Oh fuck you too.

With every settled score
I thought that fighting with meant fighting for
But you turned it around
But you turned it around

So.

Last evening I went to see August, who, in a rare and wonderful turn didn't even bother with the preamble of a talk or a barometer or fuck-all, he just reached around me when I came in and locked the door.

Three hours later he wasn't even August anymore, he was Jacob and I was ruined physically and emotionally. That's when August always likes to level that fatal blow and I don't know if he's angry at me or at himself. Maybe both.

Get out, Bridge. Please. Go.

It would have been less jarring had he shoved me right out of bed, only to hit the floor and have the bed swing back and knock right into my head.

I watched his face as he struggled to find an expression. He settled on protective, closed and I got up and dressed slowly in the dark. I don't have to, I shouldn't have to apologize for my actions. He got up and opened the door for me when I left, kissing the top of my head, lingering there against my skull for an eternity, and then he watched me cross the driveway, until I opened the side door of the house and then he closed his door and I was blind in the dark.

I went upstairs. It's three in the morning, no one is awake. No lights underneath doors, no sounds, no nothing. I go up into my room and one single lantern is lit. Just enough to show me that Caleb was lying on my bed fully clothed but fast asleep, one arm flung around Lochlan, who slept hard in the center, still in his flannel shirt and jeans, like he stretched out to wait for me and couldn't do it. Rounding out the party is Ben, who is hard asleep facing them, sleeping on his side, one hand around Lochlan's head. These protective expressions have spread around the point, I guess. I stand there for what feels like forever, and then reach up and turn off the lantern, plunging the room into total darkness.

I leave and head back downstairs, quietly going outside to head back to August's loft.

He left the door unlocked so I go in and he's sitting up at the counter, a cup of tea untouched in front of him.

There's no room for me there, I gesture. I'm losing it. I feel like no one wants me suddenly, too tainted by the memory of their friend to forge any meaningful future for themselves, for me. We're all ruined by Jacob in some way. Ruined by Cole. Ruined by Caleb. Ruined by Bridget.

He gets up, goes and locks the door again and goes back to bed. I follow him, climbing in fully clothed but turning away. He wraps himself around me, so familiar suddenly that I start to sob. His arms tighten, holding fast until I stop. I don't know when I stopped crying and fell asleep but it must have been ages as I woke up so tired. Drained. Wrecked.

He didn't leave though, still there, still holding tight when I woke up as I startled up, afraid that Lochlan would wonder where I was.

August already has that covered, as they back each other up even as they leave me to twist in the wind. Every now and then someone comes along and holds me tightly so that someone else can stab me right in the heart. That's how it works here.

He knows you're here. He's pissed though. Said he stayed awake all night waiting for you and if you're not coming home you need to tell him. 

A little moment, since that's all I've got today (busy with my muffin, leave me alone).

I got my medal (a blueberry muffin with ice-cold real butter, just the way I like it, thank you PJ) for not crying at work today. I also remembered my sweater, and somehow the lunch crowd trickled in with nary an issue and I was off and flying out the door at three pm sharp to Lochlan's truck, noting that it is indeed flannel shirts, jeans, and workboot season and I'm happy because everyone looks so cozy and hugs are better in flannel than in t-shirts and I don't even care that the calendar is beginning to lift up along the top edge, sliding me down into Halloween like an errant leaf floating down from the tree branch to the grass.

I do note with annoyance upon returning home that Bo Horvat has banned the Canucks from playing video games when they're on the road. Because the boys should be out socializing or drinking or being energy vampires to each other, which shows not only ridiculous the NHL is becoming, but how ridiculous the Canucks still are, and maybe they need a slightly older captain with an idea of how some folks don't necessarily want to fraternize the whole time and maybe want to spend their downtime how they see fit. But I'm pretty sure that Patrick Laine from the Jets said it best, saying that if the Jets start playing as bad as the Canucks, maybe they'll ban games too.

Christ LOL. Best burn.

Wrapping paper (help me).

I'm having a week where it's too warm for a sweater at work and so people each day so far have tried to touch my tattoos. Some of them ask, most of them just reach for my skin and I shrink back and tell them they can't touch them, that they can look but I get tired of the comments here where I am captive to a crowd as I refill cup after cup and wonder if I can keep the smile plastered on and the banter fresh long enough to earn my tip and then they can get the fuck out of my restaurant.

So I had a particularly difficult customer today and I asked him to wait a moment and then turned and fled out back, shoving my coffee pot at one of the kitchen help, asking them to take over just for a moment so that I could catch my breath.

And then I cried because he wasn't even looking at my tattoos. He just wasn't happy and it was the last straw of a Tuesday held together with very little in the first place.

And then I dried my eyes and went the fuck back to work, red-faced and defeated to finish out my shift and I clocked out the same time I always do and I refused to stay a second longer even though they were shorthanded and busy.

(My mind was also shorthanded and busy so in the interest of self-preservation I declined.)

I won't forget the sweater tomorrow. I'll deflect the calls to quit tonight too, as the boys are always soundly horrified when someone takes too much of an interest in my tattoos and ventures far outside of normal curiosity. Some will say I need to be tougher, that if I'm going to be covered I have to be prepared for the inevitable interest but I've always maintained I don't have to do anything, that they're not for anyone else, they're for me and thank you to those who at least asked first.

Tattoos don't require toughness. People require manners, however.

I need to come up with a few choice easy comments to politely make it known that they're not up for discussion. Also I need to turn up the A/C so not only will people have something else to complain about (HA) but I can wear my sweater without dying.

It's far more efficient and also less frightening to head down the hall at the end of a movie and some dinner with Caleb instead of out into the night, fraught with darkness and bears, and God knows what else. It's even good for those who wait for me, as they can wander down the hall and loiter about those few steps, waiting for me quietly, so that when I step into the hall and close the door softly behind me, as Caleb had already fallen asleep and I didn't want to disturb him when I left, I scream as loud as anyone in any horror movie ever because I wasn't expecting anyone to be standing in the darkened hallway waiting for me.

So Caleb woke up and everyone else came running and the new rule is if you're going to wait for someone, it has to be in bright light.

Hard reign.

I was pulled out of my dreams this morning, up into Ben's lap, arms around his neck, his hands pulling me into him over and over, driving like the rain in the darkness as I bit down against his shoulder just hard enough to leave tiny teeth prints in his tattooed skin that lasted through the morning and into lunchtime before fading back to nothing.

I was pulled out of my warm house this morning, into the driving rain with memories of Ben's arms soaking through my church clothes, thoughts that lasted through the morning and into lunchtime before fading back into nothing, teeth clenched against the word of God, intrusive guilt taking the place of pleasure in the darkness.

I was pulled out of the truck roughly this morning, when we returned home, into Caleb's arms, his hands pulling me close against his chest, gritting his teeth against the betrayal of a promise broken, to spend the darkened rainy Sunday with him instead of with his ever-intrusive God, just enough to soak through the relaxation before fading back to tension and upheaval, back to fear. Back to memories of the way I would grit my teeth when he touched me.

God didn't have much to say today. Sometimes the rhetoric brings the sleep and I tune Sam out and let my mind wander right out the front door of the church and disappear into the morning rain, thoughts that touch on Lochlan, not here right now with me, and then Ben in turn, with me but head bowed as he works hard to do right by himself first and then all of us around him and then Caleb, also not here and I remember I promised him I would be over before getting swept along in the Sunday routine and here I am, here instead of there.

I remember.

Oh, I remember.

I should have stayed in bed with Ben, but then again, he was the one who wanted to attend services so here we are and now I'm headed inside to spend the afternoon with Caleb, maybe watching a movie, in his private den with a good whiskey and some lunch. He bought a large wooden tray in order to cook in the kitchen but have some lovely private meals in his 'quarters' as he calls his little warren of rooms. It works. I don't know if the tray works yet, this will be the first time I've joined him at all.

Bring me the storm and let me feast on it.

No calendar. I won't be ruled by the dark changing into the light. I won't be mindful of the numbered days, labeled with the season, forcing me into a timeline not of my own choosing. Instead I will be ruled by my heart, fierce protective queen that she is, stumbling through the hours, reigning over minutes at a time as best she can.

That's what I'll be ruled by.

Fine, Sam says and washes his hands of it all, dirt running in rivulets, streams passing through his fingers, an attempt at salvation made and at once rejected.

Fine, Caleb says, licking the grievous wounds of his ego, bluster and swagger drowned in his own blood, running dark red like wine over my tongue.

Fine, Lochlan smiles, bobbing to the surface of the blood of his enemy, buoyed with the hope of his faith in me, in us.

The day is dark, rain washing away the blood, the dirt, the hurt feelings of the past two days, replacing it with new beginnings.

Today is the first day of the rest of your li-

Yeah yeah. I know.

Reluctant polyamorous therapy for three people who hate each others' guts but refuse to give up or in as directed by a completely unimpartial and thoroughly overwhelmed third party, told by a tightrope walker who hasn't walked a wire since 1996.

(Alternate title: The Gentlemen's Collective.)

Do we censor? Do we flow?
Are we drunk on the chemicals?
Every feeling in my bones tells me to lash out
Tell you to fuck off
You got my heart and I’ve got your soul
But are we better off alone?
With every battle we lose a little more
Remember everything that we die for
You are everything that I die for

I had to run some errands last evening and take Henry to work and when I came back Caleb has Lochlan facedown on the front walk, arms pinned behind his back, leaning on him hard, shouting at him I'm not going to take her from you over and over until Lochlan stopped struggling and gave up. Which is about the time I walked up. Caleb leans down and kisses Lochlan's cheek and Lochlan hollers his protest before Caleb lets him go and Ben hauls them both to their feet.

The hard part here is no one wants to give anything up. Caleb's got a foot in the door, so he thinks that means he's entitled to whatever he wants, and Lochlan just got back to the place he's supposed to be and he's not going to give up a moment, whether he's busy or not, whether we're getting along or not.

Not to Caleb, anyway.

This is going to be hard.

Sam thinks he can help us find common ground. Apparently it's the front yard and Lochlan's going to eat it or something. I sit near Sam, away from the rest, arms crossed over my chest, bottom lip out in silent protest.

Sam proposes a calendar. For fairness.

Seriously?

Do we feel safe
Do we feel safe
Do we feel safe
Do you feel safe

Sooner or later it came to an end.

(Don't worry about the title, for it's a lyric, guys.)

It was never my intention to get you
Wrapped up in a hot sun beach haze
When you made me crazy
We were not afraid
Just star-crossed runaways
No looking back now

Last evening Caleb broke the cardinal rule and I don't know if he did on purpose (he says he didn't) but then again he was smiling when he said it, albeit a mea culpa kind of unabashed embarrassed smile, so I can't tell you if he was lying or not. Eventually he will tell us. Or maybe he just won't.

(Also the whole house is sick to death of my endless KJ Wallen playlist and I DON'T CARE.)

The cardinal rule?

(Don't turn off my KJ Wallen playli-)

I mean, it's not even carved in stone but the real rule is if Lochlan is around and actually wants to spend time with me (heh. Do we get along? Depends) no one infringes on that. No one. Not saying it's rare because it isn't but Lochlan likes projects and he likes to be useful and when he stops moving for ten minutes or an hour and comes looking for me and you actively try to get in the way of that? Expect a problem.

Caleb? Sometimes a big problem. What did they last before coming to blows?

Four days.

Only this time due to my sheer brilliance there was no way to send them off to their respective corners to cool off and so the moment they were no longer blocked from getting to each other they went back at it.

Put that fist fight to the soundtrack of Summer Sunday and I pretty much have the opening credits of the movie of my life. Even though I didn't get to see it because while PJ and Duncan went back in to save them from each other, Dalton had to physically carry me out because I wanted to break them up too.

So I didn't get to write yesterday. Mainly because my laptop was in the way when they went into each other and it went crashing off the countertop and then it just wouldn't light up but Lochlan said he could fix it. I pointed out what happens if I stop lighting up and he just looked at me and then kept taking screws out of the back of it and placing them methodically onto the table in a little pile.

We'll get you a new one, Caleb reassures me from the other side of the kitchen where he sits with an ice pack against his eye. He's bigger and stronger but Lord, is Lochlan ever fast and also committed. In the time most people take to think about whether on not they really want to get into it Lochlan already has you on your back and you find yourself losing.

I can fix it. Lochlan growls at him.

JESUS SORRY I TRIED TO MOVE IN ON YOUR PLANS. If I want to buy her a replacement for her ten-year-old laptop I will and you don't get to weigh in.

Lochlan stops talking altogether, but so does Caleb so I'm going to call it a win.

Also Lochlan did fix the laptop, though it's got a dent now. It's okay. So do we.

Duh.

The poet is in the hammock this afternoon when I come out with my lemonade and he won't budge. He won't vacate it or slide over, telling me I'm too small and he wants to relax, not remain tense that he might inadvertently crush me or somehow squish me. He tells me to find a different space and so I head inside and go straight downstairs to his room. I place my lemonade on his nightstand and crawl into his bed, asleep in seconds, maybe less.

An hour later he arrives and offers to trade places and he laughs because waking up seems insurmountable right now for me as I struggle to respond when I just want to sleep. He gives up quickly enough and when I wake up next, my throat exceedingly sore again, nose running, and feverish from what I thought was a cold but is probably the first flu of the season, Duncan is gone and Caleb is in his place, leaning over me in concern.

That's why I'm here, Neamhchiontach. To make sure you're okay. And let's face it, you're far from okay right now. 

I'm fine. 

The ghosts are back. 

Think they ever left? I roll away from him and burrow into Duncan's blankets. After a minute or two, Caleb leaves. Not like he can't find me later.

What's wrong with my head.

I went out to the garage this morning to get a big bag of hash browns and the pot roast to thaw for tomorrow night's dinner and Jacob was already there, leaning up against the steps, arms crossed. His face was grim but determined, that facial expression that said everything he didn't need to say, the one that showed me I was fucking up and fucking up hard.

What have you done, Princess? 

I step around him, open the freezer and reach in to collect what I need. When my arms are full I stand up, close the top and head back around him, stopping directly in front of him and looking up at him. The sun beaming in through the top of the garage doors goes right through him, as do the dust motes I have disturbed .

What a beautiful face. I miss it so much.

Turn the lights out when you leave, Jake.