This story is set just after Milla's death, just a little deviation where Alvin and Jude work out their problems a little differently (and less effectively). Metaphor and angst heavy, mild porn at the end, but it's so ridiculously layered in symbolism/metaphors you hardly know it's there. Also it's really short. Sorry not sorry

I don't have a Beta or anything I'm not fancy enough for that shit

R/Rs are always cool. This ship totally needs more stories like SERIOUSLY.

OKAY I JUST REREAD THIS STORY AND HOLY LANTA I WROTE IT WHEN I WAS FEVERISH AND TIRED. I'LL REVISE IT SOON BUT I'LL KEEP IT HERE FOR AMUSEMENT UNTIL I CAN WORK OUT MY FUCKING LIFE A LITTLE MORE

A Reason

The hour was late. Jude knew that the others were not asleep. He could tell by the silence, the sounds people make to imitate rest when they know they have no chance of it. He stared at the ceiling of the inn, having long since given up on finding a solution to the pattern of stucco made stars which canvased his small single bed room. Usually they all slept in the same room, as a group with their separate beds lined up quaintly. Familiarly. But the different kind of inn gave them a chance to reflect, to think, to forget. Jude knew that Alvin had snuck out, but he didn't bother to ask why or what for. He was surprised he hadn't earlier, not expecting him to return this time. It's a miracle the party has even stayed together this long, nearly four days after it had happened.

The shadows reached long across bed, quietly intruding. They went on for what seemed like miles, and in the dead silence of the room, or of the world, the sound of the door opening was like a thunder crack.

He did not bother to look to see whom it was, as it wouldn't have mattered either way. One more shadow was added to the room, but Jude kept his eyes on the moon bathed ceiling, the pattern staying stagnant under his blank stare. A rustle, something heavy and worn falling onto the ground in a heap. The dull metallic sound of a weapon being removing from his belt. The silence that ensued continued to fail it's purpose, and there was little suspense as Jude sat up and stared bluntly down the barrel of a gun.

Alvin searched his face for some sign on recognition, his face contorted painfully, reflecting what must have been going on in his mind. Jude always thought that Alvin would lash out with sadness, or with loss. The man at the side of his bed spoke, although in the night world of shadows and moonlight it could have been a whisper or a scream. Either way, Jude had the grace to respond the most he had in the last four days.

He wrapped his calloused fingers around the barrel (god, it was shaking), pulled it closer (he could hear Alvin put his finger on the trigger, a small and resounding 'click'), and rested his forehead against the cold, unyielding metal. He closed his eyes, his hand moving slowly down the gun, which shook with fear and doubt and rage, and he travelled down the gun like he travelling the world with her, step by step. It seemed like years before he reached something solid and warm, and he put his hand over Alvin's. It was not unlike when he had helped his aim to save those Sharilton citizens, but that seemed like a lifetime ago. Maybe two.

The cold and the warm pulled away all at once, leaving him slumped in his bed, eyes closed and world dark. The gun hit the floor like an old friend, like a lost lover; hard, and with conviction. Jude felt the weight of the bed shift all too suddenly, and he didn't bother to look up. Had he looked at Alvin more, he might see the flush on his cheeks that came as a by-product of drinking (and in this case, of crying).

"I can't live like she did"

"I don't have a reason to live"

"I don't have a reason"

"I don't"

"I"

Jude had the front of his shirt washed forwards in an undertow of hands and of regrets, bloody knuckles and martyrs left behind. His mouth and cheek fit like puzzle pieces into the crook of Alvin's neck, and he could feel the gunman's jaw clicking into place and unhinging again as he kept using it like a weapon or like a noose. The hot breath upon his skull was condensation tangling into his hair. Alvin was still talking, repeating over and over and over into Jude's ebon hair like it was his only comfort against the shadows and moonbeams. To Jude it sounded like geography or geology or astronomy or cacophony or maybe even blasphemy before it sounded like words. But if it did sound like a language and not birdsong, it would have sounded like "TalktomegivemeareasontolivetonotkilleveryoneIwant togohomegivemegivemegivemesomethingican'tgivemysel f" and Alvin would just keep talking, like it was water spilling out from his lungs after being drowned his entire life.

Suddenly the other words left, washed away with hands now lowering Jude onto his back and needs not able to be ignored. All that was left was a begging, a pleading and a strangled "please" like a broken record or a broken heart. Alvin's hands were on his hips, made out of feathers and iron, held together by sweat and tears and raw nerves. Jude, or the first time tonight, opening his eyes truly, seeing past the shadows and moonlight and realizing that they were both drowning together now. He looked into Alvin's skin, imagining that he could see past it and to his thoughts and regrets, all piled away like messy paperwork in the reaches of his skull. Jude's fingers thread into Alvin's hair, letting their foreheads knock together with the sound of a tree falling in a forest where nobody cared to listen.

Alvin's mantra stuttered long enough to evolve.

"I need to do something right."

For once in my life, Jude finished for him silently. Something that means anything to anybody. Jude's hips rolled like an ocean under stress of storm, his chest heaving and eyes lazily slipping closed. He could feel Alvin's hand push past the borders of his pants, uneasy fingers curling around him. Jude made a bridge out of his back, spine bending and pushing his torso flush against the other man's before collapsing slowly, like a birds seizing prey or like drowning or like the death of a loved one. All at once. But never quickly.

They worked together, the rise of wind and crash of waves on a beach playing together to the end. Alvin's eyes left him, letting his forehead rest on Jude's shoulder, breathe thawing against his collarbone like antiseptic poured into a stab wound. The silence now felt deafening, filled only by the great heaving of Jude's lungs and the trill of his voice box.

His muscles were knotted sailor's ropes, his toes curled inwards and he tilted his head back with what some might call grace. Jude opened his mouth fully, his convulsions forcing a strangled cry from his lips, not unlike the sound of a songbird dying. He felt himself spill over into Alvin's hand, the concept of shame being a foreign traveller to them both now, and he could not calm the pulse of his blood even after he could see and feel again.

Alvin pulled away his hand, wiping it on the sheets beside them with a lack of conviction or of care. He kept his eyes hidden into Jude's shoulder, but the young man could see the rise and fall of his shoulder in shaky and misplaced breath. They shook just as the gun barrel did, just as she never did (not once), and he closed his eyes. Jude said something, and it could have been geography or geology or astronomy or cacophony or maybe even blasphemy, but it was just one word.

"Stay"

But Jude woke.

The sky was opening itself into blue and white, the sun warming through the schism as it always has and always will. Birdsong floated through his window like it had every day beforehand, like it will everyday hence, like the life and death of Milla Maxwell was as easy and natural as the changing of season.

And Jude woke alone.

That's all folks. Pay no attention to the teenager behind the diamonds.