a/n;; woooo hello again and welcome back 2 another chapter of my Only non warrior cats fic. hope yall enjoy!

cw notes;; there's a more directly reference to abuse in this chapter than the previous ones, as well as a character believing they deserved said abuse. a character also has a (minor) panic attack. there is also a reference to intentionally self-destructive behaviour but this isn't really self-harm im just being more safe than sorry.

Hunter can't quite believe it's been two days.

The time caught up to him at a frightening pace. Quite suddenly, he'd had a day and a half, then a day, and now he has even less time. He'd been backtracking things, putting them off, reassuring himself he had all the time in the world.

But he doesn't. He has -

He glances at his watch, and winces.

10:03

He has the better part of two hours. If he sprints to the town centre, he'll have longer, but it's hard to run in the clothes he's intending to wear. He doesn't feel like rocking up to his date - his date! - sweaty, and with possibly torn trousers.

Then again. He needs to wash his clothes first.

It's not that he isn't excited. Because he is. But he's also apprehensive, and tired, and a little bit terrified.

(More than a little bit. He's just… he can't think about that right now.)

He's scared about the possibilities. About if the date goes wrong. And about if it goes right.

If it goes right, he knows he'll want another one. And another one, and another one, because sometimes he can be greedy. Almost ravenous.

In the past, it had been his own ambition. He'd been voracious with his aims, steadily reaching for more, and more, and more, until he came crashing back down to earth.

Now, he fears he's going to get like that with Edric. He hopes he doesn't. Hope he manages to hold him at arm's length, because he knows that if he allows the green-haired boy to get too close, he might - might get hurt. Or something.

But he knows he's not managing it too well so far. Knows that he's being greedy with it, taking what he gets, and then some.

(And recently he's been pouring over old messages like oxygen.)

And if the date goes right, he knows there's a possibility that he'll have to take off the mask. Knows he can't shy away from it anymore. Knows that once it gets to a certain point, it'll be an expectation rather than anything else.

He's read enough books to know what dating looks like.

Then again, the books he's read aren't exactly the most modern. For one, they refer to dating as 'courting', and that's not what he's expecting from this. He doesn't want the rigid formality he knows from the books, or the daring, forbidden element. He just wants -

He supposes he just wants to feel normal. To feel his age, instead of someone else. Instead of a mature, perfect soldier, the face of Belos' movement.

(He doesn't want to be a face on a poster anymore.)

He wants to be himself. He wants to work out what that's supposed to mean, work out who he was without the golden entrapments of the Coven.

With a sigh, he gets up from his slouched position on the bed. He has things to do, and not just in preparation for the date. He has paperwork. He has responsibilities again, the things Belos once trusted him with steadily being handed back. He doesn't think it's because he's suddenly wanted again, or that Belos fully trusts him. He just thinks that he's needed. That there's been a sudden lapse in productivity.

But-

He has his mask back, finally, his proper mask. Shining and freshly-polished and seemingly brighter than it was before. It's chipped in the corner, the same way it was after the fight at Eclipse Lake, so he knows it's the same one. So he knows that someone - not Belos himself, but someone - took time and effort into cleaning it.

He doesn't know if that means something.

Doesn't know if it means anything. And he doesn't think it matters either way.

He lets his gaze drift to the golden shell. He doesn't think he's going to wear it to the date, if only to blend in. To be more inconspicuous.

Then again, he doesn't know where they're going, or what they're doing. He doesn't know what Edric has planned, and he's unsure if the uncertainty is frightening to him.

He doesn't like not having control. He's never been a fan of it, the hazy changeability of an unseen future.

Picking up the mask, he holds it to his face, blinking into the reflection. It's unremarkable, really, and once again, he questions what Edric sees in him. If this is all just an elaborate prank.

Then again. He doesn't know why Edric would get out of it, other than a cruel sense of mirthful jest. Doesn't know why he'd go to the trouble of continuing to string him out.

And that reassures him enough to force himself to his feet. He stands still for a moment, weighing the mask up in his hand, passing it from hand-to-hand. Feels the coolness of it; feels the rough dents against the surface.

Then he places it on his desk, and steps away. He's not going to need it. Not today. He can wear one of the other masks, one that isn't so distinctive. He needs to blend in, after-all.

He stretches, and swallows, and goes to wash his clothes.

When he's dressed, things seem a lot more real. He pulls loosely at his collar, disliking the way it feels against his skin. The fabric is rough, coarse - he doesn't know what it's made from, and he doesn't want to guess.

His gaze flickers down to his watch again. The time they agreed on is less than an hour away now, and he half wants to message Edric. Just to reassure himself. And to check he's not making this up, that he's massively misread something, and he's going to show up and be stood up, and he'll-

He rubs his palms against his trousers, and dismisses the idea. He doesn't think he's done that - purely because of how meticulously he rereads things, how he scans out for the fineprint, for the smallest details.

He can't exactly risk missing things. Even with something as simplistic as this. When he misses things when he's doing something for Belos, even if it's a seemingly insignificant detail, he pays for it.

Chewing at his lip, he checks his watch again. He needs to leave soon. He needs to leave, but he can't seem to move, and his palms are sweaty, and he's hyper-conscious of the way his hair frames his face, of the rough scar on his cheek, of the bruises on his knuckles, and he still can't move.

He draws blood where he's chewing his lip. Somehow, it doesn't matter.

He's going to back out. He's going to - fuck, he doesn't want to, but he's suddenly not excited, and scared as hell, and he knows he'll manage to fuck it up. Knows he'll do something wrong. Doesn't understand what the point in trying is with that knowledge.

Sitting back down on his bed, he screws his fists into the sheets, trying to ground himself. He forces himself, really, makes himself countdown from ten, and up again, and breathes steadily along with it.

It doesn't work.

He wants to scream. He wants to punch a wall again, which hasn't ever worked when he's done it in the past, but maybe it will this time.

Abruptly, he stands up. Tries to control his breathing.

(Tries to control himself.)

He's about to do - something. Lash out. He doesn't quite know why.

But he stops.

Stops, because Rascal is tugging at his sleeve, and he can't quite bring himself to do anything. His palisman twitters and chirps, and nestles against his hand, slotting into his palm in the familiar way he's grown accustomed to.

And he calms down. Not suddenly. He still feels jittery, and sharp around the edges, fuzzy almost. He can't quite focus - his head hurts.

But he no longer wants to punch something. And as Rascal kneads at his hand, he thinks - thinks - he might go. Thinks he might manage to drag himself to town.

He straightens up, and tries to go through the motions. Adjusts his shirt, firstly, making sure the buttons are slotted through the right holes. Dusts off his shoulders. Drags a hesitant hand through his hair, and blinks at himself in his cracked mirror.

Hunter doesn't like the way he looks. But he never has, really, and he can deal with it. Besides, he's not going to take his mask off.

(With that thought, he slips the mask on. This one isn't gold. But it shields him all the same.)

He doesn't think his anxiety will feel quite as crushing if he tells himself that.

He wipes half-heartedly at the mirror, and steps away. He has -

He has half an hour to get to town. Which is plenty of time, really, and he'll make it, but he needs to leave now.

Swallowing, he taps Rascal on the head, once, and the palisman wordlessly turns into a staff.

He takes one last look at his room, at the scroll resting on his bedside table, and flies out into the early noon.

When he hops off his broom, it's five minutes until their arranged meeting time.

Hunter doesn't mind being early.

He just doesn't like waiting.

And he has a feeling he might -

Well. Not bolt. He doesn't want to run away from someone who cares for him, or at least seems to. And whilst he doesn't entirely trust that just yet - he thought Belos cared about him, he was wrong - he wants to. Wants to hold on to the thin hope that he has someone there for him.

He swallows thickly, and glances at his watch again.

He has three minutes.

He thinks he's being watched. There's eyes - er, multiple pairs - watching him. Some kind of heavy… thing, with a too-wide smile, and far too many teeth.

Shuddering, he turns, and ducks behind a tree. Edric can find him, or something. He doesn't want word of what he's doing to get back to Belos, and he didn't like the look of the thing watching him.

He fiddles with the mask. Makes sure the straps are tight enough. It brushes against his defined hook of a nose, pressing in tight, and he winces, quickly loosening the straps. This mask isn't his, it's one he found in one of the many nooks and crannies of the castle. It's well used, almost battered.

He keeps it on, though. He doesn't know how to be in public without something covering his face at this point, doesn't know how to act. He knows that without it, he'll - he doesn't quite know. Make the wrong expressions, he guesses. Smile too wide. Show the gap between his teeth.

Pressing it back once more, he sneaks another glance at his watch.

It's noon. Edric still isn't with him.

Hunter wonders how long he can stand and wait. Wonders how long it'll be until he runs back to the castle, having decided that Edric doesn't want to meet anymore.

He's thinking he can probably make it until quarter-past when a hand clamps down on his shoulder, grip loose but there, and he flinches without meaning to.

"Sorry," he yelps, forgetting where he is, what he's doing, losing all sense of reason, "I'm - I'm scouting! I have a lead. I promise. It's a really, really good lead, and-"

Edric loosens the grip on his shoulder, dropping his hand suddenly. His expression sinks like lead in water.

"It's just me…?" There's a slight quirk on his lips, as if he's unsure if Hunter is joking with him or not. "Sorry I'm late. I got held up. Someone wanted… something." He sounds almost shifty as he says it. Hunter makes the decision not to question it.

Hunter blinks at him. Moves to the side, putting some space in between them, purely so he can catch his breath.

"Right." He says. His voice shakes a little. They both pretend not to notice. "Sorry. I just. Thought you were someone else."

"Did you forget we were meeting, Goldie?" Edric asks. There's a question written into the slope of his eyebrows, in the concerned golden glint of his gaze, but it's clear that he doesn't want to ask it. Hunter's glad he doesn't. He doesn't know what he'll say to answer.

(Doesn't know how someone like Edric could possibly understand. Doesn't know how he can explain Belos' punishments to an outsider, explain how he deserves some of them, and other times really, really doesn't.)

"How could I forget?" He replies, attempting to slip easily back into the persona he created for himself. Trying to be the Golden Guard, instead of Hunter.

(He doesn't know which version of himself he hates more.)

Edric beams at him, though, bright. He looks like sunshine. Sunshine through the trees on a rainy day. Or perhaps like the rivers that run by the castle, aqua green and clear as day.

(Hunter knows he's read too much love poetry recently.)

"It's good to see you," he says, "I didn't think you were coming." He adds, and there's something so quietly raw and vulnerable about his voice that Hunter's hard mask slips a little.

"Why wouldn't I come…?" He asks, wondering if he's missed something. When they last spoke, just last night (or the early hours of the morning), things had seemed fine. He'd been awkward. With nerves, more than anything else. Edric had seemed like his normal, friendly (flirty) self.

Edric scratches at the back of his neck, where his green hair curls against the nape. "You didn't respond to the message I sent." He says. Hunter blinks at him. "This morning? I was just… double checking the time. And the meeting place. And uh. A few other things."

"You've spammed me, haven't you." Hunter deadpans.

Edric shakes his head vigorously, seems to reconsider his adamant denial, and sheepishly nods. "Yeah, a little bit. Not that much! I promise!"

"Oh, I believe you," Hunter beams at him, brash and bold under his mask, "I'm sure when I get back I'll only have the one, or two, or twenty messages."

Edric hangs his head. "Maybe a little more than that," he admits, and Hunter rolls his eyes fondly, "But it's fine! We're besties!"

"Sure, sure," Hunter murmurs, "What were you messaging me about?"

Edric tilts his head to the side. The gesture is-

Hunter swallows thickly. The gesture seems almost cute to him, and it makes him feel - weird. Like he should be embarrassed. And he feels weird that he's not embarrassed.

"I wanted to know what, uh, what cupcakes you like?" Edric asks, and for the first time, Hunter notices the bag he's carrying. It's more of a box, really, made out of finely woven wood. There's a thick blanket resting on top, spotted with polka-dots. "I made some. Sorry, I guessed at the flavours, I figured you'd like crab-apple, and terror-toffee. I mean, everyone loves terror-toffee. Apart from Luz. But that's because she can't really digest it, so-"

There's a brief moment of silence. Hunter just looks at him.

"I made a picnic." Edric adds. "For us to share."

Beat.

"There's sandwiches, too. And some human snacks Luz taught me how to make. And some sodas."

Edric looks almost like he's searching for approval.

Hunter melts.

He knows he doesn't deserve it, but he beams all the same.

"You did?" His voice comes out too bright, too eager. "...why?"

He sounds small as he asks it. Too soft around the edges. Too weak.

Edric shrugs, like the answer is obvious. And maybe it is. Just not to Hunter.

"For the date," he explains, "Just figured we'll start off small. And, uh, it was Amity's idea. I asked her for suggestions, and she said that she goes on picnic dates with Luz, so… yeah." He pauses for a moment, and quickly adds, "But I didn't tell her it was with you!"

Hunter chuckles, despite himself. He likes this side of Edric, he decides. This clumsy, awkward side. One where he can't turn on his pretty-boy, flirtatious persona, but Hunter finds himself enamoured all the same. Finds himself equally as flustered by this as he is by the dozen pet names and compliments that Edric gives out to him daily.

"This looks…" he swallows shyly, "Nice. Wait, you made the cupcakes?"

Edric nods. "Fuck yeah I did!" He replies, and his timid, waiting smile is replaced by something much brighter. "Edric Blight, master baker, at your service."

"I can't bake," Hunter admits, "Maybe you could teach me. Someday."

When Edric beams at him again, Hunter grins back. "I'd love to do that," the green-haired boy tells him, "I bet you'll be great at it. The key is just to follow the instructions really, really closely, and then when it all goes wrong, you just dump a shit-ton of sprinkles on top. And frosting."

Hunter raises a brow. Realising Edric can't see him, he frowns, and speaks instead. "Is that from experience?"

Edric goes to elbow him in the ribs, and winces, clearly thinking better of it. He settles instead for batting at Hunter's hand, and Hunter feels sparks beneath his skin where he's been touched.

"Of course not," he purrs, "Just. Don't look too closely at the cupcakes."

Hunter nods, and shuffles from foot to foot. He wonders where they're going for the actual date - if they're staying in town, or heading out, perhaps to some wild meadow.

He doesn't want to hang around in town, that's for sure.

"There's a nice field nearby," he starts, at first unsure as to where he's going with this, "It's peaceful. We won't be distrubed."

Edric's brow furrows. "Hey, is it the one with that big fuckin' tree in the middle?" He asks.

Hunter nods. "If you want to put it that way, sure. It's… I go there when I need to get away."

Suddenly, there's a hand laced against his, and Hunter has to turn and look at Edric. He doesn't pull his hand away. He doesn't want to.

"Let's go there, then," Edric murmurs, squeezing his hand, "But… when do you go there? Because like. I go there fairly often. I just… I figured we would have run into each other."

Hunter sighs. He blinks down at their joined hands, and tentatively squeezes back.

Nothing burns. The world doesn't begin to crumble at his feet. His uncle doesn't materialise, demanding explanations, keys, palismen, answers.

He's…

He's fine.

He's not the Golden Guard. Not now. He's just a boy. Just a boy, holding hands with another boy.

And it's fine, and with that realisation, he feels almost free.

He knows he'll have to don the mask again. Knows he'll have to become someone else, someone he isn't.

But he can deal with it if he can take moments like this.

"I…" he swallows, and with a sense of horror, finds he sounds choked up, "Night, usually."

"You mean morning, don't you," Edric says, mercifully missing the note in Hunter's voice, "Because I go at night, and I've never seen you."

"Hey, maybe you just didn't notice me," Hunter replies, starting to walk. He just wants to get out of Bonesborough, now, away from crowds and stalls and the muggy scent in the air. "I can be pretty sneaky if I want to be. It's kinda my job."

Edric turns to look at him, eyes bright. "I dunno, Goldie," he murmurs, a searching tone in his voice, "You're pretty hard to miss."

thx for reading friendssss :)