Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Top 10 Hanahaki Life Hacks (#9 Will Shock You)

New Rules

🥀

Martyn Littlewood started dyeing at age 31.

Every day, 6:15 AM, Cleo stands by the stairs that lead down to the subway, waiting by the window while Martyn rips flowers from his skin. The stems snap off, but the roots remain. They’ve got him so fiercely, tongue-tied and ripped apart, that every time he laughs, he sounds more undead than alive. How many surgeries can a florist afford to get those things removed? Or does he do it all himself? He looks awful sometimes (especially in the summer) when thorny vines wrap his arms and legs. Sometimes his arms hang like limp meat at his sides. The tubes, canes, and chairs he uses look increasingly expensive.

32-year-old Martyn Littlewood runs the flower shop in Aqua Town. Cleo’s stepped through that door to stand among lush, strong-scented plants more times than she’d care to admit. They’re… cordial. At least, Martyn doesn’t seem to hate her. She’s never hated him.

“Well, you’ve made me a rich man. I don’t spend a lick on material. It just comes to me.” He crushes blue petals with a squeeze of his hand. Cleo grips her bag in one hand, gazing back over the rims of her sunglasses. Martyn has stitch marks up and down his face. All over his hands. There’s one right across his forehead. He wears a neck brace now. Or if it’s not a brace, it’s some sort of bandage. All her own marks are zombie-themed tattoos. They fit her zombie aesthetic. The aesthetic came first. He smiles, painfully from behind the counter, and threads baby’s breadth in a bouquet as a filler flower. It’s coming back in style, he says, after a decade of it being overdone. Honestly, Cleo doesn’t get why he even tries selling the flowers; he should stick to dye. Everything is dying here. Except his energy, when he says, “What brought you in here, m’dude? Hot date tonight?”

There’s silk and chocolate in his voice. It catches her through the gut, like she tripped and speared herself on a stalagmite. Uh. Cleo lifts one finger to the window. “You took down your neopronouns sign. I just wanted to ask what’s up; if you’re okay.”

The sign was mangrove wood and cut in the shape of a peony. Martyn flicks his eyes to the place it used to hang, then goes back to work. “Aw, that… Well, flower pronouns aren’t super practical when I’m in the shop. I’m looking for others. Something more versatile. Nothing has that same rush, but I’m not giving up.”

That makes sense. Does that make sense? He doesn’t look at her. “You’re still wearing your wedding ring,” she says without thinking. Martyn stops. His eyes stay pinned on the nearest wilting rose.

“Yeah. Are you not cool with that?”

It’s not a challenge, but she knows he’d shove back if she pushed. It’s easier, running fingers through her hair. “Honestly, it’s fine. Mine’s still on the bathroom counter. I see it every day. Sometimes I still wear it. Mostly when I’m out with Scott or Cub.”

After a moment’s hesitation, Martyn nods. His hands move again, fluffing the tiny flowers from below. “People talk.”

“They do.”

He clears his throat in his fist. Cleo moves away, examining the fridges in the back so he can cough up petals without an ex hovering around him. His coughs are thick and damp. He stands and leaves the room.

🌹

Martyn’s work often took him away from Hermit Hills. He and his best friend ran a summer camp called Dogwarts out in the flats, in that little piece of rumpled land that sat too near the desert for the local farmers to take an interest. She met Martyn because of that camp, actually, when they were 24 and 25 and he reached out with a little Hey, I love your work and we’re mutual friends with Scott and Pearl email to ask if she’d do a presentation on insects and other forest wildlife for the kids. He said his usual presenter was out tagging eagles that week, and honestly… Where do you even go from that? He and Ren offered good money, too. She could probably type up her research remotely for a few days. A few weeks. Even if she didn’t make as much progress as she’d like, the network opportunity might be worth its weight in diamond blocks.

“You should,” Scott encouraged when she called him up to check if this Martyn guy really was his friend. “Pearl and I are counselors. We can all hang out together! And you can tell the kids about that time you bottle-fed the bear cubs.”

… Yeah, all right. She worked more often with bats, but talking about the bear cubs always turns eyes her way. Wildlife rehabilitation isn’t really a standalone career, and that’s a good thing to prepare kids for at an animal-lovers camp. She could still smell the baby formula blended with blueberries, the cubs with creamy droplets smeared across their muzzles and cheeks.

She took the offer. Three weeks later, there she was… Camp Dogwarts and its insects, poison ivy, and whatever else lay waiting for her. Cleo basked a few last seconds in the bliss of the air conditioning, then switched off the car and stepped into summer sun. Martyn and Ren both shook her hand, beaming. He/him or flower/rose. He/they/it or neopronouns that fit a canine theme. They said it back to back, fluidly and effortless.

Cleo paused. Then, “She/her professionally. I’ve… considered experimenting, but my social life’s been tied to work for so long, I don’t know where to start.” With Scott, obviously, but pronouns sounded like such a big commitment. Ren clasped their hands; if they’d had a tail, it would have wagged. And he probably would have loved that.

“Oh, dude! We have so much to talk about! Can I call you ‘dude?’”

“Sure. That’s fine.”

Martyn gave the tour while Ren and the counselors kept an eye on the kids. The hilltop pergola made a perfect lookout point. Martyn shielded his eyes, then pointed across the field to a second hilltop building in the distance. “Bean Hill. Rrrrright over there, that’s the edge of camp.”

His eyes? Flower’s eyes? She understood the pronouns in theory, though trying to wrap her mind around them left her suddenly aware of everything she didn’t know. She felt like she’d been stripped, her clothes dunked in the lake. “Cozy place,” she replied. “You and Ren built all this?”

“Yes, ma’am! Placed every block with our own four hands.” And they talked about that, soaking in the sunlight, until Cleo asked the itchy question that wouldn’t leave her thoughts alone.

“Real quick… You don’t have to get into it, but how did you find neopronouns that were right for you? Or… how did you decide to take that leap? I imagine people talk. Ask a lot of questions. So, you must be pretty committed to them if you share them openly.”

Martyn gazed out across the hill, sighing through his(?) nose. “I use them at camp. Not so much at home. I don’t dare discuss it with my parents.” Then, leaning rose’s shoulder (was that right?) on the pergola support, flower said, “You know that discourse that goes around every once in awhile about gift giving being a ‘selfish’ love language? Or have you ever heard someone talk about how they’d never be able to stand dating someone who sort of expected gifts throughout the year?”

“Yeah?”

“It’s like that. I’ve always thought gift giving wasn’t so much about what was given as it was about the thought that you exist in someone’s mind even when you’re not there in front of them. Like, they care enough about you, they wanted you to know they saw something and thought of you. When someone puts the thought into my pronouns… it means they thought about me. And the world is better.” Flower bent down and pulled a dandelion from the grass. “Ren says it would probably be called it/its more often if it really did have a werewolf form, and sometimes that feels good and sometimes it’s lonely. I dunno… Everyone’s just out here getting by, I guess. It’s worth having something to smile about every day. Neopronoun use is like that for me. Free smiles in the tip jar.”

“I’m not sure tips are free.”

Flower laughed like a cawing crow. They had the tour and sat together at the wooden tables at the pergola for dinner. Ren too, of course; pup turned out to be just as knowledgeable about the local area as pup was friendly, especially where the plants were concerned. Not quite as familiar with bugs and bats. “But that’s where you come in, dude! Oh, I’m so ready for this.”

“I think I was part bat in another life,” Martyn said absentmindedly, and they both found everything she told them about bat anatomy delightful. Let’s not get into the direction that conversation went—only that Martyn slapped the table and laughed, flower’s head thrown back, loud enough to turn a lot of curious eyes in their direction. Pearl glanced over in confusion while Scott dropped his face in his hand, shoulders shaking from his laughter. Or his shame.

She liked Martyn and Ren. And Scott was right… Camp Dogwarts was worth a try. The next morning, everyone hiked to a waterfall before it got too hot. A glistening lake shone beneath the hazy sun. As a trio, she, Martyn, and Ren meandered the pebble-coated shore, identifying flowers and bugs. She gave her presentation that night. Everyone did a first aid activity. Swell stuff.

On Day 3, Martyn wheedled Cleo into a “dating show” presentation that she could barely wrap her head around, but he seemed assured would urge the teens to think twice before committing to the first person to show them any attention. They had a big talk about consent. The usual, you know… though for some of the younger kids who hung on in fascination, maybe “Even if you cough up flowers someday because you’ve fallen in unrequited love, that’s no excuse to guilt someone into anything they’re not comfortable with” was a novel concept. But no means no, whether that’s for dating, kisses, or sex. And if someone else catches Hanahaki disease and claims they’re in love with you, it’s not your responsibility to help them through that. There are therapy professionals and doctors out there. No one owes you anything.

It’s a surprisingly common disease. Far more people suffer from it at least once in their lives than Cleo’s really comfortable thinking about; something like 80 to 90%. You see it in youth with fleeting crushes. You see it in grown adults who are supposedly living in happy marriages. It’s always a scandal in the news.

And yet…

Hanahaki is a funny thing, because opposite its very existence lies its drastic absence. And it was the lack of thorns and petals every time she coughed or sneezed that brought her up to Martyn on that final day. He sat packing clothes in his suitcase. He looked up when she opened his cabin door and gave a smile back. Then they got to chatting, leaning on the cabin walls like teens—like this thing she was about to drop on him was just an upcoming school dance.

“Hey, um… It was great hanging out with you. Would you like to get dinner or coffee sometime?”

Martyn’s brows shot up. “Uh, yeah! Sure! That sounds great.”

Of course it was requited. There would’ve been roots spiderwebbing across her skin if it wasn’t.

🥀

When they’re both 33, Martyn’s flower shop goes under. Not enough stock to keep up with demand. He ran dry (that stubborn man) and couldn’t be bothered to buy more. He squirrels away his money. He spends too much on presents she won’t like. It’s part of the game. Part of the trick. See, he’ll keep coughing up flowers if she doesn’t look at him; doesn’t take him out more than once every now and then. He leaves them in her postbox; sometimes at her door. They’re interesting. Chess sets with both sides painted black with tiny skulls and bones. The History of Undertaking. Potted plants. Paintings of the moon he did himself, probably with the dye they made together. Stereotypes. His own design. What’s his plan?

His corner shop shuts down. The window display (Birds, sunflowers, and ladybugs) disappears overnight. Cleo tracks him down. He still lives with his overbearing mother: an expert on divorce herself. She’s had three. Cleo waits for the woman to go out shopping (or more likely, to the spa) and knocks on the window. Her ring clangs against glass. Martyn spends a moment too long sipping tea and staring across the room before he even stands to get the door. Hi; how are you? Are you okay? (He’s okay.) Heard about what happened. Yeah, my supply ran out; how’s your leg? Leg’s fine. Can I take you for coffee and dessert? Sure. Let me get my coat.

Aqua Town’s too lively for its own good. Seems like everyone’s bright and rich. It makes ‘em drunk and stupid. They lag their heads. She and Martyn find a high-seated table for two by the window, and they sip coffee for two hours while Mayor Goodtimes and a man with overalls argue at the park entrance across the street. Are they fighting over that stupid realtor sign again? Lordy, make it stop (In the way that lasts forever; she really could stay). Cleo swings her legs beneath the high table.

“You didn’t want this,” Martyn says, like he has to apologize. Gods above. She waited three damn years for that apology. It’s sick inside her mouth, like he grabbed her and shoved it down. It curdles in her belly. There’s a jellyfish in there with five wriggly arms. How old are they? 33. Yeah, Martyn Littlewood ran the florist shop in Aqua Town up until tonight. Funny. Did he tattoo across his stitch marks? They’re darker now. Cleo traces her eye across every swirling one, chin resting in her hand. Martyn sits like a perched bird or a meerkat about to bolt. It’s like he came here to propose something. A new business idea.

“You treat it like a joke,” she says. “How can you live like it?” His shop sign is hideous. A bleeding heart. Was it mangrove? It used to swing in the wind. It would bang. She used to wait for him there, by the door. Sometimes.

He shrugs. She should probably ask if he ever found new neopronouns, but he hasn’t volunteered them and the tension in the air won’t be cut as easily as the coffee cake. “I’m not always choking on flower petals. Some days it’s worse, sure, but some days it’s mostly fine. You get used to it… Sometimes it’s worse. I might take up interior design. I’ve almost figured out how to force out a poinsettia; ‘tis the season, right?”

You’re disgusting. “Yeah, and I’m not always dropping swords on my foot or stabbing thorns against my side. It still hurts like hell when it comes around. How do you live with it?”

Martyn idles his fingers against his coffee cup. Aqua Town’s big on kitschy and cute. It’s a holiday cup. It’s for holidays. They shut him down this time of year because he didn’t have suppliers; he never went looking and it killed him from the inside out. Joel had to do it. Cleo saw them talking. Joel, who had a stripe of green in his hair and grimaced when he shook Martyn’s hand; all of Aqua Town gets their dye from Martyn. His fingers are all scratched up right now. Does he tear up thorns with his bare hands? No gloves? His blond hair’s sunshine in the shade. The dangling light’s a halo, his seat cushion sewn from folded wings.

“You’re a lot more approachable without the apron and giant clipper shears,” she tells him then. Martyn laughs. He takes a sip of coffee, but lets it drag on. For a moment, they don’t speak.

“I’m not mad.” Martyn is raw and honest. He always says those three words that speed her heart like a ravager thundering through the streets. “The pain comes and goes. And I’m all right. I’ve made my peace with it.”

“Look… You’re not getting any younger. It’s been years. It’s… Why? I don’t even want to know why. Why, Martyn? Why do you stick around Aqua Town?” (You know what this is really about.)

He shrugs halfway. His cup tips. Coffee dribbles from the gash that marks its little head. “My mum’s here. We get along better than me and my dad. It’s a living.”

“It’s a dying.”

“Eyy, dyeing’s made my living so far.”

He’s impossible. She buys his coffee, two cinnamon rolls, and lets him walk her back to her apartment. It’s one with an exterior entrance up on the third floor. Mayor Goodtimes and his man are still arguing at the park. And at the doorstep, they linger in the way that vultures do. Martyn looks at her with a cinnamon roll in one hand and coffee in the other. Broad daylight. One foot’s got a bandage. Considering the marks she can see right now, she’d hate to know what lies underneath. His neck brace adds an almost smirky look to his eyes. He’d sooner die than lose it, too. Don’t forget that.

“Thanks for popping by.”

“You must really hate me,” she says, since he won’t even trust her with his pronouns anymore. Maybe he doesn’t use them. Fair enough. She sure as hell hasn’t handed over hers.

“Nah. I paid my way through a lot of certifications thanks to you.”

“On your florist income?”

“Don’t sound too surprised. I cater weddings.” He tries to pat his pockets. He’s got the coffee and the roll. “If you ever get married, call me up? Even if you don’t want me there, I’ve got contacts in the florist world. Here; I have my card.”

“I have it too. Dammit, Martyn! Why don’t you get the roots removed? They’ll strangle you someday.”

Aaand there he goes. Gods, not the eyes. Not the crease in his eyes; the faint tilt of his head. It’s the way he leans back, shoulders fluffy in his shirt. He’s softer here at the door in his Skittles-green hoodie, without the apron and the knives. His stitch marks bleed green ink from writhing vines. “That’s just fiction… I won’t be dying on you, I’m afraid. You’re stuck with me until the end.” His eyes flit away. Stupid, stupid Martyn. She could bash him with 64 obsidian if he wasn’t such a wriggly snake.

“That stuff will fill your lungs one day. You can’t keep, just… yanking the stems like that.”

There’s irony or poetry in this. Maybe poetic justice (if you believe that sort of thing). Here she is outside her heavy door, shielded from the park by a rail and a street. A few trees. One argument up here frames another. The mayor hasn’t let up, though he and his friend have changed gears, chasing wild hogs across the grass. There are always hogs in Aqua Town. This isn’t important. Maybe they eat flowers, like the butterflies and bees. Martyn attracts those things like he’s nectar and ambrosia in the flesh. There could be chlorophyll in his blood.

“Who did your tattoos?” he asks. A non-answer. Martyn moves one finger to her wrist, still clutching the take-home container that keeps his cinnamon roll. Cleo sees him moving almost too late. She jerks her hand away.

“Don’t change the subject. You’re a dying man.”

“Not if you don’t let me,” he quips back.

She shoves him. He hits the rail. The coffee spills across his forearm. He hisses, but it’s cool now. He assures her that it’s cooled, though she’s frozen until he does. And she should apologize, but the words that gush out are more like, “You cheated on me,” which isn’t an apology at all. Unless it is (between the lines). Martyn winces, still shaking coffee from his arm.

“I was coming back… I just took the wrong subway car. I swear… I was coming back.”

No. No, not this again. Cat and yarn; hold the mouse. Cleo’s nails dig into the lines in her palms, scraping out cinnamon flecks. “Martyn, Scott heard it from Pearl’s mouth. Just… Tell me you were drunk or something. At least try to make up a story I’ll believe. Do you even care? Am I just…? Does it even matter to you, what I think?” And with a hasty backpedal, “If she took advantage, you can tell me. You can tell me. She’s Scott’s ex anyway; I’ve got her blocked everywhere I could think of. We never talk.”

“It was late and I boarded the wrong subway,” Martyn says again, but he is lying. It’s always an excuse; never an apology. “My communicator was dead. I stayed the night at Pearl’s. We weren’t drunk. Just two friends being guys. I braided her hair because she put on a movie and we were going back and forth between sitting on the couch and making food. I never touched beneath her clothes.”

“Then what did you touch? I saw the roses I coughed up that night. And they’re your favorites.”

He closes his eyes, but can’t answer her. His lashes flicker. Wetness sticks them together like thorns. Cleo shakes her head. She turns to go. She makes it halfway down the stairs (every step clanging) before Martyn hurls himself after her. He crashes into her shoulder, coffee sloshing down the steps. He drops the cup. Clatter. Clatter. He grabs her arm, wrenching her around (or she lets him; unclear).

“Whoa, whoa, whoa… I’m the one who’d been cheated on! Don’t leave that out of your helpful li’l recap. I’m the one who started coughing up cornflowers. I caught it first!”

Cleo yanks her hand away. Martyn’s lost and blinking. She says, “We can’t both come down with Hanahaki disease for each other on the same night. That’s not how it works.”

“But I didn’t cheat!” He throws his arms out like bony wings, barring her way back down the metal stairs. The sun hits his face just right to turn the clumpy straws in his hair to gold. Cleo blinks, saying nothing, as Martyn’s lower lip trembles like petals spewing through teeth on their way to the sink. She’d been in the kitchen that night. Coughing. Coughing. The whole sink turned red. Cleo curls her nails in the creases of her hand.

“I know I coughed up roses. You fell out of love with me.” It’s true, isn’t it? The facts align. Martyn gawks at her, though. Really gawks at her, hands upturned. He clenches his chest, twisting the fabric of his hoodie so hard, it’ll probably stick like that.

“‘Fell out of love?’ Cleo, my love for you is eating me alive!”

“Martyn, we can’t both get Hanahaki. It didn’t take Sherlock Grian to figure out you’d gone and cheated on me. Maybe you should go and find Pearl.”

“Hanging out with Pearl was awful,” Martyn snaps back, then winces. “Don’t… tell her I said that.” And louder, “I never cheated. If one of us cheated, it was you. When I came home, you’d already gone and moved in with Scott, and where did that leave me?”

“Scott is gay!”

“Sounds like the perfect set-up for unrequited love, then! He likes roses too. I. Didn’t. Cheat.”

They’re getting nowhere. Cleo holds one hand to her head, which doesn’t help. “Look… Living apart is the best thing for the pair of us. I’m getting by fine with my lot in life. You’ll have to figure your side out on your own.”

He throws his arms up in defeat. Fine. Cleo quits her museum side-gig and moves to Cogsborough: the biggest damn city that gets her out of there. Six weeks later, 33-year-old Martyn Littlewood opens a painting business. Flowers bleed from his skin in a constant throb. You can’t even vid-call without him scratching up and down his arms. Clipped fingernails don’t help. He wears gloves so he won’t tear his skin. And he can’t be an arm’s length from his ventilator. Scott still keeps tabs on her, and Cleo sleeps on her mattress on the floor of a room filled with unpacked boxes because it’s just what she deserves.

She’s spiking Martyn’s hospital bills. He never complains, but she knows. It’s a good thing she’s making him “rich” for the second or third time. Cleo’s not rich at all. And her mailbox is always empty.

Martyn’s business wavers back and forth, on the verge of going under again. Cleo doesn’t speak to him. Scott sends invitations to local events, like art shows and dances and plays. Cleo looks at them, but pins them on her bulletin board. For a while, she changes her pronouns to they/them. Then rot/rotself. Then back to she/her. It… doesn’t stick. It’s just not right. Martyn would’ve been here to bounce ideas off without her embarrassing herself in an attempted coming out to her book club group.

She lacks the energy to care.

🌹

Martyn proposed by a lake filled with lotuses when they were 27, in the spring. She’d had her suspicions; flower invited her on a hike but hinted with a smile she dress a little nice. Scott was on her couch texting at the time (Pearl resting her head in his lap), and when Martyn left her apartment, he laughed and made a joke that went “Damn… Can’t believe another guy I’m into just left the market. Pearl, this better work out; I’m running out of back-up plans.”

“And you think I’m not?” she asked, eyes still shut, and Scott almost dropped his communicator from laughing.

“I’ll keep rose warm for you,” Cleo tossed back, but maybe she did spin around a little in her room before collapsing on the bed, clutching a polka dot shirt to her chest. This would look amazing with her overalls. The ones with sunflowers on the front pocket.

Martyn strung her along as best he could, though the thumbs in his backpack straps and the bounce in his hiking steps betrayed him even if a long-term lack of thorns sprouting from her skin did not. And Cleo humored him. She dodged a few attempts to lay his arm across her shoulder when they took a rest and kept trotting off along the lake while he huffed and scrambled to catch her in one spot.

But he did get the words out, the lotuses bobbing on the lake behind him. Sunset lit the water and his bright blue eyes. Cleo told him yes. And maybe ribbed him after just a little while they sat together on a flat rock that jutted into the lake.

“So… Do I need to worry that your proposal comes after Doc and Ren tied the knot last year? Was I your second choice?”

“Oh, you flatter yourself. Timmy was my second and you were my third.” Rose leaned in, pecking lightly on the lips, and added off-handedly, “If Netty hadn’t moved across the world, you’d be big ol’ Number 4.”

Cleo rolled her eyes. “I’ll be sure to thank her.”

“She’s researching sugar gliders; I keep up with her blog. Friends since we were kids. If she flies in for the wedding, I’ll introduce you.” He brought his hands to the back of her hair, tangling his fingers. He pulled her in and Cleo let him. Thank Martyn’s foresight they had time to enjoy the place alone and undisturbed.

But despite the way Martyn gushed about old friends while writing the guest list, Cleo wasn’t jealous. Day after day that spring, he greeted her when she stepped off the subway, and every kiss was meant for her… with no trace of petals to be found.

Spring turned hustle-bustle as they broke the news to friends and family. Movie nights with the gang turned even more cuddly now, with Martyn no longer so paranoid of what she might think if rose fell asleep with rose’s head on her shoulder, fingers still intertwined with hers. In early June, they all went camping together (the gang) like they did every year. Usually, Martyn shared a tent with Ren (or Jimmy last summer) while Cleo bunked with Gem and Pearl. This year marked some invisible shift, and as Cleo slid the tent poles into place while Martyn whacked stakes with a mallet, she wondered if they’d all finally (mentally) accepted themselves as grown-ups.

It would be her first time sharing a sleeping space with Martyn… They’d kept a modest distance throughout their dating life. The finality of their engagement made it feel more natural, though. No longer were they giddy teenagers. No longer a young researcher taking a deep breath before driving out to Camp Dogwarts and a sea of unknown people. Tonight, she’d cuddle up to her fiancé, safe in her sleeping bag with rose’s firm body resting right beside hers. They wouldn’t tell their parents that part.

Am I a grown-up? I really don’t feel like I should be giving advice to kids. Ignoring her classroom experience, of course, but they weren’t little kids. She looked across the tent at Martyn. In a few years, I could have a kid calling me Mum. I’m not sure I’m comfortable with that. So whirlwind fast.

Martyn paused, looking up at her. “What’s on your mind, babe?”

“Nothing… You look cute on your knees.”

“Jeb, save me from this woman’s fantasies,” he muttered with a roll of his eyes. But she saw him smirking, head ducked as he went back to work.

Camping was a blast. Clicking gas lanterns, sloppy pancakes on a grill, card games, leaping squirrels, the scent of sunscreen in the air! They’d set up near both their favorite river rafting experience and a new ropes course-slash-zipline. Scott brought eight boxes of cereal, which were not as delicious mixed together as some had hoped. Mumbo had a boat, and his and Grian’s kid wouldn’t stop begging for either tubing or the beach… which was sort of cute. But Cleo had to stifle a laugh late at night when she stirred awake, Martyn’s arm across her back, and heard Grian shuffling around, trying to lead his yawning, cranky son across the campground to the toilet block.

“You didn’t even brush your teeth!”

“Dad says neither did you!”

“Your other dad doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”

Martyn shifted then, bringing rose’s mouth near Cleo’s ear. “There’s nothing sweeter than the whine of a child that isn’t your responsibility, mm? I could lie here forever, ignoring so hard…”

Cleo ignored harder, but chuckled when Martyn pouted and pulled her in for a deeper hug. Flower’s breath smelled like chocolate and cereal, and those sturdy arms that had once built a summer camp from the ground up were warm, tight, and safe. Flower kissed her cheek. Cleo reached back, pulling her fingers through rose’s floppy hair. And while it wasn’t their honeymoon, it almost felt like one. The real thing probably wouldn’t measure up to how loudly she laughed during games of cards and charades, or watching Martyn yelp and fumble flower’s s’more into the campfire. Pearl made a goopy and delicious one with chocolate graham crackers and Ren cooked sizzling bacon that tasted even better than it smelled.

… It would be great, though, when they could enjoy a bit more privacy than a boisterous campsite could provide. Martyn’s second kiss fell lower at her neck. Cleo stopped the third with a lifted hand. “That’s far enough. Our parents would freak as it is.” Not yet. Not yet.

“Our parents aren’t here.” Not sure if you’re playing; should I really stop?

“Scott’s here. And probably not asleep yet.” She said that part loud. “We’re not doing this with him next door.”

Martyn made a face. He leaned back to tap his knuckles against the edge of the tent, signaling in jest that he’d rather Scott and Pearl scurried off someplace, but he settled back against his pillow. Cleo snuggled up beside flower and lay her head against rose’s chest. Every breath threaded their hearts together. Every breath made soulmates out of them.

🥀

Moving to Cogsborough wasn’t just a plan to dodge Martyn. Cleo had a lot of messy memories associated with Aqua Town, and the taxes weren’t as easy to pay as a single woman as they were when she was married. The farther she went in her career, the more often she had to travel (Farther and for longer periods of time), and it wasn’t practical to pay high rent for a place she wasn’t even living in.

Spring passed, then summer. Cleo spent most of March and April researching bats, then joined Cub and Scar on their vex project in May. She met Lord and Lady Tek, who lived in the Deep Frost Citadel the whole city flourished beneath. Cleo’s heart nearly beat from her chest. The Lord and Lady greeted them with more enthusiasm than they were due, quite honestly, and Cleo wasn’t even sure how to respond to that. Cub was lead on this project; she and Scar fell into step behind him. And the vex that had taken up residence in the citadel got researched so hard, they wrote three separate papers on it. Cleo even got to put her name first on one.

That research opportunity closed at the end of May. Actually, for the last week, Cleo overlapped her work with another project Cub had set her up with: joining a woman named False in her phantom research. That one lasted all through June. From there, False put in a good word for her with the phantom sanctuary in Pixelpulse Valley, just one city over. They weren’t terrible creatures once you got used to them, though their eating habits left a little to be desired. But she couldn’t judge them harshly. Martyn had been a messy eater for years now. Chronic pain could do that.

She found a new routine. Affordable apartment? Available public transportation on the cheap and a place to park her car until she needed it? Plentiful options for shopping, eating, and entertainment? Now, that was living. And the views weren’t bad either, although heating costs were high and so were warm clothes. Plus, you always had to watch for polar bears and ravagers. Useful creatures with wool you could turn to yarn and dung you could burn for fuel, though the rugged lifestyle in this frosty place wasn’t for everyone.

Cleo invested early in a thick coat. The city did have a subway, but she preferred a sleigh or carriage to the stores; whatever was heading further into town. The aesthetic was cute and it beat slipping on the ice. As the sleigh dragged forward, she liked to lean back her head, soaking up the sight of Deep Frost Citadel looming on the hillside. A whole herd of ravagers rested on the slope. Adults licked their calves between the ears. Vex swooped in the morning light, heading home after a long night of hunting bugs.

Three months into Cogsborough life, she runs into a man with thick white hair. It’s at the chocolate shop a few blocks from her door (She enjoys it; it’s a nice treat to break up monotony, and it’s nice to rest her bad leg). The man isn’t much older than she is despite his hair color and the laugh lines around his eyes. He’s tall. Carries a messenger bag instead of a backpack. Wears little glasses. He’s a regular. He doesn’t work the chocolate counter, unfortunately. His friend does, though (a friend who smiles wide and won’t shut up, his height exchanged for volume long ago). Her silent nickname for the man who works the counter is Moss Man since he always wears green to represent the store.

The white-haired man does seem to hang around the chocolate shop a lot. Is he in school? Cleo tries to get a look at his papers and textbook one day, but the white-haired man hunches so far over his work, it’s a wonder he can see at all. He’s always got some sort of project involving gears, wires, and scarlet dust. So… he’s a redstoner?

The man doesn’t talk much. Mostly, he seems content to fidget with his device, listening to his chatty friend behind the counter. Cleo hears bits and pieces, though. After a week, she learns he’s a clockmaker. Fitting for a city like Cogsborough. The pieces he works on at the chocolate shop are only fragments of a larger whole. The lord who owns the Deep Frost Citadel commissioned him personally, so the finished project needs to be perfect. And Cleo, despite herself, can’t suppress her curiosity forever. She hovers by his table until the white-haired man looks up and blinks. His brows knit in a line.

“Uh…”

“Hey.” It’s casual, but Cleo feels awkward being overly formal in a little chocolate shop. “I just finished a research project at the Citadel last week, on the vex. You’re working on something for the Teks too, right? … I swing by this shop a lot and I’ve seen you around. My name’s Cleo.”

It’s two silent seconds before he says (softly behind his black face mask), “Etho Clocker,” and Cleo almost drops her bag.

“Oh! You… you made the Etho Hopper Clock!”

“That’s me, yes.”

“Hey!” That’s Moss Man behind the counter. Bdubs, she’s picked up. He leans over, smirking wide. “Don’t let his humility deceive you… He never knows how to talk himself up! He’s a genius.”

Etho shrugs in modesty. Or like he wants to melt away. Cleo slides her eyes to the exposed gears and wires of whatever he’s working on. Some kind of clock or timer, from the context clues. She’s not that familiar with how redstone works, so most of the bits and pieces are foreign to her. Cleo waits a few seconds longer, hoping she’ll be invited to sit. His work looks interesting. She’d like to pick his brain. She’s enjoyed the snippets of conversation she’s picked up on between him and his friends (He has more than one; she once saw her boss from the sanctuary walk into this place and chat with him). She could ask about the vex. But the man is silent.

“Well, I’d better let you get back to it,” she says, and leaves with the chocolate treat she’d bought. She glances back only once when she’s through the door, just in time to watch Bdubs (who’s come around the counter) cuff his friend upside the head. Etho drops his face in his palms with an apparent groan, sinking down in his seat.

… It’s kind of cute.

Business is blooming, Martyn writes her one day. Well, he texts it. She never did give him her address. She never blocked him either. Martyn sends a picture of himself and a few other people Cleo doesn’t recognize, their overalls and rolled-up sleeves splattered in white and yellow paint. Cleo can’t be mad he texted. She reached out two nights before, asking how his last surgery went. Is that a recent picture? It can’t be brand new. Scott said he can’t even walk. He’s got vines twisting through his arms and legs. His lungs are squeezed in thorns.

Martyn — YOUR EX (DO NOT REPLY)

( This is my attempt to meet you halfway )>

<( Halfway? )

<( I haven't got a clue what I've done wrong 😿 )

( I am sorry for being so harsh when you came back to find I'd left for Scott's place )>

<( Thank you )

( But you have taken zero accountability )>

<( Doing what? )

<( I've communicated better since then )

( no no )>

( look )>

( If I tell you what to apologize for, it's not a real apology )>

<( You're going to have to )

<( I genuinely am absolutely clueless )

<( From my perspective, I stayed one night with a good friend we both know and trust )

<( yet I'm the one who coughed up cornflowers? 🤨 )

<( Sounds like emotional infidelity on your end tbh )

( I was sick in the sink that night )>

( Coughing up YOUR roses )>

<( So you're just refusing to acknowledge my side? )

( Look )>

( I miss you )>

( Just say you're sorry for abandoning me for Pearl )>

( You've got to put in some of the work )>

<( You just said you forgive me! )

( No no )>

( I said I was sorry for being harsh )>

<( I've been pulling my weight )

<( If you're really meeting me halfway, I'll bite. I'll build a few stones )

<( Let's get together for our anniversary. Join me for dinner? )

<( We could hit a club or the sparring ring with custom enchanted gear )

<( I'll sort out your enchantments so you don't even have to come back up here )

( You don't even have to do that )>

( All it takes is an apology, Martyn )>

<( Hmm… )

<( We both know you're not getting one )

( 😑 I know )>

( Why are you like this? )>

<( 😩💥🥀🌷🌼🌻🍃)

( This is why you're alone )>

The next time Cleo visits the chocolate shop, she whispers a hello to Etho with a smile. She keeps aloof, trying to be friendly without distracting him from his very important work. Etho sits up straighter. He offers her a seat. They have a nice conversation about the vex, the citadel, and each other’s work (back and forth). And that time, when Cleo finally leaves, her secret glance behind her shoulder reveals Etho twisted around to look at Bdubs, both of them giving two thumbs up.

Maybe there’s some interest there. Maybe she doesn’t mind that. When Cleo stands before her mirror, pulling pins and flowers from her hair, she finds herself humming. She glances at the place where her wedding ring used to sit on the far edge of the counter, in her old place.

It’s been years. Technically the timeframe’s a mess—She and Martyn lived in bitter tension for another year and a half in their early Hanahaki days. They were both ill, they hadn’t yet sorted out their own feelings or whether anybody cheated or what they were going to do about it. Their parents would freak and they were both procrastinating that. Taking care of each other just seemed a lot easier than trying to divorce. Cleo knew that because she spent most of that year sleeping over at Scott’s place, and he and Pearl divorced over that very same issue. You know… with the subway car. Scott took it hard. Pearl cheating on him with Martyn while he was away with friends, no matter how she denied it.

It’s been years since she and Martyn were properly close. Between their work schedules, the disease they were both struggling through, and Cleo’s preference for sleeping at Scott’s place, their bedroom had been dead a long time. And Etho did seem interested… or at the very least, Bdubs seemed to be encouraging Etho talk to Cleo, and Etho seemed to be taking that advice to heart. And that was a green light to flirt, as far as Cleo was concerned. It’s not like she’d started hacking up petals for him.

So she keeps visiting. She buys her little treats. He takes his little breaks. They talk for three more weekends (through June into July), ‘til they reach the point where Etho doesn’t even get his textbooks out, but waits there at his favorite corner bench with his back straight and hands resting by the cookie-coated caramel apple he loves so much. Then they talk two hours, and then they walk to the subway together, and then they go down a flight of stairs. His touch lingers with his eyes, and his laughter’s infrequent, but it’s there when it matters. It’s there when it matters.

And, well… There you are, then. Cleo looks at the subway map. Then at Etho, who stands with his head to one side like a dog waiting for a treat. He looked like such a nerd, actually, with his glasses perched on the end of his nose and one hand resting on his messenger bag. Honestly, how did he even stand open-toed boots in weather this cold?

She boards the wrong train.

Chapter Text

Top 10 Hanahaki Life Hacks (#9 Will Shock You)

Admire the Imperfect

🥀

Cleo planned their wedding mostly on her own, occasionally calling Martyn when flower could get away from work. Dogwarts kept rose and Ren busy all summer long. Honestly, Cleo didn’t crave a fancy party, but their families expected it and she liked flower’s sister and dad. A bit outspoken, that man, without much of a filter, but they got on. Martyn got along better with his mum, and Cleo didn’t even blame him. Linda was a piece of work.

August 19th. That was their wedding date. And… Really, Cleo didn’t need the frills and lace, but her mum and sisters gushed over it (and mum and her step-dad were footing most the bill), so when they set hoops to jump through, Cleo asked “How high?”

She picked a venue; Iskall helped out with that (Her sibling-in-law, through Stress’s marriage two years back). And Iskall and Stress both helped order food that wouldn’t spoil fast or take an age to cook, and decent flowers that would be in season and hold their form as she carried them around. She used their photographer. She, Mum, Gem, and Stress went out to buy a dress. Busy summer. Martyn called her some nights, usually when she could hear shrieking kids splashing each other in the lake or singing campfire songs.

“I feel a bit foolish running about without the old crew,” flower admitted. “Like, it sounds stupid, but I actually feel cringe! No Scott, no Pearl… just me and Ren and the new recruits, ahahaha… Oh, I miss you. Ah, I’m so excited for this next stage in our lives. I’m so glad you’re with me on this.”

“I know, I know. It’s… Martyn, it’s all so real now. Everything’s changing. A month and a half from now, we’ll be sharing a flat. We move to Aqua Town.” His mum’s out there. For all her overbearing attitude rubbed Cleo the wrong way, Linda’s frivolous spending habits did come in handy. She’d offered to pay the first 3 months of their rent while they got established (Thank Jeb). Martyn’s mum had set herself up with a good career to afford the lavish coastal life she enjoyed, and her new boyfriend liked spoiling her as much as she enjoyed the spoiling. She might not be so bad after all.

“What, are you saying our love wasn’t real until now? Aw, you. OH! Hey, hey, hey! Hermes, you all right, dude?”

Cleo waited for rose to check on the kids, then shook her head. She’d just sent rose a pic of the wedding dress resting on the bed. She folded its skirts away and took a seat. “I’m… just not sure I feel ready for this. It’s such a big change, and it’s so weird to see how my family treats me now, like I’m suddenly more of a grown-up than I was before. Even though I’ve been living on my own for a while now and paying my own bills.”

Martyn hummed. “Well, if you change your mind about the wedding, let’s take care of that before we get to the altar.” Cleo could hear rose’s feet pace across the rocks. Flower wore sandals, which made a fwip, fwip, fwip sound against the clicks and clacks of sliding pebbles. The lake lapped against the shore. “Hey, y’all right? I can have Ren give me an hour if you want to talk. Look, if you’re none too sure about this, don’t worry about our parents. I care about us; I care about you and your feelings. They can choke on a–”

“No, no… I’m good, Martyn. I’m… yeah.” She tightened her hand in the lace across the bosom of her to-be wedding dress. She could feel her heartbeat in the clenched fingertips. Her thighs burned against the tough mattress. This was her mum and step-dad’s guest room bed, though Cleo couldn’t imagine why they’d picked it. It didn’t seem comfy in the slightest. She hadn’t asked Martyn if he liked his bed plush or firm. There were many things she hadn’t asked him yet. She didn’t know what all they were, but her heart began to pound and her grip on the dress drew ever tighter, dragging silky fabric across the bed. Her chest bore scars, scars, scars…

… scars she didn’t dare claw up.

“Well, if you’re all right, I’ll let you go. But call me if you want to. Ren will let me duck away, and if it doesn’t, I’ll go on the run. And I mean that! It can’t stop me!”

Flower probably did. Cleo tossed back a snarky joke that rose wouldn’t get far and better not try if he knows what’s good for him. Martyn laughed and assured her everything was fine. And it probably was. Fine. Cleo bit her nails into the thick part of her hand then, chest shaking and lashes hot as she forced out her next few words.

“Do… do we want to plan some kind of collaring ceremony with our friends? And if we do, is that something you’d like close to our wedding, when everyone’s in town? We could squeeze it in somewhere.”

Martyn went dead silent on the other end. And then, “Is the collar for you or for me?” but flower’s voice tensed like a mountain, and she knew rose wasn’t playing. She dabbed her tongue across her lips.

“It’s fine if you don’t. I just didn’t know if that was important to you; if that’s something we should plan.”

More silence. Well, silence from rose, anyway. The kids kept joking around behind him. His breath sent static through the receiver and Cleo held steady, because she had to, because they had to talk about this. They were communicating. Martyn took a ragged breath. She actually heard rose’s nails or something scratch, or maybe rose switched the phone to the other side of flower’s face.

“I can’t do that for you.”

“It would be for you,” she said quietly. “Yeah, I mean… Of course don’t do it for me. It’s just that if you want it, it’s there. Look, sorry—Since we’re exclusive and our friends are coming in, I just thought—”

“Cleo, I really don’t think you understand. I’m not a big ‘subby’ kind of brat. Like, according to half our friends, I’m not even a real…? Lordy, give me something more nuanced to work with, people. Look, Cleo—I like pushing buttons, but you can’t break me. Or ‘tame’ or whatever they call it. Is that going to be a problem down the road?”

“No, I remember you saying—”

“No collar.”

“Okay. That’s fine.” They’d talked about this before, except the collaring bit. Martyn really got red if you brought up the brat thing. He rolled his eyes in all their meetings and parties, lolling his head, and he’d give her deadpan stares that said Get me out of here. I don’t WANT to submit; this archetype doesn’t fit. But he never seemed to find something else that would.

“I’m glad you asked,” said flower. “I just… My ex never figured me out either. I can’t even figure myself out. I really want to try this, but to me, the brattiness is foreplay. It’s this thing I lean into before we switch to vanilla, because he never got me down; we always had to stop. I don’t bend easy.”

He said it like a rattlesnake, shaking his little tail in warning before she took another step. Cleo leaned back her head. “Yeah, I know. Anyway, keep me posted on that list of fantasies. I’m still working on our honeymoon plans.”

Martyn sighed. “Yes, ma’am. I love you.”

“… Love you too.” She hung up, then let the phone and her hand drop against the bed. Hhhgh. Yeah. August 19th swam in the corners of her eyes. It lurked in the undergrowth. Cleo turned her head, staring across the guest room bed at the undisturbed place on the other side. No Martyn there. Not now. Not for months.

Wedding day. Wedding night. Honeymoon. Ring. Traditional motions. Traditional pronouns. Traditional marriage. Traditional life. She’d avoid her family’s reproachful looks if she’d just grit her teeth and bear it. And bear it. And bear it a little more.

“Keep me posted on those fantasies.” / “Yes, ma’am.” Jeb, her mum would have a fit.

Heavy rules and expectations were easier to bear with Martyn around. With breezy wit, flower dodged every pressing comment and snide remark. The whole family sighed after rose. Cleo sighed after rose. Martyn could make her laugh at anything, even when he’d royally screwed up. Rose wasn’t clumsy, but got overly excited. Very playful. Charming. Painfully bratty and endearing all 24 hours in the day. Cleo reached out, pulled a pillow across her body, and pretended it was Martyn resting with her for a moment. It would be soon. Not much longer now.

She breathed out, pressing her fingers against the back of Martyn’s imaginary neck. August 19th. Not much longer now.

🌹

The subway car jolts and sways, sending Cleo’s head bumping into Etho’s. He huffs softly behind the mask across his mouth. It covers everything from his neck to his nose. She never did ask about that; she’s not sure she’s allowed to. There might not be a story behind it anyway, though the scar across his eye suggests he’s got at least one. What an… interesting person. Cleo eyeballs that pale scar as they ride past stop after stop, Etho’s hand occasionally braced against her thigh. It doesn’t look fresh, so he didn’t get it from the vex at Lord and Lady Tek’s manor unless he’s been working there for quite some time (A very real possibility). Hm. She’s never had issues with the bats or phantoms. She’d been bitten by vex a few times, but she took all her shots in advance and only handled them with thick gloves and under Cub and Scar’s supervision. The vex teeth hadn’t left scars. Neither had the bear cubs’ claws, thick and heavy as they made curious swipes at her neck.

So what left it there? It doesn’t look deep enough to have been gouged by the horn of a ravager, though that seems the most likely option, statistically speaking. His scar is pinkish gray (a little purple) and the skin slightly raised like the gentle press of rolling hills. An hour from now, she’ll probably have that black mask bunched in her palm, her lips mouthing at his own. Like… It’ll be fun, y’know? Nothing serious. Etho looks like a nice person and every word she’s heard him say has only underscored that. A little shy. A little awkward. Sharp, but relaxed enough to goof around. He jokes with Bdubs sometimes while nibbling on caramel apple chunks, though he hadn’t yet played those teasing cards with Cleo. He should. She’d like tossing snark and insults back and forth with him. Nice guy, though. Cute. Yeah. Yeah, she’s looking forward to this, actually. She wraps her hand atop his on her thigh, giving it a gentle squeeze.

The subway car lurches again, and Cleo curls her nails in the blue padding of her seat. It’s coated in tough, peeling fabric. She slides her hand to Etho’s forearm. The train car sways. Dark and light flash through the tunnel. Etho glances over. She sees his eyes crinkle, brows tilting up. Yeah. Cleo smiles back, quick and strained. Right. Her heart fusses about beneath her skin, building a brand new nest inside her ribcage. Etho seems… sweet. Naïve, maybe, but the softness in the way he takes her hand or steals sideways glances brings a blossom of warmth to her chest and a flush to her cheeks. The train rumbles on. Yet in all this flurry-filled excitement, she’s still standing there with one jigsaw piece awkward in her hand. The one that doesn’t fit this new direction on the train.

Martyn.

Oooh, boy. She’d rather not get into it. But see, she’s never actually… slept with another man before (or woman, for that matter). Living with her parents for as long as she had didn’t exactly present opportunity, and once she moved out, it took an age to get her feet under her. Wildlife research and rehabilitation is a career of up and down hours, and while she’s big on card games, she never hit it off with anyone at the game store. Well… A few dates. Figured out she’s a raving bisexual, you know, which is just another thing she’s dying to tell her parents, but would never actually dare to. She’s kissed a few girls. Once after a concert. Once after a horseback riding trip. Never gone home with one; never spent the night with one. Sort of didn’t matter once she had Martyn, so she kept her bi pride socks stuffed in the back of her drawer where her mum couldn’t find them if she barged in to snoop around. And she’s never ridden the subway home with a partner’s hand gently squeezing her thigh like Etho’s got his now.

Only Martyn. And, well… Frankly, she’d be lying her pretty tailbone off if she acted like that didn’t worry her. The thought buzzed her skin like coffee shot directly through her veins. She may as well be her caffeinated, animated boss at the phantom sanctuary. Cleo can’t look at Etho for a huge portion of the subway ride, which is just fine since they keep zooming through tunnels, sitting in the dark. One foot starts to tap. Her fingernails fix in his trouser leg.

I’m not sure I can actually do this. Only Martyn’s ever stripped her naked. Only Martyn’s paraded hickeys down her neck. Only Martyn’s spread her legs. And with every station they pass, Cleo’s breath gets shallower, her hand tighter at her chest. What am I doing? I barely know this guy! He could actually hurt me. I mean… I trust Bdubs to be a judge of good character. He seems friendly. And my boss likes him just fine, and False recommended me to Impulse, and Cub recommended me to False, and I trust everyone in the line-up that brought me here. Oh, Jeb—was it going to cause a problem if she became ‘acquaintances with benefits’ with her boss’s friend? She squeezes her heart so tight, the stitch marks up and down her arms almost become wonderful accents for a gaping hole in her chest. Can someone say ‘performance anxiety?’

Okay. Here’s how it will go. She’ll make every move with as much care as an injured vex, not catching any feelings for the glasses-wearing nerd with his hand on her leg, even if he is cute… and sits with his head ticked to one side like he knows it. 

Along with her leg, Etho keeps a firm grip on the strap of his messenger bag. He jitters his foot, bouncing it up and down so the heel never brushes the floor. Martyn used to do that when he got bored at a conference on animal conservation (or camp ownership, or the housing updates, or fire safety, or kink), throwing warning looks at her that said Hey, I need attention and if we don’t get out of here soon, I’m going to be such a pill about it. A hand on his leg or lower back usually soothed his irritation, though she’d still catch him grumbling now and then, leaning his chin on his curled hand.

“I have to make a stop,” Etho says then, when they’re (presumably) getting close to where he lives.

“A stop?” Cleo asks, not really thinking about it. She blinks to chase thoughts of Martyn from her mind. A stop’s a bit sudden, isn’t it? I’m going home with him. I should’ve texted Scott or Gem to let them know where I am. Not that Scott could do anything about it from his flat in Chromia and Gem was either sleeping or prepping for her night shift at work. “What for?” She does need to pee. Like, she’ll have to take care of that sooner or later. Maybe I should’ve done that at the chocolate shop.

“Um.” Etho’s foot keeps on bouncing. “Protection. You know.”

“Protec-?” Cleo slaps his thigh and he about jumps out of his seat. “How DARE you assume I’d be throwing myself on your dick tonight!” She could say that, not keeping her voice very low at all—by this point, they were among the very last people on the car. Someone sat in the distant back. They sat alone in the front.

At that, what little of Etho’s face she can see goes white, then raspberry. His hands fly up, palms shaking back and forth. “I—I didn’t mean to assume—I just thought—with you saying you wanted to-?” He catches that other rider glancing at them and turns an even prettier shade of red.

“I’m joking.” And she laughs, nestling back against his arm. “Jeb, Etho… I’m joking.”

Etho shakes his head. He massages the top of his nose, his glasses lifting and falling with every shift his knuckles make. It’s cute. “Cleo,” he chides, “you can’t do that to me. I’ll—I’ll believe you.”

“Well, you’d better get used to it if you want me to stick around.”

“I think I’ll manage.” He looks off, scanning the windows as they zip along, hurtling through station after station. “Well… I thought some wine or champagne might be nice, if we wanted to make an evening of it. Do you indulge in that kind of thing?”

“Yeah, I’ve been known to drink now and then. That sounds good. You know how to treat a lady.” And then she wondered, Do I see myself as a lady? Sometimes more, sometimes less. She looked uncertainly at the man beside her. Martyn had used neopronouns, at least until he coughed up flowers and the thought made him sick as a cat. Ren liked it/its pronouns at camp, but had requested they/them or he/him around certain other groups. What did Etho think about that sort of thing?

… And would she still sit here with him if it turned out he hated the thought?

The subway car rattles on. Etho slides his arm behind her. Tentatively at first, like a fox creeping from the undergrowth, but when she leans against him, he stops holding back. Cleo snuggles up. Etho lets her stay, tracing spirals on her arm with his fingertip. Light and dark flicker. The world’s a blur. Cleo touches the base of her throat, checking for any sign of sprouting vines or petal clusters. Nothing yet.

Yeah. All right. This isn’t going to hurt Martyn. Tonight is just a bit of fun. She won’t catch feelings; she won’t flare his Hanahaki up. Martyn doesn’t even have to know.

🥀

The wedding turned out big, loud, and full of slobbery kids from all sides of their awkward families—Cleo and her mum and step-dad and the family members who still kept up with her after her biological dad died, Martyn and rose’s mum and dad and mum’s sugar daddy boyfriend. They invited all their friends. A lot of them showed. The reception wouldn’t be ‘til after, of course, but Scott crossed Cleo’s path and snuck a hug. Ren probably thumped Martyn on the back and wished rose well. They threw the wedding at Dogwarts, obviously. Where else would they want to be?

Then, well… the ceremony. Not much to say there. They kept the flowers light and simple. It’s… weird to decorate a space of love with flowers, isn’t it? … It just seems in poor taste. Some people like to, though, using flowers as symbols that reinforce the idea of commitment (leaving one love behind for another). They picked white and pink ones. Simple enough. They didn’t stand out against her dress and she honestly preferred it that way. Her step-dad walked her down the amphitheater steps. Sure; might as well. I mean, while he was there, anyway.

Martyn glowed as she joined him at the bottom level, flower’s hands clasped down by flower’s waist. Rose cleaned up nice; always had. Blond hair and blue eyes against his sun-warmed skin and deep black suit. Jeb, that had to be hot and sweaty under the collar—August 19th, outside—but rose smiled like the sight of her made it all worth it in the end. They leaned into the traditional vows, flower gripping her hands while gazing in her eyes. Cleo watched flower’s lips, smiling wide, as rose half-whispered, “I want to set spawn with you for the rest of our lives. Link my heart to yours. Make a soulmate out of me.”

And who would walk away from that? Cleo responded in her turn: “In day, in night, and with monsters banging at our door. There’s no one whose armor I’d rather buckle or who I’d rather wield a sword beside.”

Flower looked at her a second, waiting for silent permission. Flower dragged it out with cautious hands folding back the veil. And that was that. Martyn swept her around and kissed her firmly, hotly, in front of all their friends, and Cleo almost laughed when everybody cooed and clapped. But Martyn had rose’s mouth on hers, so she settled for kissing back, arms looped like a chain around rose’s neck. Whoops and cheers…

… but mostly, she remembers him.

Martyn held on until they both had to breathe again. After pictures, Cleo shook out her hair and they danced. Lovely banquet that night—steak and nachos and things. Ice cream with their chocolate wedding cake. Gem cried. Maybe about the cake, but eh… Who knows?

Ren and Doc had made arrangements so families could stay in the Dogwarts cabins overnight if they liked, but after a lifetime of parents hovering over them, Martyn and Cleo wanted nothing more than privacy. Martyn had swayed rose’s aunt into letting them honeymoon at her lakeside condo. They arrived a bit than they’d wanted to, but without regrets. Martyn yawned, fumbling with the key. Cleo dumped their stuff partly on the counter and partly on the floor. She fell against the bed with a huff, her feet still fighting off the phantom pinch of high heels kicked off long ago. Martyn chuckled, drawing back the curtain from the balcony. Two chairs sat out there, plus a table that looked perfect for the champagne and treats rose’s aunt had graciously set up for them on the table. Or maybe rose’s mum… Honestly, Cleo didn’t care which.

“Guess we’re married,” she said, sticking up her finger. Martyn stuck rose’s up back.

“Cowabunga! Hey, you’re stuck with me now, dude!” Flower slid open the balcony door. She rolled off the bed to join rose out there. Martyn wrapped an arm behind her waist, rubbing one hand up and down her torso. Cleo leaned her head against rose’s shoulder. Two lines of condos stood between them and the water, but a pinch of beach and crystal blue waves shone through the gap. Just a little thing… but it fit so well from here. Martyn turned and kissed her scalp, just beneath her ginger hair.

They hadn’t rushed it, had they? They’d dated for years. They’d gone out a lot; spent holidays with each other’s families. Martyn had invited her to dinner with both sides of rose’s family (once for some local independence day, later for this big Overworld gratitude thing) and Cleo asked him over for a winter party at hers. They had some serious talks about their future bedroom life and kink. They’d seen all the seasons more than once together. More than twice, hand in hand. When you ran the timeline against the calendar, it didn’t feel so rushed.

But maybe all that ‘out and about’ stuff (in both their career paths) left them blind to how little time they’d actually spent in each other’s private company, away from friends and cousins and big, big families. Things started out strong when they first moved to Aqua Town, but they disagreed on how to organize their space. How to handle visiting family members. Whether to keep a guest room or convert it to an office space. When to get plants, pets, or have their first kid. She figured they’d have one or two—their parents would probably side-eye them forever if they dragged their feet.

Their holidays didn’t align. Neither did their free time preferences, except for when they did. Cleo liked morning showers to wake her up while Martyn would rather clean off at the end of a long day. Either that, or flower just took extra time to frustrate her. Flower seemed to think it hilarious when she pounded on the door, trying to get rose to crack it so she could wedge in her foot or slam it open with her knee. But… more often than not, Cleo cooled her temper and simply leaned one shoulder on the frame.

“Martyn? Are you going to tell your beloved wife, the gem of your life, what is taking so long? She’s been out here killing time in ways that also killed the mood.”

“Just getting changed!”

“The water’s been off for an hour.”

“It’s a lot of buttons.”

“Martyn, I’m going to count to 10. 1…”

They both had jobs that took them away from home multiple weekends, or sometimes full weeks. The sex was infrequent. Maybe that’s what made it better; made them work. The longer flower stayed out, the more she ached for rose’s body next to hers. It was like, the way he put his hand on the back of her neck and turned her face to his, the more she forgot to—

Bzzzt! Bzzzt!

Martyn — YOUR EX (DO NOT REPLY)

<( sooo dinner? )

<( I can plan lunch )

<( steak )

<( yummy yummy steak )

<( you wanna eat steak so bad )

( yeah, go on )>

( can you handle a grill or do you need me to cook for you? )>

Sigh.

Time and distance had their benefits—they figured that out pretty quick. Thing was, Cleo had a lot more tolerance for Martyn’s bratty side if they kept some white space in between their play. She never really tamed that man. Rose didn’t want her to, either; he’d just push and push buttons like that alone did the trick. Outrunning rose’s mental stamina was a feat of endurance neither she nor his other ex had ever mastered (so he said). Aw, good luck to whoever picks him up next. You’re gonna need it. Here’s a hint: snapping your fingers in his face mid-gushing ramble and throwing him a chore to do really gets him red. Keep a pair of wireless headphones around and tune him out while you do whatever else. You’re welcome.

“Hello. If you’re going to crowd the kitchen, make yourself useful.”

“Eh- Wha- HEY!”

“C’mon. And did you call your mum about holiday? She asked about you.”

“Uh, no? Not yet. Why are YOU talking to my mum? I thought you two were at each other’s throats.”

“Eh, I’ve won her over. I send her pics of you. You’d know this if you listened more.”

“… The-?”

“No, no; not THOSE pics, Martyn. Look: Knife. Celery. Make them friends or scoot. Scoot.”

“Pfft. Okay, king—I’m on it.”

Something about “king” always felt good rolling off Martyn’s tongue… but her heart skipped at the thought of telling that to Etho. Who knew if he’d understand. Martyn understood. Martyn got me and I got him.

Martyn — YOUR EX (DO NOT REPLY)

<( what )

<( cleo what )

<( whats your deal )

<( youre breadcrumbing me )

<( cleo )

<( ??? )

Martyn worked part-time doing retail and customer service when he wasn’t out at Dogwarts, and he did mob grooming and relocation on request (even the hostile mobs or the needy ones like striders and blaze). He’d try anything, really. Especially with her. Martyn knew how to twist his tongue against hers like he’d been waiting years to prove it, his cheeks bright and smirk so pretty on his ever-chapped lips.

Longer absences always got the “full treatment” when rose came home, unless it got late. On nights like those, she’d join Martyn in the shower. They’d crash into bed, mumbling into each other’s necks and pulling fingers through each other’s hair like they were building kelp farms. She’d mush rose’s up like banana. She’d wrap around flower until rose huffed and forced her body to lie flush, pulling her ankle behind his hip. Wow. Every bed creak throbbed against her temple. Minty breath burned her scalp. It got hot in coastal Aqua Town, and the cuddles never lasted long. Nah. They kicked off the sheets and basked in the springtime afterglow of the shower. Sometimes, even without the fancy buildup… those were the times Cleo loved him most. Desired. Accepted. Safe. Home.

“Why are you like this, Martyn?”

“Mm. Given you m’heart; that’s why. This is my heart. This is me.”

… Martyn.

Martyn.

… He threw her away for 15 minutes with Pearl. Or an hour. 8 hours, overnight. Maybe 10. Honestly, she’d rather not think about it. Ugh. Every time she thought too hard about Martyn shaking in the park when she confronted him, his red and bitten knuckles bouncing at his lips, choking out that splurge of protests (“I didn’t cheat! It was one night sleeping at a friend’s place!”) as if they couldn’t hear Scott and Pearl in a shouting match across the street…

Every time she overthought it, she strayed that much closer to taking him back, apology or not. It’d be easier to forgive him and move on from that fracture if he’d just acknowledge how bad he hurt her with his one-night stand. But she can’t forgive him if he won’t put out his hand. She wouldn’t forgive herself if she didn’t hold firm.

“Cleo, I coughed up flowers too. You can’t pin this all on me.”

Martyn — YOUR EX (DO NOT REPLY)

<( hey what )

<( cleo hey )

<( you cant drop that on me )

<( answer )

1 missed call

<( answer me now 💀 ⚰️ )

2 missed calls

3 missed calls

Contact name changed to Martyn 🔥 lol

And deep down, Martyn probably wouldn’t forgive himself, either. Not until rose figures things out. Yeah, they tried to work things out for a year and a half. But it made misery out of monotony. It made them both sick and weak when they brushed their foreheads in the bed, shivering among their petals and clinging to each other’s arms.

Did they doom their marriage the moment they brought rose’s brattiness to the bedroom? Did Cleo set flower up for this? Did Pearl say something offhand that brought out a witty quip, so Martyn was sunk before the snark even left that grinning mouth? She didn’t want to talk to Pearl—didn’t want to THINK about Pearl fooling around with her husband, her head thrown back so those little fake fangs she wore caught light and laughter like the tag on her collar. Did Pearl like being hit? Maybe she had toys. Maybe Martyn liked that. He always told me he saw himself more as a dom than a sub. And he said he was a switch. He had a whole whiny meltdown when he found out he liked a little impact play—how could I have been so STUPID?

“I never touched beneath her clothes.” / “Then what did you touch?” She’d thrown that at rose and rose stood there, coffee shaking in his hand. Flower’s lips parted, but froze halfway. Oh, bite me.

They got better at communicating as months and years flickered by. And yeah, they disagreed on little things. Maybe lines blurred between sex and home. They both turned heated and flushed, sometimes shouting, but never in front of their friends. A walk and a swim could cool them off again. Thank goodness for Aqua Town sitting on a beach. Martyn wasn’t great at picking up her stubborn cues when she wanted an apology, but rose loved her even at her most pissed off. The way flower nuzzled up to her, kissing wetness from her eyes, mostly made up for it. See, Martyn’s problem wasn’t lack of sympathy; rose would just rather listen to her vents and patch her stress with gifts she didn’t need, throwing in rose’s own commentary, over and over again instead of changing flower’s ways. She probably didn’t have a right to request change anyway, but those were her own demons to conquer.

Oh, she could hold a grudge until Hels froze over, but Martyn in a loose-fitting bathrobe, rose’s golden chest hair peeking through the V, stayed her frustration time and time again. Yeah, rose would prod and tease, but rose listened. That drove her up the wall. Like… Wow.

“Aaarrrgggh! I just—I’d love to punt something across the park right now. Does the community center have bocce balls?”

“Yes, ma’am! And maybe croquet when we’re done?”

They did not play croquet after bocce ball. But they did change the scenery and their clothes.

Martyn liked to go and do things, flower liked to keep rose’s body fit, and flower liked to talk about solutions. Emotionally, Martyn didn’t always grasp the nuance. Sometimes it felt like rose wouldn’t even try to understand, just refusing to take accountability altogether, but Martyn had his own ways of showing love, and she had hers. She’d had her fair share of talks where Martyn requested she text more often when she went away for work. She didn’t really keep up with her phone when out of town—or even while lounging at home when he went to Dogwarts, for that matter.

Cleo always came back to a clean house and dinner after a research trip away (albeit not always organized in ways that made sense to her), but she often got so overwhelmed, she wouldn’t know where to start when left alone (shared space; Martyn’s cupboards). She tossed and turned sometimes at the thought of disappointment in flower’s eyes that she couldn’t seem to deliver cleanliness and laundry and food as well as rose. And Martyn always wheedled, asking if she’d be more open to visiting some of rose’s favorite restaurants, even though her taste buds favored blandness over spice. “You don’t have to order fancy! You can settle for an appetizer; the garlic bread’s amazing. I won’t mind.”

Yeah. For two people who’d sworn their lives to each other, their jagged edges didn’t fit together quite right. They’d been cut from the same cloth, but opposite ends. But Martyn lit the room on fire when they went to bed. She knew exactly the blue dress that got rose thinking fantasies just as dirty as the ones that lurked in her head when she leaned her hands on rose’s fuzzy chest. So… you know. Things were fine.

Actually, things were better than fine. They were hot. Steamy. Sexy. Martyn kissed her like it gave wings to both their backs. Flower kissed like he’d been the god of lust and passion in some other ancient life. And for all her struggles with the flavored foods he liked, don’t let it be said she wasn’t open to experiments in the bedroom. Martyn played along with it (Good boy that he’d become). They learned to grow alongside each other, wrapped in tandem like a pair of climbing vines, supporting each other all the way. Why would they let go?

Sure… They’d smacked each other out of anger, but if it wasn’t in play, they only did that when they had armor on. Martyn shoved her towards a river from a cliff once (acting like a brat when he saw her back away). She didn’t hit the water, which sent them through a pretty bad respawn that could’ve been avoided, but it worked out for the best. Well, Martyn respawned in Centerpoint and had to frantically book a train ride home, and Cleo stayed with Scott a few hours to get drunk and vent about how impulsive her stupid husband could be. But when he got to her…

When he got to her.

“SO!” (Standing at Scott’s door, leaning against it with folded arms while Scott kept his elbow on her shoulder, wine glass in his other hand.)

“I am genuinely so sorry—”

“You have lost all chance of ever being with her,” Scott told him dryly, and the panic in Martyn’s eyes made her bust a gut. He’d lost his headband, his shirt askew, his arm battered from an encounter with an enderman on his way home (without his armor handy). But he apologized without hesitation, and it was okay.

Martyn’s kisses tasted like cream soda thick with ice cream while the fingers in her hair pulled her from reality for long minutes at a time, so it was okay. None of her careers or friendships had ever been perfect, and neither had her parents’ lives, so why would her marriage be any different? Martyn actually wanted her to stay, catching her hand when they lay together on the bed… and showed his words were never empty. If rose thought they might be, rose just wouldn’t say them.

But rose did want her there, and showed it through passion (hair mussed up, both of them panting and dripping sweat) even when rose couldn’t find the words. Honestly, Cleo couldn’t find her words half the time either, but mostly due to where she had her mouth. Every attempt at confessing love or lust came out muffled on Martyn’s skin. And the mousy noises he made could fuel her for a lifetime.

“Cleeeeooo…”

And did their neighbors ever see flower’s bitten lips and wonder about their private life? Her skin prickled in amusement at the scandal of friends and family coming to visit, sitting on that couch where Martyn liked to push her down (or she pulled him) and they played so rough. Not that she’d ever tell them that.

They both called off work for a week (post-respawn recovery) that night after her fall by the river. They alternated between door-delivered meals and fancy restaurants and almost never left the bed. And Martyn… Martyn…

She’d let him make a thousand mistakes for the quaver in his begging voice when he clung to her, pleading for make-up sex with rope and gags or anything she asked for. “I really didn’t mean to do that. I even sprint-punched so you’d clear the gap! Oh, I feel awful. It was for the meme, I swear. Ohhhh, no…”

“Why? Just… Why!?”

“Hey, don’t look at me like that… Riling you up really gets me hot. Is it a crime for a man to love his wife in all her stormy moods?”

She could have left him. But she really did love him. She knew that, even without one-sided Hanahaki flowers to prove it. So as a pair, they got by.

“Cleo?”

Etho.

“We’re here.”

🌹

Shopping for protection never used to bother her. Toss it on the belt with all the rest and just let the cashier do their job. No need to make it weird. Engage them in easy conversation if you like. Use the self-checkout if you’re really that embarrassed. She isn’t, really, and stands as breezily and aloof as she can while Etho hovers over his options. If you can call that hovering. He stands like he’s numb with one hand on the strap of his bag. He can’t shake his leg up and down like he did on the subway, but he probably would if he were sitting down. Cleo tilts her head, trying not to make any noises or sudden movements that might startle him. He scratches behind his neck. His white hair’s cute and puffy, spilling like snow just below his ears. Fitting, since he’s frozen stiff. Sigh.

This is a mistake. He’s too inexperienced for the sort of things I’m into. But she blinks, because that’s kind of the point. Something different. Something new. A bit of fun without adoration or commitment. This… this is fine. This is normal, you know. It’s normal to sleep with someone else after you’ve been divorced. She had a right to; the papers had been filed. 3 years ago? 3 since the fight, 2 since they’d filed? Something like that. She’d only been with Martyn up ‘til now.

Etho moves his hand stiffly, like an agent with a string of commands programmed in his head. He grabs the nearest box on his left: wispy gray. Neutral coloration, almost like butter. Cleo catches his wrist. Etho glances over. She keeps her tone as soft and easy as she could, without letting any judgment leak in.

“Maybe the dark green box? You might like that one better.” The box in question depicts a leaping stag, its antlers… definitely implying something. There are more sizes available on the shelf right now than for the brand he grabbed seemingly at random, which might nudge him to double check, thinking twice. And the ones in that deer box don’t look like they’d muffle as much sensation. Unless he’s into that, stringing her along for the game. He looks owlish and alarmed.

“Look who’s an expert,” Etho murmurs, but she can feel how thin that mask of false bravado really is. The gray box goes back on the shelf. He takes more time studying his options now, walking and crouching. He apologizes more than once, but Cleo cuts him off.

“You’re good. This is good. This is safe.” She caresses the spot on her finger where her wedding ring used to sit. Really, Etho’s twitchy fingers and slow decision-making process give off the vibe that he’s new to this, and probably never married himself. Which is fine. She’s 34, which is neither here nor there.

She wonders whether Martyn’s gotten any action like this since she and him parted ways. If he ever went back to Pearl. It’s been months since she last upchucked petals herself, and that was only one stuttered weekend before Martyn seemingly shook his head and steadied out, plowing forward on his stubborn path… refusing to bend or break or stray. It’s fine. It’s always fine.

He’s allowed to shop about, you know (Either for a kink partner or to fall in love). Cleo’s not into poly relationships, which she made clear to Martyn pretty early on, but since they split, Martyn can do whatever he wants.

He could have her back if he’d apologize. At the least, she’d consider talking like a grown-up about it. She and Martyn lived together for years and dated a few beyond that. Honestly. They worked through so much together, it’s just pathetic and sad they fell apart like this in the end. Cleo shakes her head softly to herself, pulling her ruffled sleeves with tucked-in thumbs. Etho checks over his shoulder. His brows pinch up. Cleo starts to speak, then bites back the immediate teasing that would’ve leapt off her tongue for Martyn in their own early, awkward days: Look, I’m not the one familiar with your size. You’ll have to figure this out on your own. And Martyn would’ve smirked, pawing through boxes, and quipped back, “Not familiar? Well, you’re about to be.”

“Oh, is that where you see this going?”

“Well, I don’t see you picking party hats for some kind of strap, so… I do think I bat for Team Top this week, yeah.”

“That’s because I packed for holiday already. I’m having you plan ahead for when I can’t be bothered to entertain your snotty rich boy act.”

Flower laughed. He lifted his wrist to his mouth, snickering against the back and not really blocking the noise, and Cleo just shook her head and wandered down the row to safety-check the ingredients on the novelty options for the hell of it.

… She and Martyn didn’t really condom shop together after the first handful of times. Maybe on occasion. Not a lot. Once around their first anniversary, trial-and-erroring those novelty brands she actually did bring home. Funny. Like, it’s not the kind of thing you think you’d ever miss. Bedroom went quiet after the incident, though. She and Martyn cuddled when they felt well enough to do so, but chronic thorns nipping at their insides day in, day out really took a toll. Martyn had the softest hair she’d ever buried her face in, her body curled so tight to his, she probably squeezed him to his bones. She probably crushed vines up against them and clogged his joints. But he didn’t mind. Martyn always nestled back against her. Aching and huffing… but there until the end. Like he always wanted to be.

“We can’t keep this up forever, you know. It’s not like Hanahaki’s a subtle disease. People will talk.”

“I’d rather do it with you.”

“Cleo?”

She blinks herself to the present once again. Etho’s standing a breath in front of her now, his head to one side like before. Those little glasses really are cute. They catch the drugstore lights a bit funny, though. Cleo’s eyes flip to the box in his hand, which he’s got mostly sheltered under his arm. It’s one of the dull green ones. She didn’t see the size. Great. That’s… This is good. This is exciting. The design’s brighter in the light than she thought it was, and not as subtle as some of the minimalist designs, but it blends well against his vest. She blinks again. “Oh. Um… Wine or champagne, right?” Expensive. Exquisite. Is that common for a first-night-stand?

… Etho wants this. Enough to try impressing her. Did Bdubs put him up to this? Bdubs is definitely the mousy instigator of their little bromance duo. Ah. It hits her then that she is very, very lost. She’s not familiar with this part of Cogsborough. She never did tell Scott or Ren or someone where she’d disappeared to, tailing Etho who knows where. Her phone should still have some battery left, and if it doesn’t, Etho’s sure to have a charger at his flat. Cleo closes her empty fist. Would it be weird to text Scott this late in the evening? Bdubs probably knows where she is, but that’s only so-so comforting. Bdubs is Etho’s friend. She’s not often talked to him without Etho nearby, though he always smiles big at the register when watching her pick out treats. He doesn’t know me. Would he report me missing if I disappeared?

Cleo’s stomach growls like a primal thing. Oh. Right. She hasn’t eaten dinner yet; not really sure whether Etho’s planning to feed her. Scott knew her back when she was still dating around in her younger years, but she wouldn’t say she’s ready to have the “back on the market” conversation with him. He’ll get so smirky when he finds out she’s sleeping with a new guy. Which she is. Will be. It’s… Mm. Yeah.

Etho’s eyes flutter shut. “Where do they sell lube?”

Cleo’s brain flatlines for a beat. But she has to credit him for thinking ahead. She’d forgotten the lube. Well, she hadn’t forgotten it… Just, gotten used to having it around. Martyn sort of took care of that. Cleo bites her lip. She really should’ve looked through that stuff while Etho looked at boxes. But she steadies out, then walks around a little. Aha.

“It’s over here.” She picks up the brand that’s most familiar to her. That’ll do. “Uh…” She stares at it, blank and unsure, and wonders whether the lube stays with Etho or if it goes home with her. That’s definitely not something she ever had to wonder while exclusive with Martyn at home. They only had problems over holiday. Cleo tilts the jar in her hand. The hum of fluorescent lights seems to shriek overhead. Moths and flies buzz around the beams. “Do we want to do dinner? I can make a nice spaghetti if you’re okay with me setting up in your kitchen.” And then she thinks, I hope he has a kitchen. Does he live in some non-cooking flat? The university’s in this area. Is he a student? Employed there? He’s in his 30s. What if he has roommates? They might be over there right now, chatting in the living room and watching a movie on a funky screen. Her heart pounds against her throat like a baby at the village bell. Cleo squeezes the lube jar. Her nails bite the plastic lid.

Why is she doing this, really? Getting tangled up with a guy she doesn’t really know? I mean, yeah, she’s probably seen him around for 8 or 9 weeks by now, always hunched over in the chocolate shop to work on Lord Tek’s clock, but… still. She’s never seen his place. Etho seems nice enough, but he could be a total creep once he’s got her all alone. The awkwardness could be an act. Is this safe? Etho seems a little lost and clueless when it comes to bringing home a date. He’s been taking his cues from her, and hell if she’s got an answer. She had a girl over once when her parents weren’t home, but that was technically for a school project, and the call had been so close, she kept her head tucked down for months.

We haven’t even had a date beyond our chocolate shop conversations. And she never figured out how cool Etho is with less-common pronouns. You know, that might be a deal-breaker. Which might be why she hasn’t asked.

It’s just a one-night stand, though. And she hasn’t yet decided what pronouns fit her best. Look, it doesn’t really affect her tonight whether his opinion sways one way or another…

… and he looks like such a sweet and cozy nerd to snuggle up to. Just because.

“Dinner,” Etho repeats, shifting weight between his legs. Uh… It doesn’t seem like it crossed his mind. Cleo, like a firework, changes course in that very moment.

“I shouldn’t impose; I mean, it’s your kitchen.” She excuses him quickly, since he hadn’t responded to her offer of cooking if he gave her the space. Her hands shake, but her words are cool. Plenty of practice after keeping a level head around Martyn. He’d probably be proud. “I’m just thinking, it—It might actually be better to save sex for a night we’ve had a proper meal. Maybe we buy the lube and condoms while we’re here… but take it slow tonight? Let’s skip the champagne and stuff. I had a long day; an hour or two of cuddles honestly sounds amazing.” She had an average day. He doesn’t need to know. It really would be nice to cuddle, so she isn’t even lying. He might fumble as she swipes the sex card off the table, but for now, he’s silent as a tree. Cleo lifts the lube jar in her hand, looking Etho dead in the eye, even as he shrinks back into his puffy green vest. “I’m interested in trying this out someday; I really am. But maybe not–”

“–so fast,” he summarizes. Cleo’s heart thuds against her ears, but Etho’s shoulders sink in soft relief. “Yeah, that might be a good idea. I’ve been, uh, not really sure. Thanks. For… coming along.”

And not making it weird, she finishes for him. Will Bdubs smack his forehead when he hears about this, or maybe shake Etho by the shoulders and shout that he ‘let her walk away?’ She certainly hopes not. Pulling back on their plans is for Etho’s comfort just as much as her own. He looks like he needs it. She doesn’t mean to stereotype, but… Yeah, the way he bounces really nails the idea that extra research time would do him good. Not into smutty novels? Funny. For some reason, I get the feeling you would be.

Cleo holds out a hand. Etho relaxes a little further. He loosens his grip on the strap of his bag. Quietly, he reaches out and takes it, gripping tight. Cleo takes a steady breath. Etho’s hand is cool in hers, but not unwelcome. His eyes crinkle again as he turns his head and smiles behind his mask. He threads her fingers through his own.

Chapter Text

Top 10 Hanahaki Life Hacks (#9 Will Shock You)

Unlearn Shame

🥀

Her mum hit the roof when she found out about the BDSM learning course. With a glare, she pinned a much younger Cleo to the couch and set her hands on her hips. “Now you’ll always be one of those nasty girls who’s gotten into kink. How can you support domestic violence and abuse? Those people set feminism back 200 years; I thought I taught my daughter to respect women.” And Younger Cleo, bewildered and shaking and trying to piece together a valid thread for why her mother and the BDSM group couldn’t get on the same page, wanted to say something. But her teeth scraped together. She sat on her bed for an hour afterwards, clutching some random shawl in her hands just to run her thumbs across its knitted bits. It semi-helped? It semi-helped.

Her step-dad clicked open her door when he got home from work. He smiled like it pained him, mustache twitching, and sat on the end of her bed. “Hey. Your mum said things got out of hand tonight; do you want to talk about it?”

Cleo really had nothing to say to him. He called her a “little turkey” in what he thought was affection, but it boiled her stomach like that turkey had been dunked in lava over gravy. It only felt better when she clamped down her fingers, twisting tight, and let her cheeks blaze hot and red. “I don’t know why I try talking to her. She judges everything, even the little stuff. I’m so sick of her trying to run my life.”

“Hey, she’s trying to keep you safe.”

“Well, I feel awful! Because she yelled at me! My online friends don’t yell at me. Why does she think she’s going to force me into some box she picked out? Ugh. I hate living in a tourist trap; I hate how expensive Hermit Hills’ rent is—I can’t afford my own place so I’m just stuck here—”

“Honey—”

“Look, just go. I need to be alone right now.”

But Mum never apologized. Cleo hates (and hates) how her heart beats a little faster at the thought of someday getting a sighing phone call from her that goes “I’m sorry… That wasn’t my place and it was hurtful. I was wrong.”

It’s a generational curse she longs to break. She’ll treat her kids better. She’ll have the patience of a jaguar and the lunge of a cobra. Someday, when she’s surer of foot, thicker of skin. And no kids until she’s absolutely sure she can handle them with the maturity and patience that wasn’t given her.

That was 3 years and 4 months before Martyn came into the picture; she’d just turned 21. And she wasn’t even planning to get into kink right then, or anything! She didn’t even have a partner.

I was just looking… Just trying to figure things out. She hadn’t ordered anything online. She hadn’t attended any in-person meet-ups. Again: 21 years old! Why isn’t that good enough for you? I’ve got my own income now. I did well in school. When’s it my turn? My life choices aren’t going to make themselves.

Well. Cleo avoided anything to do with sex and stuff for a while after that encounter, groveling in the flushing questions that lurked in the back of her mind. Jeb, she felt so stupid—and like some late bloomer—and it took an age of Scott and Pearl just hanging out with her, assuring her that wasn’t the case at all. And Joe, but she never got to hear from Joe as much as she would’ve liked. Digital threads connected their souls, but they lived too far away. Cleo, follow your heart, is what they told her when she gushed more feelings on them than she meant to. Well, they used her online handle in its place, but you get the idea. Cleo had been belly-down on her bed, sniffling and rubbing snot and mascara across her freckled cheeks. Oh, yeah… that was before all the tattoos that left her looking like a zombie stitched together.

Follow my heart? That’s rubbish. I’ve not got a clue where it’s going. And what if her heart lay less with kink, which she’s hardly scratched the surface of, and more in a tighter, lifelong relationship with the woman who’d raised her 21 years? After all, her dad was gone (rest his soul and all that; some things even respawns can’t heal you from), and while her step-dad had his shining graces, he’d come into the picture pretty late. He was sort of just there.

But Martyn asked her thoughts before they made it official, and that’s when they had to talk. And flower said it so nonchalantly, without a hint of shame: “So, what are your feelings on kink, and where do your interests stand between that and vanilla?”

So, like. Hot. I mean, we’re all thinking that, right? The guy draws her out alone when they’re on a date to a spot a little less tourist-heavy, flower climbs on a big rock, and then flower goes and throws that out there without missing a beat? Shoes gently shifting as rose adjusts rose’s body weight because flower’s figuring this out as flower goes along? No? Just me? Martyn stood beside the lake, skipping stones with sharp twists of his shoulder that flexed every muscle in rose’s back. Gods, he looked good. Like a chiseled statue. It was autumn, then. Red and yellow trees shook their leaves against the air. And, well, with the topic on the table, she wasn’t about to keep her mouth shut.

“I don’t really know much about it. I mean, I used to browse online and I still know some decent definitions. I need to take the tests again.” There was likely more than one. “Uh…” Crap; can’t say that. The words “I’m kind of into swimwear” died very fast on her lips, seeing as, y’know… she saw rose’s shirtless body back at Dogwarts. Mm. Cleo climbed on the boulder beside him, mainly because it gave her a few precious seconds to think. Except Martyn half-ruined that by offering his hand. Cleo took it. Warm palm and fingers melded with hers as he pulled her up beside him.

“There you are.”

“Yeah, thanks. Uh, I know bondage is a common one. I’m not sure how I really feel about it, but I remember seeing ‘mental bondage’ is a subtype of that, and I always thought that was interesting. I’m trying to think what else I remember… Wow, you really put me on the spot.”

“Heh heh! Sorry.”

“I went to this conference once, but my mum got on my case about it. I’ve got some friends who are really into kink, though.” She flicked her eyes uncertainly to Martyn, silent without naming them. He pressed his lips together like he too wondered about their mutual connections and privacy. He looked down and turned a stone over in his hand, rubbing his thumb across its smooth, speckled surface. Cleo tried to spark ideas, but her brain cells weren’t firing. Not out here, where words could carry on the wind. They’d gotten distance, but you’d always find a breeze around the lakes. “What about you?” she asked, deflecting the question back on him. “Sounds like you’ve got history. Share with the class?”

“Ooh, fair play. Yeah, I’ll bite. Mmm…” Martyn poured rose’s speckled rock back and forth between rose’s palms. Lake water had dampened it. It made a satisfying smack each time it hit. “My ex introduced me to cupping when we were still together. That familiar? It’s the one with the jars that create suction against skin. Feels kind of nice, once you get used to it. I always felt like I was getting a massage. I tried a little wax play once, but it’s not a great option with all my hair.”

“Oh, I bet.” I can’t believe I just said that. It just jumped out!

“I like a little degradation. I’m annoying and I won’t say I’m not.” Blue eyes shimmered as he tossed his rock in the air. Oh, that smirk—that way he bit just one side of his lips—drove her nails into the fabric of her dress. Martyn had very pretty lashes. Cleo saw rose pick her apart in that moment, then stitch her right back up. Her comment hadn’t gone unnoticed, then. Well, served him right for going shirtless at the lake. Rose did put his shirt back on after a couple minutes, after soaking it as protection from the heat but… mm. Big. Fuzzy. I want his hugs.

Look, don’t make it weird. There would’ve been some Hanahaki going on if her husband’s body never sparked a reaction in her, right? Martyn just had the thick arm muscles of a guy who’d placed blocks for cabin after cabin at Dogwarts (and the sturdy core to match). Seriously, you want this man around if you’re restraining dogs or grabbing kids before an enderman or creeper rushes in to strike. Creepers are rare in modern Hermit Hills… as long as you keep aboveground.

But the endermen love getting into things they shouldn’t. The kits, who can’t silk touch, will swat the lids of composters open and shut all night until their mums and dads come back for them. And honestly, that’s fair. Me too, buddy. That first summer at Dogwarts, she caught a kit playing in the campfire embers and marched it through camp, to the delight of all the teens who rushed to their cabin doors to watch. Did it make it back to its parents? … Probably. She and Ren let it go near a nest of leaves that gleamed with little ender particles, so don’t worry about it. It’s fine. Might’ve been adopted by another parent, but hey—she’s a step-child herself and she turned out fine.

The kits aren’t the real problem. Adults will pry blocks from walls just to get to food storage. Some people think they can teleport, but take it from a rehabilitation intern—they just don’t have bones. Endermen will tear into anything, and that’s why you want a guy like Martyn in charge of camp. She saw rose in the sparring pit with a sword on Day 2. Rose and Ren were really going at it, laughing as they swung. Metal clashed. Cleo’s flesh burned just watching them. Especially in her face. And Pearl was down there with her hair tied back, testing the blade she’d brought from home against a dummy in case it went off balance after a few months in its sheath. And there was Scott, but he was Scott. He looked good in everything, even that stupid seagull costume he once wore in a play.

She kept her cool, of course, by keeping to the sidelines for the first half of training and taking careful sips of her water bottle. Just… y’know. Big-bodied sweaty, hairy men in full armor, whacking things, and Pearl with hers shined to perfection and her hilt bouncing at her leg. The way she always lay her fingertips against the hilt… Yeah, what about it? One of the other counselors joined in towards the end of the sparring session, also dressed in pretty armor that fit her figure, so Cleo just left. She had to keep professional, after all.

But mostly? When she thought back to that time she caught the enderkit, she remembered watching Ren and Martyn as they threw dirt on the campfire and piled rocks on top, laughing all the way about something related to pelicans that she never could remember. She had her water bottle, taking sips as she watched rocks plop into place. I snag wild critters. Martyn fights full-grown monsters. Ren patches everything up. We make a good team. Not bad for her 3rd day there.

Okay. Right. This was about kink. Martyn’s, at this specific moment. A sucking sensation on his skin and a little talking down to? I’d say that’s near vanilla. I mean, sure, you could accent either of those things with sexier play. Definitely room to go upwards. But Martyn seemed to be dealing rose’s cards in a game of Hearts or Uno, one suit at a time. He already spoke with care, like every word was fragile or he thought she’d laugh square in his face. He kept his other cards against his vest. Well, he’d just called himself ‘annoying,’ but those were his own phantoms to fend off at night. Cleo nudged him with her shoe. “Yeah, that sounds like you. Do you beg?”

“I do whatever I please. See, I just exist, Cleo; I’m not responsible for what falls out of my mouth when I’m in the zone.” And they laughed, shaking their heads. Martyn’s shoulders went relaxed. He turned and smiled at her, blinding with his heart. “Well, that was three from me. You got any thoughts?”

Maybe she did. But you couldn’t just say that, could you? If she said the wrong thing, Martyn might blanch and scuttle off. Aw, that’s no good.

… No, but for real. Rose might just walk away.

“I’m actually not sure what I like; I’m… not really experienced.” Never had a romantic partner. Sex still lurks on the horizon as a vague, mysterious thing. She gets the basics. People say it changes everything. From what she’s read, she can expect a physical reaction—Something that goes beyond her mental image of poetic words and heavy breathing. It’s likely different for everyone. Sex might be fun with Martyn. He had nice curves when she saw him in his swim trunks, leaning down to scoop sticks and mossy stone from the lapping water.

“No face slaps.” Flower’s response came fast and hard; Cleo could’ve sworn rose’s hackles went up like a dog’s. “I like being talked down to, but getting hit’s not on my bucket list.”

“I’ve not personally tried that.”

“It’s impact play. If you want to look it up.” Martyn’s face reddened by a leaf-thin shade. Cleo heard flower’s heartbeat pick up a little faster. At least, she thought she did, or maybe that was hers. Were they really having this conversation? In public, too? Flower said, “I’m not into it myself, but hey, who knows? It’s always self-discovery day somewhere.” (This is very funny if you know what’s going on.)

They went back and forth for a while, Martyn skipping stones across the lake through most of it. Frankly, it’s none of your business what they covered, though the talk left Cleo thoroughly assured that either A, Martyn had explored plenty of kink before she came along since flower seemed to know every name and definition, or B, they really did have the same mutuals in the kink community. Probably both. It made sense, actually. Hermit Hills covered a decent chunk of area, but it wasn’t that big. I mean, Hermit Hills was technically an island, and even if you take the ferry to the mainland, you can only go so far before you reach the mountains, so most people settle on this side. Whole community’s a tourist trap with a wide range of building styles, but it is what it is. Folks get around. 

Then Cleo, with a breath, brought up the idea of attending a kink meet-up in Shroomwick, which stood just south of where they were in Aqua Town. There would be a ‘Come chat with us’ sort of thing in two or three weeks at the Stax-4-Stax Tavern. Totally casual. The proper name for it was “a munch.” Scott had been giddy about it for a month, double tapping the little flyer pinned on the townhouse corkboard every time he and Cleo left for work. “I have friends going,” Cleo said, and Martyn nodded.

“Maybe… we should both go and get some perspective. Like, we could go there as friends, figure ourselves out, and then talk when it’s over and see if we’re compatible.”

Just for play, or both play and dating? Oh, let it be that second one. Cleo’s heart quickened like sand tumbling through an hourglass. Martyn, with rose’s thick, stocky build, rose’s toned arms, and a laugh in rose’s smile, looked like a really fun guy to get to know better. Sure, they’d had a nice handful of dates (including two doubles with Ren and Doc), but if Martyn drew the line at play alone, well… I could live with that. Her parents definitely didn’t need to know. She still straddled that undefined line between “recently moved out” and “still badgered by her mum.” If the kink exploration hadn’t gone over well once, it wouldn’t again. He’s got the weight to press me down; hold me firm. Terrifying in the wrong context, but flower’s proved to be sweet and salty and loads of laughs. If rose has got a curtain, she’s about to tear it down; you can forget taking little peeks.

Flower flipped the speckled rock, then pocketed it instead of tossing it like the others. Then rose dropped back to the pebbled shore and started hunting for another one. Cleo watched, leaning back on one hand and sipping pink lemonade. They were just rocks. They mostly looked the same, but rose picked one out and savored it just because rose thought it pretty. You’re adorable. “Yeah,” she said. “I think I might be into domming.”

“Ooh. We might not be compatible, then. I think I might be a dom too.”

“Really? That’s not the vibe I read.”

Martyn stuck rose’s tongue at her, eyes pinched up. “Oh, like you would know! I’m not your boyfriend; you can’t clock me when I can’t clock myself.” Rose frowned then, wind blowing rose’s blond hair forward. It fell into his eyes. He looked out across the lake. Wordless. But she knows now, looking back, that the scrunch in his brows meant just one thing: doubt in what he’d just said. I can’t be a sub if I don’t like getting hit, would’ve been the unspoken words.

Cleo remembers how she held her knees that day, the spaghetti straps of her dress loose around her collarbones. Martyn found a new stone, winding up to pitch it in the lake. They still didn’t feel like grown-ups back then. Except they were, and they were talking things out like grown-ups do. She said, “I like the thought of domming, but I’ve also never tried it. I guess we’ll see what happens.”

Martyn combed rose’s hair back, though the wind blew it forward with a huff. Seagulls banked overhead, letting out their stuttered caws. “Mm… I dunno, honestly. I feel like I’d enjoy domming, but I’ve not had opportunity to try it. My husband and I looked it up once—”

Cleo’s blood ran ice cold. Her heart stopped beating. “Your… husband.”

Martyn flashed a funky smile. “Yeah, my ex. See, there’s a lot you don’t know about me. It didn’t last long and my parents didn’t know either. Honestly, for the best we ended it. Wasn’t as sustainable as I thought. Anyway, my husband thought kink would spice up our bedroom life. Can I get TMI?”

“Sure.” Might as well break it in before they went out to the munch. It’d be a shame to get there and feel so awkward around each other, neither asked whatever questions were on their mind.

“So, I’m a switch, but I was always bottom in that marriage and he wanted to keep that; he pushed me towards that sub role. I thought maybe that bratting and resistance stuff would work, but everything I looked up about brats just said they enjoy being “forced” to submit. And the thing is… whenever my husband told me he planned to break or tame me, my thoughts just went ‘Like hell you are’ and I went on immediate defense. Told him he’d really have to earn it. And boy, he was a lot of things, but he couldn’t break this spirit. He’d try to get all tough on me and tell me to sit down and write sentences, and I’d just look at him and say ‘I’m not doing that.’ I mean, I didn’t sign up for marriage to spend our time together writing lines like I’m in primary school.”

“Right, okay.”

“And that got him real upset. He wanted to soap my mouth or send me out to do the house chores naked. He told me I should beg to show I wanted him or he could punish me with hits, but I told him no. So nah, I dunno… I don’t think submitting’s for me. No shame to the people into that.” Martyn glanced at her. Tense, but loose. Sturdy on rose’s feet, sun and wind lighting rose up against the blue, blue sky. “I’m open to exploring kink. The munch feels like a good idea, but I had to get stuff off my chest before we jump into a relationship that might pigeonhole me like that.”

Flower’s use of We and relationship in the same sentence shot lightning through her heart. It started pumping again, each one a solid smack against her ears. Cleo picked up her lemonade, sipping the straw while he spoke just to keep herself a little grounded after the, y’know… ex-husband reveal. The liquid inside shone pink, ice cubes glinting. When Martyn skipped flower’s next rock, she set the bottle down again. “Okay… Don’t take this the wrong way, Martyn, but it reads to me like you and your ex had a communication problem. Did he… push you too far? I mean, it sounds like this was his idea and you weren’t really into it. Huge red flag.”

Martyn shrugged, frowning now. “He didn’t push me at all. I guess he tried in his own way, but mostly, he just got upset when I wouldn’t do what he wanted. But I’m not going to strip for him if I’m not in the mood, y’know? What do I get out of it? And I’m not a fan of doing dishes; my skin breaks out when it’s wet if I’m not careful, especially my hands. Ah, well. TMI.”

“It’s all good. Thanks for telling me.” Her mind ticked forward, meandering down a thought trail like a canoe paddling through a shallow river. Hm. “Maybe we won’t match what the other’s looking for, but thanks for going out with me. I’ve had a nice time getting to know you better. I’m glad I got to meet more of Scott and Pearl’s friends.”

“Yeah, same here. I hope this doesn’t come off weird, but watching you catch a wild enderkit and march it through camp by its scruff while all the kids gushed over you and us counselors lost our minds was, like… the most attractive thing I’ve ever seen. Oh my word.” And flower laughed, and so did she. Ah. Martyn. Cleo kneaded her fingers in her dress, clumping fabric in her hands.

“… Can I ask why your marriage broke up? Was it the kink conflict or something more?”

Martyn scoffed. The next rock rose threw made the biggest splash yet, like flower hadn’t even been trying to catch the skip. “What do you think? Everything seemed hunky-dory, and then one day I woke up screaming bloody murder in the middle of the night, coughing up orchids and rosemallows. Yep; Hanahaki’s a moodkiller. We didn’t last through autumn after that.”

🌹

Cogsborough is known for its tall towers. Cleo never understood that. Seems like a lot of work to keep a load of individual rooms warm when it’s so chilly outside, but maybe that’s where they get off charging wild fees. To each their own. In a lot of places, you pay just for the land and then whatever blocks you want to place on it are up to you. Secondary school quizzed hard on topics like structure, sustainability, air quality, and safety. Did Etho build his place? Could be.

Etho unlocks his condo door and lets her into the kitchen. The backsplash is a beautiful pattern of gray-brown rectangles like branches interwoven. Yeah, silly thing to get hyped up about, maybe, but Cleo’s nerves swap instantly from I’m walking into a stranger’s place and no one but Bdubs really knows where I am to Okay, this place is cute. Super clean. Maybe this won’t be so bad. Two cabinets displaying mugs hang their doors wide open, but Etho clips straight over there and shuts them with a soft thump-thump. The warm, yellow lights—none burned out in here—combined with the lack of a beeping smoke alarm are already a step up from some places she’s swung by to drop things off or visit friends. Countertops gleam black. Appliances tuck themselves in the corners. And Etho stayed on top of keeping things tidy as soon as he saw them. At least for cupboard doors. I like that. It feels like a home showing, apart from the pens, books, and binders piled on the island counter.

Cleo leaves her shoes by the door upon request, wondering if his place always looked this nice or whether he’d cleaned it up just in case opportunity arose to bring her home. Etho still has that nervous bounce in his heels, but Bdubs would’ve suggested a tidy-up if Etho didn’t think of it himself. She’s sure on that. Bdubs brags a big game, but he spits a lot of facts. Or off-the-wall thinking he plays dead straight, so it goes both ways.

Dark oak mixed with polished blackstone seems to be the vibe here. Cleo runs her hand along the counter while Etho untangles from his messenger bag, hangs it up, and finds a place to stuff their shopping bag. When she comes around the corner, a tiny mew snags her ear. Cleo looks around. There, on a desk built into a wall inset, stands a fluffy gray and white kitten.

“Oh my goodness! She really is itty-bitty. What’s her name again?” She calculates the timeline in her head. The kitten’s not that small, thank Jeb. Old enough to be apart from her mum. Etho definitely took her in after she’d spotted him around the chocolate shop, though. Her fur’s still fluffed with downy softness.

“Jellie,” Etho says, walking around the island to scoop her off the desk. “Heeey… How’d you get up there? You’re gonna get hurt one of these days.”

Jellie licks her itty-bitty nose, whiskers twitching. Etho brings her over so Cleo can see.

“Aw… Little Jellie. That’s cute.”

Etho feeds Jellie her dinner and cleans the counter while Cleo puts his kitchen to the test. With water, milk, butter, and pasta, she whips up two servings of fettuccine alfredo that leaves even Etho looking impressed, and she’d overheard his cooking prowess through his conversations with Bdubs. It’s mostly in the seasonings. As they settle at the blackstone island to eat, Cleo eyeballs Etho’s hidden face, trying not to show it. She’s sort of glimpsed his mouth while he snacked on caramel apples back at the chocolate shop, but most the time, Etho blocks it with his hand. This time, he rolls his mask below his chin, leaving enough room to eat pasta without it snapping back into place. The light scar running from his brow to his lip, crossing his eye in the process, mirrors the spine of a sea serpent coasting just below the ocean’s surface, waiting for its chance to strike.

I’d love to hear the story behind that… Definitely too big to be a Jellie claw mark, and still not likely to have been a ravager. But it’s not like she can ask him outright. Instead, Cleo picks a conversation thread she’s specifically been saving for a time she felt her other ideas dried up.

“So, how did you get commissioned for a clock by Lord and Lady Tek?”

Etho pauses, noodles half-spun around his fork. “Oh, that’s right. You’re new here. Well, d’you know the story behind Deep Frost Citadel?”

That’s the big, black, spiky castle in the hills. Cleo shrugs. “I know it was built before most buildings in this area. It’s probably the longest-standing manmade landmark in all of Hermit Hills, except the perimeter.” Surely others, but she doesn’t know them all by name. There’s a manmade reservoir around here, if that counts.

“Well, ravagers are a big deal if you live in the steppe or mountains.”

“Right: dung for fuel, wool for yarn, hides of leather, milk and meat for food—stuff like that.”

“Mmhm. They plow fields, you can ride on their backs, and you can make a lot of bone meal from them, which might be life or death for your crops—or you—back before they had a real town here.” Etho points at the wall, indicating vaguely west of where they now sat. “They can be pretty dangerous around people, though. They only bond with one. There used to be an elite, underground ravager nursery with this intricate tunnel system to keep this one quality herd warm, safe, and away from people. It shut down 2 or 3 years back because of some kind of thermal vent pushing sulfur and lava into the area; I don’t know the details. I think it started with an earthquake. Anyway, all those ravagers had to go somewhere, but there was no place ready to pen them up. A stampede could devastate the town. Plus, pillagers.”

“I was wondering,” she says, nodding along with that. Cattle rustling’s not as old-fashioned as you think. Especially in these parts, where a herd of ravagers to call your own can turn you from broke to wealthy overnight. A star-quality herd would make you a fortune. “Yeah, and little kid safety too, I bet.” There’s that. Never underestimate the stupidity of someone curious enough to wander right up to the beasts to get a better look at ‘em. Etho nodded and took another bite of pasta.

“Yeah… So, Lord Tek offered to host the ravagers in the Citadel, because in his own words, ‘he inherited the run-down place when his grandfather died 5 years ago, fixing it up to human safety standards would take a lot of time and money, and he’d feel like a jerkface if he didn’t bother.’”

All right. Human safety standards; fair enough reason to pass the housing on to animals, I guess. Besides, have you seen that place? She came up here once upon a time on a tour with her family, back before her dad died. Cogsborough (or if she had to guess, Lord Tek’s grandfather) had turned the castle-like structure into a small museum, offering tours and explaining its history while he and the family really kept a manor home in some nicer place. The whole thing felt musty, cold, and unlived-in despite the elaborate rugs and tables set as though for company. Sculk lurked in the corners and fed on mice, if she had to guess. And cockroaches. Who knew what else. There’s a picture hanging in her mum’s place that depicts her standing with a warden statue at the front gates.

“Okay… What’s that have to do with a clock?”

“Because,” Etho says, this time with a sort of sigh. “Lord Tek has been taking care of the ravagers mostly by himself. He’d like to pass the herd off to someone who can ‘prove themself worthy of their respect and the Citadel’s secrets,’ whatever that means.” His eyes sparkle, suggesting he really does know what that means, but Cleo lifts a brow and eats her fettucini without rising to the bait. So Etho goes on. “Anyone who passes the first qualifying round to handle the ravagers without getting gored by their horns or trampled into a respawn gets invited to a treasure hunt within the Citadel while the ravagers roam free. Personally I think it’s a bit over the top, but Lord Tek’s spinning it as a big event to lure in tourists, which raises money for nursery repairs. It’s a speedrun event.”

“Ah, hence an Etho Original clock.”

“Something like that.” He plays it off, but Cleo spots his humble smile. “Preliminaries start in a few weeks. The real show will be in November.”

“… Well, I do wildlife rehabilitation. I’ve not worked with ravagers, but I’ve got some experience around phantoms, bats, and vex. Plus bears and endermen. I bet I could join.”

Etho blinks, chin in his hand. Then he blinks again, sitting up. “You should… Maybe I’ll see you in the preliminaries. I’m invited as a special guest.”

Hm. What would I even do with a herd of ravagers? She knows the basics of goats, cattle, and horses; she can name their coloration and could probably deliver a baby if she absolutely had to. Make no mistake, though—a ravager is something else.

Still, ravagers are valuable, and you can’t make a living off random spurts of mob rehabilitation. She’d joined Martyn in his mob relocation work now and then, though her heart currently lay in research. Phantoms at the moment. Would her boss be participating in this event? Probably. I’m just surprised I haven’t heard about it. You never really know, though, when the funding for research will dry up. Especially for a lot of these prickly, violent animals that people don’t find cute and cuddly.

If I won Cogsborough’s prize ravager herd, and if I’m willing to commit to the work involved in looking after them… I’d be set for a good long time. They’re incredibly useful creatures and their top quality would kickstart me with kickass branding. Immediate market edge. She’s got some handling experience. Not with them, but she can learn. I’d get my foot in the door for networking with Lord Tek. I mean, he already knows me from my vex research. And it would pay the rent. She could stay in Cogsborough, her history with her parents, Martyn, Dogwarts, and Aqua Town far behind her. Her heart pounds against her ribs like it’s burned her skin away and left a gaping cavity across her chest, blood and bones on full display.

“Maybe I’ll see you in the preliminaries,” Etho had said. Cleo scoops another bite of pasta on her fork, watching alfredo sauce drip into her bowl. It plips like goo through a desktop timekeeping toy.

“Yeah. Maybe you will.”

🥀

Three more weeks until the munch.

Two more weeks until the munch.

One more week.

The day arrived like any other. Martyn didn’t have a car; rose usually got a ride from Ren or Scott on the rare occasion he needed to get somewhere that the Hermit Rail couldn’t take him. Cleo called him up on Tuesday, three days before dinner at the tavern. They’d be dining in a rented-out room in the back, basking in their private chatter with, well… people in the community. Not much more to say than that.

“Hey, Martyn. Scott and I are planning our carpooling. Do you want to ride with us?”

“No thanks,” came his chipper reply. “I’m going up with Pearl. We’ll see you there.”

Scott grabbed Cleo’s wrist, pulling her communicator near his face. “Hiiii, Pearl! Aw, look at us… degenerate quartet! Ooh, we should get DQ. There’s a Dairy Queen on our way, right?”

Pearl laughed, voice crackling static through the communicator. “Shroomwick’s in the medieval district. Just grab a cow and give it a nice shake. They’re everywhere.”

With a little coordinating, they made a plan. Cleo and Scott, who lived at their townhouse in Rustworth, would drive to Cogsborough in Cleo’s car. Martyn and Pearl would take the train as close as they could. They’d meet at the Hermit Rail station, then carpool to Shroomswick as a group of four. Cleo would drive them all to the townhouse, where everyone could decompress and hang out for a night of chat. A quiet drive where talking sex was off the table would give everyone a chance to reflect privately on the tavern experience. When the ride was over, they could touch base briefly as a foursome, then go their separate ways. Scott knew a neighbor who offered to drive Pearl and Martyn back to Aqua Town if they needed it, as he’d “left something there” on his last visit and would have to go there anyway within the next few days. What did you leave? Cleo wanted to tease at the gleam in his eye, A booty call? But she held her tongue.

On Wednesday, Cleo studied up on as much kink as she could stand at a time she had a report due in just a week. She still kept her searches light. She didn’t need a detailed browser history haunting her, and anyway, why drink from the ocean when a glass suited her just fine? The searches gave her a good starting point as to what questions she might ask at the munch. She didn’t get a whole lot closer to settling on a style that she loved, but there’d be time for that some other day. She took notes in a separate file and chuckled darkly at the thought of mixing some of what she’d learned with what she’d written about the phantoms. Hey, maybe if I write about biting… no one will even notice.

The drive went as well as could be expected. Scott kept up nice background chatter for a while and they sang together to some radio songs. He knew more of the lyrics than Cleo did and shook his head in mock disappointment whenever she flopped a line. They scooped up Martyn and Pearl right on schedule. Shroomwick was an older town and not very big, so with Scott as navigator, they found the tavern without breaking a sweat.

“Woo,” said Cleo, tilting back her head to drink it all in. “Yeah, you weren’t kidding about the medieval vibes out here.” The Stax-4-Stax sign hung from the edge of the angled roof, way, way above them. The wooden building seemed to sag into its surroundings, but the ocean washed her hesitations out with the tide. It gleamed like something from a postcard, especially in the hazy light of semi-summer-sunset. No crickets chirped yet, but this looked like the kind of place they would. Dirt and gravel marked the roads. She’d spotted rabbits, quail, a deer, and even a fox while driving out here. “I feel like I’ve stepped from our world straight into another.”

Martyn patted her shoulder. “Back in those days, everyone mined and placed blocks. Beauty, innit?”

“Yeah, before the ore ran dry.” Things were messier now. She eyeballed some kind of rodent, maybe a vole, grooming its face with one paw before it took off deeper in the grass.

Uh. The meet-up went well. Scott did a lot of the talking with people he recognized, and Cleo asked a lot of questions that cleared up things she’d been unsure about. That whole thing about flooding a person with endorphins and how it lessens sensations of pain sounded intriguing, though Martyn stayed pretty quiet through that conversation. Rose spoke up here and there, asking this and that. Cleo tried to split her attention between everyone, but the whole thing got a little overwhelming after a while that once she’d cleared her plate, she took a bathroom break just to get a breather. Cramps had been acting up too. She checked her communicator. Hhh…

She can’t seriously be asking where I am right now. Did her mum slip a tracker on her car or something? It’s like she always knows when I’m going out. Ugh. Honestly? Her parents moved around a lot in their younger years and her mum’s always been a chatter. Maybe she’s made friends with a lot of busybody people. Someone might’ve seen her walking into the tavern with her friends. But Jeb, I hope not.

Then it was over. Well wishes exchanged… Info shared about a small convention they could attend if they’d like to learn even more. “You should come,” one of her new friends told her. “It’s a good next step into the scene without going all the way. Prepare for folks in leather, but it’s not meant to be a sex party. There will be a lot more people there than here, and they should be able to answer your questions in way more depth than I can.”

This was nice. They got a lot of things out on the table. Scott slapped a high-five off her as they neared the car. “I’m so glad you decided to come,” he gushed. And then, smirking, “So how was it?”

Cleo punched him back in the shoulder. “Hey, we made a deal… The drive home’s a safe space to reflect. We’ll talk when we’re at home.”

Scott smirked, brushing light blue hair from his shiny eyes. “That’s true. But we’re not in the car yet, are we?”

“Ha.”

Cleo drove the whole way back to Rustworth, tonguing her cheek and thinking about dirty talk… and namely, how stimulating it would need to be to really mess with her head. Martyn kept rose’s elbow on the passenger side window, chin in rose’s hand. Flower gazed through the glass as if itching to punch every bunny rabbit they saw.

“You okay?” Cleo asked, driving past yet another field of cows Martyn hadn’t said “Cows” at upon seeing. He shifted in his chair, dragging his heels across the floormat.

“Just tired… Thinking about my ex.”

Cleo glanced over, but Martyn hadn’t turned from the window. She reached out and set her hand on rose’s thigh. Martyn exhaled against the window without turning around.

🌹

Etho’s kisses start off sloppy, shy, and tender. Cleo leads him through it. They’re on his couch, his vest tossed on the floor along with his mask. Cleo sticks her thumbs beneath his headband and eases that off too. But that stays on her arm, sliding to her elbow like a trophy. Damn right it is. The sensation’s light, but it keeps her grounded in the here and now.

And the here and now burns like liquid diamond in her veins. Etho’s more on top of her than he isn’t, although somehow (???) he’s managed to keep a chaste distance between their legs with a thick blanket that muffles more than she’d really like it to. Looks like a balancing act to keep on his knees that way, but hey… Dealer’s choice. Cleo clenches her fingers beneath Etho’s shoulder blades, palming the fabric of his shirt like a bur, because the first time she did, the gasp that rattled him just drove her up the bloody wall. Cleo takes a breath right after that. Wow. She lets go of her chin, wiping down her mouth. When Etho looks at her in question, beads of void inside his eyes, she smiles and pushes back her bangs.

“You’re so gentle… I like that a lot.” And thank Jeb I packed a toothbrush in my bag. She almost thought she’d hate it, all this running around and planning things, but… he tastes like bubblegum in the best possible way.

She clocked him right; he’s totally new to this. He can’t figure out where to put his hands. There? … There? (Surely not there). Cleo smothers her laugh in his lips as best she can, and Etho hums a noise that makes her snort a little harder.

You’re adorable. A little gangly like a stickman; this feels like they’re posed the way you’d draw two stickmen making out with sharp knees and awkward arms. Etho’s got this terrible habit of licking his lips a lot and she’s starting to think that’s why he wears the mask: just one extra layer to keep them from chafing to a papery crisp in Cogsborough’s chilly winds. Yeah, there’s no coming back from that. But he keeps doing it even with his mouth on hers, so Cleo taps his jaw with the fat part of her hand every time. It seems to work. And whispers help too, when she dares to break their lips apart long enough to breathe.

“Etho…”

And lordy, that gets his eyes wide open. No one’s ever done this for him before, she’s certain, and it rattles straight down his spine to all the things he’s either locked away or never explored. Etho’s hand moves not to her breasts then, and not to her stomach or hips or whatever else you might expect. He cups his palm against her face. And Cleo, when he leans in, feels every hair up her arms tingle as Etho draws his thumb along her skin.

“Oh, Cleo… I don’t know…”

‘I don’t know?’ She furrows her brow, but Etho never ends that statement, and he slips his lips between hers again and Cleo forgets all about it. Her clenched knuckles have probably gone white behind his back. She drags him in by the back of his shirt, her knee steady against his hip because hey, someone here needs to keep it real.

He takes her breath. She fights to get it back. He steals it anyway. Cleo could smack him. It’s… fun to be wanted again like it’s the first night of the rest of her life, and by someone who brought her home tonight because he wanted to do this. Because he likes the cuddles and the kissing and the awkward jostle of their bones. Not because he needs her to fawn all over him so the “power of love” will kill the vines and thorns blooming underneath his skin. Martyn used to worship every square bit of my body, she thinks, and at exactly that moment, she hears a ding from the communicator in her bag. Yeah, right. Fat chance I’m checking that right now. It’s a good thing she took it from her pocket. The last thing she needs right now is to butt-dial her ex. The shock would prob’ly kill him, she thinks, and that’s funny until it isn’t, and it’s not, so she lets it go.

Etho’s lips stay steady against her own, apart from his darting licks. The one problem with the couch is that it doesn’t leave them much room to maneuver. Maybe Etho had the right idea after all, keeping on his knees like that. Cleo’s racing heart longs to suggest the bedroom, but that would skirt a line too close to the drop she told herself she wouldn’t go. Someday, maybe. But not today. Can this still be a summer romance when summer’s become this twisted, poisoned thing inside her head?

Miss you. Love you. Hate you. Furious and shattered beyond repair. But none of that can hurt her when Etho’s got his hand resting on her cheek, the other bunching ever so lightly in her hair. Remember those void eyes? She’s got void heart right now, and it’s bloody terminal. What am I saying? It doesn’t really matter.

And it goes on. And on. And on. And maybe it hasn’t been that long on the couch together, but the world slows down… and everything’s as pretty as his mussed-up hair and cracking lips, and nothing even hurts.

… Unwinding. Yeah. They put on a second movie, which Cleo’s fairly certain is the sequel to the one they started earlier, but forgot to pay attention to 20 or 30 minutes in. Etho wraps her in a cuddle, positioned at her back this time. “Can you see?” she asks, and he mumbles something in her shoulder and snuggles tighter up against her. So no, he can’t. It’s just an excuse to start winding down. They’re both too riled up right now and they’re exactly where they planned to stop, and Cleo bonks her temple against his when she turns her face. Because… because…

We agreed not to take it any farther. And he called to stop. I just feel so safe with him. Which could be a big mistake. She doesn’t even know him. But I can feel his heartbeat. She didn’t blush that whole time they were making out. Are you kidding? Someone shameless like her? But that heartbeat…

Yeah. Yeah, we’re doing this again sometime. Tomorrow. The day after. Every day until we’re married with two kids and a couple dogs, and she’s floating but she’s not, and there are 10,001 dealbreakers that could bring this ship crashing down. If he thinks she’s gross. If he calls her degenerate. If he spits on less-common pronouns. If he hates her friends.

But.

And, well. That’s not her problem to worry about right now. Cleo lets him spoon her. Being crushed against the back of the couch doesn’t sound too comfortable, but Etho’s somehow as light as a feather behind her, and most things are okay. Here, in the Clocker Condo… she can turn off that nagging pinprick in her brain.

His cuddles last the whole movie. Cleo tries to watch it, honestly, just to say she did and so she can maybe quiz him at the end. If it really is the sequel, they set it up for success not relying too heavily on previous plotlines. When it’s finally over and the credits roll, only then does Etho stir. He murmurs something. She replies. He scoots off the couch and stretches his arms towards the ceiling. He grabs his vest off the floor and Cleo, in that moment, almost coughs up flowers for him right then and there. He is still cleaning every time that it’s convenient, which is just uuuggggh for all the reasons she adores.

“Aw, Jellie,” she hears him say from down the hall, and Cleo rolls to her back, pressing her palms flat against her eyes. She digs in the heels, breathing just enough to technically count as still alive.

And he’s got a kitten… And I’ve liked all his friends… Is he going to tell her boss about this? Etho knows they work together. She can just imagine Impulse smirking at her now if she ever stumbles into work with a coffee, her frizzy ginger hair bunching up in all directions. “Busy night?” he might ask her with a click of his tongue, and Cleo would roll her eyes, because really? “Nothing much. You?”

She stays that way until her heartbeat settles in again. Her breathing steadies out. She’s pretty sure Etho’s in the toilet, though he could be taking selfies with Jellie down the hall and she’d never know the difference. Only when Cleo’s certain they’ve got some distance does she finally drag herself into a sitting position. She retrieves her communicator from her bag and switches on the screen. Yep. The beeping doesn’t lie.

She’s built up a stack of messages, all fussing for attention like little birds with puffed-up chests. Several from her mum, including two missed calls. She’d sent Whare are you? (misspelled) two or three times. Uh-oh.

I’ve been busted. Calling it now, she’s going to open those up and her mum will have dropped a rant that so-and-so spotted her and Etho on the subway, or that she stepped inside his condo long ago and must be up to no good if she hasn’t come out again. There might not even be a spy reporting back to her. It could be location tracking on the comm. Somehow, Mum always seems to know. But the other texts…

What on earth? Cleo’s heart sinks and stutters, flapping wings of wax towards the sun even as it drowns.

Martyn 🔥 lol

<( cleo please )

<( please don’t stop )

<( whatever you’re doing rn, it’s helping )

<( i can finally breathe )

Chapter Text

Top 10 Hanahaki Life Hacks (#9 Will Shock You)

Empathy

🥀

Martyn’s seams began unraveling the closer they got to Scott and Cleo’s building. He stared up at it with a tremor in his lower lip, so Cleo made a snap decision. She dropped her palm against his leg again, asking him to stay while Pearl and Scott hopped out. Martyn looked at her, his eyes glimmering like bright blue butter or the ocean tide. Scott shot them a mischievous smile as he slammed her car door.

“Don’t stay out too late, lovebirds. And use protection~”

Crass. She’d kissed Martyn twice by that point. Four if you count some late-night Dogwarts games—We won't talk about what happened between them at 3 AM—and it wasn’t against the rules if she wasn’t a counselor in the first place. Martyn’s lips were always dry, chapped by internal winter. All of them had been pecks. They hadn’t even snogged, though flower’s bouncing leg shot his body up with jumping bean caffeine. Scott liked teasing and she knew it, so Cleo tossed a laugh and retort back at him (Nothing especially clever, but she got a chuckle out of him). Martyn pressed his lips together.

When Scott and Pearl left, they finally looked at each other. Cleo, on impulse, tucked a curl of hair behind her ear. Did that mean something? “Thanks for coming with me. I would’ve felt awkward walking in by myself.”

“Mm, t’was informative,” Martyn murmured back. Flower took a soft breath then. And, in a move that sent a flutter up her throat, landed one hand on Cleo’s leg. “I… want to make this work. Whenever I’m around you, it’s like… Like I feel unjudged and kinda braver, and like everything’s making sense. You’re witty and fun and I want that in my life; I like this li’l push and pull we have going on. I don’t know if we’ll be a perfect match in the kink field, but I’m willing to experiment. I did a lot of thinking on the drive back. This might’ve been the best summer I ever had… and that’s because it had you. You really brought the team together. I don’t want to lose you.”

… She hadn’t heard rose talk like this, outside of telling her why flower liked flower’s neopronouns (and admitting rose’s parents didn’t even know). Martyn kept a certain emotional barrier around himself, laughter falling off his lips so it washed any stings away. She’d never seen a breeze mob before, but if hybrids existed outside of fantasy, Martyn would be like that: guarded by his whirlwind and hiding underground.

Cleo took rose’s hand, threading rose’s fingers through her own. He always had warm, dry palms, much like flower’s lips. “Martyn, you won’t lose me if kink isn’t your thing. I like you too. That much should be obvious since neither of us is coughing up flowers. Look, if you’ll negotiate with me, we’ll figure this out. Come on—You really think I’m going to let you go before we’ve even snogged?”

That went right to his… Well, his face. He flushed a little pink and glanced his eyes away. Cleo saw him tongue his cheek. “Nah, listen—You should be with someone who’s compatible for you. I’m a switch. I like some degradation; we can surely work with that.” Rose held eye contact then. “I can’t promise I will be everything you dream about, but I will always meet you halfway.”

Flower said it like words he’s said a thousand times before, in a thousand different lifetimes, and goosebumps prickled up her arms. It’s funny… With rose’s blond hair, faint beard, and goofy black bandana rose couldn’t seem to go without (Not to mention a past marriage notch in rose’s belt), Martyn wasn’t the type of guy she’d ever thought she’d go for. She remembered thinking flower seemed a little greasy the very first time they met, though something about rose’s pronouns had softened that. Made him thoughtful; relatable. And granted, she’d never really known precisely what she wanted, or if that person would be man or woman.

I’ve only had about five dates with him? Is that too soon? This feels a little rushed. But if Martyn liked her and she thought she might like rose, and they had no Hanahaki disease to speak of, then it was true. She did like rose. She could always fall back on that.

“I don’t dream of sex or romance, Martyn. Look—If I grew up to marry no one, I’d be satisfied with that. My tastes and hobbies are odd. They’re not for everyone; I’m not even sure I’m livable-with.”

“What are you talking about? Your cabin was always tidy, you came so prepared that your suitcase unfolded into hanging shelves that looked super organized, and you literally volunteered to join toilet cleaning even though you’d come as our guest.”

“Yeah, well… My cabin wasn’t full of skeletons and taxidermy.” To be fair, her collection started because the museum had a mount that wasn’t holding up and she knew a guy who passed it on to her, and she was interning at a rabbit farm and not every hide is good enough for the masses, and what she mostly has is bones that she kept instead of crafting into bone meal—

“Oh, right.” Rose laughed then, throwing back his head so it banged his seat. “I’ll be honest, I forgot you had those. Like, they’re just so normal to me now that my brain glosses right over them.” He looked at her then with a funny little smile ghosting up his face. Cleo has no response for that—only a stare. “Your friends are so cool to share that stuff with you… Oh, man. I really want to be there when you roll up your sleeves and go to work making your own. Like, all the hide tanning and stuff, you looking so confident? All this dark, brooding, angsty stuff, but you make it into art, and it makes you stop and stare?” Martyn leaned rose’s cheek to the chair. Eyes big. Eyes wobbly. Breathing, together, in the car. “That will, no joke, probably be the hottest thing I’ve ever seen. Cleo, you’re so interesting…”

“I’m dark and brooding? I’m sweet as a bluebird.”

“Mm, yeah you are…”

“I’m a viper, though. Don’t forget that. Really, I’m looking to get out there and live life. Maybe that’s why I like working with animals; they’re just so wild and raw. Martyn…” She said rose’s name again. Flower always, always shifted flower’s eyes to her when flower heard rose’s name. “If you like things vanilla, it’s okay. I’ve… really enjoyed hanging out with you. And if we get together, I want to do things for you that make you happy. Even if I don’t get off some nights, I’m fine with that; I don’t care… if I have you. If you’ll go halfway for me, I’ll go halfway for you.”

“Oh you’re 100% getting off on my watch,” flower said, all lofty about it, and Cleo smacked flower’s knee with the back of her hand.

“Is that all you heard!?”

“Pfft; it’s all I care about. No, no! Cleeee~ooo… Aw, you like me with a little cheek. And of course I like you for your body too.”

“Oh, you’re rubbish,” she muttered, pulling flower in by flower’s shirt. She didn’t take her hands from it, but Martyn didn’t seem to mind. Rose kind of met her halfway on that. Pink lips rough and wrinkled on hers. Rose’s breath smelled of chicken from the tavern, but hers probably did too. A perfect match.

“Mm,” he said, unbuckling his seatbelt for the first time. He eased his seat back for extra leg room. And he came back for her. He came back, meeting her halfway across the center of the car, clasping her fingers in his. “I guess that makes you half rubbish too. C’mere.”

She let rose get one kiss on her (Maybe two depending how you count it) before pulling on flower’s collar. “Aw, look at you… You really think I’m moving to your side, Martyn? I drove there and back; maybe you should come here and show me some appreciation. Seems like the gentlemanly thing to do.”

Martyn’s lazy smirk struck a match in a core Cleo didn’t even know she had. She kept her breathing shallow. A little. Rose studied her like a museum jewelry box, then grabbed her (almost scooping her) and pulled her in. She banged her knee on the car’s middle segment. Her nails scratched the dashboard. Martyn did get her in rose’s lap, though, and shut her up before she could say too much about it. Just… Mm.

What do I do?

Whatever came naturally. Flower kept a thumb on her cheek. His nail would likely leave a mark. The first kiss fell against skin like the cherry soda he’d been drinking, and Cleo caught it. Mouths whispered open and shut, her hand on flower’s triceps. His skin flexed. It left her reeling like she stood on the deck of a ship, only the sky shone clear without a storm cloud in sight. Cleo met the next kiss more firmly, digging the nails of her other hand behind his neck. They bit skin. Martyn made a very, very soft noise. Even as an ex-married man.

I did that.

She’d stolen awfully sloppy kisses in the past. Only, she hadn’t thought them sloppy until right here and now. Sure, after Dogwarts she’d sort of picked up that both Martyn and Ren knew exactly how to work their mouths, and the two pecks she’d gotten from Martyn at a very late-night game of rolling flirty dice had only escalated that belief to fact. But those were quick, separate, silly things landed on her while they giggled like the young, free idiots they were. And all of this, in a row…

It pumped lava through her blood. Cleo fixed her position. At least, she moved and Martyn made a throat-clearing noise that signaled she, through luck of the draw, had probably done something very right. His pulse ran loop-de-loops in her ears. Flower wanted every bit of her, tipping his head one way and the other. Eyes closed, she felt rose adjust, every muscle shifting in those fingers… that palm cupping her jaw, fingers roaming at her neck, rubbing spots below her ear… “Cleo,” flower murmured, linking both hands behind her back. His tongue brushed her outer lip. Were his eyes open yet? Could he feel how flushed she really was? Cleo gripped his shoulders, digging her thumbs in for balance in her awkward seat.

“I’m here; I’m here… Stay, please?” Not in my room. That’s too far. Stay with me, crammed in the front of my banged-up car. Stay with me even knowing we’re not going “all the way” tonight. Stay with me even though you’ve been married once before and this is probably nothing, nothing in your mind… but stay with me because you love every part of exploring it anyway; because you’re here with every inch of me.

Martyn eased back his lips. Cleo’s mouth rested against flower’s, waiting for rose to complete the movement. Rose breathed against her skin. She’d look at him if snogging with her eyes shut didn’t feel so good. Flower oozed his hand away, catching ginger curls in the scoop of thumb and forefinger. And rose pushed it all behind her shoulder. Yes, all the little things you forget you ever dreamed of.

“Sure. Yeah, yeah; I’ll stay. Of course I’m staying. I’m like a bur. I’m kudzu… Pretty hard getting rid of me. C—Cleeeoo…”

It’s not the back seat. Her mum would flip. This was safe. This was better. And Martyn never once begrudged her that. She took her time. Maybe it was beautiful, that flower had been married once before.

Rose saw no need to rush. Rose let her take the lead.

🌹

“Hey, so…” Etho rubs behind his neck. They’re standing at his open door. Jellie’s in hiding somewhere, which is fine by Cleo; give the girl some space. Etho’s got his mask up again. She’s got questions still unanswered rattling like Skittles in her head. Why do you like it? Is it because you lick your lips? Is it to hide some of your scar? You were comfortable lowering that for me?

“I enjoyed tonight,” Cleo tells him, laying a hand against his chest. It’s easy-breezy. It breaks the touch barrier. Etho stiffens like he’s not sure what to do about it, though he figures out pretty quick; he brings his own hand around to hold it there. She smiles, tucking puffy hair behind her ear. He’s nice. He’s cute. “Thanks for having me. Can I see you again?”

Etho’s fingers fold around her own. She can feel his heartbeat in his thumb. “I’d like that. Just, um… Keep it casual? I’m not ready to be serious.”

Keep me. Want me. Drive me wild like I want to be. She longs to say that kind of thing, pressing him for cuteness and dating and the silly, frilly things like candy and flowers and holiday plans… but she holds her tongue. Years ago, when that was her snogging for the very first time, Martyn read her cover to cover like a Power V book. They took that relationship at the less experienced person’s pace, and it’s exactly what she needed. She can do the same. But I love and hate him all the more.

“Yeah, that’s fine. We can make this a regular or irregular thing. The cuddles and the kissing.” Her heart fuzzes with warmth. Damn; she’s always been tall, but Etho’s even taller. He’s got a funny, gangly look to him against her more sturdy build. Especially with his puffy jacket hanging on a hook, because of course he hung it up.

I don’t care if we don’t go “all the way” a while. I want… to be a part of this with you. And be there while you explore. Is that what Martyn saw in her? Etho’s sweet and beautiful. It brings stinging tears against her eyes. She bites her lip, blinking that away.

“The cuddles and the hookups,” he murmurs back. He slides his fingers through the messy spikes in his white hair. Did it look that messy before she had her hands in it? “That sounds nice. Uh, I’ll see you again at the, um. Chocolate shop, I hope.”

“Yeah, for sure.” She hovers another couple seconds, trying to get a read on him. Martyn used to walk her to her car when she planned to leave on a research or rehabilitation trip, claiming it was the gentlemanly thing to do and he wasn’t about to stop just because they were living together. He’d even do it when she messed with him in the morning. Or messed with him… apart from the mornings she left him unsatisfied on purpose, just because he’d bitch about it and be real snotty in his texts up until she came home. Honestly, soothing him with flirts and flouncing and kisses and praise was really where she shined. Her whole body’s sweaty just thinking about it. Did Etho do this? She can barely stick her words together. Every breath leaves her like she just sprinted up the stairs.

Etho keeps his hand on the doorframe, looking at her in fondness, but not asking questions with his eyes. All right. He’s staying. I mean, of course he’s staying… He hasn’t got his shoes on. Cleo, to close things out, tugs his mask down and leaves him with one last, gentle kiss. Etho’s hands find hers again. It’s a steady kiss. A long one. When they part, he’s smiling. It wrinkles the skin around his eyes.

“Well, I’m off, then.” She steps back, even giving him a salute to keep things loose and silly. See, she can do casual. She can be fun. “See you.”

“See you too,” he says. Cleo strides off down the hall. Even when she’s in the elevator, he’s leaning on his doorframe, gazing after her like she’s an otter at the aquarium and he hopes she comes around again. The doors roll shut. She leans back, elbows braced against the metal handlebar, and blows a stream of air towards the ceiling.

I’ve gotta call Martyn.

Which isn’t cheating on Etho by any means. They’re not really together; he said they’d keep it casual. And anyway, it’s not like she’s getting back with him. She takes her communicator and stares at his last text again. It went unanswered. Those things he said about how he could finally breathe again, he said into the Void. Maybe literally, if he’s dead. Of course he’s not dead; we linked our souls. We still die together. Hhhhh.

4 missed calls. Cleo, in a raw and wild moment, makes the choice. If he’s calling her without asking if she’s free, he damn well better be prepared to get the same treatment. She presses his name and lifts her comm to her ear just as the elevator dings and lets her out.

No response. She calls again, crossing the lobby. Out on the sidewalk.

No response. Has he lost his mind? I’m going to kill him. It’s evening; he can’t still be at work. He’s probably stretching his limbs, testing the feel of them without vines and thorns twisting through his muscles. But if he’s ignoring her, they’re about to have a talk that’s going to bite him in the front of his gums.

I hope I remember which way it is to the subway. Maybe she should’ve just asked Etho to escort her. Etho’s condo is tucked away among rows of condos. She looks left and right, but they’re all so tall. Uh…

Well, she’ll just start walking then. And it’s easier to call while walking than it is to text. She lifts the comm to her ear, but just before she presses the call button, it vibrates with an incoming ring. She answers.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” she bursts. “Why would you beg for me now, after all the chances I’ve given you, when I’ve moved away and I’m finally happy? Jeb, Martyn—I did everything to get you back. I let you stay in my bed when I didn’t have to; when everyone told me you were a cheat and a creep and just using me. I learned submission for you.” And other things. Things spilling out through every gasp and shake. Touches and memories and married life—pieces that were theirs. Snot spills across her upper lip and she fights to keep her tongue from glancing off it, just by accident, while she tries to breathe. She brings her hand to it and brushes it away, gross and sticky as it is. “I met you halfway and you—you turned your back. You just went blank… and I still let you collar me.” And…

… broken dams and concrete, contrite, convoluted things.

“Why wasn’t I good enough? I tried! I forgave and made allowances and welcomed you back and let you stay… I shared everything with you. All that I had, Martyn. Everything I had, it was yours too. I was nothing if not yours to pleasure yourself with, and you acted like I was such a burden to you then. What did you want from me? You do NOT get to beg for me like this anymore. I hate you!”

Warm breath crackles through the comm. Then, “Damn. That’s a mite TMI, bestie, but I’ll hear you out. Sounds like you’ve kept that under wraps a while.”

Cleo’s arm hairs quiver at full attention. “Oh… geez. Scott!?”

Laughter, with marshmallows in the fangs of it. Laughter with a hand to his heart, like nothing ever phased him and nothing ever would. He’s liquid silver and moonlight and rain. “I’ve missed you,” he says in full, thick affection. Cleo pulls her hand down her face, cringing in her silence beneath curls of ginger hair. There’s no one on this little sidewalk between tall buildings, though she doesn’t dare take a sweeping look at the balconies around them. Oh, Jeb…

“Scott… Sorry… Sorry, I’m just… Martyn was just texting—I’ve got 4 missed calls—”

A content, lazy sigh trickles back through in another ripple of static. “Maybe I should move out to Cogsborough too, if you’re having that much fun without me. Yeah, see… Do you want to come over? I was going to ask you out for a catch-up sometime. Maybe we do it in private? You can tell me everything that’s on your mind. If you want! No pressure, bestie. Ooh, I should buy tiny paper umbrellas. We could drink pineapple juice straight from the coconut.”

“That’s…” It’s Scott. She lets him giggle over his stupid joke, nursing her fingers through a tangle in her hair. “Yeah, go on with it. Um. I’ll come see you next week. I’ve missed you too.”

🥀

… Big.

The kink con. was. big. Is that the right term for it? The organizers had rented out a conference hotel, and in absolutely every way, it exceeded the munch by the length of a lightyear. Cleo’s chest heaved with every breath. Oh, boy. I’m out of my element here. Scott came with another friend; he’d checked with her to make sure she was fine with that, but he’d actually come up here last night. Apparently, he didn’t want to waste his time driving and needed the whole morning for his make-up. Pearl, who’d arrived with Martyn, had given Cleo a hug and already disappeared like a cat slinking through the shadows.

And then there were two. Cleo in her dark blue dress, still too reluctant to show more skin than what the sleeveless cut and swooping, lacy bodice showed. Martyn seemed calmer than she thought he’d be. Maybe it wasn’t his first time. Did he attend these things with his husband years ago? He’d picked a very tight black shirt that emphasized… probably every muscle Cleo had ever eyeballed on him. It looked hot (in both senses of the word), and he drank a lot of water in the car. Pearl kept teasing him, asking where the cat ears were, until Martyn finally threw his hands in the air and shouted “It’s not that kind of outfit! I’m going for mysterious. I brought a cape.”

Oh, Martyn…

Okay. Busy place. Lots of voices and black clothing. Lots of brown. Lots of red. Lots of leather. Everything rippled, the crowd pushed forward, and she didn’t regret for a heartbeat that she opted for knee-high boots instead of high heels. And they’d be here for three days? She squeezed Martyn’s hand, dabbing her tongue across her lips. His ever-dry palm kept her steady, standing straight. He looked at her, then squeezed hers gently back.

“You look pretty,” he whispered. “I like the dress. You definitely look like you’re here to take notes.”

“Thanks… You’re pretty too.” And he was, with his golden hair and rosy cheeks. Cleo turned her head, bringing her mouth to his ear. “You should lose the dopey headband more often.”

“Hm,” he said, and kissed her beneath the ear. “We both know you’re not getting that, luv.”

“We’ll see.”

Her heart thrummed against her chest. Okay. She saw the schedule. She’d attended other kinds of conventions (Farming, animal care; stuff like that). This place was supposed to be jam-packed with workshops. They needed to sign in. They needed their badges and print-outs. Maybe they’d get a map. Cleo pushed through the crowd as though treading water with Martyn behind her like a tail, still clutching her hand.

And boy, what a treasure trove they got… Well, first the wristbands. With a beat of hesitation, Cleo picked an orange one to represent Ask before touching me. Yeah, that would be best. Maybe someday…

“Well?” she asked when Martyn hadn’t moved. Thoughts of his ex must be scurrying through his head, because his hand hovered without taking anything.

“Which one should I use?”

“Uh, you know your own boundaries. Whatever you want.”

“Are you sure?”

Cleo glanced at him again. Martyn stood waiting, his brows lifted and head very slightly tilted in That Look as he waited for her to take another gander at what she’d just said. “Oh… Right. You don’t get to touch anyone. You’re mine this whole convention, even when our friends come around.”

“Aw, Cleo,” he whined, picking up the red band. “What if I see Timmy and think it would be really, really funny to barrel into him at top speed and scoop him up so he screams? I’ve known him a lot longer than I’ve known you; you can’t hold that against me!”

“You may have one barrel opportunity. If you’re good.”

“I can live with that,” he agreed, fitting on the scarlet wristband. It really caught the light. It looked like a heap of redstone from a sliced-open wire that had spilled across the floor.

Cleo looked around and, finding the few benches taken, sat on the floor with Martyn next to her, neatly folding his legs. She tugged a few pamphlets from her folder, reading titles aloud to Martyn as he sat with his in his lap, waiting for permission to look for himself. That was… something they’d decided to try. Just to see if it worked.

“Oh, this is a good start,” she murmured, setting aside a pamphlet titled So, You Want to Explore Kink? This was joined by Kink & Health, Finding Your Outfit, and Keep Impact Play Safe. Martyn’s fingers fidgeted against the folder’s edge. When Cleo took a sip of her water bottle, he flapped it open and started reading to himself. Cleo, her legs folded and mouth full of water, couldn’t do much more than make a bubbled noise to get his attention. Martyn ignored it, sliding out a brightly colored pamphlet that caught his eye.

“Oooh, Cleo… Punishment ideas! Now this, I’ve gotta see.”

“Hey. I didn’t say you could open that.”

“Eh, you were going to. Besides, you read too slow.”

“I wasn’t there yet!” I can do this. Boundaries. Punishment. He wanted that. She glanced at the pamphlet in his hands. Fighting over it seemed… like a good way to get a papercut. So she opted for calling him by name instead, emphasis in her voice. “Martyn… Put it back.”

“I’m just taking a look. Just a little peek.”

Oh, come on. Really? “Hey, I’m going to count to 3.”

He shifted his big blue eyes to hers, stubborn pouty lip falling forward. “And do what? Count to 4 next? Oh, this I’ve got to see.”

Cleo’s heart flickered. “Next time we make out, you don’t get to pull your fingers through my hair.”

Martyn tsked his tongue, flipping through his supplies again. “That sounds like a ‘You’ punishment. You’re the one who makes such cute noises when I do it.”

Are you serious? Are people watching them right now? They’d sat themselves by the outer wall, not in the main walking path. Cleo reached for the pamphlet and gripped its edge. Martyn paused, but didn’t rip it from her like she’d thought he would. “No passenger seat on the drive home. If you can’t behave, Pearl can sit with me.”

… The pause continued. Cleo watched him tongue the inside of his cheek, looking down at the tiny booklet in his hands. It had a dark cover with a few rainbow hexagons across it. And Cleo almost laughed. The air conditioning up front worked a lot better than the back. If she couldn’t break him yet, maybe the heat could do it for her.

She pressed a little deeper. “Martyn, no passenger seat on the drive back means no passenger seat in the car park.”

“Mm,” he muttered. He released his thumbs. “I didn’t know that was an option, frankly…”

Ha. Maybe there are some benefits to not allowing you in my bedroom. “You always have options,” she said, keeping it as casual as she could. Her heart beat a little like a storm. Did that work? Did she get him to bend for her? Cleo took the pamphlet away, then the rest of his folder. She gave him back his badge. “Put this on.”

Wordlessly, Martyn looped the lanyard around his neck. Cleo finished her reading, some of it aloud to him, then asked him to carry her stuff while they made their way to the first workshop she had in mind. Martyn shot her an affronted look.

“Why don’t you carry it? You’re the one who’s reading it.”

“Mm, pity. That’s going to limit the number of things I can do with my hands when we get there.”

“I’ll carry it.”

“Thank you.” She kissed his cheek. Martyn huffed, but didn’t say another word. They wandered for a few minutes, scouting out the halls and where they might be able to get food later. Cleo found a restroom with a short line, so she tasked Martyn to wait outside for her. When she returned minutes later, he leaned against a wall, lost in his reading. He didn't even try to tuck himself away, and she bit her tongue. He wants me to see this.

She stalked up to him, stomping her boots extra hard against the carpet. “Are you seriously reading that? I don’t remember giving you permission.”

Martyn ignored that comment, flipping the open pamphlet around so she could see. “Babe, are you seeing this? Look: the example here suggests a dom fork over cash for a guilt-free spa day if the sub’s consistent in household chores. Cowabunga, dude! That’s way better than punishment. Why would I ever mouth off? I want this even if I’m not a brat.”

“Give me that.” Cleo tore it from his hand. She glanced at the page, then folded it shut and slapped it back in his pile. “We’ll talk about it later.”

Martyn clicked his tongue again. As Cleo started off, he walked with a bounce in his step, keeping pace beside her instead of behind. “Oi, I’m just figuring things out here. And why is ‘cold shower’ listed as a Level 3 punishment? Seriously, I can handle anything this hypothetical guy can throw at me. And I get free ice cream if I’m good? Sign me the hell up.”

“Not if you can’t behave,” she quipped back. “I’m not stopping for milkshakes on the way home if this is how you act.”

Martyn opened his mouth to retort… and shut it again. “Oh, once I get a car, it’s over for you.”

“Once you get a car, you’re driving me wherever I tell you.”

“And you’re paying for my redstone refreshers.” When she started to speak, Martyn waved a finger. “The domme always provides!”

“… We’ll talk about that when you actually get a car. If you behave.” Look… If they dated, they might end up married. And if they were married, they’d probably merge their bank accounts anyway. She could grit her teeth and bear it if he set that up as the game to play. “I’m not paying for your 'freshers if you just use it to do donuts in the car park. And you do not get to talk to me that way.”

Martyn cracked up, throwing back rose’s head. “You agreed to that? Oh, this is the best! I can’t lose!”

Oh, boy… This might be a long convention. But she sort of forgot that bit. You know… when Martyn cozied his fingers up with hers, swinging their clasped hands as they went along.

Their first workshop covered guilt and shame. Which… hadn’t technically been Martyn’s idea, but he may have strongly nudged her in that direction in the most subtle ways he could (as if she couldn’t tell). Cleo smoothed her skirts, trying to pay attention to the gab around her as people in complex leathery outfits settled in their seats. A rustle of paper turned her head. Martyn had his list open again. Jeb, give me strength. She tried to ignore it, but he was sitting right there, flipping pages. Cleo slapped his thigh. Martyn slapped right back. Cleo kicked his ankle instead and hissed, “Martyn, stop it. We’re about to start.”

“Cleo, I just want to loooook… Let me have this.” Flower pushed her harder: “I am this close to figuring myself out.”

Give a hair and he’ll take the hog. Cleo took a breath and set her tone. Voice soft and calculated, though, as she pulled her fingers through a strand of rose’s blond hair that stood up funny from rose’s scalp. “You wanted that high protocol workshop for dinner, right? … Now that sounds more like a you thing than a me thing.” Fancy food? She could take it or leave it. And Martyn knew she would.

“Jeb, you’re so lucky you’re hot,” flower muttered back, putting the pamphlet away, and they both got a good chuckle out of that.

🌹

Following her visit to Etho’s condo, Cleo avoids the chocolate shop for a week. Or, more specifically, she avoids Etho for a week. She pays Bdubs a visit at a time she knows Etho’s schedule won’t bring him there, and fortunately, he didn’t change things up in an attempt to catch her. Bdubs greets her warmly and remarks that she “came early today,” but gives no sign of alarm. Good. That’s good.

She has excuses. She mentions off-hand that work is “crazy busy” and “she has to drive to Aqua Town to visit family.” “Have fun,” Bdubs chirps, pouring two mints and a gummy badger in his hand. “Buy more treats when you get back. Hey-ey, buy some treats for the road! Aqua Town’s a long drive. You gonna see your bothersome ex while you’re out there? Well, give him a wallop from me.”

Cleo freezes, bills still in hand. They tremble in her fingertips. “Uh. Did Etho tell you about my ex?”

Bdubs eyes flash wide. Now, if you knew him, you might ask if that’s even Bdubs-edly possible. It is, but only just. “No! Sorry. Overheard you two chatting. I’m sorry!” He flings up his hands, backing away, then makes an up and down gesture at his moss-green apron. “Seriously, though, it’s not like I can leave?”

Cleo putters her lips, weight braced against the counter. But it’s better this way: visiting Scott, laughing about her ex while they drink a little Cognac or maybe some cocktails, and staying away. Falling for Etho isn’t an option. It’s way too dangerous. Hanahaki’s wrecked her insides with its prickled roots a few times as it is, and every round it’s the same old story. Coughing up petals. Struggling to walk. Struggling to breathe.

Look… She can put up with a spurt if this looks like it might go somewhere, but if Etho’s a dead end? Forget it. She could find more comfort with a corpse, and sometimes did. Part of her work at the phantom sanctuary included helping Impulse prep the ones that didn’t make it for taxidermy. Easy way to study ‘em. Phantoms are sneaky little sky-rats, so museums and researchers love whatever mounts they can get.

Okay, Cleo. Breathe… Don’t lose your head over this guy. But if he asks us out, at least we’ll know he’s interested. And they can proceed with this carefully, without Hanahaki disease sprouting up in either of them.

Bdubs taps the clicky register buttons, stealing glances. Her nails curl even tighter. And then, in a burst of mental static, she blurts this: “Let me pay an apple forward for Etho. My treat.”

Bdubs pauses, fingers resting on the keys. “I can’t really hold that this early in the day…”

“Shoot. Um. Cover it for me later? I can pay you now.”

“I shouldn’t do that either.” He puzzles for a moment, then brightens like a block of fresh-waxed copper. “Hey, do you have C-Turtle? It’s an app. You can send him cash that way and even leave a note so he knows what it’s for. It’s easy! Even babies can do it! But they shouldn’t. I’ll shake down any baby I see who tries.”

Well. It’s worth a shot. Bdubs talks her through the app download, the store empty of other customers. She sends the cash. And the note. Been busy; in Aqua Town this week. Apple’s on me today! Send. Ooooh… Cleo covers her mouth, hardly believing that kind of enthusiasm came from her own fingertips, but whose else would it be?

See, this is the smartest play. She’s indicated interest in meeting up again. She’s giving space without coming off as desperate. No hard feelings if they’re no longer close in a few weeks time. The next move? Well… That’s up to Etho.

Oh Jeb, I want him close, side by side with me. Our bodies brushing on the couch… tasting his lips again… Getting to use that lube. An itch tickles in her throat. Cleo rubs it out as best she can, fingers scratching at her neck.

She wasn’t lying about Aqua Town. There’s someone there she needs to see. And it isn’t Martyn. At least… Not mostly.

🥀

… Okay. Yeah. That guilt and shame talk may have been exactly what she needed. But not in a fun way. Cleo took a few minutes alone to stand in the restroom, wiping off her burning tears. Martyn probably saw them. They smudged her mascara. And when she stepped out, rose wasn’t paging through their stuff, but just stood there, looking at her, with pinched-together brows in a carat on rose’s head.

“You okay?”

“Yeah… Fine. Um, let’s go. One more, then lunch, then… one more, then high protocol prep for dinner, then dinner itself?”

Martyn bit his lip. He put down their stuff and stepped closer with his arms spread. “Can I—?”

“Hhhk … I don’t—? … Yeah, it’s just…”

“Hey, hey… I’m here.” Rose held her firmly, but not too tight. He stroked her thick hair with his palm, but not in his usual teasing, playful way where he spun it through his fingers. Cleo felt him swallow. Felt the tears all hot in flower’s eyes even before Martyn pressed warm lips against her cheek and they started dribbling down.

“I tell myself I don’t need her approval… but it hurts when I think how disgusting and degenerate she thinks I am…”

“I’m sorry you’re dealing with that. My parents don’t know either. Cleo, you are so sweet and funny and gorgeous… And there is nothing wrong with wanting to live life for yourself.” Rose’s fingers found hers again, like links in a chain. Warm breath. Dry hands. Martyn’s hands. Rose’s skin to hers, safe and firm as rose held a hand against her face. “I really want to be a part of this with you. Seriously, I always have a blast when you’re around. If you’ll have me… I promise, I will always be here. Right by your side.”

So she clung to that like a silent lifeline. Martyn picked their next workshop. About aftercare, appropriately. Cleo struggled through it as best she could before falling mute, curling up with her head in rose’s lap. It wasn’t comfortable, especially with her dress shorter than she liked. Martyn petted her head anyway and she sort of took notes from her awkward new position.

I must look so stupid… This isn’t how a domme should act.

But Martyn didn’t breathe a word about it. Just scratched rose’s nails softly at her scalp, waiting like she knew rose would.

But then it got harder. After lunch (Delicious ham and cheese sandwiches, by the way), they tried out a more personalized breakout session about “Finding Your Identity In D/s,” where the room was split in groups and kink Q&A was fully on the table. With only a flutter of hesitation, Cleo let Martyn beeline towards the Master/brat corner, following behind since flower tugged her hand along. Well… Rose had been bratty all morning; she couldn’t deny that. Rose pulled up short when he almost slammed into a cookie-batter-brunet guy in a red jumper, who took one look at them and blinked in some surprise.

“Oh… Uh. Hi, guys.” Grian slid one hand behind his neck, moving a finger between both Martyn and Cleo. “Didn’t think I’d run into people I know on this side of the room. So, which is one of you’s the-?”

Cleo slapped his hand downward. “None of your business. Go sit down.”

Grian gave her a curious glance, then scampered off to find a seat. Cleo scanned the crowd for Mumbo, but didn't see him. Okay. Well, no judgment.

“Huh,” Martyn murmured, tightening his grip on Cleo's wrist. “Same hat. You know, I always wondered.”

“Martyn?” called a new voice from behind them. Cleo tensed, but Martyn’s reaction shot past hers by a stratosphere.

“SKLDFJSLDKJ?!?!?” That’s… an approximation of the noise rose made, anyway. Like lightning, flower dropped Cleo’s hand and spun on his heel. “Mumbo! I didn’t… think you still came to these.”

“D’-whaaaaaat?” And THAT was Grian, from the sidelines. Mumbo winced, crossing towards his partner. Cleo knew him as a mutual friend. Grian too, though Martyn had been friends with him since they were kids. Mumbo dressed up… really nice for this, actually. He looked like a real, professional adult in a suit, though Cleo had no plan to tell him that. Even if she did tongue her cheek. Maybe we’ll see them at the high protocol dinner. I mean, that was why she put on the dress.

“Look, we’ll talk about this later,” Mumbo chided, laying a hand behind Grian's back and pushing him towards the chairs. Grian sputtered, pining for answers like a baby bird. He didn’t get them. Once they’d gone, Cleo shot Martyn a sideways glance.

“Really? The rich kid who went to redstone school and can’t run a shop to save his life?”

Martyn turned rose’s face away, flaring both nostrils like a dragon. “You didn’t ask.”

Their instructor went by Jay, who opened the floor for questions and took them all with the thought and gentleness that Cleo longed to achieve in herself someday, and she bit her lip wondering if this advice might be useful for her after all. Maybe not for Martyn per se depending on where things went, but for giving firm, kindhearted guidance to unruly kids. Martyn hung onto every word in rapture. And Cleo looked at rose for a change… thinking back to how quiet rose had been at the munch not too long ago.

“So, what about writing lines?” rose pressed. “I’ve never really liked that one, but it always comes up when you’re looking for non-impact punishments. What spin would you suggest to make it more interesting?”

Jay considered for a moment, then snapped their fingers. “I remember a dom who told me once that permission slips work great for them. Like, let’s say a rule’s been set for no dessert except on weekends. Dom’s permission required, of course. A sub looking forward to dessert badly enough could write a request detailing why they want permission to bend the rule—Maybe a long day of work left them shaken up, ready to unwind. Writing a letter like that takes time and effort, especially if handwriting is enforced. No pre-writing and printing them off to take the easy way out.”

“I guess that makes sense,” murmured Martyn, sitting back with rose’s hand in Cleo’s lap, tangled in her own. “That said, what stops me from sneaking staying up late to eat a scoop of ice cream? He won’t know, especially if he kicked me to the couch.”

He, Cleo thought. He’s thinking about his ex. Mumbo was that ex, apparently, though he gave no sign. Grian kept his eyes pinned to Martyn, mouth a bit agape like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Honestly, Cleo half expected him to climb into Mumbo’s lap and cover the guy’s ears.

At that, Jay chuckled. Cleo saw one of the other participants roll her eyes and another cover his face as though in second-hand embarrassment. “Well, a relationship is built on trust, right? Are you acting out because you’re looking for a punishment, or are you genuinely trying to get away with the act?”

Martyn hesitated. Jay tried again, shifting closer.

“I like to think of my dynamic as… a loving, intensely sexual relationship between consenting partners that uses bratting to create backstory for a scene. If given the option, would you rather have intense sex without build-up, or with emotions and mental engagement running high?”

That does sound fun, Cleo thought, and Martyn lapsed into silence. Jay went around the circle, giving each person their spotlight to ask questions or skip this go-around so no one dominated the conversation and no one hesitated to speak up. Grian, however, looked Martyn dead in the eyes. If he’d had hackles or feathers on his neck, they’d be bristling up a storm. Maybe they were.

“Okay. Say you need to set some serious boundaries with someone who’s no longer in the picture, but could be a problem later.”

“No one wants your dom, Grian,” Martyn monotoned back at him.

“I never said I was the sub,” Grian snapped, and Martyn froze. Like a shot bird about to crash.

Uh-oh. Cleo moved her hand to the small of flower’s back, rubbing circles through the cloth. “Ignore him,” she murmured. “He’s just trying to get in your head.” And it’s working…

Martyn growled anyway, like a half-feral thing. But rose turned the other cheek, pointedly ignoring Grian’s smug, cold eyes. Cleo watched Mumbo, who had his knuckles in his teeth, facing the other direction. Grian, catching Cleo’s expression, followed her eyes, then smacked Mumbo in the arm with the back of his hand.

Hm. You know what? She really did hope those two joined her and Martyn at the high protocol dinner. If she played her cards right, she might be able to land a seat next to whichever one of them was really domming here. Jeb, let it be Grian. I want to smash his foot under my heel. Oh, but that’s stupid. It can’t be Grian. Look at him! Sitting there, holding eye contact, chewing on his thumbnail...

She swallowed back that sudden sting of fire, still rubbing circles on Martyn's back. No. It had to be Mumbo. Martyn said his ex had strictly dommed, heavily encouraging Martyn to research submissive roles despite his inherently switchy nature.

(Martyn sat with his face buried in his hands, every breath a volcano churning underground.)

When Cleo’s turn came, she thought for a few seconds to better arrange the words inside her head, then proceeded very carefully. “How… do you handle a brat who doesn’t like submitting? Or who doesn’t respect the punishments you threaten because he says he can just walk away?”

Martyn glanced sideways at her, but didn’t drop her hand. Grian watched in silence like a hawk honing in on prey. Jay tapped their nails against the folder in their lap, nodding slowly.

“By its nature, bratting can be a difficult thing to wrap your head around and not everyone’s cup of tea. I’ve met some doms who enjoy going all-in to engage a brat mentally only on occasion while some enjoy the thrill of the chase every day. If you’re working things out with someone new, I’d ask your brat why he doesn’t follow the rules and why he isn’t afraid of your punishments. Maybe there’s a disconnect—Are you threatening something that doesn’t fit the crime? I like turning up music in the car and bellowing lyrics, so my dom would threaten to switch it off or take away my discs at home if I didn’t agree to a break period so he could rest his ears. That worked for me pretty well: we both had a turn at what we wanted, and the punishment fit the theme of what I’d done to push his buttons.”

“I see.” She reached a hand to still Martyn’s bouncing leg. Jay leaned back, spreading their arms to address the whole circle.

“I always recommend clear, direct communication. While it would be sexy and amazing if we could read our partner’s mind, a brat can’t expect a dom to know how they’d like their punishment. Doms, ask your brats what you can do to earn their submission, and what rule violations and punishment feel the most exciting to them.”

Martyn fell quieter for a moment. Cleo could feel him nudging thoughts in his mind with his foot, turning them over to unearth the creepy-crawlies underneath. His brows knit together. When his turn came again, he didn’t really ask a question, but rather brought up a thought: “Maybe I do want someone to tame me. I just find it difficult to believe anyone can. It would require taking me apart on a level I’m not sure I know myself.”

Across the circle, Grian shot Martyn a glare. Come on, ref, Cleo thought, glancing at Jay. Surely there had to be some rule against making judgy faces at other people in the circle. What happened to mutual consent? But alas, Grian went unreprimanded. I guess he really is the dom. Because… Mumbo would call him on that. Right? Cleo tried to bore her stare into his head to make him turn around. Grian caught her eye, moving a protective hand over Mumbo's leg. She blinked, then dragged her attention back to the circle. Right. Martyn was getting answers for his issues. This, she had to hear.

“Hm,” murmured Jay, scooting their chair around. “Well, at your core, you do want to submit. Don’t try and push your limits. There’s no reason to keep up a bratty front if you find it stressful.”

Cleo blinked. That’s not exactly what he asked-

“It’s not stressful,” Martyn tossed back. “It’s more like… Submitting feels out of character for me. Seriously, I can talk up a storm and I don’t shut down easy. Thing is, I can’t see myself getting hit and looking on that person with fondness in my eyes, and that’s not fun. I do want to play… I just—I need someone who’s not going to end the scene early because they lost patience with my pushback, and then get frustrated when I have a hard time getting off because they veered course into something that's a lot less stimulating.”

Mumbo shifted, his chair squeaking. Cleo thought he might get up and march from the room, but he didn’t. Just rubbed his legs up and down with slow, even strokes (breathing in, breathing out). Grian leaned an arm against his shoulder, frowning with a little more confusion now. Looking unsettled. Good. He deserved it.

“That’s good,” Jay praised. “I think we’re making crucial progress. So, the amount of resistance you’re describing doesn’t sound like a traditional D/s brat relationship, although you can catch me afterwards if you’d like to hear my suggestions for what you might like instead. For now, let’s focus on the brat idea. If you don’t want to get hit when you act out, what do you want to happen?”

“Is it really ‘acting out’ if I’m just expressing my general daily thoughts?” Martyn pushed, and Cleo cringed with a squeeze of her eyelids. Jay, however, remained as patient as the moment they'd first sat down.

“If it’s a form of pushback in a brat relationship, that’s the word I’d use, yes.”

Grian snorted in the background. Martyn flicked rose’s eyes to Cleo. She smiled back, lips pressed thin. Hey, this is all you.

Flower puffed both cheeks, knuckles clenched on the edge of the chair, before forcing out flower’s next words: “I don’t really know what I want as punishment, honestly. Like, it’s not really about punishment for me. I guess I just push because… I don’t feel safe with a partner unless I know, without a doubt, that our set-up lets me be myself without walking on eggshells, right? If I want to submit, I will. If I don’t, I just won’t, and no one can really make me. Because… because…”

Cleo gave flower’s hand a squeeze. It trembled, like that lurching bird still struggled on the ground.

“… I need to know I’m wanted.” Martyn’s voice splintered when he said it. “And if you love me without trying to stomp my sass and jokes from existence, then I’m yours. That’s it; that’s the only way I know you’re worth begging for.” Rose’s cheeks turned pink. “Look, that sounds really stupid; I just don’t know how we hop, skip, and-a-jump to that end. It’s been harder than I thought to find a dom who wants that with me.”

Jay nodded, eyes crossed in thought. They tapped their pen against their cheek. “So for you, bratting is a long play. It’s about testing the waters of a relationship to see if you can express yourself safely, submitting only on your time and your terms.”

“Yes! That’s it exactly!” And all of a sudden, like a tidal wave smacked against flower’s back and choked flower until rose spun and spit, rose blurted, “I’ve never been allowed to be myself around my family. They think I’m wasting my potential by rotating through different jobs, I can’t tell them about my neopronouns, they’d never understand why I came to an event like this, and they never listen to anything I say. I… just want someone to stay with me when they see that side that’s always been called raw and ugly by all these people who were supposed to love me, yeah?”

Jay smiled, nodding again. “Here’s my take: you’re not looking for a relationship that involves brat taming, necessarily… You want the mental challenge of play and the fondness that comes from someone who knows what to expect from you and enjoys having you around.”

“Oh my gods, thank you… You get it. I don’t submit for just anyone. You really have to force my walls down, and I can genuinely push back for weeks. Don’t threaten me with a good time; I’ll laugh all the way to the couch if you kick me out of bed. If I dig in my heels, you’ll break before I do. I’ve never met a dom who didn’t. I’m literally just goofing. My pride’s worth more than any urge to get off.”

“Well, I’m glad you shared,” Jay said, reclining in their chair. “Though, one thing I should probably say is that it’s not the traditional D/s style of bratting, and a lot of my friends wouldn’t call it bratting at all, so I wish you luck in finding a partner.”

Cleo blinked, pricking her ears, as Martyn’s face dropped. That bird fighting to get back in the air careened into the ground once more. “Wait,” rose sputtered, “there’s no word for that? No pins or pride buttons? No subtype? Nothing to call myself?”

“It is a kind of bratting,” Jay clarified. “It’s bratty behavior. I just don’t suggest advertising yourself as a brat if you’re searching for a dom. Those looking for a brat are usually doing so using the more established definition of what a brat is, which I’d say is someone with a lower level of pushback than what you seem to want. Much less mentally exhausting that way, which many doms want when seeking a sub. I’d go as far to say that your thought patterns aren’t really… kink. In fact, I might say that’s a total misrepresentation of what an actual D/s relationship is. At least, to my understanding, though I’m much more familiar with bratting than domming. You might want to ask around and see if playing as a dom fits your vibe instead. There's a difference between domming and topping. Domming is taking control of a scene, which might be what you’re after, and if bottoming is your thing, you can do both. You might even do well as a brat handler rather than a brat.”

Cleo caught the subtle flex in flower’s knuckles on flower’s chair, the faint wrinkle of flower’s nose. And the bird-like stare in Grian’s cave-black eyes. But Martyn said nothing. Jay swiveled to Cleo, tapping their legs to turn around step by step.

“Now, then… What’s going on in your head?”

Chapter Text

Top 10 Hanahaki Life Hacks (#9 Will Shock You)

Patience

🥀

Grian slipped like a fish from the D/s meeting room. Early, and outright leaving Mumbo behind. What, did he have a date with a snowball fight outside? He left Mumbo sitting shocked, Martyn glancing uncomfortably at him from across the room.

And Grian just kept walking. Like. What? Completely unbothered by the partner he’d left back there alone. Cleo tracked him down the hall with Martyn hurrying behind her, trying to grab her arm while she strode forward without stopping. Grian finally slowed in front of the bulletin board. Anonymous fantasies—anonymous calling cards—fluttered on brightly colored paper up and down the wall. He stood (as he often did) with hands in pockets and didn’t turn around. “Hey,” Cleo began, but Grian didn’t twitch.

“Did you and Martyn write any of these?”

These. Cleo’s eyes flicked to the cards full of fun and sexy wishes pinned up on the board. Just looking at them made her stomach feel all wobbly. When she thought about her future in kink, she really just thought of Martyn. Or if not Martyn, then someone she hadn’t met and couldn’t picture in her mind. What a big world out there. When she scanned the scribbled words, she didn’t even recognize a few of the kinks. To Grian, she said, “If you’re looking for a foursome, the answer’s ‘No.’”

“Is it, though?” he pressed, rolling his head to one side. Obsidian-dark eyes caught the light like sunglasses. Cleo froze, a flame licking up her throat. “Our subs were married once. Say the word and I’ll get Mumbo wherever you want me. C’mon… You can’t tell me you’re not curious! Yeah…”

“You’re a prick,” she told him, and Grian arched his brows in reply.

“Anything else?”

“And you’re lucky you’re wearing an orange wristband, which means I have to ask before I can slap you halfway across the hall.” She took a breath, then plunged on like a full team of sled dogs. “But come find me if you want a domme to really put you in your place. You can talk big all you want, but I can see right through that paper-thin mask. You’re a snobby brat yourself. You’re just looking for someone who can take it.”

“‘ey, ‘ey! Bring it to my level; you’re getting heated.” Grian lifted one hand, closing his fingers like a mouth cutting off her breath. For an instant, Cleo saw red. “If you want to play with us, let’s talk about this like mature adults. You chit-chit-chit-chitter. None of that, please.”

“Oh, you are going the right way to get exactly—”

“Cleo,” Martyn warned, but she hardly heard rose, still nose to nose with the guy glaring up at her. He smelled like sweat; he smelled like fury. But the rapid dart of his eyes to her boots before they hit her face again told her all she needed to know.

Got you, she thought. She simmered in it with a smirk, and Grian bit his bottom lip. But he caught himself. He squinted very faintly, as though searching for a sliver of gold dust in a stream.

“… I’ll call you.”

“Don’t you dare.”

Grian turned on his heel like a shark at a feast, swimming off with hands slipped inside his trouser pockets like before. Over his shoulder, he tossed back, “You look pretty, Cleo. You should come over sometime, wearing that.”

Martyn snapped an annoyed glance Cleo’s way. She bit her tongue, waiting until Grian passed out of earshot. Once he had, she gave a huff of annoyance that seemed to satisfy Martyn, because flower made the noise too and followed suit when she turned her back. “Who does he think he is?” she made a point of saying, like she would to Scott, and Martyn jumped right in with her.

“Oh, I want to bite his smug little mouth off and gulp it down without any milk.”

“You won’t.”

“I won’t. But I’d want to. Just… Rrrrgggh!” Martyn shuffled his folders in his hands and dragged fingers through his hair. He tsk-tsked his tongue like a piston. “Don’t invite me to play with them. Mumbo and I talked things out when we split and I like to think we’re friends. Not sure I’m ready to ruin that.”

… Right. The spat with Grian wouldn’t go anywhere. Hanging the ol’ upside-down pineapple on the window always was a dangerous game to play. But for a moment, it felt nice to pretend. Cleo lay a hand to her heart and felt it pumping fast. Nerves. A thrill. And yet…

I think I broke his mask? Back in the meeting room, Grian insisted he was Mumbo’s dom. But the way he looked at her when she stood up to him, darting his eyes… I feel invincible. Could use more skills to back the confidence, but everyone starts somewhere.

The way he looked at her…

I did that. A guy actually checked me out and, just for a moment, thought I could be a good domme someday. That felt good. Which she wouldn’t say to Martyn, lest it insult rose that some part of her couldn’t stop smirking when she remembered Grian’s face. As they continued down the hall, Cleo turned her face to the ceiling lights and let them wash over her head to toe.

Flower’s hand caught in her own, pulling roughly. “This way,” Martyn said, and not a lick of humor in his voice. Caught off guard, Cleo looked at him. Something dark and cold simmered in his cheeks and fragmented his eyes.

“What?”

“Gotta use the toilet. Need you to watch the stuff.” Like some kind of dom, he pulled her sideways, away from the flow of the crowd, and brought Cleo stumbling after him.

When they first started browsing the website for what the kink con had to offer, Martyn wanted one thing locked down, insisting if he could land this, he wouldn’t argue with any of Cleo’s break-out preferences. Not that she’d really known what she wanted to sign up for, but in any case, she’d paused to read the description for the event and agreed (Quite eagerly, actually) to join in. While she didn’t make a habit of splurging on expensive meals and she’d heard she had a picky palette, she did consider herself open to trying new foods… and new experiences along with them.

“Yeah, we can definitely do that,” she’d told Martyn, and flower leaned back in his chair with arms folded behind his head, smirking wide, like he’d just won a massive bowl of ice cream topped in caramel and rainbow sprinkles. Cleo sort of got it, and sort of not really. She knew Martyn enjoyed light degradation, so playing the role of ‘servant’ at a dinner party seemed right up his alley.

All flower’s dabbles in kink seemed to coast the surface, though not from lack of experience. Martyn was more like… the guy who’d read all the books and knew himself well enough to know flower would legitimately enjoy dipping flower’s toe in the lake, but lacked the stamina for a sustained swim. If you asked rose to, rose would charge down the pier and cannonball into freezing water. He’d do it once, maybe twice, for the sheer joy of splashing your face and laughing along with you. But even after submerging himself that way, rose preferred keeping near the shore, basking in the safe dryness of the beach. He’d rather sit on a towel or wade the shallows than swim out very deep.

Cleo understood that. Her secret dreams lay in the middle of the lake, full of boats and waterskis, but if Martyn loved the shore, then so did Cleo. Swimming towards him, wrapping arms around him, and playing in the sand with a guy she really, really liked could be just as much fun.

I’d love to date Martyn seriously. Annual camping trips, river rafting, running along the surf of a sunny beach. She could wear a fun bathing suit with frills and polka dots and speed towards him like a shark. Rose could pretend her ginger hair in the water didn’t tip him off to her approach well in advance of fingers grabbing at his thighs.

Jeb. She REALLY liked seeing Martyn slog onto the beach, pushing wet hair back as it sopped into rose’s eyes, water dripping all down the toned muscles of his body. Those swim trunks hugged his hip bones just right. She could lean against flower’s back, wrapping arms across flower’s chest, and purr in his ear while feeling up his pecs. Surely “wet hair and swimsuits” had to be a kink somewhere on a list, right? Not one she really heard about, but yeah… Cleo bit the end of her tongue just thinking about it. One day, she might even tell Martyn what his Dogwarts lifeguarding skills did to her. And maybe, if luck should have it, some secret thing she did kicked Martyn’s attention up and left him begging just like Ren.

We don’t have time to talk about Dogwarts at 3 AM, just so we’re clear.

The con’s high protocol dinner acted more like a training session and ‘introduction to D/s relationships’ course than a proper event. Still, both she and rose had planned ahead for it, even taking a shopping trip for special outfits together. It came in two parts: the dining experience itself and the food prep leading up to it. Well, and the handbook, plus a verbal run-down with some demonstration. Three or four parts, maybe.

When Cleo threw Martyn’s hand aside, launching it at the wall in a way that made it smack, flower’s whole face melted into guilt. Like the flip of a switch, on came the apologies: “Cleo, I’m sorry. Maybe I don’t know what I’m doing after all! If I’ve pushed too far or upset you—”

“Look, look, you haven’t upset me, no—But why are you pulling me around all of a sudden? I’m confused.” Something’s riled him. She knew that before he even said it. Before flower took that breath, lashes fluttering, and balled flower’s fists against flower’s legs.

“I want to dom at dinner tonight.”

“… Oh.”

“Just for tonight,” he pleaded, “and I swear, I’ll be an angel the rest of the week. Maybe forever; I don’t know—I just have to do this. Mumbo’s gonna be there. Please, Cleo, pleasepleaseplease—Please can I dom?”

Um… Martyn didn’t exactly beg, even in teasing. Cleo really had no idea what to do with it, and stared at him a bit in disbelief. Did this ‘do anything’ for her? Was this all begging was? Just… that? She felt so fuzzy and overwhelmed from the con as a whole (and that little spat with Grian) that she couldn’t get a read on her feelings very well.

… High protocol dinner had been Martyn’s pick. It was the one thing he’d asked for out of all the break-out sessions they read about online. Cleo hadn’t gone over-the-top with her blue dress, but it wasn’t cheap either. Her hair lay in curls, carefully done, and she’d put on a little jewelry she’d ended up with when her grandmother passed on long ago, but didn’t wear very often. Martyn, though, when rose looked at her, his hands clasped and blue eyes wide and wet like that…

Jebdammit. “Martyn… If I don’t enjoy this, you’re not getting my attention for a month.”

“Except on holiday. And any other time I want it.” Flower put up his hands before she could protest. “Look, forget the spa. Forget the ice cream and red-freshers money. I’m a switch; this will work. Let me earn my domming rights. I’ll be so good about it.”

“You’ve hardly earned them,” Cleo retorted. “You’ve been pushing the limits all day, and now you just expect me to hand you the reins? I was really looking forward to domming for this. What makes you think you earned it? Realy, Martyn? What’ve you done for me besides fuss? What’re you good for?”

Nervous hesitation pulsed across rose’s face. Martyn looked away, then back, his head twitching like a bird’s. “That wasn’t real,” he said, and flung an arm to the side. He gestured vaguely down the hall. So many people milled around this place, Cleo found it hard to wrap her mind around; so many people in this world, and so many had feelings like she did deep inside. “I was just joking, you know… I wasn’t really trying to brat… Please, all right? Mumbo’s here. He never let me dom, Cleo; I have to prove to him that I could’ve done it flawlessly anytime he asked, and that he’ll never get to touch this bod again. Just give me this?”

“… I don’t know. All my life, my mum’s told me what to do. Domming is supposed to be my escape from that; my fresh start with a blank canvas.” But when flower looked at her, using those exaggerated motions with templed hands, getting down on rose’s knees… and rose wasn’t really being snide or passive-aggressive, and he wasn’t really acting like he wanted to manipulate her…

Jeb, he’s cute. He was REALLY cute on his knees like that, his lip quivering big and blond lashes batting. Not even in a sexual way? Not really. Just, he’d sort of tied his hair back, though stray strands still spilled across his face. She’d hardly call him ‘wrecked,’ but red still rimmed his eyes from when he’d gotten upset in the last break-out room. Scruffs stuck every which way upon his head, and Cleo found her tongue anvil-heavy against her gums. Do I really care what Grian and Mumbo take away from this? It may or may not get out to the extended friend group; a lot of them were into kink, though the details were generally left vague.

And Cleo, not for the last time (although she didn’t know it then) caved in. She swung out a hand. Martyn stared for a heartbeat, then grasped it and let her haul rose to rose’s feet. “All right; go put on a show and rub it in his face. I can’t promise I’ll be good at subbing, but we can try it. But we have to talk about what you want me to do.”

They’d done their research; they’d made a few plans. As her sub, Martyn would take her jacket and serve her food, but for most of the evening, he didn’t want to be acknowledged. If the opportunity for public humiliation arrived, she knew rose wanted her to take it, but the thought of smacking or shouting at him in front of a crowd—without informing their host in advance, not to mention—seemed… a step beyond Cleo’s comfort zone right now. So if degradation didn’t come up, they’d agreed on Cleo ignoring him. Brat that flower was, she already knew he’d be as big a pain as he could, trying to goad her into a reaction behind his smirks and the dancing of his eyes.

I was really looking forward to doing this with him. Quite honestly, Martyn robbing her of that stung her to her core. How exactly would the dinner party work in reverse? What would I want, if I were a sub? Cleo hadn’t given it a lot of thought. She didn’t love taking orders, but as long as Martyn didn’t boss her around too much, she could tolerate it for a single night. When her mind flickered through ‘What I want out of a relationship with Martyn,’ she knew in a flash that she could settle for a hand squeeze of thanks when she set down rose’s plate. A hand trailing behind her waist. Something full of touch. Knowing appreciation and respect still lurked beneath the mask of flippant play.

She knew from careful reading that at some of these high protocol events, a sub serving food would be encouraged to show up dressed in lingerie and little else. Since the kink con painted itself as the first step in that direction, dressing down was optional, but not required. She could still wear the dress tonight. Honestly, Cleo liked to think she rocked the boots. For Martyn, she’d serve something nice on a platter and let him flaunt before his ex.

Martyn’s shoulders loosened up. He drew her in by the hand. Cleo caught his eye; let him take the lead. Flower kissed her sweetly on the mouth, nibbling her bottom lip… and something in her crackled until it cracked. Martyn really seemed to like her. Not that she didn’t know it—She would’ve caught Hanahaki by now—but she, in all her inadequacies, made him happy. She made him want to kiss her (somehow), even being the awkward person she was… A young woman who couldn’t figure out her own kinks and pronouns, let alone what she wanted in life.

But then he tried to step away. Cleo hooked him where he stood, snaking her arms around to wrap beneath his. She dug her fingers in the back of his shirt and found long-healed scars across his spine, which grew more and more familiar every day. “Didn’t say you could stop.”

She saw his lashes flutter again. The faintest tension in his shoulders. A fidget in rose’s fingers against her hips. And then…

Submission. Soft, gentle, as Martyn melted into her, kissing hard, and Cleo kissed him back. They’d have to talk about it. Of course they’d have to talk. Old plans discarded, new plans made. But just for a moment, she could’ve served rose the world on a platter, whipped cream swirled on top just the way he liked it… because Martyn always kissed her, held her, like he wanted her. Like he wanted no one else in the world. Always.

Always, always, always.

🌹

There’s no better end to a long, long drive than clinking cocktail glasses with Scott out on his balcony, smiling lazily at one another as the sun slants across his bright blue hair. He really needs to get it dyed again; his ginger roots are showing through. It’s a bit lighter than the color he usually sports, but Cleo takes that as a good sign. If Scott’s taking warm showers and basking in the sun, he’s not been lying listless and dirty with sheets tangled around his legs, scrolling through his communicator and waiting for the moon to rise.

Pearl and Scott divorced almost overnight, pretty much as soon as her and Martyn’s cheating came clicking home like leaping frogs. It was more complicated than that, of course, and Pearl absolutely dug in her heels when it came to signing papers. She threw the biggest fit you can imagine, yelling back that the marriage was Scott’s idea anyway, she never wanted to be his soulbound, and all sorts of begging words that made Cleo ditch a begging Martyn on the road and sprint towards them, just so she could force her friends apart before they did anything with their slapping hands they might regret. Overall, she does feel like Scott kept a calm front, but Pearl literally looked like she wanted to strangle him. At the time, their spawn locations were still set to the same bed, and Pearl probably would have killed them both over and over just to punish her husband for the selfish crime of cutting a cheater straight out of his life.

They’re both doing better now, she and Scott… It’s really good to see him like this, when he wears his comfy clothes, but slips some shiny earrings on. His nails have grown back sharp and rainbow, which pairs with the sun and cloud dangling from his ears. Cleo can’t remember the last time she saw his nails that long. They’re pretty, though. Either he cleaned his flat knowing she was on the way over, or he’s gotten into minimalism. It looks cute! He’s even hung his own paintings on the wall. Cleo tells him all about working with vex and phantoms in Cogsborough. Scott sips the edge of his glass, gazing out across the road. Aqua Town really is beautiful, especially in the setting sun. Orange and blue look incredible when they blend like this.

“I’ve really gotten into shooting,” he says, swirling his cocktail vaguely in the air. Jeb, did she miss his accent after moving out—It’s a whole lot heavier when he’s tipsy, which is quite frankly adorable. “Bow and arrows, you know; I took a class. I feel like most people nowadays carry swords, but I’ve always liked the thought of a bow. I made an extra. You can take it if you want.”

“What would I do with a bow?” Cleo asks in good humor, and Scott grins and tells her she can plug “all the creeps out there” full of holes.

“I mean, you guys get a lot of pillagers up there, right? It could be a good idea.”

True… Cleo did carry a shortsword, but just a wooden one. She usually left it in her room. With its edge cut sharp, it could land enough damage to startle someone back, but she’d love to squirrel enough cash away for an iron one someday.

I could go mining, she thinks off-hand, though she knows she never will. No one in her family’s ever been that into it. She comes from a line of artists and architects; that’s what runs like fire in her blood. Maybe some of that talent really did carry through to her, because she’s quite proud of her foray into taxidermy as of late. “You used to brew splash potions for defense, right? I remember you really loving that. Why the bow and arrows now?”

“Mm,” he says, and something dims; something stutters out. Scott rotates his glass between his fingers as though seeing it for the first time. The droplets sparkle flamingo feather-pink. “I don’t know. I shouldn’t, but I just can’t brew potions anymore without thinking of… well.”

Pearl. Cleo twirls a paper parasol with her fingertip, wishing she could melt herself away. Funny, really, how she feels redder and warmer right now than she ever does bundled up in wool on the Cogsborough streets.

“Sorry. I shouldn’t’ve—”

“No, it’s fine; this is my little thing to work through.” Scott braces his elbow on the railing, cupping his chin in his hand. “I don’t know. I never know what to do with myself now. But that’s only—Only sometimes, like this, or when it’s near vacation time. I feel pretty silly for it. Which is bad, right? Pearl—I don’t know. Is it weird that I still want closure after everything that happened?”

"Aww, that’s not weird…”

Scott twists his head, sliding a hand behind his neck. Flushed cheeks. Frizzy hair, falling in blue-brown streaks across his eyes. “It’s been three years, Cleo—Almost four now. I don’t know why I still get this sick feeling in my chest when I think about her. So many things remind me of her, everywhere I look.”

Yeah. When she sees spots a white dog walking down the street, or anyone wearing a bright red hoodie… It's utterly impossible not to think of the giggly, outdoorsy, frog-loving woman they cut from their lives as soon as they were able. “They cheated on us,” she murmurs, and slides one arm (carefully) behind Scott in a hug. “I don’t think we’ll ever know why.”

“Mm.” He leans his temple on her shoulder, smelling fruity and drunk and so alive out here by the coast where it feels like summer all the time. Fingers spider-crawl towards her arm. Up her elbow. Across her skin. “I think… I need to start bringing a friend to the laundromat. Have you seen Pearl at all this year? She is fully unhinged.”

“Pearl?” After she and Scott split up, Cleo blocked Pearl’s number, email, and all the contact methods she could think of. Even money transfer apps. Just because she and Martyn had tensely agreed to stick it out, trying to fix this battered thing they argued over, it didn’t mean she owed the same offer to Pearl. Never, not once, did she or Scott disinvite Pearl from the annual camping trip—It was entirely Pearl’s choice to go or not go after the divorce, just as it was Martyn’s. They just had to find their own way, because their exes certainly weren’t carpooling with them.

Actually, Cleo didn’t much know how the rest of the gang reacted to Pearl or Martyn showing up without them. That first year, she and Scott stockpiled candy, blasted music, and took a week-long road trip all their own. The way Cleo saw it, Martyn could keep the friend group he’d forged years-long ties with before they started dating. Took ‘em in the divorce, yeah? Cleo knew the risks she took in dating someone in that group, and she wouldn’t keep going if it made everyone pick sides. But although they were still sharing a bed at home, Martyn did not get access to her mind or body when he took that trip with friends. Communicator? Muted, full stop. Cleo had Scott. No matter what else came their way, they were best friends. They would see it through.

Deep down, Cleo always knew her reluctance to file for divorce bothered Scott more than he felt like he could say. She saw him jolt, then stare a beat too long at her wedding ring when she put her car in reverse and pulled into the street. They didn’t talk about it. Cleo simply caught the way his fingers tensed against his thighs.

“No, I haven’t seen Pearl,” she says in the here and now. “What’s she doing?”

“See, I turned my back for one minute to fold a few shirts, and when I picked my lint roller again, she’d ripped off the sticky part, apparently—apparently… because it had my hair stuck to it.” Waving his hand, a little tipsy— “And it’s not the first time she’s tried to take things from me—She stole half my dryer sheets once, too. I’ve even mixed up which days I go out, but I keep running into her; I might need to change my locks again.”

Oof. Cleo hadn’t given much thought to whatever Pearl got up to these days. She’s still in Aqua Town, though… “Sounds like she’s lost it.”

Scott grimaces, pushing away from the rail. “I don’t think she had it to begin with. Anyway, it’s fine… Pearl’s like that. By the way, I have vanilla ice cream in the freezer. If you want root beer floats, we can do that.”

“Yeah, I could go for a couple scoops.”

Pearl’s still in Aqua Town. Cleo pauses for a moment, gazing down the street as sunset winks off the windows and a breeze blows saltwater scent up from the beach. She and Pearl were friends… once. They went to the same high school. They shared a few classes. As a trio, they ate lunch together for three years. But Cleo chose Scott. No regrets on that. While breaking a soulbond can be quite traumatic on the body once it’s been formed (and Cleo hadn’t wanted to put Martyn through that, what with him struggling enough to walk and breathe these days), she and Scott did consider themselves something of the type. They called each other ‘soulbound’ in teasing, and Cleo trusted him with everything. They shared her car. Maybe someday, she would, in fact, break the bond with Martyn and get Scott on the papers instead. You have to sign the marriage license, though, in this part of the world, before anyone will do a legal bond.

Something to think about.

When Cleo follows Scott to the kitchen, she spots a bottle of pills on the counter beside the bananas. The label’s yellow. They could be anything. Over-the-counter, maybe. But she does wonder if they’re the tablets he’s taking now that the bond with Pearl’s been shattered into dust. If you don’t take care of it, an old bond will link back up again. And you both have to be taking your meds, or mutual health can spiral out of control.

Maybe, Cleo thinks, searching Scott’s drawer for a spoon, Mumbo had a point. You can love just fine without tying your respawn energy together. She loves Scott, ceremony or not.

There was a time Cleo believed the lie that a bond like that would kill absentminded Hanahaki buds before they could sprout. Well… They do. Bonds do help with that. Problem is, her existing birth control and Martyn’s cocktail-worth of mental health meds weakened the biological shield their bond was meant to offer. Even when they were together, one of them might find a petal under their tongue now and then. They’d talk about it. Martyn would shoot the occasional text from Dogwarts or one of his part-time gigs: Sprouts came through; we good? And Cleo would have to admit, Really cute barista today, or Hot guy on the bus, and Martyn would text back xD.

Martyn never made a big deal about her bisexuality. Or at least, not a weird deal. Just throw that one on there with the laundry list of things that made him the easiest guy in the world to plan a life with. He’d always been active in the community; as a pair, they hit up Pride events whenever they felt like. Got the usual grumpy scoffs you get from nosy onlookers when you’re a straight-passing couple, but that’s another story. He told her early on he’s gynesexual—“into women and my femme-leaning nonbinary pals” was how he mostly said it—and walked her through his journey of self-discovery. Lot of it came from hanging out with Ren, who’s about as bi as the day is bright (and happily married to Doc right now). Plus, you know… The marriage to Mumbo that went wrong.

“So… You didn’t know you weren’t into men?”

Click of teeth; roll of eyes. “I was dazed and confused. Young and a fool! Plus, Mumbo’s… I knew him even before he started on—”

“—Oh! Oh, yeah. I guess that’s—”

“Ayep. You have to realize, Cleo, I’d never been asked out proper before, and here was this well-dressed guy asking me out of the blue if I wanna kiss. I felt the same way for Netty that I felt for Ren, and Mumbo before and after he transitioned, so I thought myself a double-dipper. I had my fantasies, sure, but if Mumbo started coughing petals, he never brought that up to me. By the time I started adding two and two together, I had a ring on my finger and a hubby in my bed.”

“Bet Mumbo didn’t like that.”

“Nah. I didn’t tell him ‘til after the divorce. But… yeah. He must’ve clocked me early on. I know exactly what soul-searching Scott had to do to break through expectations and stereotypes, let me tell you.”

There’s a big, big difference, though, between swiping a couple petals from your mouth every couple weeks when your trusted husband’s having a blast at the annual camping trip right beside you and peppering your neck with kisses late into the night, or Dogwarts with all his friends around, everyone laughing and shoving (and maybe downing shots) and, well… There’s the occasional petal that sneaks its way in, and then there’s the sludge Cleo hacked up the night Martyn didn’t text and didn’t come home. Not even a soulbond unaffected by medication could’ve tamped down that onslaught.

Looking back, why’d they even do it? After he proposed, Cleo did ask if he’d even want the bond, and after some hesitation, Martyn said he did. His family’s got their heads in the burrow on that one—If you know, you know.

Honestly, Cleo didn’t mind: a bond has interesting benefits. Even now, she has a general sense of her ex-husband’s direction in relation to hers. Not much variation since she moved three hours away. A prickly feeling in her chest still melts to static when his heartrate spikes, or slithers softly when he’s calm. And… Well. It’s not like she and Martyn were having sex before their marriage, but that whole It’s a lot easier to finish simultaneously if you’re bonded rumor? It’s true. Incredibly helpful for a couple with one partner into kink and the other walking the vanilla line, but we’ll leave the details to imagination.

It’s probable Martyn and Pearl didn’t sleep together the night they cheated, by the way. Or at least, it’s probable that Martyn didn’t. Because surely even if their soulbond is wobbly beneath their medications, some sensation would have flickered through the link if he got a bit too excited, the same way Cleo used to feel an echo run across her spine after everything she did to him. And that sort of makes it worse. Was it worth it? Did Martyn and Pearl just—Just get straight into it, remember only balls-deep in they had partners waiting for them at home, and try to pull out quick and sweep it all under the rug?

Cleo hears Pearl’s wicked laughter, fake fangs flashing, swirled alongside Martyn’s theatrical dirty talk far more often than she’d like. She grabs a spoon, then bumps Scott’s drawer shut with her hip. The only prescription I’ve been on consistently is birth control, and I wouldn’t need that if I got a bond with Scott. Maybe someday, she could propose some kind of arrangement. They could finally figure out what an unaffected soulbond feels like in the day-to-day.

Or maybe… This chapter of her life closes out the day she takes a big step back, shakes herself off, and embraces the idea that you don’t need a bond at all to prove your love. Decisions, decisions.

She never did ask Pearl for her side of the story directly. While Scott’s pouring root beer with shaky hands, Cleo slides her communicator from her pocket. If she ducks out without a word, Scott might get suspicious. And if she tells him she’s slipping off to Pearl’s, he’ll probably stand there like she smacked him. But Cogsborough is three and a half hours away by train.

If I’m ever going to ask… And if she IS still in Aqua Town…

Maybe. Maybe. Maybe makes up many things that—in front of Scott—simply go unsaid.

🥀

Prepping for high protocol dinner meant a whirlwind of activity. A serving kitchen stood near the ballroom, and while it lacked a few amenities, it would work for chopping food. And Cleo, to her absolute shock, found herself face to face with Grian. Who looked livid. He stood there red, flushed, and gnawing on his lower lip, and when he saw Cleo walk in, he almost lost his entire mind.

“What’re you doing here!? You’re supposed to be out there!”

“What’re you doing?” she shoved back. “I thought you said you were the dom.”

“I’m here so Mumbo didn’t get pulled into awkward blather with his ex.” Grian put his hands in the air, walking off across the kitchen. “I can’t. I can’t—” Then he smarted back, twisting on his heel like pacing was all that he’d been made for. “We’ve literally camped together every summer for year after year—Did you know they were married?”

Cleo frowned. Did she even want to engage him on this? She really didn’t have to talk to him. She knew him indirectly, and it felt wrong to snub him, but if he didn’t calm down quick, she might ask someone to switch her workstations. “I mean, not him specifically, but yeah. Mumbo never told you?”

“I thought he was joking! Who elopes without ceremony that young and divorces one year later!?”

Martyn never talked much about his divorce… Curiosity prickled at the back of Cleo’s neck. “Did Mumbo say why it ended?”

“None of your business,” Grian snapped back. Honestly, Cleo wondered what Mumbo saw in him. She knew they’d been best friends for years before “something came up” one night that pushed them closer (Speculated in rumor, but never elaborated on—something about a chicken farm). Not very polite, was he? He might be a lightweight, but that anger would be terrifying on anyone.

He acts like a brat. But not like he was trying to. He just seemed mad. So she threw a card back at him: “Martyn implied his parents didn’t approve of marriage outside a soulbond. It was all hush-hush. Maybe that lack of commitment drove him away.” Martyn seems perfectly happy with me, so it must be a Mumbo problem went unsaid. Grian’s eyes practically went red.

“Mumbo doesn’t do soulbonds. He’s too…” Grian made a whirling motion above his head, painting zigzags through the air. “It’s his life, you know; he doesn’t want anybody’s death to kill him too. So that makes sense, I guess; could’ve split over a disagreement like that.” He overflowed with energy; he bounced when he crossed his arms. “Right. I’m not soulbound to Mumbo either, so tell your Master he doesn’t have to worry I sniped that from him too.”

“My brat,” Cleo corrected with a half-lidded drawl. Grian crikked his neck, still flushed and fuming.

“Let’s get dinner going, I guess. Jeb, I can’t believe I’m doing this. Wait a minute—I don’t have to!” And with that, he marched right out the kitchen door. It swung shut behind him. Off to find Mumbo, probably. Cleo blinked after him, then shifted her gaze to two other subs standing with crates of veggies in arms, who looked just as caught off guard as she is. They exchanged a glance and plopped the crates down hard.

All right, then.

At least the snowflakes dripping down the window gave her something pretty to occupy her mind. Cleo took a knife and got to work, prepping the dinner alongside these new friends, until she heard the door again behind her. When she looked up, Mumbo stumbled in, bent sideways, as Grian dragged him with a finger twisted in his ear. Grian dumped him off without a word and stormed back the way he came. That left Mumbo to cough and smile weakly Cleo’s way. Beneath the black mustache, his face glowed as crimson as Grian’s jumper.

So… That about summed up Grian and Mumbo. Cleo saw them sometimes, but rarely chatted like good friends. They were part of the friend group she’d built up here in Hermit Hills, but she knew them through Scott, who knew them through Joel, who knew them through Jimmy. She hung around them while camping every year, sure, and always knew they were into kink (Most of their group was), but being privy to this much information felt… new. She’d never seen Grian lose it like this before. Maybe because whenever she saw him and Mumbo, they were keeping their lids on to set a good example for their son.

By now, everyone was shooting Mumbo weird looks. Including their instructor, still busy helping someone across the room tend a burn, but who glanced over like they wished they had more hands. Mumbo blinked like a fish at a vanity desk. He stood like an armor stand. So Cleo stepped in, extending a knife by its handle.

“Here. Carrots or potatoes? Take your pick.”

“Ah, thanks,” he mumbled back, and shot her a curious sideways look. “So… You’re with Martyn, then?”

Cleo slid the latex glove box down the counter. “I heard you were too, once upon a time.”

Mumbo let out a throat-clearing noise that popped out like a squeak. He didn’t open his mouth again after that.

🌹

Taking the tube to Pearl’s—alone—feels wrong, wrong, wrong. Martyn did this once upon a time. Cleo grips the front of her seat with the pits of her knees. That should be more subtle than squeezing with her hands. You’ve been this way before. Now, act like it. You never know what sorts of creeps you could run into in a place like this.

Still, she swallows. Should she stand up, wrapping her hand in the fabric straps above her head? Martyn begged her to believe the tube was extra crowded that night. He’d been on closing duty at work—fast food, way downtown. He got twirled around, totally lost, and badly jostled by people all around him. He said his communicator slipped from his backpack, it took one extra train stop to scramble around for it, and he meant to go back, but the cars weren’t headed back that way. His communicator couldn’t catch a signal, and by the time it maybe could’ve, the battery had died.

Cleo checks her own comm. No bars. She stares a little long, drinking the empty symbol through her veins. You’d think someone would’ve improved the Wi-Fi by now. Martyn’s right on this account. Of course, he had a whole ride home the morning after to figure out what his argument would be. As for the crowds… There are plenty of people riding today. Maybe on her feet, she’ll better understand the mindset he was in. Maybe it’ll somehow clear things up.

The timeline makes no sense. Cleo thumbs a tear from the corner of each eye, then huffs a single breath. She and Martyn were trying for kids. Mutual decision; Martyn was already making plans with Ren and Doc for what next summer might look like if rose turned out to have a newborn. It’s not like their bedroom went dead. Hell, they were vanilla every night for a couple weeks; Martyn loved that. Rose always enjoyed the roleplay aspect of Cleo’s more out-there kinks, but a little light teasing, warm breath against rose’s ear, and well-placed hands could get rose excited all the same. When he wanted to brat, you couldn’t withhold sex as a form of punishment. He’d go for weeks without it, and even the key to a cock cage wouldn’t lure him back sooner.

Martyn never specified if he was on the asexual spectrum, though Cleo wouldn’t have bat an eye. Drawing flower to bed required a performance. A mastery in setting the scene, because if any tiny detail broke suspension of disbelief… that was it, for Martyn. Flower would break character too, and it’s like all his horny thoughts went with it. There’d be no getting him off then, because he’d trot away in search of something else to do, and hum and flounce like he thought himself the funniest jester in the world. Did he enjoy the edging aspect of it? Maybe mentally. He seemed to derive more joy from pissing off his wife in play than he did from the actual physical release. Guardians above, though, if you heard him giggle on nights she wrestled him down and made a show of tying his wrist against the bed.

Did it all get too real? Cleo wonders, standing to grab the nearest strap. The car sways and speeds along. Something in the spinning wheels hisses like a creeper, but she is safe in here. She tries to tell herself that as darkness envelops them in a blink, zipping them through a tunnel. She bites her lip, eyes always on the woven friendship bracelet wrapped around her hand. Sometimes things are just too real.

Maybe Martyn saw a pram with a baby in it, or a mother holding a newborn to her breast. A few weeks before he and Pearl cheated—maybe six or seven—Cleo asked whether he thought it was time to start trying for kids and he agreed enthusiastically. Maybe a bit too enthusiastically, teasing immediately that they should get right to it. Traditional family, right? Traditional life. Both sets of parents would be thrilled. Cleo didn’t have literal dreams about motherhood, but she tried to imagine what it might feel like. Would it be a grand relief from work, or would nursing and sleep training a little baby leave her eager to rush back to her papers when maternity leave was done?

It didn’t matter. She’d have Martyn. Martyn and his hugs and kisses, rose’s trim beard tickling her neck when he leaned in to kiss her cheek. And she remembers. And she remembers. And she doesn’t understand.

“Take six more months on these?” Cleo-of-Before asked, holding up a pack of birth control pills for Martyn to see. “Or we could, y’know… cancel the prescription and start trying.”

That look of wonder in his eyes, though. The way he twirled one finger in the flaps of the goofy bandana he liked tying in his hair. “Oh, I’d love to be a daddy sooner over later…”

Here and now, Cleo shakes her head, grips the subway handle, and forces the past into the present. Her sister has a kid now, you know. Cleo got used to being the cool aunt, and she thought, well… She could be a part of that. Build a family for herself. She knew she had steady hands; she worked with taxidermy, after all. She’d bottle-fed bear cubs and tracked allays, vex, and phantoms in the nesting season. Surely if her sister could raise a kid without any experience, Cleo could do it too.

Martyn loved that dream of a family they were working for, before it turned out they’d never get to have it. His hugs squeezed tight, beaming smile on his rosy face, and when rose looked at her in the kitchen—When rose looked at her in bed, shirtless, fuzzy, sweat-streaked, his stupid grin—

Probably, if Cleo had somehow ended up pregnant during that pre-divorce phase where their bedroom was never quite as dead as they told all their friends it was, she would have tolerated him a little longer. They could raise the kid together. And she would stay, even if an apology never left his lips.

That’s the thing, really… It’s the most confusing piece of this puzzle. When everything fell apart, Martyn started withdrawing emotionally bit by bit, but he wasn’t mean. Scott had good reasons for divorcing Pearl. She didn’t take it well. It’s like she couldn’t think straight; she kept trying to break into his flat after he changed the locks, then spread rumors to all their friends. There’s still a handful who found it easier to opt out of both their lives instead of picking sides.

But Martyn didn’t do that. Before and after, he never showed any signs of being toxic. Occasional arguments, sure, but they’d been that way their entire marriage, and they always worked it out. The way flower looked at Cleo seemed more sad than resentful. Like he’d resigned himself to believing she could never love him again, no matter how hard he tried. So rose gave his absolute all for a while, picking up slack around the house and showering her in love… and then he just stopped. Husband and wife curled in bed, facing opposite directions, as they coughed and spat petals on the sheets and just… tried to make each other’s pains as easy to manage as they could.

The wheelchair. Before the surgery, when Martyn helped her from the car. Helped her in the chair. Kissed her brow with an awkward, quiet mouth and rolled her to the waiting room. And when rose knelt down in front of her with—with the shears—Gods.

The way he traced his fingers down her wrist. And he turned it over? She had a sprout—

Snip. Snip snip snip. Snip. Sniiiip.

Why did he do it? An impulsive mistake? Immediate regret? Did he just think she and Scott wouldn’t find out? Maybe he didn’t want the baby, but didn’t know how to tell her. So he chose the most explosive exit and went out with a bang.

But why would he stay, then? Or keep sleeping with me? It’s not like he was hiding a secret vasectomy. That, she was certain of. Martyn may be a lot of things, but she couldn’t imagine him outright lying to her that he wanted—and could father—kids, then blowing up the marriage to cover his tracks. Surely he’d just be honest if he didn’t want the responsibility, right? She was pretty upfront when she offered to stay on the pill a while longer. And they talked about kids before they even got married.

He told me how jealous he was of Ren and Doc when Doccy was born. And jealous of Netty too. Martyn cooed over Amelia all winter holiday long when the two of them took a flight down to see Netty and Tom. Cleo wore a green jumper with a reindeer, smiling in her wineglass as she watched her husband—wearing red and snowflakes—lie on the floor for a little tummy time with the goddaughter he adored. Oh, Cleo saw the way Martyn looked at Netty like she’d painted every fish in the sea. When he held Amelia at his hip, a mug of cocoa in the other hand, while Netty handed him sugar cookies on a chickadee-patterned plate, any bystander would’ve assumed that’s the woman that he married. The day he proposed, Martyn did tease that he probably would’ve dated Netty if she hadn’t moved a continent away. Surely if he actually dreamed of cheating with anybody, it would’ve been with his childhood best friend.

Martyn fell asleep on the couch once, his legs sprawled out while Amelia cuddled on his chest. And he may have been drunkenly snoring, but Void… If you’d seen the way he held that sleepy little girl. Cleo knew in that moment, absolutely, that she wanted to be right there with him.

Martyn wanted a family. Before they were ever engaged, he told Cleo he was looking for someone he could raise kids with, and he underscored the “raise” part specifically. “I’m into women and nonbinary folks,” he’d said, and made it clear he’d completely support surrogacy or adoption if that’s the way his partner wanted to go. It’s one of the things Cleo loved so dearly about him. Martyn knew what he wanted, and he would ask for it… but he never locked his future on a single path. If Cleo rejected pregnancy, he absolutely would not take it personally. He loved kids. It’s why he ran a summer camp with Ren, after all.

So why did he throw it all away?

Part of her wishes she’d asked Scott to come along for this heart-pumping visit. She can’t imagine he would’ve wanted to, but Aqua Town is a hot and sweaty place, and the subway car’s no different. Cleo wastes no time jumping off at her stop. It’s getting late, but not so late that there won't be a tube to catch back. I hope. Should be a quick and dirty meet-up. After slipping out on Scott, saying she’d be back after visiting “her parents,” she did unblock Pearl and send a message asking if she could drop by for “a talk.” Really didn’t think Pearl would take the hook, honestly, but for whatever reason, her reply was I’m doing just fine and full permission to drop by. Her address hasn’t changed.

Neither of them addressed the block itself.

Ground-floor suite. All right. Cleo knocks. Immediately, a low, gruff bark sounds on the other side of the door, but just the one. She hears footsteps, followed by Pearl thanking Tilly for the alert before the door swings open. And… there she is. Same red hoodie hanging open in two halves, showing a rumpled band tee underneath, just the way Cleo remembers her. Short shorts. Loose waves in her frizzy brown hair. Pale pink lips press together in a perfect line. Cleo’s kissed those lips, actually, but you don’t get the details on that tonight (We don’t talk about what happened at Dogwarts at 3 AM).

She’s still got the fake wolf ears and wolf tail, of course. From the way Pearl commits to the bit, you’d almost believe “mob hybrids” really exist. Cleo forces on a smile, and Pearl returns it with as much tight politeness as Cleo imagines she’s due. No more, no less. “Come in,” Pearl says, and that’s it.

Cleo does. For a moment, she’s back at the kink con from years ago, feeling awkward in her high-heeled shoes and walking as swiftly as she could to serve Martyn food in front of the other doms. Flower laughed and grinned like the captain of a ship, flower and Grian egging each other on, but flower’s big head didn’t stop him from smiling when Cleo stepped up. Rose gave her hand a quiet squeeze. Just the way she wanted rose too.

It’s like walking on eggshells, treading into Pearl’s flat. Warm down here. This feels like betraying Scott, though Cleo has no intention of changing whose side of the story she believes. Pearl’s mums run the building. She grew up down here in these rooms, fixing leaky pipes and pressing up wallpaper since she was pretty small. Even after she and Scott got married, they kept both places. Cleo never heard exact details, but she’s fairly certain Scott was playing with his other kink partners—with Pearl’s blessing—at his flat now and then, but still came home to her. That’s sort of when it happened, after all… Scott was away that weekend. Pearl was here at home when Martyn knocked on her door, having taken the wrong tube with nowhere else to go.

Fabric wolves dangle from the ceiling on little hooks. They chase a hanging rabbit. Cleo nearly bumps her head on one as Pearl invites her to sit down for tea. Aqua Town is always hot, but tea is always fine. Tilly, Pearl’s big white dog, lies on the floor with her head on her forepaws, patting her tail.

Pearl doesn’t… seem unhinged, at least not to the decree Scott warned she was. The two front rooms are spotless. Even Tilly’s bowls don’t look like anything’s spilled out and been left unclean. Then again, seeing as the story he’d told had depicted Pearl doing laundry at the laundromat, it’s no surprise she’s still a functioning adult. Cleo feels a bit bad for assuming she would be. It’s been three years since she and Scott split, after all. Maybe she’s moved on.

Conversation is… delicate, at first. Cleo fights to keep her foot from tapping as Pearl prepares tea. They exchange basic pleasantries; lots of hearing how Pearl’s aiding her mums with landlord duties lately and really making strides on her own in that field. “I’ve heard Aqua Town’s a brutal market for real estate,” Cleo murmurs, and Pearl says something back, and they go along that way.

When it’s Cleo’s turn to change the subject, she’s not even sure where to start. Her eyes trail across the wall beside her. Maybe she’s still a little buzzed after cocktails with Scott, even though she drank water most the way down the tube. So she goes off on some tangent, like—You know, “I just came down here trying to understand.”

“Oh, did you now?”

“Mmhm.” She blurts a lot of things then in a rush about the talk about starting a family, all those worries she had on the way about whether rose—or… Martyn, who's no longer rose—Martyn saw a mother and child and had second thoughts. ‘Too real.’ Needed an escape. Wow… What a way to be drunk and dumping trauma on an ex-friend she hasn’t spoken with in over three years.

Cleo wants to stop. But she took the wrong train and she can’t get off, and all of it’s a whirlwind rush. She mutters something sloppy like, “You didn’t have to kiss him to prove it’s love, you know, and you didn’t need the soulbond. It’s okay.”

And Pearl stops. Looks at her. “Excuse me?”

“That came out wrong. I meant…” Absolute embarrassment. Totally past the line. Pearl should kick her out the door. But she doesn’t, because she’ll always hear you out and welcome you with open arms. Cleo backtracks and tries again. One finger probes at the photo spread on the wall beside her. Wedding photos. Scott in his white shirt, crisp black vest, little bowtie at his neck. Pearl in white, and for once not wearing the fake wolf ensemble. There’s one photo where they’re flashing rings at the camera, Pearl with one leg kicked up. Scott’s got her; keeping her balanced with a smirk. In another, he’s scooped her in his arms, head bent down to kiss a mouth the photographer couldn’t quite catch. “I have to decide if I want to break mine and Martyn’s soulbond. I guess I wanted to hear it from you? Was it worth getting married for?”

Pearl’s eyes move from Cleo to the photos. Tilly lifts her head. Pearl turns a little further, and this time, she exhales in a long, loud breath. “It was, when I thought I knew Scott inside and out. Can’t say I know him anymore.”

Scott’s so squicked out by this woman now. This tall, skinny woman Cleo kissed once, and worked beside at Dogwarts for a summer, and shared a tent with on their camping trips. Wearing the wolf gear’s a bit weird, but Pearl’s relaxed and chatting like she has her life together. That thought makes Cleo’s head stir, and she sips her tea again. Maybe Pearl isn’t timing her laundromat visits with Scott’s deliberately. Maybe certain habits are tricky to break when you’re divorced. 

“What sort of meds do you take now? For the bond.”

“I don’t.”

“Ah.”

“Yeah,” Pearl says with a shrug, and leans against the wall. “Scott abandoned me. I’m not gonna bother picking up prescriptions and popping pills. If we link up again, we link up. He can tell me to my face if he’s got a problem with it.” Skeptical eyes sweep Cleo over head to toe. “Is that why you’re here?”

“He didn’t send me. I told him I’m at my parents’.”

“Took the wrong train, eh?”

“In a matter of speaking, I suppose. Did breaking it off hurt?”

Pearl's lips twist wryly in the corners. “The bond, or my marriage?”

“Well… The bond, mostly, but yeah.” Annoying puffy sigh. “I know what you and Scott had isn’t quite the same as me and Martyn, but how long did it take you to move on? Have you thought of seeing someone else, or is it still too raw?”

Pearl waits until she’s done, then brings her tea to her mouth. With her face half-hidden in that way, she asks into its depths, “What makes mine and Scott’s relationship so different from yours?”

Cleo’s blood chills over. Still fuzzy-headed, she tosses a fleeting glance across the table. “Uh, he’s gay?”

“Hm.” Pearl clicks the teacup down again. “Interesting.”

No elaboration. Uhh… Cleo stares at her from the corner of one eye in silent question. Scott’s shared a lot of laments about his ex, especially when he’s drunk. It’s like… It’s like even though he’s in the kink community and could probably find someone else, he keeps circling Pearl like a shark. Maybe he bites. Maybe SHE bites.

“I mean… The marriage was… I mean, you have to—To get a soulmate bond. But you… You know?”

Pearl’s brows arch a little higher, her eyes owl-like in the dark. “What’re you saying? Me and my husband never knocked boots ‘because Scott’s gay?’”

It sparks in Cleo’s mind then. “Oh! And—And because you’re aro, of course. I didn’t mean his was more… I just forgot. Sorry.”

“‘You forgot.’” Pearl looks away, chewing on the inside of her cheek. Cleo can feel the echo in her own. “He’s started leaving that bit out, I guess.” And she laughs like a branch smacking on a windowsill.

Cleo hesitates. And dancing in her mind, there is a hotel room eight years ago. There is Pearl, there is Scott, and their hair is wet and they’re giggling when they stumble from the room wearing one another’s clothes. And Martyn’s in shock and Cleo’s staring, and it would be totally, like… What’s the word—amatonormative, or something to… to act like that’s weird, for two friends to wear each other’s clothes. Or shower together. It’s really not her place to judge.

Three years ago, there is Scott singing with her in the car as they eat a million snacks and drive the region without a plan, because they’re on holiday with muted phones and their exes can never steal their peace. There is running down the beach and splashing in the waves with their trousers kicked aside, and there is vaporwave music playing while Scott’s head lolls against the window, and there are friendship bracelets and nights spent sitting on the car roof drinking in the stars where the city doesn’t reach, and he eats all the apple green candy and they get blueberry muffins for breakfast at a diner near their motel and crack jokes about seagulls that makes no sense out of context, and he’s never slept with a woman in his life. And in his wedding photos, he’s holding a rainbow flag while Pearl’s got an aro one in hand, and they are kissing on the lips, and Cleo wants to ask what that’s about because he never said there’d be kisses at his wedding, but she doesn’t. Because no one knows better than she does that Scott is gay.

“We were married,” Pearl says, shattering silence into splinters. Cleo looks up, in chains in the chair. “He never told you he liked to shag his wife sometimes?”

That word’s cherry-hot fire on the table between them. Cleo breathes, softly, and tightens her grip on her knees. Why am I asking this? she wonders for a moment. Does it even matter? Will it get her any closer to solving what went wrong? How she led Martyn astray? How she lured him in to cheat? “I know you guys were into costumes.” Her mind swims sideways, across other names and other faces. People she can’t recognize, mashed together like lumps of clay. They reform with empty eyes and ghostly breath. “I know he had other play partners. I didn’t really… pry beyond that.”

Pearl’s got her fingers laced together at her mouth now, blocking her expressions once again. She tilts down her head. Her eyes sort of gleam. An incline. A nod. Something like acceptance or welcome to her secret thoughts. “Yeah. So… So he just—He didn’t even tell his new best friend, I guess?” Another laugh, combined with a head shake like a horse tossing back its head. “Well, why would he? I’ll tell ya plain as.”

“Um, I—I really don’t need to know—I just came to ask about the bond break—”

“Had him in a chastity belt half the time; wasn’t just a Locktober bit. He wasn’t allowed to get off without little old me around.” Pearl shrugs, teacup in hand, and Cleo watches a droplet splatter on her leg. “If you ever wondered. Never thought he’d end up a dag, Scott. Nah, not Scott. Real funny how that goes. Does he still have his witch gear?”

Cleo’s mind flashes back to the last kink event she attended. She and Scott went together… Not necessarily as partners, but just to find some weird stability in a crowd. It was just a weekend affair; they didn’t get involved with any of the play, but got to learn a couple new things just by keeping on the sidelines. I’m really not comfortable being here right now? Except what she says is, “Probably.”

Pearl’s mouth downturns. She shrugs, though, and gestures vaguely at the false ears poking from her hair. There’s a second set sewn on her hoodie: big, white, and wolfy. “I like service; I like animals; I like the mystical vibes of that kind of roleplay. You gettin’ that? That’s what it was between us.”

“Oh… You were his familiar.”

“That day,” Pearl says. Her voice halts. It’s piecing itself apart, like a badly woven bird’s nest. Like something made of stuck-together twigs without a lot of mud or moss. She tries again. Cleo listens. “Martyn came to stay with me. He showed up with his comm dead, roughed up from people shoving him around, and we didn’t cheat.”

She can say that all she likes. It changes nothing. Cleo shifts. “Why didn’t you use your comm? You could’ve contacted me or Scott to explain the situation even if Martyn’s died.”

When Pearl blinks, it’s with a sheen of tears. She blinks again; they disappear. “Familiars don’t have comms. Scott had control over all my messages. Which I liked, just so we’re clear—My boss would not stop asking me to come in on weekends, and Scott’s got a lot more patience for dealing with that than I do.”

… He never told me that. I must’ve complained a dozen times I didn’t get why you never sent a text. That thought stirs acid all over Cleo’s chest. The mental image of Scott listening to her vent for months on end, sipping a parade of fancy drinks, stings her deep inside. All along, he had her comm that night? He never told me that. Maybe thought it TMI, even with a best friend. “Okay, well, but Martyn could’ve charged—”

“Why would I have a charger when I kept my comm at Scott’s place?”

And there’s no real response for that. Just a sigh and a grunt that everything turned out that way. Poor luck of the draw. Cleo stares down at the biscuits sitting on a plate. She takes one and breaks it in half. “So, what exactly happened? When Martyn showed up.”

“Not much, honestly. I brought him to my guest room and we just talked while I cleared stuff off the bed.”

Because she and Scott slept together in the master bedroom. Unspoken, but implied. Cleo’s not sure Pearl meant to show that card. It doesn’t feel like she’s taunting her, but it’s very telling either way.

“What did you talk about?”

“Don’t know, if I’m honest?” Pearl shrugs. “That was years ago. Just, how he was glad I’d answered the door; he’d gotten lost and stuff. We probably talked about his career or Ren. Or the subway or his comm or you.” Pearl frowns, staring off into the wall like she can see straight into the past. “I remember he asked about me and Scott… and how I felt with him being gay. If I had another partner and if I ever wanted kids. Not in an aphobic way; he was just genuinely curious about it; he told me you and he were just starting to try for a little ankle-biter yourself. We talked a pretty long while.”

Talking. But what kind? Were flirty looks exchanged? Cleo can feel her heartbeat thumping in her chest, every beat a warden’s footstep creeping from the underground. “And then what?”

“And… then I put on an animated Grace Day movie he said he used to watch when he was a kid.” Pearl shrugs a second time. “Yeah, we cuddled, but we’re all friends, right? Cuddles have always been a thing.”

Martyn’s told her about the cuddles. Cleo does not, however, enjoy hearing this again, nor does she like the implication. She can’t imagine any Grace Day movie being particularly romantic—It’s a holiday for thanking the Overworld Guardians for grass and sunshine and all that; there’s not much to it—but still… the thought of Martyn’s arm around Pearl, her legs pulled up and ear on his chest, ignites a scalding fire in her soul. Which head was he thinking with? Cleo wonders bitterly.

And he thought she wouldn’t find out. She can imagine it only too well: Pearl, her pants yanked down around her ankles. Martyn, his knees spread around her waist, his hand twisted sideways to cover the needy whine spilling from her mouth… “We never tell Cleo and Scott, yeah? Now, be a good pup and keep your mouth shut tight.”

Pearl keeps talking, oblivious to the knock-off porno playing across Cleo’s eyes. “He asked if he could braid my hair, yeah? And we nearly finished the movie when he started chucking petals in the sink. That’s all there is to it.” And she laughs, pushing back long tangles of her cloudy hair. “Sorry if you thought I’d regale you with a story of how we rooted in the back room like monkeys all night. Goofball’s not my type, mate; that’s all you. I like Masters who ooze confidence, pull me around, and get freaky with the puppy play.”

Right. Cleo drags her thoughts back, reminding herself that vision of Martyn over Pearl is all made up in her head. She’s here for Pearl’s side. Jeb. That aligns so closely with Martyn’s story, it just sounds so hard to believe. Like they planned exactly what they’d say if they ever got caught. “Something’s missing,” Cleo murmurs, tapping fingers on the table. “I didn’t fall out of love with Martyn on my end. Something must have happened. Something big enough to tip the Hanahaki scales.”

Pearl shrugs. Cleo taps her nails against her teacup. What am I missing? She looked up some Hanahaki advice online, of course, but there are a thousand different interpretations of it; everyone’s got their own stories and they don’t always align. It’s sort of a personal thing, like souls combined. Cheating is such a hot-button answer. It’s the easy option out. And Scott split from Pearl over this; he wouldn’t have done that if he wasn’t sure. Cleo trusts Scott’s judgment completely.

… Maybe too much? Should I have asked more questions of Pearl on my own? Well, she’s here now. “Did Martyn really not say anything? Nothing to imply his mind was wandering off?”

Pearl looks at her, hands around her elbows. “You’re better off asking him, silly. I can’t read his mind.”

Hm. “Maybe there’s something he didn’t want to tell me.”

“I’m flattered you trust me, then.” She sighs, looking around her kitchen. “I dunno. We never meant for it to lead us up to Doomsday. Maybe cuddling turned him on, but that’s not my fault if it did. That’s not my fault! Scott and I didn’t go through Hanahaki; that was all you two.”

Yeah. Yeah. Cleo thinks on that for a while, frowning into the distance. “He’s gay. So… It was never a Hanahaki thing for you?”

Pearl sighs, her eyes on the tea in front of her. “You’re awfully hung up on the ‘Scott is gay’ bit, aren’t you?”

Cleo looks over, not sure what to make of that. “I… never really got it, yeah. Why he married you. He likes men?” Is Pearl a man now? Pearl didn’t offer any new pronouns at the door. Scott hadn’t offered them up either. Even if they split, he probably would have given Cleo a heads up for that. You know, it’s funny… Cleo never wrapped her head around Scott’s marriage. Scott never wrapped his around her lack of divorce.

Pearl stares back like there’s an enderkit trying to wrestle off her bootlaces. “You can’t think of any reason we might’ve gotten married despite his daydreams of getting down with men? Not even one?”

Uhh… Cleo’s heart picks up faster. On the floor, Tilly lifts her head. She’s a big dog, and while Cleo’s not worried she’ll attack, alarm bells start ringing in her head. Am I drunk? Is she stupid? She feels stupid, pinned beneath Pearl’s eyes. They squeeze her in the throat. “I mean, the soulbond paperwork. But I don’t really see why else; he’s not into women—”

“This goes both ways, mate.” Pearl’s face flushes so fast, Cleo might’ve jumped (if she were someone else). “It’s not ‘Pearl and Scott got married for kink even though she’s a woman and Scott is gay.’ It’s ‘Pearl and Scott got married because they care about each other, talked about their goals and dreams, and knew they could make it work.’ Martyn and I? We never cheated!”

“I’m sorry,” Cleo says, though she’s not entirely sure what she’s apologizing for. Pearl’s into dress-up and acting like a dog. Scott likes domming. A gay witch and his aro familiar? It just sounds like a kink thing, especially with chastity belts involved. She lifts her hands, repeating the apology until Pearl simmers down again. She huffs wetly through her teeth.

“I just hate when people talk about it like it was a bad idea, man. I hate the implication that I didn’t make him happy. No one ever implies he didn’t make me happy, y’know? It’s always ‘Oh, Pearl can go without sex anyway, but not Scott; never Scott.’ Yeah, and isn’t she a horrid witch, tricking him into a closed marriage like that? It was his idea.”

“I’m sorry,” Cleo says again, twisting her fingers. “Maybe I don’t really understand the aromantic thing. I understand being gay… I thought I understood being aro.”

Pearl claps her palms together and dips them forward like a fish. “Scott isn’t aro, but it’s kind of like that, right? We built our marriage around this agreement that we’d treat it like we were both aro… So any implication that we didn’t care about each other, it cuts pretty deep, not gonna lie. We worked a lot of stuff out. We made our marriage work for both of us.”

Cleo vaguely understands the spectrum Pearl’s referring to. She knows it’s big in the asexual and aromantic communities, but lacks the name; lacks the words. On her end, she knows she’s bi and didn’t look into it much beyond that. “So he’s not aro,” she repeats, a bit tentative. “But he married you even though he likes men?”

“He did, yeah,” Pearl says, sounding tired. “He’s gay, but he built his life with me. And it’s so weird how many people act like we’re all ‘slaves to instinct’ who can’t plan a relationship that works regardless, y’know? Oi—Imagine if people spent the last 10 years saying you and Martyn were just pretending to enjoy each other’s company so you could get a soulbond! It’d make anyone a little crazy, I reckon.”

“I see.” She doesn’t. Cleo strains to understand, but whatever’s going on with Scott and Pearl is something she never wrapped her head around. They were best friends for a long time, and it sort of came out of the blue when Cleo found out they were dating. Especially the part where it was a closed relationship (which Scott mentioned once in passing, and Cleo thought ended when he started playing with other people). What?

It… doesn’t make sense. To her. And Pearl catches this. “Try seeing it this way: It’s like Scott was aroace. It’s not weird when two aroace people marry.” Pearl tugs hard at the zipper of her hoodie, which really doesn’t clarify whether the puppy play occasionally led them to the bedroom. Cleo’s curious, but not enough to ask Pearl. She’ll get that info from Scott if she gets it at all. Pearl wraps up with, “I don’t see why it’s weird when a gay and an aroallo get married too.”

“It just seems unsatisfying,” Cleo ventures. “I know aro people don’t get those needs, but for Scott… That’s not a slight against you, I promise. I just don’t understand it?”

Pearl pauses, like she’s debating three separate ways she could take this conversation. Ah. Cleo realizes she committed the sin of expecting someone to feed her information even though she hasn’t researched it herself, and prickles wash across her chest. Guilt.

Pearl says, “I’m not romantically attracted to Scott, but I am sexually attracted. And he doesn’t mind that. Me, I’ve got a high libido and a lot of fantasies—Not every aro or ace person does, but I do—and the kink’s a lot of fun to me. Scott didn’t mind helping me get in that headspace.” Pearl sets her jaw, teeth gritting together. “Because sometimes, it still feels nice to do something for someone you care about, even if you’re not into it the same way. It’s for them.”

“… Martyn and I were like that.” Cleo stares at the cup in front of her. Her tea’s cooled off by now. “We have completely different kinks.”

“Yeah,” says Pearl. “Scott and I were like that too. He could’ve married a man, but he chose me. Pros and cons, y’know, and he decided life with me is what he wanted most.” Grumpily, she swings her teacup to her mouth. “And he used to bang me hard as when he bothered coming home, so forgive me if I miss the world’s sexist gay man flashing me the hair he doesn’t dye blue, yeah?”

Ah. Yeah, so, uh—I think she’s lost it? Pearl’s so far gone, she’s painting herself in fantasies. As for the rest, Cleo has to think about it. She felt aroused in bed with Martyn as a general rule, even if she couldn’t always get off to his frequent preference for keeping things vanilla. Martyn would kiss her anyway, thanking her for playing, and Cleo would kiss him back without hesitation, knowing damn well that when things switched around, Martyn would push through her favorite kinks without hesitating to give his all. He did kink for her. She did vanilla for him. Jeb, running a rock climbing wall made him so good at tying knots…

She always felt giddy spirals flood her system when she laid eyes on Martyn. But it wouldn’t have been that way for Pearl and Scott; fundamentally, they liked different things. Cleo’s mind drifts to old feelings for her husband, when they shared a bed a whole year and a half after things went wrong. Her thoughts catch on the lip of divorce. And how mad she is at him right now. Is there still attraction there? Surely not, or Martyn wouldn’t have flowers pushing through his skin.

But…

… She’d fall into bed with him anyway, if he asked her to swing by. If he just apologized and asked. If Martyn apologized for cheating, flat-out… If he’d just admit it; let her win…

I’d take him back. Shame for Etho, but he’ll get over it; she’s only known him since May. She spent eight years with Martyn snuggled up to her. No one else in this world is Martyn. So she’d choose Martyn every time.

Cleo looks at the wall behind her, where Scott and Pearl’s wedding photos hang. There’s one where they’re wrapped around each other, ferociously kissing lips to lips like wild animals about to tear each other apart. There’s another where Scott’s blowing a raspberry into Pearl’s cheek while she laughs in delight, her collar tag gleaming. Cleo stares very hard at those pictures. She knows Scott’s gay. There is a gay pride flag in his hand in that wedding kiss photo, and Pearl’s holding up the aromantic one, her arms around his neck. Cleo wants to understand. But it’s still tangled in her mind, and she doesn’t want to ask Pearl any more details. She’s asked enough. They may not all be honest.

Well. It doesn’t matter anymore. It clearly didn’t work out; Scott and Pearl are just as divorced as she and Martyn are.

Why did they get married, though? You don’t have to marry someone to do kink with them. Cleo’s known Scott since she was 14 or so: 3 or 4 years before he started pulling away, getting funny about things, and finally figured out where his attraction lay. He and Pearl had dated a couple years by then, but split on good terms right after. He’s so proud of who he is. He’s so damn proud.

And it’s not like he has a shortage of queer friends? Including other men, who were happy to flirt with them. Cleo’s seen them flirt with him. Scott used to spill everything about his dating life, and he left out no details about how attractive those men were.

Well, maybe not everything. Not details like taking charge of his familiar’s communicator, not even leaving a charger behind. Why would he want a closed marriage to a woman? When she found out they’d gotten back together, started telling people they were “dating: Take 2,” Cleo asked him outright if he was bi, and Scott just laughed. “No, no! Gay as a star-studded rainbow.”

“Oh. So it’s a queerplatonic thing—”

“Well, sort of, but we’re working to get a soulmate bond for the benefits. Also, a lot of people don’t know what a QPR is, so they introduce us as ‘friends’ and don’t treat us as a couple. They’ll split us up for carpools or at events; very annoying. And we cuddle and neck anyway, so—” He caught himself before mentioning the kink thing, back then (early on). Cleo’s head spun just as much back then as it’s spinning now. She gripped the table’s edge so tight. Why would anyone want to cuddle and kiss someone they’re not into, though? Doesn’t it make more sense to wait until you know it’s love?

She did wonder, for a while, if Scott would come out to her as bi down the road. Cleo’s bi; he could absolutely come out to her and she’d accept him in full. But year after year, he never did. Just kept buying more gay pride stickers. His laptop and water bottle were covered with them, Pearl’s with an aro flag and stickers of wolves and witches and black cats and cauldrons. Scott had a dozen lion stickers- a full gay pride.

“He never told you he liked to shag his wife sometimes?” Pearl asked before, which leaves Cleo baffled even now. Surely they… couldn’t be together-together. Right? If you have sex without love, wouldn’t you walk away with Hanahaki? Isn’t that how it works? Isn’t that where Hanahaki came from, back when it was sexually transmitted? Before the pollen filled the air and everybody’s lungs?

Unless Pearl was just implying they didn’t have sex, and found intimacy in other ways. Like the cuddles, with some necking on the side. That’s gotta be it, right? I mean, he’s gay. He wouldn’t. With her.

In days long ago, which you can still read about in library books, you used to hear about gay men marrying straight women. Even having kids with them. “Beards,” who hid them from public scrutiny and disdain, or the desire for a family in a world that didn’t always look so kindly on same-sex attraction.

Maybe Scott wanted to have kids with Pearl, and wanted to father them himself instead of adopting. He never told Cleo he wanted kids, but that could be the reason. Cleo, with her hand resting on her mouth, tries to get it. Sex without attraction.

… Can you DO that? That feels so weird. Who would choose that on purpose? That’s just playing with fire where Hanahaki is concerned. They learned about the “zombie” outbreaks in school: flowers spreading all across the body until roots strangle out your breath. Be with someone who won’t give you Hanahaki; that’s how you have a healthy sex life. That’s the whole reason she and Martyn even tried to keep their sex life going when they weren’t ready for divorce: just clinging to each other, searching for something—anything—to end the pain on days where snipping a hundred flowers from skin and dragging the stems out sounded more frustrating than a quickie that could wilt them all at once.

When she and Martyn spent a year and a half sharing their bed, thorns and flowers wrapped around their arms, petals all over the blankets… quiet sex in the mornings or late at night… maybe that’s what it was like for Scott and Pearl. But Pearl claims they never caught Hanahaki after divorce, so they wouldn’t have been twisted up with chronic pain.

Was it… only one-sided sex, somehow, someway? Pearl just playing with her toys while Scott sat there looking pretty? Or doing his lashes in the morning while she admired him from the bed?

Why, though? Cleo wants to beg an answer from the heavens—Beg it ‘til she screams. Pearl JUST said she was into Scott sexually. He didn’t return it. He’s gay! Why didn’t THEY get Hanahaki? Why only me and Martyn? Is it some sort of trick? Is Scott bi and in denial? Is he bi and knows it, but refuses to admit it due to some homophobic fear it’ll look like Pearl “fixed” the gay in him? Is everything a lie Pearl made up for… the rights to a crazy documentary or something? (No, no.)

Cleo would down a glass of poison to strangle the answers into sense. But despite her best attempts to compare what Pearl described side by side against her own life with Martyn, she wobbles nonetheless. There is no shortage of gay, bi, or pan men where she and Scott grew up. Scott had options. Hell, if he wanted an aro partner, why not an aro man? There’s gotta be some around.

Sex without sexual attraction… It sounds like it’s made up.

When Cleo finally leaves Pearl’s apartment, she’s more confused than when she arrived. “It’s like Scott was aroace,” Pearl told her. Cleo tries to picture that, mentally swapping out the flags in the wedding photos. An aroace woman and an aroace man, happily married? Yeah. Yeah, she gets that. If that’s what they want, more power to them. Cleo can envision an aro Pearl marrying an aroace Scott, no problem.

But he’s not aroace. He’s gay. He likes men. Pearl herself confirmed it. And it was a closed marriage. It only makes sense if you think of it like “Scott really wanted kids, and found someone who didn’t mind having them with a gay man,” except that Scott never said a word to imply that was the case. Not to me. Which is a whole other can of worms.

Well.

She crashes at Scott’s place for the night, but doesn’t bring the visit to Pearl up with him. She’s got a key to his place. He’s passed out on the couch, blue hair sticking from the pillows, but stirs awake when Cleo shuts the door behind her.

“I can stay out here,” he offers through the yawn, but really, that’s just formalities at this point. Cleo helps him to the bedroom, and when he gropes aimlessly towards her shirt collar, she lets herself be pulled down for cuddle time. Scott is Scott, she reminds herself. And whatever he had with Pearl doesn’t matter anymore. He’s a sloppy drunk, which Cleo remembers from days long gone, and she wonders if Scott downed a few more shots after she snuck out. Aww. Poor, soggy sop of a man sleeps with his mouth open, his teeth against her freckled arm. Drool oozes in a river down her skin.

“Miss you,” he mumbles when it’s late; when Cleo’s eyes have fluttered shut. She stirs.

She doesn’t want to know if he’s still thinking about his ex-wife.

When the weekend’s finally behind her and she’s stepping off the tube in Cogsborough, Cleo yanks her hood up to protect her hair from swirling snowflakes. She still doesn’t understand. Any of it, really. She stomps home through the snow instead of calling a sleigh. Once her door is shut and safely locked, she flops on her floor mattress in her unmade bedroom. She skips past a text from Etho (who sent her a delighted emoticon for the apple she paid forward what feels like forever ago) and looks for Martyn’s number instead. She could’ve hit him up in person, but she has work on Monday and had to get back so, y’know… Just easier to do it like this. Even if sunset’s dancing outside her window now. She taps his number and holds the communicator to her ear.

Buzz… buzz… Click!

“Well, well, well.” Martyn’s prim and cheery, just like he always is. Well, not always, but often enough. “You ghost me all weekend and now you’re finally crawling back! Did you get my texts about the steak? For every message you ignore, I’m adding one more steak. I’m hoping you pay halfsies—It’s for our anniversary, after all.”

“Dinner was your idea, Martyn. You bring the steaks and I bring my tolerance for you. That’s it.” Cleo waits for the mood to simmer down, Martyn smiling, before she leans her head back on her mattress and speaks again. “Listen… I’ve got two things to say. Good news or neutral?”

Martyn hums. She hears him walk around, like he’s testing his legs. Every clop echoes in her jaw. She can hear a clicking cane. “Gimme neutral first.”

“Okay. I’m seeing a guy, so I want that on the table.”

“All right?” Martyn’s inflection is unfamiliar, but the sound of him ripping the wrapper off a chocolate bar is the same swift tear it’s always been. He crumples it in his hand and shoots it like a basketball to the other side of his desk. Even in a new office, he’s got the same set-up; Cleo hears him walk around, swooping down to grab the wrapper that didn’t make it. “Let me guess. You started seeing a rockin’ new fella, but realized he could never compete with your kind and doting husband, so you’re begging at my feet.”

“Half right. Definitely not all true.”

“Really?”

Okay. She’ll just say it. She can do this. “When I come down for our anniversary, I’m bringing the kink bag. You can say ‘Yes’ or ‘No’ when I get there, but the bag is coming either way.” She won’t force him. She just doesn’t want him to awkwardly tell her ‘No’ because he’s ashamed of saying ‘Yes.’

“And what’s the good news?”

“Jeb, you’re a prick.” Cleo sighs. “Look… I really miss you, all right? And I’m tired of whatever this is. I want someone to do kink with again. Strictly kink. And I just talked to Pearl about her and Scott, and—This could really be the best thing for both of us. It might help your Hanahaki. I mean, they were only doing kink, and they never got it…”

“Sorry, what? Uh, ‘strictly kink’ does not sound like it will help my Hanahaki.”

“Then you’d better do something real smart to win me over when I come down there.”

“Cleo, I live with my mum.” He doesn’t miss a beat, or make any noises of surprise, interest, or disgust. “We’re not married anymore; I don’t just have my own place. Have you seen the rent in Aqua Town? Pearl’s mums must be making bank; no wonder she’s not moved out. I wouldn’t leave either if I were Scott and had an iron-clad lease; woo-wee. So, what exactly is your plan here?”

You. Miserable, dreary. Missing you. Crumpled on her floor mattress, boxes stacked around her because she never unpacked, Cleo stares at the ceiling with a bitten lip until her vision blurs. Martyn is the plan. “I’ll pay for a hotel.” She, Martyn, Scott, and Pearl all split costs at their first three-day kink con years ago. This time, they’ll only need one bed.

Martyn sighs against his communicator. It’s the same sigh she just gave to him. “Bring the bag, sure, but don’t expect this to go anywhere. I’m usually in pain and you know I never got that into kink.”

Yeah. See, that was always the problem. Martyn started kink because his husband asked him to. After the divorce, he stopped completely. And he only came back to it because Cleo asked, and he liked her enough to play along. “Something’s wrong with me,” he said once, sprawled across their bed. “Why am I the only brat in the world who doesn’t want to submit?”

“We just haven’t found your ‘breaking point’ yet. We’ll keep trying.” Well. He’s made his position clear. ‘I never got that into kink.’

Cleo doesn’t say anything. And then, very quietly, she does. “Take time to think about it, but if you’d be okay doing kink with me sometimes—only if you want to—then we can start meeting up for vanilla sex too.” They were vanilla at the kink con, irony among ironies. What they did in that hotel room wasn’t even sex; it was “less than vanilla” back then. It was sprinkles. “If this helps your Hanahaki, I’ll do it. Maybe it can be a ‘whoever travels farther gets it the way they want’ arrangement.”

“Aw, you don’t mean that. You think I cheated on you.”

“I want to move past it,” she begs, like a dog sprawled across the dirty floor. The comm is shaking in her hand. “All it takes is an apology, Martyn. I’m not exclusive with this new guy yet. We can get back together. Just tell me why you cheated on me with Pearl. Why wasn’t I good enough, after all I did?”

“Because everything always has to go ‘your way,’” he snaps like a belay rope, and hangs up.