch, and he removed both hands from the steering wheel. No click of a seatbelt indicated that Henry wasn’t planning on staying, meant that if Declan played his cards right, he could return to his biweekly car breakdown in peace. It was a little pathetic, sure, but every man had his vices.

“Anyway. Fret not, D-day. Business expense.” He pulled a card out of his pocket. It was a little dented, somehow damp, still impeccably well crafted. Seondeok had an eye for visuals. Henry had to have gone after someone, after all. There's a pen scrawled behind the plain card, on the opposite side of the simple silver crown decorating the white. 8, white tie, Avenue. He hesitated. “It's— she— we need something specific. Something my mother believes you can give.” Walls had ears, trees had eyes. It was vital not to speak of things beyond where they were due. This is a concession he didn’t need to give, an ease of mind he is not supposed to offer.

This was not the neutral mediating he’s supposed to be doing.

.

This was Declan’s car, his domain. Henry had entered it only because Declan had allowed it. On a distant note, he realized that there was something lurking at the edge of his consciousness if he had to console himself with statements, but Declan Lynch had made it this long without looking too hard at the shadows that cling to him. He can make it even farther. 

He took the card with two fingertips, like it would burn him if he held it. Declan wanted to let his eyes slide shut, heave the world's biggest sigh, sag under the weight of the Lynch name. He didn’t. It was dark in the car, but the silver of the crown somehow still managed to shine. The S of the logo twisted into itself; nearly turning into a bitten apple in the low light. He could see the humor where it was due. There was no other choice for Declan, just as there had been no other option for Eve in her garden. He took the card, cursed his father, blinked once. Routine kills, after all.

It's only because Henry had caught him off guard that Henry abandoned his script — they'd done dealings like this before in the past, and Cheng knew exactly what he's meant to say. Instead, he indulged in his melancholy once more. (It's Henry's fault really, everyone else knows not to fuck with the biweekly car breakdown, even Ronan.) "Your mother keeps thinking I'm my father. What'll happen when she realizes that isn't true?"

Henry looked at Declan, looked at the weak scruff on his jaw, at the softness of his cheek. As much as both of them liked to forget — they're hardly out of teenagerhood. He sensed the sardonic huff in Declan's words, felt a sense of ill-gotten achievement at getting past that bland facade. You work with someone long enough, you get to know their tics. 

Despite himself, he smile. It's a quiet thing, sad in the eyes, drowned in the tiredness they both live in. "I don't think she does," Henry admitted. Seondeok thought Henry was her, though, and he neither wanted nor knew how to tell the Lynch heir that. It was a rare moment of honesty between them. He could, at least, acknowledge one truth: he's fucking tired. He was tired, and it would be his forged birthday soon, which meant more placid smiles and dealing with people people people. All he wanted to do was curl up in his bedroom and close his eyes. 

It was easy to see cracks in seams when you're built of fraying threads yourself. Henry's voice was the slightest bit softer, the slightest bit more true. “Unlike your father, she believes you are competent,” he continued, in the same pitch. “This is both a blessing and a curse.” A muscle worked in Declan’s jaw, and Henry swallows the urge to put his fingertips to it. He knew Lynch sees his eyes wander, knew that they would both ignore it. “I’m sorry,” Henry almost said, so Declan didn’t have to. They both knew this particular script.

“I know,” Lynch said, bland. His voice was deeper, grittier, and he was resolutely not blinking. “It is what it is. You can leave now.”

He left. One nod, and didn’t look back. It was only when he was in his own car, fingers shaking, Bee spamming miserable question marks on his phone screen, that he allowed himself the luxury of curling over. It was not rare to feel the visceral weight of loneliness. It was rare, and worse, to know that this would never change. 

They weren't built for it. 

unlabelled entry: 02

Declan chose to skip the dinner. Henry felt he should be allowed and encouraged to strangle him with his bare hands. He made it through the gathering with a tight smile, glued at Seondeok’s side. There were a lot of hands to shake. The Lynch was missing a very, very valuable networking event. Worse still, he was leaving him to the mercy of his mother. 

Which was the real crime, really.

You showed a man your flesh and insides, you showed him your trembling fingers, the nails that never grew back quite as strong after being ripped out. You let yourself entertain the idea of pressing his head of hair to your bed, of indulging in a kiss that didn’t make your entire body recoil. And what did he do? Ruin the best chance you could offer him at success. 

He was tired of offering invitations. There was no goddamn respect in this world, is there? Seondeok’s son was sharp, he was steady, he had secrets leaking out of his ears. Was he respected? Certainly not. Even his little sister didn’t bother to lower her glass, didn’t bother to wait for him to eat first. It was stupid. It was stupid, to want that equal footing, to want someone to listen to what he said and to pass a single test they were presented.

His mother, ever perceptive, dug the meat of her palm against his trapezoid. As always, she was unerringly honed in on a knot, and he bit back a hiss of pain. You did what you were supposed to, she murmured, Korean so fast he had to struggle to keep up. This is a mistake on the boy’s part.

It was also as close to a consolation as he ever got. He exhaled. Thank you, Mother.  

She dug her nails into his shoulder. Of course, we’ll have to discuss the issue of feeding strays.

He set his jaw. Yes, Mother.

Good boy. Fix your posture. See if Xi’s gotten my shipment in yet.

He straightened his back. Yes, Mother. 

.

To try and evade someone at Aglionby was a behemoth task. One, Declan lived on campus, which meant he could always be found on campus. Two, Matthew was loud and everywhere and loved to inform people of the lengthy list of locations they could find his brother at. Three, Henry Cheng wasin every extracurricular on God’s planet and always slithering around. 

Right now, he was hoping that staring into the darkness of his dusty school locker would hide his face. There was no book he needed that he didn’t already have slung over his shoulder, but pretense was a long-mastered skill. Case in point: the other boy had a smile permanently glued onto his face, but it didn’t fool either of them. Declan could practically hear the grinding of his teeth.

“Lynch.”

“Cheng.”

“ Lynch. ”

“Cheng!”

He rocked his shoulder against the lockers, hard enough that it slammed shut, the hinges barely missing Declan’s fingers. The clipboard in his free hand made this look like a friendly jostling -- a teacher shook his head fondly as he passed by. “Cut the bullshit, man, I have class. Please explain to me whether you intend on returning my mother’s calls, and-slash-or giving her what she has paid for, or if we are in a position to begin ‘ridding you and your family of minor limbs’. Last part in quotations. Please confirm.”

Whatever happened to conducting business professionally and not being thugs? 

“I have it,” Declan insisted, this time with confidence he didn’t have. His stomach burned. “I haven’t had time to get to my supplier yet. I’ll have it by the end of the week. It’s only Wednesday.”

Cheng shoved the clipboard at him. “Sign. Sure. Whatever. Your extremities, not mine. I’ll see you.”

Declan sighed.

 unlabelled entry: 03

He did, in fact, see Henry. Returning to the dorm after placating Ashleigh the whole night was already tiring enough. To deal with her blubbered whinging of just not important enough to you Declie, am I was enough to drive even the most sane man to an axe-wielding rage. Declan could afford that, so he reveled in the 15 he drove over the speed limit. There were two guns in the trunk, barely hidden from view behind a duffel bag. All it would take was one bored cop, and his shiny future was gone. The thrill took the edge off. He understood Ronan now just that bit better. It made him vaguely uncomfortable. 

He had expected his brother to be asleep. Matthew was a late riser, but often an early sleeper too, content to let the mediocre sponge of the dorm take care of him for most of the day. And— there he was, golden halo peeking over the Lightning McQueen duvet. Except his sleepy gaze was trained on a storyteller; a man’s lanky limbs curled into Declan’s desk chair.  

“What happ’ next?” Matthew slurred, cheek squished.

Henry Cheng met Declan’s eyes as he continued. “Well, then the Queen executed the merry band of robbers, of course. Alas, the French Revolution took care of that. How poetic. Close your eyes, now, Mattyboy.” Satisfied, he patted down the edges of Matthew's comforter, finally rising to his full height. Declan watched warily. Matthew’s twin bed bisected the space between them. Henry splayed his hands, the rings thicker today; brass knuckles in name of fashion. What goes unsaid goes unsaid, but the power play was clear. I know where you sleep. I know who you love. I know you are afraid of what I will say. He nodded in return. 

“Bit late,” his mouth said, bland and low and ignoring the way their distance closes in three strides alone. “Did you need something?”

Cheng reached in, ever the fan of breaking private barriers. His deft fingers loosened the knot of his tie, far too slow. He pulled it off from around Declan's neck. He looped the tie around his long fingers, reaching in to place the folded silk back into the proper drawer. He turned for the action, confident that he would not be harmed. This, in itself, was a sneering show of superiority. The dorm cabinet was white, already scratched IKEA plastic. It wobbled precariously under the impact that had been Matty’s insistence on helping. For a moment, he encouraged the thought of slamming Cheng’s unbroken nose into it, seeing him stagger under Declan’s weight, to struggle in his grip. He exhaled instead and released his fists.

Declan’s Korean was weak, unpracticed, but he understood it well enough. Won’t you point your weapon? Henry sounded genuinely curious, polite and concerned. Or, well, condescending. Neither moved. To grab the gun was to turn around, to risk a fight, to risk Matthew's loud mouth to Ronan. He shook his head. 

Cheng sneered. Good. Let’s step outside.

ii of iii.

the whole world against you / you did everything
(deep in my sleep)

The gunshot gets him first. 

Henry is no stranger to ambiguous bang s. The immense and elaborate-as-fuck list of travesties of suffering through high school have Loud Noises printed in block letters across the top. You experience more than enough of them. A car door here, a science project dropped there; an inadvisable firework lit in the backyard. They fade into obscurity, almost. Almost.

He recognises a gunshot when he hears one. A pistol is too distinctive. He's seen his fair share of pistols, heard too many go off too close. His head snaps up at the hint of the noise — straining — but nothing else follows. Music up the hall is the only thing breaking up the inane clacking of Steve’s pen. Henry looks long enough that Koh does, too, pulling away an airpod as he rolls over. They’re in Steven Yang’s dorm ( Honesty, graffitied with sharpie to suggest hoe instead ), at Koh’s virtuous insistence. We can’t leave him out just cause he doesn’t live with us no more, man. That’s our SickFuckingSteve. Koh likes to pretend they don't give each other handjobs in the dark, and Henry's gracious enough not to be the one to bring it up.

“Did you hear something?” he asks, careful to sound loose. Koh shrugs. Steve looks up from their shared book to shake his magnificently brassy hair. 

Neither cares. It’s expected —the only danger either of them know of is a blocked credit card.

Henry frowns. “I’ll check it out.” 

One foot, in front of the other.

Are  you  afraid ?

Does it matter? 

For a long, uninterrupted portion of his life, Henry's wrestled the concept of fear. It's one of humanity's worst evolutions, a tusk growing into its eye. Sure, you're scared of falling of that cliff, but now you're also scared of heights, and elevators. Point against Darwin. Only a God can make decisions so incomprehensible. Fear and paranoia is unshakeable. You can psychoanalyze it and unpack it, break it up into cause and effect case studies, engage in inappropriate levels of exposure therapy, and it always comes right back. Henry’s always afraid. There’s no point to it, he knows, but his legs are traitorous, fumbling under his own weight. The feeling of wrongness creeps further up his spine. Intuition is a heavy rock in his stomach, but one he's willing to ignore. One single shot? On Aglionby property? There's a clear contender for that, maybe an accidental shot from fumbling fingers, but he has to make sure-

Bee’s loud ringing stops him before the door.  FUCK NO, says the notification breaking all rules of UI design, splashing bright red across the lock-screen.  DANGER.    STRANGER!   GUN.   BLOOD.  It pauses for a second, and then, just to confirm, E F F E R V E S C E N C E . He sucks his teeth at the last word, lingering too long, robobee's alarm evident enough that his cowardly nature wins out. Before he knows it, he's turning around to drop himself back to his position on the floor. The bed’s already too small for Koh’s massive frame — and as fantastically slyphlike as Henry is, choosing peace next to it is the best option. “Never mind,” he murmurs. “Think a door slammed, or something. Whatever.” It is not whatever.

Acid slithers in his chest, a silent plea in his head. Bee, tell me what’s happening. The prosthetic is eager enough to help that he can't help but feel a little better about his inaction- she's a part of him, too. He can take the credit.

A MAN. 

OLD WHITE GUY 

IS THAT RACIST TO SAY
YT PASSING?

HE’S IN THE HALL

{ HE’S LOOKING THROUGH A DOOR. }

FUCKING CREEP. LIKE, {IT’S WEIRD RIGHT???} LIKE THERE ARE TEENAGERS HERE wtF//////

HE’S SHORt. little guy .. BUT STRONGER. SUPER GRAY...

GRAY .’’./[

. G   RAY!!!!!??

GRAY

OMmA GRAY???????? 

Fuck. 

Suspicion, meet immediate payoff. Hitmen in Henrietta. It’s the title of a badly budgeted action movie, with an even worse porn parody. Still, he consoles himself: if Declan Lynch is shot dead in his dorm room, there’s really nothing he could’ve done in the first place. He’s not the kind to go around swinging a gun and hoping for the best. 

( he's gone. )

Effervescence is the elaborate Aglionby name for Declan's dorm, right down the hall; a factor which significantly (irrelevantly) influences his decisions to suffer through Koh's heterosexually oblivious bullshit. It's not like it is entirely indulgent ㅡ it gives him an excuse to drop by Lynch's door without setting out specifically for it. Mystical coincidence lets him unsuspiciously lean against the doorjamb, cross armed and sighing, watching him bend over to rifle through his belongings for payments. Objectively, it is terrible that Niall Lynch was a sad man who liked to hoard debts. Objectively, it is even more pathetic that Henry isn't even given a higher credit card limit for being a collector of said debts. 

Objectively, it is true that Declan Lynch looks good when he's panicked, fumbling desperately to search for something his brother misplaced. It’s a non-highlight of the month, something he refuses to look forward to. Never on schedule, though ㅡ the surprise is the really important part.

Whatever. It makes things worth it, a little.

i said he’s gone 🐝🐝🐝
고고 😠 헉 !
go!

 He go go goes.

The world fades to the sound of blood. 

It’s very nearly a pleasant thing, standing at the edge of a beach and taking in the deafening waves. Lake Erie relegated to his ear canal. Declan can’t tell if it’s his heart that’s protesting, or if the throbbing pain in his knee has begun a revolt. All he knows is that he hears it, overbearing, too-loud. It synchronizes with the dorm ceiling, flashing in tune. For a minute, he imagines dying here, freak aneurysm brought on by freak stroke, a concussion-induced domino effect. He wonders who will find him, whether they’ll realize the threat. Should he contort his arms into an R ? Just to be sure?

The thudding in his temples has settled into a refrain of Ronan, Ronan, Ronan. His face is deeply warm, panging inconsistently, raising bile in his stinging gut. Each breath reminds him of his bruised ribs, static pain clouding his senses.

In a biology class two years ago, a teacher had laughed about how humans went about with all their soft parts exposed. It had definitely been the wrong thing to say to a class full of teenage boys. The point still stood, though, the human design loved to provide direct access to death. Armadillos don’t have that problem, boys, do they?

With the cold floor against his back, and the taste of vomit on his tongue, he finds a grim sense of agreement. Death is really goddamn easy, even if you’re not aiming for it. He feels faint, like he’s lost a gallon of blood, though realistically, his nose can only expunge so much. It’s childish paranoia, but his brain runs with it regardless. It’s all the reading about people choking to death on their own blood. When he’d first found out lungs could drown you, he’d tried to go to sleep standing up for the week. Just in case. His father had laughed when he’d informed him, Niall’s eyes warm. He’d been less lax about it the month after, dragging in a wet, bloody breath. 

To be fair, it wasn’t his lungs that’d been trying to kill him. It’d been Xi’s hired thugs, cold and gruff and big. He remembers their foot on his father’s throat. He remembers being afraid. 

He’s afraid right now.

There is a gun in the dorm, unhidden, and the world outside the sluggish beat of his body is frozen still. There are burner phones in the drawer, and the ceiling fan is distorted, and Declan can’t make himself move. There’s forty grand under the mattress, easily found in any thorough police search. His stomach swims again, nausea fighting spots in his vision fighting pressure on his skull. The looming threat of unconsciousness is a weight, pressing him deep into the ground. The door opens, carefully set aside on its busted hinges, and he’s turned his head now, finally, and someone has stepped into view. 

It’s too blurry to tell. Long, white — sneakers, black where they aren’t white and stepping into the red of his spilled blood. A blink that lasts too long, because opening his eyes is a task beyond him. Now it’s a knee, denim pressing into the same red in a crouch. He’s so, so heavy. The world heaves one last, valiant swing; the sea tossing him off his ship. 

“Dude,” Henry says, making a face, leaning over to inspect his face..

Declan’s voice is garbled protest, indecipherable to his own ears, a sound long gone by the time he succumbs to unconsciousness.

If Declan had to answer the question of how, exactly, he’d been dragged from his dorm— he could’ve barely offered a suggestion. Cheng was a man of many descriptions: thin, wiry, slender, anorexic. None of these implied any inherent ability to physically move a hefty Lynch body. Or to conjure a bed beneath him. 

Aglionby is never silent, which is why he hears it clear enough to hurt. It’s quiet, beyond vague whirring fans and distant rumbles of car engines. No beeps he expects from a hospital bed, no yelling in the ER, no clacking of the nurse’s office. He cannot place where he is, which is more alarming than anything else.

He tears his eyes open.The first thing he sees is an overwhelming amount of beige, though it’s been tastefully contrasted with beige gray and gray-white. His lips are sealed together; the feeling of unpeeling them horrendous. His mouth tastes like copper shavings, like the staleness of a hungover morning. Declan catalogs the rest of his limbs— nerve damage? Negligible. Ribs? Sore, bruised. Lungs? One has to be missing, given how much each inhale aches. It is a monumental effort, to push himself up halfway to take in the rest of the room. No, clinic ㅡ a very private practice, judging by the silence. The curtains are sheer, but dark. It’s nowhere close to the summer brightness of the Aglionby dorms. 

The first emotion he can register is fear, and the second is a deep, overwhelming misery. Feeling sorry for himself is not a luxury Declan usually indulges in, but if anything, a concussion justifies it. Even sluggish, his jumbled brain is already panicking. There are dangerous things in his dorm room, even the least of which could land him under severe legal trouble. Henrietta police is easy enough to pay off, but he would rather not deal with the risk of being caught out at all. Owing anything is a dangerous slope. Debts tend to stack. 

(You keep them in a pile higher than your own balding head, and then you get killed in your driveway, and gift them all to your most beloved son. As one does.)

He is awake, but he is not any modicum of recovered. Declan allows his burning arms to collapse. It’s not a hospital room, but the hospital bed is still a hospital bed, shaking and creaking in protest. The sides are up, the plastic bright white. There is no call sign, though, so he fights the vertigo and stares at the taupe ceiling. He can’t quite shake the humiliation he feels at the thought of calling out for help. Lynches are, at their core, solitary creatures.

“You know, people think that about bugs,” a voice adds, light as ever. “But they’re actually pretty communal. I saw a tweet about it. You kind of look like a beetle right now, did you know that?” 

He looks down. Cheng is leaning against the doorframe now, arms crossed, looking every inch the middle aged woman he is. Declan thinks he and his obscenely tall mother could swap out like twins, given that the boy seems to be growing into an exact copy of her. Right down to the hair. He almost smiles at that. “The internet,” he rasps, “is not reliable.”

“Neither is your dorm lock, apparently.” Cheng’s close enough to reach for a backpack placed out of sight, pulling it up to toss it at him. It bounces on the bed. The bruise of his thigh twangs in alarm, but his own exhale is one of relief, not pain. “I went through your place before I called security. Told them you didn’t want to file, but they’ll still ask you questions tomorrow.”

Declan swallows discomfort. This isㅡ this is beyond witticism or disposal advice, this is impactful help. He isn’t sure what to do about it. He knows, at least, the script they are both most likely to follow. “Hoodlums,” he murmurs, swallowing against the sharp prickle of dryness at the back of his mouth. His voice is sing-song, sardonic and low. “Burglars and thieves.” Henry kicks at the foot of the bed; it shakes severely. Declan’s fragile brain rattles once more against his skull. “I owe you,” he says, even though the words send a fresh dosage of stomach acid up his esophagus. 

Cheng doesn’t sit. He does, however, place his hands on the guard rails, lean over to Declan’s carefully raised head, close enough for his ungelled hair to tickle the bandaging at the sabotaged Lynch nose. It’s long now, overdue a cut, fully dark and unwieldy. “Even’s even,” he says, low, serious, ever prone to emotional whiplash. “Body for body, Lynchie-Lynch.”

Declan swallows. “Still,” he insists.

Body for body is loaded; if Declan’s ever been aware of anything in his life, it’s how well he functions as payment. It's ingrained. Be good, boyo. Let the nice lady draw you, Decklo. Act like I’m only speeding ‘cause yer sick, lovey. No time to grieve, let the lawyer press you close enough that a missing BMW dissappears. Come, son. Let me press the flesh of Christ so deep in your month you gag at the weight of it.

Henry is, as ever, prone to easy laughter. Instead of looking at Declan straight on, he lets his nuclear stare settle against the swollen ache of his jaw; punched hard enough to imprint fingers. He feels it when he purses his lips, a hand across his mouth. Cheng’s leaning further, and further, and suddenly it hurts when the boy bites at his open mouth, snapping like an animal, moving back as fast as the pain can register. He flicks Declan’s nose, too, hard enough that his eyes water, enough that he shudders out a pained gasp. Surprise is shock, but he's a goddamn Lynch still, and he compensates for his weak grip by twisting his fist into the logo of Cheng's shirt.

It’ll twist beyond repair if he moves. Now they're staring at each other, Henry's hackles already rising in panic, because this is off-script, because it’s never Declan who breaks. He can do whatever he wants, touch any part of him without Declan sprinting away, without offering any part of himself in return. Declan’s sick of it. 

This close, his youth is betrayed; lips bitten and dry, stubborn puppy fat giving him a perpetual pout. His cheekbones are harsh, but they'll get harsher still. 

He doesn't run.

Instead, he sets his chin against the arm of the hospital bed, meeting Declan's challenge, hard stare unbroken. What are you going to do about it?  

Declan licks his dry lips, copper throbbing where he's been bit. "Come here," he whispers, and Henry does, only a little, like he just needs to lean in to listen closer. He cocks his head, all innocence, and when that doesn't work he turns, hovering over Declan's face. Anything to listen better. He lets the distance be bridged. 

The kiss feels like his stinging lip, like his rattled teeth. Henry doesn't move much, mouth uncertain, still half-frozen in some irreversible defense mechanism. Declan waits for him to relax into it, honey sweet and tender. His tongue is feather-light against the cut, as much digging out blood as it is attempting to soothe the injury. He lets him, opens his mouth to it, his half-swollen tongue coaxing Cheng’s into his mouth.

Then he bites him back. 

Henry rears back with a curse, fingers pressing hard to the nip, squeezing it before it decides to bleed more. Mouth injuries bleed the most, says Aurora’s voice, faraway and reprimanding brothers for fighting. The ceiling swims again. Declan's grin is unbidden, targeted away, still nothing but pure innocence. When he glances back, Henry’s glaring at him, agast, or angry, or melancholicㅡ until he starts laughing, breaking into a sharp bark that splits his lip open further. “You’re fucking welcome, asshole,” he says, still laughing, something real that shows too many teeth, a far contrast to the way he quirks his mouth for the camera.

“Hey,” Declan begins, halting. “Was this…”

“Don’t be fucking stupid,” Seondeok’s son says. “No. I still don’t want you. Nobody should. Though, for your shithead behavior, I’ll take a 30% discount on the next purchase. Father always said that learning to skim off the top was important.”

Declan swallows. There’s a horrible feeling blooming in his chest, something that feels too close to disappointment to acknowledge. “I’ll make it 40, if you get me a glass of water.”

Cheng does not get him water. But he does curl into the nearby chair, his too-long legs off the edge. On his phone, but there, which is a strange feeling Declan’s gut cannot quite cope with. He dozes instead, fitful and terrible. The doctor, licensed and dubiously ethical, presses a Vicodin and half-empty glass of water in his hand at some point. She’s a deeply round woman, headscarfed and nearly tender, her hand soft against his jaw as she inspects her work on his broken nose. He tries not to cry.

Sunday looms.

Ronan doesn't call back.

iii of iii.

everything you need, everything you need / give it up, give it up now

it's bigger than your dreams, bigger than your dreams 

There is a method to Declan’s madness, truthfully. He's very specific in the way he carries himself, because he has to be. He is very organized in the way he conducts all of his business, because he has to be. There are far too many rules to list, but he is painfully aware of them all, toes the edge of each line in the sand. Notably: he does so as precisely as possible. He is not his father. He refuses to become his father. Nevermind that he'll probably always feel like a child in a suit, shoes two sizes too big, a boy playing at a man — he keeps all of those thoughts and feelings locked up very tight. All that matters is what others think of him, and the Lynch name has become near infamous.

He’s not sure what he expects from the Barns today. It’s an ordeal he hopes to avoid, rifling instead through the junk left in shed and shed and shed overflown with dreams. It’s easier to avoid the farmhouse, easier to risk tetanus and rabies and infection. He prefers it, really. 

Yet, here lies Declan Lynch, dragging his feet out of the Volvo, still taking care to park in a dreamt patch of bush, a mirage to dump large, unwanted items into. Here he is, stepping out into the driveway; a conspicuous chunk of stone still missing. 

The smell is the worst. Air, dirt, flowers — a forced acknowledgement of longing. He misses home harshly; sick of Effervescent’s harsh fluorescents, its cramped white paint, its noise. There is also this: as much as he is loath to admit it, he misses the feeling of parents. He misses Aurora — a mother, if not his own. Her open arms, always ready to welcome her children back home every weekday. He misses her scent. Soft bakery-vanilla and baby powder, blue and clean and warm. The swell of her breast as he hugged her, shorter then, nuzzled into her buttered skin through the thin cotton of her dresses. He had not done it often: but on the rare day it’d been the blue of a sky bright and clear, like it was today; a distinctly Aurora color.

As clear as your eyes, she’d often tell Ronan. Back when Ronan’s eyes hadn’t been perpetually clouded in rage.

He misses his brother, too. Fuckface, he thinks, just to make sure Ronan doesn’t get too comfortable.

It is always a slippery slope to think about any of it. You start, and when do you stop? 

He misses the day where a massive hat-shaped cloud had lurked over the farmhouse. Seeing the delight on Matthew’s face, reaching out chubby arms to the sky, wiggling in their mother’s grip. He misses the breakfasts he’d never eaten, dutifully laid out every morning. Fuck, he misses home-made dinner, point-blank. Ronan’s favorites and Declan’s allergies carefully laid out, their utensils never touching, their ankles bruised under the tablecloth. Scones that perpetually decorated the maple wood of the kitchen table. Niall’s presence, too, on the rare occasion he’d decide to fill out the empty seat always left for him. 

It’s this ache of something deep and empty that accompanies the foray into hallowed ground. In itself a last hurrah by Niall, a conviction to make sure everyone’s lives got worse one last time. The thought of cursing a dead man makes him uneasy. He takes the time to exhale a quick prayer for forgiveness under his breath. Father, father, father. Grant me salvation.

He takes the back door.

The secondary problem with the Barns is, they’re based entirely on Niall’s system of organization. Which is to say, none at all.  

Declan grits his teeth against rising panic, ignoring a rising wave of nausea as he hikes up his suit pants, kneeling against cabinets coated in dust. Drawer after drawer overflowing with junk. Less daunting than stepping into any of the dozen sheds outside, but still massive, still a hoarded mess. He suspects this cabinet might be skewed too, dreamt to be shaken up every time it’s opened. 

Seondeok wants a very specific record player Niall had shown her years and years ago; the payment for which he’d taken on the spot. It is a debt that has steadily been gaining interest — as much as it has been dwindling the woman’s patience. There’s no more clients left: looking for a new audience is too risky, especially when supply is as limited as it is. 

Especially when he can’t find the goddamned thing.

He doesn’t know how many hours he has spent here. His shirt sticks to his back, a horrible sensation coupled with the scratchiness of the over-starched collar. Loosening the tie has done nothing to help. His socks are wet. And his knees hurt enough that they’ll bloom bruised by tomorrow, yet another problem to ignore.

The moments he takes out of his day for a real, genuine prayer are rare. It needs a concession of control he so hates to give, but. But. He presses his forehead to the splintering wood and begs, or prays, or curses, for a minute of reprieve. Let me find this thing, Lord, and I promise I’ll focus at Mass next week. I promise I’ll open my mouth for flesh and not think of the wrong kind. I swear I’ll visit my father with fresh flowers and not spit on the headstone. For once, grant me ease. 

He snaps his head back up. 

The creak of unmaintained wood underfoot gives away someone new. The instant shock of fear is strong, numbing his feet, dropping his stomach. He wishes he was calm, composed. It should be easier than it is. Fighting is in his blood. It takes every inch of reserved power to rise, to grit his teeth into a steel jaw. Fear is in his blood, too.

You’re no kid, boyo; his father says, eager and stupid and sneering, even in death. You’re a fucking Lynch.  

He turns. His shoes squeak against the floor, loud and sharp. With a wince, he creeps to the edge of the door, stepping over a long-forgotten toy to peer over the banister. The weight of the gun in his waistband is warm, familiar, intimate. A door shuts, the sound traveling without the bustle of life to disguise it. Footsteps follow. His blood is loud in his ears. 

Each step downstairs is torture. Not every step creaks. Enough of them do. A long time ago, Declan had spent night after night memorizing the most silent route downstairs. Most nights, it had also been the route up. Niall only ever bothered to stop the car up by the gate before he’d speed off again. 

He pulls the gun out, grips it,

lets his fingers find the right grooves. 

Inhale. Step. Exhale. Step. Repeat.

Creeping into the kitchen is a different mess. The back door is open, the eternally dusty mess on the counter pushed aside to create a semblance of order. Unthinkingly, almost. 

The intruder is gone. He does not know whether it’s a grim or chilling thought that he’d only heard them once they’d left. There is always danger around. Gray, Xi, Laumonier, and names too dangerous to even utter. At least two, he’s met in the past week. The thought of Seondeok or her offspring’s presence here makes his toes curl. Aurora is vulnerable, the Barns aren’t protected — 

His stomach burns.

He makes his way outside. The grass is flattened, tracks barely visible to anyone who is not looking for them. Another of Niall’s barns, carefully enchanted to never stick long in the memory. It’s there, of course — physically. Visually. Except once you aren’t looking at it, it’s hard to remember there was a building there at all. He has to admit it is a smart move: Niall preferred to keep the more incomprehensible of his creations out of sight. 

At least, in theory. The reality is that he has to shove his way into a two-storey storeroom. Dream or not, the smell of rotting wood pervades the atmosphere. No wonder these things have been shelved: a life sized grizzly bear, half a purple horse, a two-foot toaster with ceramic breasts. All unalive, which he's grateful for. The thought of individually avoiding rats and cows to find something as small as a cassette tape makes Declan cringe. It’s easier to kick through the junk here.

It’s also easy to spot the source of the loud-as-fuck disturbance. It’s Henry Cheng, looking down from the ladder that must have taken his delicate bone structure several minutes to climb, if the wind hadn't flung him straight off during. Of course, he's flipping him off. “Your supplier’s shit,” Henry says in greeting. “So is this dog-shed. You are ruining my weekend, Declan Lynch.”

Declan can’t suppress his instinctual response, which constitutes mostly of his middle finger. A little bit of his thumb. “You break into my property and I’m the problem?”

Henry, ever mature, sticks his tongue out at him. "Trespass laws are racist, asshole. It's here somewhere, probably. You gonna help me look?"

Cheng’s idea of searching amounts to making a mess until he finds something interesting. He picks his way over garbage to join him in the impossibly spacious loft. The first twenty minutes of hunching over make Declan's lower back hurt, and the next thirty make him long for another concussion.

When he turns, finally, a sweatier Henry is settling at the round window, squinting through the dirty pane. The little robo-bug trills, blinking some kind of morse code he can't see. Ssi-bai, Henry hisses, thick through his teeth. “You're kidding me. Fucking hell. Lynch!”

He joins Cheng at the window, looking down through the frosted window. He’s close enough to smell the sharp apple of his cologne, overpowering even through the must of old that envelops the building. The Pig is recognizable, a harsh shot of orange through the natural greens of the driveway. For a moment, it looks like a clown car, with far too many people escaping it. Ronan, too, undoubtedly looking to rummage where he isn’t supposed to be. Declan allows himself a silent prayer for the forethought of parking inconspicuously. His brother’s never looked too sharply around, never seen the mirrored buildings that house the more dangerous of Niall’s armory. If it protects whatever remains of their father in his head, Declan won’t begrudge him that. He sighs. “We can’t leave right now.” 

The boy levels him with his most incendiary look. Like his mother, he knows the value of a good glare. Declan hastens to continue. “We’ll just wait for them to be done. They should be gone in a few.” He thinks for a beat further, before shrugging off his suit jacket. 

Henry is still frowning, even as he picks up the jacket without thinking, gently places it over the back of a dusty chair. “A few what ? I’m not sure if you know, but there is a distinct difference between hours and minutes. I have to be at Koh’s game soon.” 

“Well,” Declan murmurs, stretching out his aching shoulders. “It’s not like he’s going to win.”

Henry doesn’t answer, but there’s a certain edge to the twist of his mouth. He keeps his jacket on, choosing instead to continue rifling through the pile Declan had left. You want something done, you do it yourself, apparently. It takes half an hour for him to kick aside one corner of the place. Declan, settled and eyeing the camera app on his phone, does absolutely nothing to help. It feels right, he thinks.

Cheng pulls a vape out one of his multitudinous mysterious pockets, and they both cringe at the artificial mint ensnaring the room. At least Gansey has the decency to keep his habits relegated to his own person. Those are bad for you, Declan thinks, and doesn’t have to say anything before Henry answers. “Not any worse than, like, life. Or driving. Or cows. Fuck, what a shithole… Jesus, man, did a hoarder die in.”

He stops. 

It’s abrupt enough that Declan forces his aching legs to the ground, peering over Cheng’s shoulder. The mummified corpse is small enough to go unnoticed. It doesn’t smell, either, for which Declan is immensely grateful. He regrets the brunch Ashleigh had forced him into today. It’s been tossed haphazardly between layers of boxes, like just another— 

Object. Dreamt, maybe. Either way, it’s been dead for a very long time. The face is covered, a Dollar Tree plastic bag in startlingly good condition. It’s tall, shriveled and inhumanly narrow. He feels better assuming it was never a person, perhaps even created in this state; yet another of Niall's Nightmares that was their problem now. 

Henry, unperturbed, uses the tip of his sneaker to turn it over. It flops to the ground with a lackluster whump. He continues to dig through the rest of it, ignoring the dry heaves Declan is trying his hardest to suppress. “If you are going to throw up, do it in the corner,” he says, bored. 

He restrains the urge to kick him, primal and Lynchian. “I’m fine.”

“Hm. So, you hang here often? Guess it wasn’t lonely,” and he may still sound bored, but the shake of laughter in his shoulders is all the motivation Declan needs to toss the nearest object -- an ancient flask -- at his head. Henry stumbles trying to avoid it, falling over on his ass. He’s vibrating with laughter the entire time, though, barely remembering to keep it the fuck down. It’s contagious enough that Declan turns his face away, too, burying it in his palm. 

Part of Declan has been hoping that the goal of the search would be right under their noses. That it will appear in the very next box emptied. It doesn’t. He’s forced to reckon with the simple fact that his father had oft been prone to promising something, forgetting entirely about the promise, and then ridding himself of said payment in various ways. He can’t begin to imagine what might have happened to it. Exploded to test out mobile dream C4. Rusted to hell and back, Melted down to create a metal Mother Mary. ASMR-ed under the car tires. Artfully arranged to comically fall on someone’s head. He sighs.

“Can we restructure terms of agreement? Can’t she accept anything else?”

It is a few more days of bureaucracy before they work out a solution. It doesn't erase the debt entirely, but lessens the pressure some. The time frame changes to ten years from ten weeks, and small victories are still victories. Seondeok replaces the player with multiple paintings, some of Niall’s uglier pieces. Useful only to a staunch collector of dreams.

( Some years ago, Cheng had admitted it, in a library so dark you could barely make out the shelf in front of you. He’d reached out a fingertip to rustle against the spines of the old books. Declan had been trying his best not to sneeze at the dust. My mother is a collector, he’d announced, inexplicably wistful. Bleached tips of lank hair hug into his eyes. She collects only the finest of things. Paintings, memorabilia. Instruments, husbands, children. )

Now, two paintings down, a forelorn Lynch slithers through the front door. He doesn’t know what goads him to take off his jacket. Maybe it’s the fact that Ronan’s gone off to go boating or whatever the fuck with Gansey. That the terrible trio of children is removed from the equation. The fact that for this moment alone it is only Declan Lynch, standing in a house that never really belonged to him. 

 Dust mites swing in the light, swirling with his entrance, and.

He blinks. 

There is a ring tossed over the coat-hooks. A hand-written post-it accompanies it, perhaps neat once, but violently jammed through a hook. The yellow is not enough to offset the inane tackiness of the jewelry. The text is bold, block letters even enough to be typed. A terribly scrawled wolf signs the end of the paper, cut off at the end. A GIFT, it says, speech bubbled.   WONT LAST 4 LONG!Xxxkysxx

The intrusion should fill him with revulsion. It should make him pull out his weapon.
Ignore the ominous throbbing of another incoming migraine. Fight.

The thing is. This house may never have belonged to Declan, but it’s never belonged to Aurora Lynch either. They’re both guests, creations of Niall left to carry out their miserable lives fettered down by his absence. She’s decorating the couch still, hands politely folded across her lap. The picture of poise. Grace. A Duchess of docile motherhood.

He kneels, ignoring the painful stretch of his suit pants over his knee. Right now, Christ is the only thing keeping his blood flow in check. He drops the ring into her loosely clasped hands. Her fist closes around it instantly.

Aurora blinks awake. Declan, on one knee, can only lean back the precarious bit as he watches her. She does it naturally, like an early morning rise, cheeks pinkening, red mouth puckering in a yawn. “Oh,” she breathes immediately as she sees him, slow with sleep, but awake. Awake.

“Oh,” Declan echoes. 

He’s not sure which one of them reaches for the hug first. But he does blink against her ever-familiar warmth. Less fresh now, but the talcum-soft powder to her skin will never leave her. He wraps his arms around her frame, frail and slender, her waist ever as cinched as a Disney princess’. He rests his head against her chest, his traitorous heart thudding in his ears. It echoes alongside the sound of hers, faster now that she pets over the back of Declan’s own raven-black hair. He hasn't hugged her until or since she fell, her fingers burning feather-light over his cheekbone. He has to fumble his leg back down, stumble onto his knees in front of the family sofa. He grits his jaw. 

He doesn't feel dauntless. 

He must carry it in something beyond words. He senses her recognize it, the tilt of her head, the sadness of her sigh. It is with surprising strength that she pulls him close, up higher, his nose smashing against her sternum. There is a fierceness to this. A reminder that there was a reason Aurora had been so convincing of an apparition. She is determined, insistent, and unswayed. Or, she was. In every way that matters, she's already dead. She’s never been alive.

“I love you,” she breathes into his hair. This is what she has been made for; this is not something born of her nonexistent will. “What a brave, brave boy. Always so strong.” 

Declan’s breath spills over a sudden sob. He will not cry, cannot cry. He feels the ache in his throat regardless. It spills like ink in water, pain in his throat and ribs and head and heart. The emotion makes his stomach roil. He can't say it back, ever, but Aurora has not been made to care about that. 

He squeezes tighter, too-tight, really; his father's faked wife too-small under the thickness of his arms. She takes it well, though, used to the displays of brutish strength Niall would throw around. Mildly, he wonders if he could crush her if he tried. He wonders if Niall ever did. Was she the first attempt? How many versions of the same blonde woman fertilize the green outside? Rot under garbage? Dead in all the ways that matter. Though a hard drive can never be a person. Could you kill a computer?

Aurora’s palm lays flat against the jut of his skull. She repeats her path in easy motions, from the crown of his head to the nape of his head. He sinks against her, pristine as ever, only as musty as any old furniture left to gather dust. He knows Niall would never make anything with the worst of human behaviors, let alone acne or odor or sweat outside of sex. He knows, but it is always a terrible reminder to know she’s just a thing.

They stay like that. 

Declan keeps his face buried in her stale dress, lets her cradle him close, lets her ignore the stray tears staining through the cotton. For a time, he lets himself be fifteen, be five, be twelve and seventeen. "I wouldn't lie," she says abruptly. "My little lamb. I raised you and fed you all the same. I loved you as if—" 

The afternoon light would have hurt if the blinds weren’t drawn. Would have if it wasn’t shadowed and dark in the room. The lights only ever just enough. Not enough for Aurora. He watches her eyebrows struggle to frown. Her eyes struggle to focus. And then she drops, her hand lax, her eyes shut.

The sweetmetal is dead, and so is his mother.

Declan stands with aching bones, catching himself on the edge of the fireplace before his knees give. He straightens up with a grunt. The cloth covering the decor slips, revealing a set of items hastily prevented from getting too grimy. The nurses for the matriarch, maybe, women with too much sympathy for home-making, murmuring about the newly announced Will. A covering so irrelevant, so innocuous, so guarded by Aurora’s proximity that he’d never even thought to glance at it too long.

A candelabra. A miniscule bust of Mary. A gold-and-black record player, impossibly small. 

Declan sighs.

iv of iii.

( give it up, give it up now )

Networking, Henry had insisted. Declan knows, logically, this is as good of a position he can hope to get within the Fairy Market. An invite is rare enough, but to have someone at his shoulder, introducing him? It’s invaluable. Every minute of these politics is practice for his internships, is a hint of the life he could have if it weren’t so vital to be shadowed. 

He also suspects it is as much about Henry avoiding his mother as it is about the skill of socialization. It’s difficult to tell. Cheng loses his smile in places like these, the twist of his mouth condescending at best. He loses inflection too, words spat out plain enough to be construed any way the opponent wants. Negative, an enemy is found. Positive, they’re aiming to have Seondeok in their corner. He appreciates the artistry, at least, even if it makes people look longer at Declan than they do the heir next to him. 

That, too, is a skill. Henry is tall and handsome and the kind of person you expect to see on billboards and Instagram advertisements. And yet, he falls into step next to Declan like he belongs in a dead-end job in a dead-end office in a dead-end life.

No matter how well the boy engages people skills in real life, he’s barely wall decoration at Markets. If Declan cared, he would catalogue this, acknowledge how different safety looks for the both of them. But he doesn’t. He doesn’t, because Henry doesn’t meet his eye, stares at the floor more often than he raises his head, hides his chewed-through fingernails in the pockets of his respectably charcoal suit. Not jet-black, because that’s a funeral. Not gray, because that’s too low on the food chain. Not the navy he wears to company dinners; not the blue to be propped behind the Cheng patriarch, photographed with beaming family for magazines titled things like economist and Forbes. 

His hair isn’t gelled, but it stays obediently back anyways. Declan’s own curls keep escaping, the weather doing him no favors. He is overdue a cut, but he knows how people’s eyes flicker to his stray hairs, how their fingers twitch with the urge to push it back. He knows which cards matter. As much as Cheng is determined to be rid of his magnetism here, well. It’s a Lynch’s place to shine. 

Seondeok looks as frigid as ever. Her shoes are flat. It doesn’t matter, she has to look down all the same. She has remarkably square shoulders, remarkably bare legs. Even if he’s avoiding her head-on, Henry can’t help but to hover around her orbit. It’s a protective instinct, as inherent as it is to pull his punches so Ronan feels like he’s winning. Declan is Niall’s decoy. Henry is Seondeok’s bodyguard. Ronan is Niall’s only son. It is what it is.

He’s not the only guard, but is the one most attuned to the woman. His eyes flick to her every time she switches her untouched glass of cider from one hand to the other. For her part, she offers Declan a bored nod. Her top is not low-cut, but it hugs her too well regardless, and it makes him warm at the collar. Cheng’s gaze is withering, though, so he guides his eyes elsewhere. There are many hands to shake.

Too many people have vested interests in the Lynch empire. Empire, he repeats to himself, and wants to cry. He doesn’t. A husk of a castle is still a castle, he supposes, still valuable if its walls stay up. 

The after-party is a more muted affair. This is less easy to pass off as a rich woman’s soirée, tensions running high as they settle around a dinner table with no food. This is business. Henry doesn’t sit, but he shuts the doors, presses into position next to them, eyes sharp at nothing. This is Seondeok’s show. 

Declan isn’t stupid enough to buy the expressionless boredom, but he has to admit it is an excellent job. Theory and study and practiced execution, the skill of blending into a wall ever vital to learn.

In the end, it is only the matriarch left, one long-fingered hand splayed over her face. She hasn’t left the table, so neither has Declan. He can’t see Henry, though, and something stupid makes him open his mouth. “How far are you going to take this?”

She shifts her bony arms to the table, drums at the hardwood with her white-tipped nails. Her head is tilted enough that he is being humored, at least. It’s enough. He goes on. “You know Henry’s not like you. He’s just a kid.”

Seondeok raises an eyebrow. “He’s your age, is he not? Are you a parent?”

“Are you?” It’s risky, impulsive, stupid. Never bite the hand that feeds, except. Well, if she’s stuck it out with Niall so long, she’s used to bullshit being spewed at her. She laughs. A sharp chin and sharper cheekbones rest against the back of her hands. “And he’s not my age.”

Elegant, bejeweled, scarred. “Oh, so you say. You have known each other so long. I suppose you two have vested interests, mm?” 

He opens his mouth. Closes it. Swallows. “No,” he says. “We aren’t friends.”

“Oh, colluding. Lovers! Do you feel like overtaking my investments, Declan Lynch? Will I be removed by coup, rent asunder by a little boy in his father’s clothes?”

If he were more like his brother, he would’ve smashed his fist into the table, shaken her by her diamond necklace until she showed a lick of emotion. A petulant, childish part of him hates how calm she sounds. All business, it’s always about business, when there’s only individuals peddling stupid baubles at every corner. “He’s not— we aren’t… He’s your son,” he grits out. “And I don’t think he’s cut out for this.”

The woman tilts her head. “What a thing to say,” she sighs. Her eyebrows are raised in shock or concern or amusement. “Is that true? Is that how you feel, Henry?”

The vice grip on Declan’s shoulder speaks for itself. “I think,” Cheng says darkly, “there’s been a misunderstanding.” 

It’s perhaps not the most humiliating way Declan’s ever been scolded. It’s up there, though, as he’s all but dragged outside. Seondeok waves at him as the double doors slam.

He can’t help the need to defend himself. “She had to hear it.”

“You will talk of my mother with respect.” 

“Seondeok is dragging you down with her, with my father, with this whole chara—“ 

“What do you want me to say, Declan?” Henry’s voice is sharp, annoyed. His eyes are narrowed, but Declan sees his throat jut with inconsistently rapid swallows. “What, you want me to fall to my fucking knees and admit my mother’s some vile bitch who doesn’t give a shit about me beyond what I do for her? You think that is what will break me?” Henry stands close enough for the bite of his aftershave to accompany spat out words. His body is tense, ramrod straight, hands fisted. The crisp line of his suit is ruined. It’s a rare sight— neither of the Chengs like to carry emotion on their bodies. “That’s. Jesus. You think I don’t fucking know that, D?”

It’s unexpected. Further still to be called out as he is. He lifts his eyes from the dull maroon of the carpet. “I didn’t— I didn’t mean to create a situation.”

“Fucking situation, he says.” Henry takes a tight breath. Slow exhale. A deliberate step away from him. Creating distance to minimize conflict: Declan’s read it in a Crisis Management summary on his phone. “You think I’m, I’m some goddamn weed in the wind bowing for whichever white boy enlightens me that my mother sucks? I know that, Lynch. I know.” He pinches the bridge of his nose, his entire body a straight line, taut and ready to snap. “I know,” he repeats, softly, a childish elongation to the word. Plaintive. “Either she’s gonna kill me or I kill her or we have a murder-suicide Oedipus end. But that doesn’t change anything. I know where I stand, Deck, I know where my goddamn loyalties lie. Do you?”

Declan opens his mouth, but the question is rhetorical. “At least she looks at me. At least she sees me. Your whole life, spent on that shithead racist brother of yours, and when does he ever return the favor? Who picks you up, D? Who in this stupid, fucked up shithole, has ever had your back?” There are no tears in his eyes, because that is not something they do, but Henry’s lip is trembling, his eyebrows drawn. And perhaps that is close enough. “And you know what? I’m sorry I did. Every minute of time I wasted. There is no solution for you. You will never change. Do not fucking talk to me. You’re right, I tire of being a fucking merchant.”

Cheng turns around, stalks forward a few feet, and stops. When he looks back, his eyes are cold. “We will no longer be conducting business with the Lynch family. Any goodwill you have received from Seondeok has reached the end of its term. Good fucking day, Mister Lynch.”

Chapter Text

[currently redacted for quality reasons but I like my reviews so i'd like to keep them]