insist on your cup of stars

Everest

Everest is standing at the small table by the window, where the light is best and the floor is clear, folding laundry into careful, even rectangles. He aligns sleeves before creases them, smooths fabric flat with the heel of his hand, and stacks each piece with deliberate attention so that nothing slips or topples once it’s placed. The rhythm of it settles him, the predictability of corners meeting corners, edges lining up exactly as expected.

He pauses after finishing a shirt, fingers resting against the fabric as if confirming that it is, in fact, done, and listens. The apartment is quiet in the way it usually is at this hour, with Isla somewhere down the hall. His shoulders ease a fraction, breath evening out as he shifts his weight and clears his throat, the sound small but intentional. "Isla?" he calls, voice raised just enough to carry without startling either of them. There is a brief hesitation, the familiar check where he runs through whether this is the right moment, whether interrupting her is acceptable now rather than later, and then he continues anyway because he has already planned this part and it would be inefficient not to follow through. " I made a dinner reservation for tonight. For seven." He resumes folding as he speaks, as if anchoring the words to the task will keep them from drifting.

There's little chance of the restaurant being busy enough to warrant a reservation, but of course that hardly matters to Ever because the potential for disruption far outweighs the social faux pax of walking into an empty restaurant and declaring they had a table saved.

I was a dead man walking,
with bloodshot eyes—right place, wrong time.

Isla

At this time of day Isla would normally be taking full advantage of her time off from the clinic, settled into her favourite chair with a book or lounging at the window in a pool of Torchline's glorious sunshine. Today, though, is different. Never mind the threatening rain or the skies clogged with clouds - never mind the list of menial chores she'd been intending to complete prior to any personal time either. No, today finds Isla in their ensuite bathroom, hands braced against the cool ceramic of the sink, eyes pinned to a small, innocuous rectangle; a test procured from Stormbreak, where that sort of casual magic is widely available.

Her fair hair has been left loose to cascade around her shoulders in soft waves, and in a rare drop of her Ancient glamour, the ribbon-like topaz of her horns threads through the curls as if nothing more than an accessory. It takes a few seconds after her name hits the air for Isla to realise Ever has called her, the medic blinking and abruptly straightening up, breath catching as if he's somehow snuck up on her. "...For seven?" she echoes, for no other reason than to buy herself some extra time, the spaded tip of her tail flicking rhythmically at her heels. 

"Yeah, seven sounds good." Shaking her head as if to clear it, she inhales a deep, steady breath and lets it out again, before glancing once more at the test, fully expecting a confirmation that her feelings are little more than anxiety.

Instead, it's positive. 

"Fuck," she blurts out before she can stop herself, loud enough for her voice to carry, and the wave of sudden nausea churning in her gut has nothing to do with what now stares her in the face from the bathroom counter.

sooner or later, we all have to wake
and try forgetting everything

Everest

Everest nods to himself at Isla's answer, the small motion more about confirmation than acknowledgement, and he continues folding without assigning meaning to the brief space between her words. Pauses happen. They are normal. He aligns the shirt in his hands, smooths the fabric flat, and brings one sleeve over the other with practiced precision, his focus narrowing comfortably to the simple geometry of it.

The sound of her voice cutting through the apartment a moment later does not fit into that rhythm at all. He freezes, eyes widening with alarm, breath catching sharp and shallow in his chest as the word lands heavy and wrong in the quiet. His gaze flicks instinctively down to the half-folded shirt, because leaving it crumpled would be a problem and he knows that about himself well enough by now, so he finishes the fold with hands that are careful rather than fast, pressing the crease flat as if that might steady the sudden rush of thoughts trying to line up all at once, then he is moving.

Not running, not panicking, but crossing the space with a purposeful urgency that pulls him out of the laundry nook and down the hall toward the bathroom. He slows as he reaches it, instinctively tempering his approach so he does not startle her, and leans in to peer around the frame, head tilting slightly to one side in a way that is more reflex than affectation, the way a dog might. Isla is upright. and breathing; there is no blood, no obvious injury, no immediate sign of the kinds of emergencies his mind flicks through anyway, cataloguing possibilities even as he takes her in with careful blue eyes. He knows better than to assume that means everything is fine, though, and the absence of visible harm does nothing to fully ease the tightness in his chest.

"Are you...are you alright?"

I was a dead man walking,
with bloodshot eyes—right place, wrong time.

Isla

Having resisted the urge to groan and crumple dramatically to the tiles, for no other reason than she knows the man who is already likely coming to check on her, and that kind of reaction is guaranteed to give way to more unnecessary panic than there's already likely to be, when Ever peers around the doorway he'll find Isla just as she had been a few seconds before. Breathing steadily, knuckles a little white against the sink, her blue eyes flicking from the test to the mirror to find the aviator's gaze in the reflection.

And she smiles despite herself, because despite all else, there's no way not to feel the flush of love to look at Ever, concerned and restrained and quietly, always there despite all else. Except, perhaps, for right now - but they'll soon find that out together. "Hey," she says. "Hey, yeah. I... I will be, I think. But I have to tell you something, and I think you need to be sitting down when I do." 

Finally stepping back from the sink, Isla gestures towards their bedroom, already stepping through the doorway so her feet can take her in there on autopilot. "The bed is fine," she says, just in case Ever frets over the lack of real seating in the space, and she sinks onto the mattress and pats the space beside her for him to sit.

sooner or later, we all have to wake
and try forgetting everything

Everest

Everest’s shoulders loosen a fraction at Isla's smile, the familiar warmth of it cutting through the spike of alarm far more effectively than logic ever could. When she says she will be alright, he believes her without reservation, nodding once even as his brow furrows with quiet confusion at the suggestion that he ought to be sitting down. Isla is careful with her words, and that alone is enough to tell him this matters, though the reason why does not yet arrange itself into anything coherent in his mind.

As she moves past him, he steps aside automatically, giving her space and then falling into step behind her. His thoughts begin to scatter despite his best efforts, flicking through possibilities with an unhelpful efficiency that offers no satisfying conclusions. Sitting is usually for dizziness, or shock, or news that alters the shape of a day so abruptly that the body needs somewhere stable to land, and he feels a faint, creeping tension settle between his shoulders as he tries to catalogue which of those might apply.

He sits where she indicates, careful not to jostle the mattress, posture upright and attentive as he turns to face her fully. For a moment he only blinks at her, expression open and expectant, the waiting itself a kind of restraint. Then, as if remembering something important he might otherwise forget, he reaches out and takes her hand in his, fingers curling gently around hers. The contact is steady and deliberate, equal parts comfort and practicality, because if he is about to feel faint for reasons he cannot yet predict, this way she will notice immediately.

"I'm listening," he says softly.

I was a dead man walking,
with bloodshot eyes—right place, wrong time.

Isla

Ever doesn't voice it out loud, but if he had Isla would have been able to confirm with certainty that the news she's about to drop falls under all three categories: dizziness, shock, and the sort of foundational shaking of a routine so carefully maintained that it has become a lifeline all on its own. She sits, though, and he comes to join her, and as he belatedly takes her hand she can't stop the soft, adoring laugh that sighs out of her. Gods but she loves this man, every facet of him, and although she's about to alter their lives permanently, that feeling doesn't so much as flicker. 

"Thank you," she murmurs, her free hand moving to cover his own, as if to cradle his fingers between her palms. "I'll keep it as simple as I can. For the past couple of weeks, I've been feeling a little unwell - and please don't feel bad. It's mostly been in the morning when I'm already out at the clinic. You wouldn't have seen or known."

Taking another breath, this one more to steady herself than Ever, Isla gives his hand a warm squeeze. "My symptoms aligned with something quite specific, and so I went to Stormbreak for a test to confirm, and I just received a positive result. For a pregnancy." Shifting automatically to sit a little closer, she doesn't try to force him to meet her eyes, but her presence is both loving and clinical, as if she can anticipate the world falling away beneath him already.

"I know we were careful. Every time. But it's happened."

sooner or later, we all have to wake
and try forgetting everything

Everest

Everest listens without interrupting, head tipped slightly forward as if that will help him catch every word exactly as she intends it, his grip on her hand steady even as his attention sharpens. When she mentions that she has been feeling unwell, his brows draw together faintly, his mind already backtracking through recent days and conversations, scanning for anything he might have missed despite her reassurance. The fact that it was mostly in the morning registers only as a logistical detail, filed under clinic schedules and routines rather than symptoms, and he nods once to show he understands, even if his thoughts are already beginning to drift into careful, quiet recalculation.

The mention of Stormbreak and a diagnostic test makes sense to him immediately. His shoulders ease a little at that, comforted by the familiarity of process and confirmation, by the idea that something uncertain was met with something concrete. he follows her reasoning step by step, tracking the logic of symptoms, testing, results, until she reaches the end of the sentence and says the word that empties everything out all at once.

For a pregnancy.

He blinks once, then again, his expression going slack in a way that feels unfamiliar even to him, like a system that has stalled mid-command. The room does not disappear, but it feels suddenly very far away, the weight of her presence beside him the only thing anchoring him to the bed. His thoughts attempt to line up and simply...do not. There is no immediate fear, no surge of emotion, just a vast, echoing blank where something important should be loading and is not.

She shifts closer, and he notices that distantly too, the warmth of her body beside him registering before the meaning does. He swallows, throat dry, and when he finally speaks his voice is quiet, careful, as if he is testing whether it still works. "What’s...what’s the likelihood of a false positive?" he asks, not because he doubts her, not because he thinks she is wrong, but because his mind needs a place to start, and probabilities are something he understands. His fingers tighten slightly around hers, an unconscious check-in, as he looks at her with wide, searching eyes, waiting for the world to begin making sense again.

I was a dead man walking,
with bloodshot eyes—right place, wrong time.

Isla

For Isla, at least, the reaction unfolds entirely as expected, and there's something mildly comforting in that, despite Ever trying and failing to recalibrate his mind right in front of her. As his fingers flinch more tightly around her own he responds in kind, both an anchor and a drowning person reaching for another presence in a suddenly vast and open ocean. "They occur in less than one percent of cases. I checked," she says softly - because of course she did. "So whilst it isn't impossible that this is a false positive, combined with my symptoms, it's vanishingly unlikely."

Nibbling at the inside of her cheek, one of her hands leaves Ever's to rest atop his knee, as if to create another physical point of contact in the hope of keeping them both grounded. "I know it's a lot," she whispers. "And it's okay to feel any kind of way about it - even if you can't name the feeling. I know I can't, right now. I... I'm doing my best to stay calm, but it would be helpful to know what you think."

sooner or later, we all have to wake
and try forgetting everything

Everest

Everest nods as she answers him, the motion slow and deliberate, the way he does when he is absorbing information he knows is important. He had assumed already that if there were any meaningful margin for error, Isla would have chased it down immediately, but hearing the numbers spoken aloud still helps, even if all it really does is firm ground beneath something that already feels immovable.

He stays quiet when she asks what he thinks, not because he does not want to answer but because he genuinely needs the time. His gaze drifts unfocused for a moment, attention turning inward as he tries to take stock of what is happening inside him. The feelings are there, he knows that much, but they are indistinct and oversized, moving somewhere just out of reach like enormous shapes beneath dark water, impossible to name until they surface. For Isla, though,  he tries, drawing slow and steady breaths as he works at giving them edges.

"I feel....confused," he says at least, voice low and careful. "About how this happened. I know the mechanics obviously, but..." His brow furrows slightly, more in concentration than distress. "And I'm worried about you. About what this will do to your body and how hard it might be, if you'll be alright and about how much it will interfere with your work at the clinic."

He pauses then, swallowing as his eyes drop to her hand resting on his knee, tracing the contact up to where her fingers are still threaded through his. A quiet sigh slips out of him, and his mouth tightens into a small frown that carries more weight than the words that follow. "And mostly," he adds, "I feel like it's...inevitable that I'm going to let you down in this." He glances at her from the corner of his eye, not quite meeting her gaze, the admission clearly difficult but not dramatic. "I know the ways I am make me an unideal partner for a lot of things, but maybe this most of all." He shakes his head faintly, a quick addendum following close behind. "I’m not asking you to reassure me. I just...wanted to be honest since you asked."

I was a dead man walking,
with bloodshot eyes—right place, wrong time.

Isla

Accustomed, by now, to the time she knows it will take for Ever to reach within himself and parse through his feelings, Isla doesn't rush him. She needs it as well, she realises, the Remedy sitting in a silence made easy by routine rather than comfort, because this is uncharted territory for both of them. Letting her thumb graze across the top of his knee, when he speaks at last it's at least something that feels familiar even in its confusion, and she lets out a laugh through a sigh and nods with immediate agreement.

"So am I," she says. "I've been going back through the past few weeks to remember if there was a time we'd been careless, or any circumstances that might have made the possibility of this more likely, but..." But there's been nothing. "The only reason I could come upon is because I'm an Ancient. Being connected to Dygra brings chaos with it." Even if chaos is the last thing a man like Everest Hart needs to invite into his life.

Resisting the urge to apologise, instead Isla glances up towards him, smiling immediately to hear his concern for her, though it really doesn't need saying. "Well," she says, "we couldn't be in a better region for it, at least. With the healing fountain and the clinic being so well-established, it could be a lot worse."

But the crux of it is nothing to do with logistics, and when Ever's focus turns back inwards, Isla leans in to press a soft kiss against his shoulder, then another, sitting close enough now that the distance between them is negligible. "All that matters to me," she says, voice little more than a whisper of warmth, "is whether this is something you want to make work with me. The rest is easy in comparison."

sooner or later, we all have to wake
and try forgetting everything

Everest

Everest’s brows lift slightly at the mention of Dygra, the idea slotting into place with a soft, audible click as his mind reconfigures around it. He had not considered Isla’s nature as an Ancient as a variable in any of this, and the oversight shows briefly on his face before he nods, slow and thoughtful. Chaos as a by-product is not unfamiliar to him in theory, even if it is deeply unfamiliar in practice, and the explanation settles something that had been tugging uncomfortably at the edge of his confusion.

"That...makes sense," he says quietly, glancing at her as if to confirm he has understood correctly. The reassurance about the healing fountain and the clinic follows close behind, and with it comes a subtle easing of the tension he has been holding in his shoulders, the sense that at least some of the unknowns have softer edges than he first feared.

When she leans in, when her lips brush his shoulder and her warmth presses close, he slips an arm around her (almost) without thinking, drawing her in until she rests securely against his side. He does not answer her immediately as the question she has asked is not one he will rush, not because he doubts the answer but because he respects it too much to give anything less than his full consideration. His thoughts fan outward, touching on schedules and sleep and finances and noise and responsibility, all the small, practical worries that crowd his mind when the future shifts shape so abruptly, and yet beneath all of that there is no clear refusal, no internal alarm insisting this is wrong. There is only fear, familiar and heavy, but fear alone is not the same thing as unwillingness. He turns slightly toward her at last, nodding once, decisively.  "I do," he says, voice steady despite everything. "I want to make it work. With you."

His gaze dips then, drawn without quite meaning to toward her stomach as if expecting some visible sign of the enormity they are discussing, and he almost smiles at himself before lifting his eyes back to hers. The expression that settles there is tentative but sincere, something almost boyish softening his features as he exhales a slow breath. "I think we’re going to have a lot of reading to do."

I was a dead man walking,
with bloodshot eyes—right place, wrong time.

Isla

"I thought so too," Isla says, glancing back towards Ever with a smile; ironic, really, that the chaos and entropy of her very nature would feel like a logical step in the explanation for all of this. It feels somewhat comforting too, she realises, to surrender to the possibility that some things just are when it comes to Dygra, that this isn't the result of something they did or did not do. In this way it can be a boon, a surprise even, rather than a mistake. 

His arm around her is more reassurance than she ever thought she might need, and even in the new silence that stretches between them, Isla finally lets herself start to relax; untangling her fingers from his hand, she tucks herself against his side like she might be able to hide from the weight of their new reality there. And when Ever speaks - a confirmation she'd already begun to suspect but something that wedges itself deep beneath her ribs - Isla lets out a long, deep sigh, pressing her eyes shut against the sudden sting of tears.

"I'm glad." Sniffling and hurriedly wiping at her eyes, she gazes up towards Ever and leans in without thinking, her lips whispering across the scruff of his jaw. "I want to make it work with you too." And as for the reading, the unexpected lightness of the comment knocks her so off guard that Isla finds herself laughing properly now, nodding to him. "I wonder if your parents have some books we could borrow," she suggests, before the reality of the statement hits. "Gods, we'll need to decide when to tell people."

sooner or later, we all have to wake
and try forgetting everything

Everest

As Isla's fingers slip free of his, Everest’s hand follows instinctively, circling her middle so that the space between them disappears entirely, his arm firm and sure around her. He feels the hitch in her breathing before he sees it, and when he looks down to find her eyes shining he stiffens for half a second in startled concern, only for her lips to brush his jaw and undo that tension completely.

He shifts his hold without thinking, his free hand sliding from her waist to cup her cheek, thumb warm against her skin as he gently guides her face up toward his. The kiss he gives her is soft and unhurried, more grounding than passionate, and a quiet hum of contentment slips from him as he lingers there for a moment before pulling back just enough to look at her again. Whatever fear still coils in his chest loosens slightly at the edges, soothed by the simple, undeniable fact of her wanting this with him and him, surprisingly, finding he wanted it also.

Her laughter draws a breathy huff from him in return, something close to a laugh even if it never quite makes it all the way out. He lets his hand fall from her cheek and runs it through his hair instead, the gesture faintly self-conscious as if he is only just realising how large this all is. "I’m...nearly certain they will," he says, nodding as he speaks, confidence creeping into his voice where the subject is familiar and concrete. "Unless Tobi got rid of them while cleaning, but I suspect she will have kept them for precisely this moment."

He glances back at Isla, expression thoughtful rather than anxious now, and gives another small nod when she mentions telling people. "I think that part should be up to you. When, and how." His arm tightens around her again, protective without being possessive, and he leans his forehead lightly against her temple, breathing her in as if memorizing this version of the moment, the one where everything has changed and yet somehow still feels like home.

I was a dead man walking,
with bloodshot eyes—right place, wrong time.

Isla

"They're relieved tears," Isla assures him in case it needs saying, before his lips meet hers properly and she melts into the cradle of his arm. She only gives herself this couple of moments to feel small and scared, to draw comfort from Ever's physical presence, to quake under the dawning understanding of the way their lives are about to change. Then, with a long, deep sigh, Isla straightens a fraction and checks back into the conversation, smirking at the prospect of a small shelf dedicated to baby books up in an apartment in Stormbreak.

"I think we should tell your parents now," she says, leaning into Ever and closing her eyes as if to also brand this moment into her memories. "And I'll probably tell Remi and Ronin - they've done this enough times, they'll have some good advice. And Mateo - you can't not tell your best friend." The rest can wait, or they can pin it as a notice on the board in Torchline. It's as far as Isla can see, anyway, out towards this suddenly shrinking horizon with a brand new life at the end of it.

"And you can talk to me about anything," she adds, gazing up towards the aviator. "This is going to be new for both of us, but I don't want you to bottle anything up, okay?"

sooner or later, we all have to wake
and try forgetting everything