an atlantis tale.

Nobody really remembers how, but some mythology professor ended up bringing the topic to a conference concerning the matter of Atlantis.

Fairy rings. The professor had been laughed at, in the beginning at least, until he’d began speaking. A circular formation of mushrooms, substance of legends and myths all over the world. The circle and the sphere held important meaning in magic as well as science, and some scientist couldn’t help but wonder, again and again, how a simple arrangement of plants could produce such stories…

Maybe we’re missing something, humanity told itself. Maybe our science hasn’t come far enough yet to detect what we call magic, to measure the form of energy it exudes.

Ancient cities that have vanished appear in stories and tales from almost any culture. Any story was inspired by something, a grain of truth at its core.

How come they couldn’t find Atlantis if there were so many myths about it, humanity wondered. What could possibly hide an entire city with thousands of people from the glance of the world across centuries? How could a whole city change place?

And so they thought, consulted, imagined – and found. A fairy ring, a circular formation below the ocean to thrum with energy we cannot yet measure. A pulse of something close to electricity, to teleportation, that is powerful enough to send buildings and people unharmed from one place to another. A formation in a round shape, grown naturally.

A portal on the bottom of the ocean, just like the so-called fairy rings on land –

Maybe the children of Atlantis love to play in the city’s beautiful coral reefs that surround the outer borders, where an unnamed energy vibrates in thousands of colours as the city shivers between worlds, dimensions, space and time.

But as life and death began to separate from where they had been one since before darkness itself, they wondered if something was missing. And just then, a touch quivered between them. Life and death had wished for a child, not knowing that it had always slumbered to rise as they finally split into two.
Their child, time, opened its eyes. From then on, it became messenger and ruler, and forevermore its endless song echoes from one parent to another, the only moment where life and death can meet as time turns to start over new.

Moami

The crime scene is an abstract artwork of leaves and blood. It’s difficult for the inspector to nagivate her way through the mess all over the forest ground, and she tries not to breathe too much into the stench of moss, wet earth and copper. There are five bodies, a policeman walking by her side informs her while they carefully round the scene, and they only know that because they counted – she chokes a bit when hearing that – the remains of what must have been human heads just a few hours ago.

If she hadn’t been told on the way here that people had been torn apart by some wild animal here, she wouldn’t have been sure what or who had died on the clearing in the middle of the forest.

“There are no traces leading away,” the policeman says then, flipping a page on his notepad, “seems the victims were campers, died about three hours ago. A jogger found them.”

“Of course.” The inspector sighs. Who else would find a body in a forest, if not a damn jogger. “Where is he?”

“Being questioned right now,” another voice says behind her. It’s one of the forensic guys, clad in white from head to toes, waving a gloved hand at her. “We got a survivor, though. A little kid. Looked pretty horrified, splattered with blood.”

The inspector nods and opens her mouth to ask some more questions, but –

A wail echoes through the forest. Everyone jolts, weapons are drawn, the inspector’s hand twitching to her own belt, “come out slowly-!”

It’s a man. He stumbles out from behind a tree, eyes wide and snowy-white. Blood has dried on his face and then he falls, body crashing down, the stump of his left leg hitting the ground with a horrible thud. A few seconds pass.

Then, they’re all at his side, turning him around, “ambulance!” someone yells. The inspector’s on her knees, barks a few orders.

“It,” the man whimpers. His mouth is full of dried blood. “It. Where. Are they.”

“It’s okay,” the inspector says. Her voice is calm now, she moves to let a policeman push on the stump where the man’s pants are tied to hold the bleeding. “Don’t move now. Where’s the ambulance, did they drive off with the kid already?”

A hand claws at her arm. “Hey!” Someone yells, but she lifts her hand, carefully pulls the man’s fingers away. “What is it? Stay down. Breathe.”

The man’s eyes are filling with blood. “No kid. There was no kid.”

“What?”

“Inspector,” a policeman yells behind her, “we have a call, the ambulance – “

“It,” the man sighs. A wave of blood and saliva gurgles out of his mouth. “It came, we, we didn’t know, they screamed and its fangs were there and it bit – ”

Everything goes quiet. The inspector stares at the man’s face. The last blink of light fades from his pupils. “It was so hungry.”

“How can you love something like me? The only good thing I have is you. I’ve got nothing for you to fall for.”

“No. I’m the one who’s allowed to let you be loved, but I didn’t make you lovely. You’ve been that all along. And never could you be anything less than that.”

There is something about libraries that can’t be explained. Why is it that we walk into them and, as if we are being faced with the breathtaking sight of a thundering waterfall or a sun-lit forest full of life, we halt in our steps? Those who enter hold their breath. Our hearts start to beat faster.

The sight of thousands, millions of books waiting for us, the scent of centuries of knowledge and adventure, the thick backs bearing titles in silver and gold – all that sets our mind free.

In a library, our souls feel soothed, but why is that?

Have you ever wondered? Why a simple room full of books brings us such comfort and warmth?

Maybe because the treasure of knowledge never comes unprotected.

Open your eyes. See? The old woman at the counter who checks out your books or accepts them back – do you ever see her go home? Has she always been that old? Her fingers cradle the leather of that book that got you through a stormy night as if it was a child.

The young boy in the corner, flipping through a book that looks heavier than his fragile smile that never seems to fade – has he always been here?

The cat that sits on the windowsill outside, yawning, glancing inside with emerald-piercing eyes. The bookshelf that has never been replaced, that is older than the ceiling itself or the books that it bears with patience and silence. The one book that never seems to be taken away from its place, its cover simple black with barely visible letters, your eyes catching onto it and serenity floods your body.

Have you ever wondered why your mind comes to peace in a room full of books?

That’s because their guardians watch over the sacred knowledge that sits between ink and paper and dust of centuries.

And when you are with them, worshipping their letters with your young, curious eyes, the guardians smile at your back and keep you safe.

“Are you here to kill me?” The beast said.

“No.” The warrior was young, and they stood calm. Their eyes wore the silver of war and more stars than the beast could count.

“Are you not scared?” The beast asked then.

“No.”

“The world fears me.”

“I do not. I want you to come with me.”

The beast blinked. “You are tricking me.”

But the warrior just smiled. They guided the monster out of its labyrinth and into the waking sunrise that bloomed in purple and gold over the ocean.

The beast’s maimed face softened. It had almost forgotten what sunlight felt like. “But why?” It then asked. “Why did you free me?”

The young warrior watched the horizon for what felt centuries to the beast. “Because I feel your pain.”

“I do not understand.” But before the beast could ask again, the young warrior gently put their hand into the beast’s claw and touched their palm. A web of scars nestled in their skin, the flesh pale and thin.

And the young warrior closed their hand around the beast’s claw.

“Not all monsters wear horns.”

Happy Birthday, bubblline. You are a wonderful, bright light of inspiration and one of the best friends I’ve ever had. This is a present for your birthday – a story about your dear OCs Barthélémy and Robin. Thank you for being you, Schatz. ♥

“I’m back!” His voice cracks around the sharp edges of the last
word, and he curses when a whirlwind of snowflakes and painful cold comes
crashing in behind him. The door slams shut, the noise echoing through the
small flat.

“Damn storm. Stupid winter.” December isn’t kind to
the world, and the whole town is drowning in waves of snow and ice.

His lips are frozen, blue and shaking, fingers curled
helplessly inside his thin gloves. There’s a hole on the tip of his ring
finger, and he plucks both gloves off his hands, throwing them over the heater
to dry. It’s only when he’s done peeling himself out of too many layers of
jackets, a scarf and a wooly blue beanie when soft steps shuffle over the
corridor’s dark carpet.

The light from the window on the other side of the
corridor illuminates a dark silhouette, the snow outside clouding the frame
with a bright, holy gleam.

‘Hey.’

A tiny word, almost inaudible over the thousands of
voices inside his head, but with an echo more powerful than any of the whispers
that are trying to drive him insane. There’s an immediate silence. The outside
world fades into a blur of grey and silver.

Yes. He’s home.

That tiny word, the man who’s speaking to him, that’s…
home.

It’s all that his heart needs to beat like roaring
thunder, stupidly loud and still the best goddamn thing he’s ever felt.

“Hey,” Bart says, smile illuminating the sharp blue of
his lips.

He drops the groceries somewhere, strides over in long
steps and wraps his arms around the man. There’s no kiss, no foreheads
touching. Just Bart’s hands sliding up a warm back, fingertips digging into the
soft fabric of an oversized hoodie, and then Bart buries his nose in the warmth
of the man’s neck.

‘Nh.
You’re cold.’

“I’m sorry.” Bart smiles into his shoulder, nose
brushing against his collarbone, the silk of his skin. It’s hard to believe
that he’s allowed to love a man like him, a wonder with darkness in his eyes
but a soul that’s strong enough to bear with someone like Bart.

It’s a miracle that Robin chose him.

That they’re still here, together, with beating hearts
and veins full of hope.

‘I’m
glad you’re home. ‘s fuckin’ freezin’ outside. Thought the snow queen abducted
you or something.’
It’s supposed to be a joke, but Robin’s worried tone steals away the lightness
of his words. He glances up at him, exhales.
‘You okay?’

“Of course.” Bart nods, letting him take whatever
tenderness he needs, doesn’t force touches onto him. It’s a hug, a real hug.
That’s enough.

“Thought I was going to turn into a snowman though.
You wouldn’t believe how many people were buying groceries. It’s like there’s a
snow apocalypse or something.” He laughs, licks a drop of melting snow off his
mouth.

‘I
can imagine.’ Robin snuggles
back into the curve of his neck, falls silent. His mind hums, twitches – and
then, it calms. ‘I’m glad you’re home,’
echoes through Bart’s head.

Robin breathes slowly inside his arms. Bart listens to
his heart, fluttering wildly like the humming string of a cello. Robin doesn’t
twitch, doesn’t turn away.

It was his own idea to establish the idea of hugging –
not kissing, never kissing, the
thought alone is enough to make him curl on the couch and pulling a blanket to
his chin, laughing and trying to make a joke that comes out a bit too shaky,
too nervous to be honest.

But this is an embrace, not a kiss, and Bart feels his
chest swell with egoistic pride when Robin gives a soft noise of content and
buries his face into Bart’s neck. His arms come up slowly, a prey animal with
flight in its every move. Bart doesn’t dare to speak. Robin’s never hugged him
back, not until now. It’s always only been Bart, wrapping his arms around Robin
as he came home from college or doing chores, and it was always only Robin
burying his face in Bart’s neck with a relieved, shivering noise. Nothing more.
No other touches. But now, Robin’s hands do slide into the back pockets of
Bart’s soaked jeans, fingers nervously searching its way inside, shaking,
waiting for something bad to happen.

It’s never been easy for them, children with broken
voices and anger flaring in their eyes. But somehow, and Bart thanks whatever
god there is for that, somehow they found a way to stitch each other back into
something good.

Something full of fire and sparks. Something that
could be love.

Bart tries to find the right words. The groceries are
somewhere, dropped carelessly, lost in the abyss that the periphery of his eyes
have become. There’s nothing but Robin who breathes against his skin, whose
lips curl into a grin on the fluttering pulse that beats in Bart’s neck.

‘I
made dinner, but you won’t get any before you get outta this wet shit and put
on somethin’ else. I was thinking – ‘

He bites his mouth, and Bart doesn’t have to look down
to know that Robin tenses, shoulders hunching up.

‘Uhh,
that we could – could try something.’ Bart raises a brow but listens, watching how Robin
wiggles a bit to glance up at him with red cheeks. God, he’s gorgeous in this
hoodie, hair disheveled, face glowing with a happiness that’s been impossible
for him just months ago.

“What do you want to try?” Anything. He’d do anything,
and Bart knows that Robin’s aware of that. His words come out hoarse, shivering
from the snow.

Robin tilts his head, that adorable thing where he
looks like a lion trying to decide whether it wants to play or tackle him to
the ground any moment. His voice echoes in Bart’s head, and for once, he thanks
the world for being a psychic because it’s so much better to hear those words
than see them written down.

‘I
think I wanna cuddle.’
Robin presses through nervously gritted teeth and jumps back, and Bart lets him
go, too surprised to react. His mouth opens, closes again.

‘Sorry,
guess that’s not somethin’ you just announce. Let’s – let’s cuddle. That sounds
about right.‘

Robin is on his way to the living room, ruffling his hair
just like he does when he’s nervous, shoulders shaking. His voice goes quiet. ‘I’ll just get dinner ready. And you can…
join me. ‘kay? And hurry up. Don’t want your cute ass getting’ sick.’

Bart blinks at him for a second, and then Robin’s gone
and vanished inside the living room. That’s only when his mind processes what’s
happening. Bart smiles, and god he wants to run his thumb along Robin’s mouth and
kiss him, kiss love into his skin and whisper “yes, yes of course, I want to
cuddle you till the end of the world”.

Fuck. This guy turned him into a sap.

“Yeah,” Bart
says on his way to the bedroom, not caring that nobody hears him or that his
clothes are dripping all over the floor. “Yeah, I wanna cuddle, you goddamn
idiot.”

It takes less than five minutes to peel the sticky,
wet mess off his bones and throw the soaked clothes into the bathtub. Bart
slips into an old pair of sweatpants and pulls a dark shirt over his head
before heading back to the living room, his naked feet making no sound on the carpet.

———–

Robin’s seated on the couch and arranges the food on
the table in front of him. There’s homemade Pasta Bolognese (Bart’s favourite
in the whole world) and some chocolate pudding for dessert (something that
Robin would kill a man for). A music video is playing on the TV screen,
providing a murmur of background music. Bart’s not much for music in general
but of course Robin’s keen on keeping up with the newest releases of classical
music and his favourite bands. He also still watches VIVA, which amuses Bart to
no end and has led to fiery discussions about the horrible TV program in
general and the ridiculous advertisements on this very TV channel in
particular.

Surprisingly, the band that’s playing in the
background is one that Bart vaguely recognizes from that one movie he’d seen in
the theatres with Leo, not long ago. Something about a white balloon and a
small boy building robots. It had been hard to pay attention while there’d been
a guy sitting next to him who’d kept on trying to slide his hand into his
girlfriend’s panties. In the end, Bart had to leave the movie halfway through,
apologizing to Leo who hadn’t minded at all. “’s cool, man,” was all he’d said
before smiling, slapping Bart’s shoulder and suggesting they should go get some
Chinese takeout and go to a quiet park nearby. Bart really has no idea where
he’d be without his best friend.

‘Are
you gonna stand there all night or are we gonna eat already? ‘m starving.’ Robin throws him a begging glance and pats onto the
sofa next to him. Bart nods and doesn’t waste any time. The echo of the word ‘cuddling’ is firmly seated in his mind.
Robin never suggested any other body contact than a hug. Bart flops down next
to him, picking up his plate of pasta and a fork.

Some people would call it strange, he thinks while
they start to eat in silence. It’s strange that they’re not lying in his bed
and making out like the healthy young men they are. Bart bites his tongue at
that thought. Healthy. Not exactly. Far from that, actually, but that’s not
what matters.

He twirls some spaghetti on his fork and slides them
into his mouth, chewing slowly. The band on TV starts to play louder, the
chorus coming in with a beautiful melody.

Nothing about them is normal. The label ‘strange’ sticks to their foreheads like
a black tattoo, impossible to rub off. But as Bart takes a break after a few
bites and glances over to his somehow-boyfriend, that gorgeous man he’s allowed
to love, he just has to smile.

In all of their weird, wicked strangeness, they’re perfect.

Robin is completely focused on his food, but Bart
knows that he’s nervous. His fingers shake the tiniest bit, cramping a bit too
heavily around the plate’s white edge. He eats barely, but Bart finds himself
smiling when he sees three more bites than usual vanish between Robin’s lips.

God, he’s so proud of him, and he loves him so much.

None of them has said it. There hasn’t been a “do you
want to be my boyfriend” or “wanna come over?”. It just happened.

Bart is just there, groceries in his arms, every day
after his college classes and Robin’s cello practice. No ‘I love you’, and the
topic sex hasn’t been on the table yet. Bart wouldn’t ask for things to change.
Maybe he wants to kiss Robin, he really really wants to, actually. But the pure
happiness that flooded his veins when Robin returned his hug earlier is enough.
It’s enough, and knowing that he gives Robin all he needs – time, gentleness,
the touches he craves but has been too anxious to demand – that is enough for
Bart.

They don’t need words to love each other.

Robin sets his plate down and pulls the blanket over
his knees. He’s emptied half of it and Bart can’t hold himself back. He slides
his own plate onto the glass table, hitting it with an ear-shattering loud
noise, and leans in to touch Robin’s hair. It’s one of their secrets, one of
the only ways that he’s allowed to be close to his face, his eyes, the gorgeous
darkness swirling behind a wall of ‘don’t touch me’.

Robin doesn’t flinch. He just turns, a smile glowing
on his mouth. ‘What?’

“You ate half of it.” Bart can’t stop smiling. He’s
really turned into a sap. “I’m proud of you.”

Robin furrows his brows and does that adorable
head-tilt, but it’s only to press his head into the warmth of Bart’s hand
without seeming too needy for a soft, loving touch. ‘I suppose. Don’t praise me
like a dog, I ain’t your pet.’ He’s grinning, though, and the twitch in his
lips tells a story about how he’s proud, too.

“Fine,” Bart chuckles and runs his fingers deeper,
touching the nape of Robin’s shoulder that’s peeking out of the oversized
hoodie. He takes a deep breath, eyes wandering up to Robin’s face. He watches
him, waits for him to say anything, but Robin remains silent and with teeth
digging into his bottom lip.

Damn. Bart realizes, and he feels like an idiot for
not noticing earlier. Of course. Robin won’t say it a second time. He just
expects Bart to do it – to finally come closer, to take away his shyness with
gentle touches and respect and goddammit, he’s supposed to hug him and still
hasn’t done it yet and it can’t go on like this for another second.

“Hey, uhm. I – fuck.” Bart runs a hand through his
hair as the words stick inside his throat, weird and uncomfortably large.
Robin’s head whips up to him, eyes wide, mouth trembling around a silent
‘please, please’ that vibrates inside his head.

‘Do
I really have to scream it into your damn head?’ His voice sounds amused, and the hint of fear swaying
underneath the words, a pitch-black shadow of being afraid that he’s gonna be
rejected again, that’s all it needs for Bart to lose his own stupid anxiety.

“No,” Bart says as he slides both arms around Robin’s
waist and pulls him onto his lap, and buries his nose in the softness of his
vulnerable, beautiful neck. “Don’t need to scream. Sorry that I’m so slow.”

‘It’s…
fine.’ Robin breathes in
and for a terrible moment, an eternity as it feels for Bart, it seems as if
he’s going to pull away. He stiffens, chokes on the air in his lungs, eyes
going wide. Fuck. He’s messed up, he ruined it. Bart wants to let him go,
apologize and leave him alone, he didn’t want to hurt him – oh Robin, you’re
too brave for your own good –

“I’m so sorry, love. I won’t do it again – “

‘Don’t
go.’

What?

Bart doesn’t get time to think about what happened.
That he’s called Robin ‘love’. They’ve
never used pet names. That Robin suddenly clings to him, arms wrapping tightly
around his back and face pressing into his chest, soft hair tickling Bart’s
chin.

And Robin trembles. The man Bart loves so much that it
hurts shivers inside his arms, thighs pressed closely to his waist, and his
stupid oversized hoodie muffling the quiet, wordless sniffles from where Robin
hides in his chest.

‘Don’t…
don’t leave me, you idiot.’ His
voice is soft but clear as crystal in Bart’s head. ‘I know that ‘m not easy, but – shit, you can call me love or darling
or really anything. All the fucking pet names. I’m sorry I can’t kiss you. ‘m
sorry that I’m not a fucking normal guy and that I can’t even goddamn talk – ‘

“Oh shut the hell up.”

Bart isn’t the type to curse, and so Robin’s head
flicks up so he can stare back at him. At least his voice has died out, and now
there’s nothing but a soft, surprised mewl when Bart takes his hand.

‘Uhhh…?’ And then – ‘oh.
Oh.’

He can’t kiss his lips. Bart respects him too much to
break any of the rules Robin has set up with sharp, curt words and the pain
flashing through his eyes.

But when Bart lowers his mouth onto the soft skin of
Robin’s wrist and breathes a warm kiss against his pulse, he believes that it’s
enough to show everything.

He can’t see if Robin’s staring at him, if he’s crying
or tensing up. Bart speaks against his shaking hand, and when he trails tender
kisses over his palm, when he adorns each of his trembling fingertips with a
tiny smooch of his lips, Bart whispers:

“I don’t want normal. I don’t want someone to just
kiss and fuck. It’s you, love. It’s you
whom I’m crazy about. Who doesn’t let me sleep at night because all I can think
about is you, how you laugh and play your cello and hug me when I – when I come
home.”

He swallows, tries to ignore the wild shivers in
Robin’s hand when he presses his forehead into it and kisses his palm so that
Robin knows that he’s holy and sacred, a thing to be protected.

“You’re my home, Robin. You’re all I need and ever
wanted.”

There’s a choked sob, and then Robin’s fingers steal
themselves around his face and tilt it up. His face is close, dark eyes wide
and filled with tears, and Bart smiles around the salt welling up in his own
eyes as it runs down his cheeks.

‘You’re an idiot,’ Robin whispers into his head and
slides his fingers along Bart’s mouth. He traces his lips, the touch shy and
almost reverent. ‘But god, you’re my idiot, and I ain’t ever lettin’ you
go again. We clear on that?’

Bart can’t remember how he’s been alive without this
man, but he just nods and smiles through the tears that Robin wipes away with
shaky fingers.

“Yeah. We’re clear, love.”

And the smile that Robin gives him when he hears that
pet name again, that’s really the only light Bart needs in a night full of snow
and ice.

We all carry our own scars.

It’s your choice if you hide them in darkness and shame or weave flowers and kisses around them.

Everything passes. Everything fades. The good, the bad, sun and moon and stars and old love, rusted pain and dark secrets. But nothing passes without digging into your soul and leaving you breathless, changed, different.
Nothing leaves you behind as the human you were before.