𝙰𝚕𝚎𝚡𝚎𝚒 𝙱𝚊𝚛𝚊𝚔𝚘𝚟 & 𝙲𝚘.

— were by far the most unpleasant.

Even if the tendons heal and the swelling subsides within a day, the pain lingers for weeks, sometimes more than a month.

This would be a long healing period.

But, on the bright side, it meant more time with his family.

With his daughter, and partner.

It took one look to know that his left ankle was twisted.

The skin, swelling and red beneath the kinesiology tape that lined his shin, ankle, and heel.

The sharp pain each time he tried to move his toes or rotate his foot inward.

Out of all the injuries that immortality could heal, sprains —

— it was definitely sprained.

It seemed he wasn't as fit and healthy as he remembered himself to be.

Not as agile, or enduring.

He manages to screw himself into an upwards sitting position, hands already tugging at the tightened lacing of his boots.

Off comes the boots, then the socks.

— through the folded belt loops.

It takes a fresh breath of air to snap himself out from the memory, his vision hazy against the night fog and his ankle screeching with a harsh, stinging pain.

He tries to move the agitated joint, only to fail and cry out in agony.

If it wasn't broken entirely, —

— between his teeth tasted of sweat and lanolin, the acrid aroma sticking to his tongue and sinuses despite the stench of burning skin as Charlotte cauterized an artery in his leg.

It smelled of burnt hair, copper, and charred meat.

The on-base medic, scoffing as Lucha screamed out in pain —

— he know he should have yielded to.

It takes but one wrong step to roll his left ankle, falling face first into a hard patch of firm moss and sod.

All of a sudden, he's seventeen again, with a drill sergeant yelling in his ear until tinnitus was a constant, unwanted burden.

The leather belt —

The ailments of the brain remain a constant burden, even after reincarnation.

Lucha sucks in a quick breath as he jogs around the perimeter of the island, boots squishing into the wet mud with each forced step.

His lungs burn, his throat is dry as a cured bone.

He pushes on, beyond the limits —

— in the kitchen.

This was their life now.

Simple, unhurried, and calm.

It's what all of them needed.

— over her stepfather's lap.

"You should eat, Appa says it's almost time for your next dose of medicine."

Evan accepts the plate of food with a quiet huff, looking over the prepared meal.

"Thank you, dear. I'll get up and take them in a bit."

Holly nods before retreating, rejoining her father —

— against the cloudy sunlight that filtered through the nearby window.

"Was I snoring?"

He sits up, brushing his hair back from his face and adjusting his shawl.

"Not loud. You were hunched over, so we couldn't really hear it."

Holly moves to hand Evan the plate, setting up a collapsible desk —

— Lucha was called "Pa" or "Appa".

Evan groans lightly as he's shaken, one of his green eyes slipping open.

"What time is it...?"

His voice is a hoarse rasp, dry and scratchy from his light snoring.

"About eleven forty. You've been out for an hour."

Evan finally lifts his head, squinting —

He had dozed off while continuing the woven rows of the blanket he slept under.

Holly places the plate aside on the coffee table before carefully reaching up, grasping Evan's shoulder and shaking it lightly.

"Dad, it's time for lunch. I have a plate for you."

Dad. She called Evan "dad", while —

— to the clock.

"Go ahead and wake him. Carefully, please."

Holly takes the plate of food into her hands, making her way to the living room where Evan slept.

Evan was sat upright on the couch, his head slumped to the side and his hands settled upon a crocheted blanket, which was in progress.

"Should we wake him up for lunch? Or leave him?"

Holly sets a few quartered green figs beside the toast, the insides a bright pink and red.

"He's due for his medicine soon...wouldn't hurt to wake him. But he's sleeping so well."

Lucha glances at his sleeping partner in the living room, then —

"Even with the painkillers and neridronate?"

"Yes, some of the nerve damage will never go away. All he can really do is sleep it off until it passes."

The pickled beet cubes are then placed on top of the toast, along with a sprinkling of salt and a small bundle of thinly sliced salmon.

"Is he alright?"

"He's alright, Holly. His body pain saps the energy out of him."

Holly chops a pickled beet in two halves, then into fine cubes.

Lucha spreads a thick layer of goat cheese onto a firm slice of toasted sourdough, drizzling sweet honey on top of it.

//Grated garlic mixed in honey, taken like a syrup. You'll feel that shit coming out of your pores, but it's worked every time I got sick.

//I think going to any modern music concert would give Evan an aneurism.

Meanwhile, Lucha's spent a good portion of his old life going to Rammstein concerts and Live Aid.

//Have a meeting with a college counselor tomorrow —

Pray for me.

@rekindledhearth.bsky.social

— 🌙 —

The bag falls into Eros's bed, the bottle inside heavy as it collides with their right thigh.

Around the bunny-eared handles tied in a knot, sits a handwritten note.

'Don't tell your brother that I'm alive again. This is my partner's offering to you Enjoy. — LB'

Out into the cold night air, Lucha rounds back to the south shore of the island, where a small pier sits.

Luchezi raises the cloth tote above his head, offering it to the skies for a moment before allowing his magick to whisk it away, and across the multiverse.

"I think they'll thoroughly enjoy it."

Lucha takes the bag in one hand, the other zipping up his bomber style jacket.

He presses a chaste kiss into his partner's forehead, the bit of stubble on his chin lightly brushing against the skin.

"I'll be back in a moment. Sit tight."

He sets the bag of cake and the bottle of alcohol into a larger cloth tote, tying the handles together in a bunny-ear like shape, akin to a bow on a present.

"You think that deity will like it?"

Evan finally asks, straining to sit up against the armrest of the sofa.

— sleep. It made us drowsy, even in small amounts."

Beside it is a sealed bottle of Grand Marnier, a small one. A fine bottle of orange liqueur, divinely sweet and warm on the tongue.

"She let me have the recipe before she died, and I had aged out of the orphanage. I memorized it."

Luchezi cinches the bag closed, tying the drawstrings together to ensure it wouldn't open up or collect any dust.

"It was a treat around Christmas. The nuns didn't like spoiling us, and the war made it difficult to get sugar, so the little bit of alcohol added some sweetness, and helped us —

"It was a recipe that one of the older women in the orphanage used around the holidays for us kids,"

Evan says as Lucha slips a still warm Bundt cake into a cloth bag, ensuring it would not keep cooking in transit.

"A spiced Bundt cake, with a little cognac."

//no thoughts.

Only Evan delicately tracing the freckles on Lucha's back like he's a god creating constellations in the night sky for the very first time.

"It changes from day to day, but the tape helps as well. Keeps my joints stable."

Evan remains still for a moment, letting out a quiet breath.

"Your brother takes good care of me. I know he seems paranoid about my condition from time to time, but it's all for good reason."

— taking another bite from the fruit in his grasp.

"Significantly. It won't stop the Ehlers Danlos or the residual nerve damage from the leukemia, but yes, it's helping a lot."

The Irishman pulls back the blanket a bit, showing Alexei the kinesiology tape around his ankles and knees.