Phoenix Retold

The storm was raging outside. Inside the ruin of the old church (roof mostly gone, shattered stone littering the ground, the burned husk of old wood stabbing the night) lights began to flash as one after another, figures materialized in the dim.

The storm was raging outside. Inside the old, forgotten coffee shop (littered with broken glass, cobwebs and dust) lights began to flash as one after another, figures materialized in the dim.

Maggie wasn't, exactly, getting used to the bustling nature of Michaela's foster home.

But part of her liked it.

She sprawled out under a tree with her biology text book, readying herself for her junior year. This was when colleges started to pay attention. She'd been through multiple high schools already; she needed to keep her grades as high as possible to make a balance for when she shifted schools when they moved her to a new foster-home as inevitably would happen.

She heard someone before she saw them, "State your purpose," she said in a not-unfriendly tone.

Hayden woke Charles up by running into the other boy's room and leaping on his bed, bouncing on it for a few moments before flopping down, half on top of Charles.

It was five am. He hummed contentedly, but, aside from his first "whoop!" as he landed on the bed, he'd been silent.

Isaiah was curled up on the couch in his, Nathan, and Leander's apartment, fingers stroking delicately over a page as he read a book, eyes closed. He heard the door open and called out, "Hello?" closing the braille book and setting it aside to stand.

Iz got to the coffee shop early, sitting in a corner with an extra large cup of a frosted coffee, tracing patterns on the mosaic table top with condensation from her drink, absentminded and puzzled. She started every time someone came close to her table, flushing in embarrassment.

"So puzzle," Cassidy said, sitting down across from David like he was expected.
He'd shown up out of no where, finding David with the calm assurance of a stalker. "Entertain me."

Hector showed up at the ranch in a dusty SUV, parking and taking a moment before heading, unerringly to Luke. He didn't even look around, hands tucked into the back pockets of his jeans. He nodded at the boy, "Hey."

So Arthur and Nathan's Uncle John lived roughly 2 hours north of Boston.

Art had started babbling in the car. That Uncle John lived 2 hours north, he didn't really like driving, they'd had a huge fight 10 years ago when John had wanted custody of Nathan and Art was just not going to let that happen. That he hadn't seen his cousin Lee since Lee was six and that was probably why Lee hadn't come to him. Explained everything his Uncle had bitched about on the phone- that he'd sent Lee to a Pray Away the Gay camp in Boston; Lee had lasted six weeks before running away from the camp and going home. Even Art thought that was stupid. That Lee wasn't 'Even trying to cure his affliction and John couldn't help him if he didn't want to help himself'.

Art's knuckles went white on the wheel, explaining quietly, "I didn't know he was like that. I really didn't. But thank God I didn't let him have Nate."

Byron was sitting in the bushes, mostly hidden, dabbing at his cut lip. He looked up when he saw headlights, gingerly standing, obviously favoring one leg.

"Over here," he called when Bronte climbed out of the driver's side. "Toss me the clothes first. Please."

He wanted to get covered up fast. He felt too vulnerable like this.

He was reeling a little from all the new-old memories, from the (thankfully fading) awareness of Voldemort, from the general confusion and horror as he finally saw the Nothing drifting through the darkened streets.

He'd grabbed a few things and just...left, not even bothering to sneak out. Hiro shifted the backpack and jogged determinedly down the street toward Boston, keeping a wary ear open for an attack, eyes on the road looking for Daniel's headlights.

"So I was arrested for public indecency," Ian said the moment Olivia picked up the phone. "Come get me and bring bail money, please. For Tobias too--I don't want the Wagners paying for him. They already think I'm evil."

Michaela had given her the choice of being introduced to everyone at once or let her get to know the others one or two at a time, and Anwyn had gladly used Rhiannon as an excuse to take the less overwhelming option. She hadn't done this before; she wasn't a traditional foster kid. On top of that, she was the oldest, and Rhiannon, at four months old, was undoubtedly the youngest resident of the ranch.

After getting Rhiannon down for a nap, Anwyn slipped the cell phone-like baby monitor into the pocket of her shorts, and went to look around the house.

It was Open House at one of the local high schools, parents and students milling about the halls, talking to teachers and checking out classrooms. The cafeteria had been set up with tables of snacks and drinks and the attendance was just pathetic enough for the place to feel oddly hollow. Some of the rooms had been shut off, darkened, making for tempting places for teenagers to sneak in, cause trouble or make out.

Or all three.

They were in a park. In the middle of the night. Having sex.

Desperation had driven them to it. Desperation and teenage hormones, at least. It had been months since they'd last hooked up--months since they'd last come together, despite the occasional desperate kisses, despite the naked shower, despite everything. Months since Tobias slid into Ian's body, since he lost himself in him, since he exploded into his heat with Ian's soft, needy pants rasping in his ear.

And even before then, despite their frequent sexting...they hadn't exactly had many chances to come together before.

Now that they were finally trying, for real, things kept getting in the way. Things kept happening to stop them. Ian's window blew out, people came by, they couldn't meet here, the room was occupied there. It was starting to get dire, at least to horny, dramatic teenaged minds.

So. Sex in the park, where they used to meet way back when. Tobias lying flat on his back on the bench, Ian straddling his waist, sinking down onto his cock with a low, hissing breath, head thrown back, exposing the long line of his throat. He shuddered, clenching around him, shifting once before pressing back, taking him all the way in.

"Jesus, Tobias," Ian murmured, dropping his chin to look at Tobias with hot, dark eyes. "You're inside me. Finally."

Xander climbed into Jules's window, pausing half over the ledge with a wry smile when he saw the moonlight glinting in his open eyes.

"You're awake," he said, swinging his other leg over. "So much for Christmas coming early. Also, do you realize how hard it is to sneak in when both your parents are gods?"

Alik had flour on his hands and a little in his hair, when he threw himself into the chair across from Braeden at the bakery, nearly shoving a plate of pie at him.

Alik sucked at pie. Fortunately he had talented siblings.

He'd asked Braeden to come, in a text message with no details.

"You, are a pain in my ass." he said firmly, mostly annoyed, but somewhat questioning. He produced another plate of pie and ate a bite, viciously chewing.

True to his word, and not more than ten minutes after the last text, Damian knocked on Dove's door. He'd spoken to her. Well. Texted her. She'd said nothing to inspire alarm and yet, he needed to see her. He needed to talk her, touch her.

He needed to sort through the whirlpool of memories that had flooded his brain and would surely take him down and lose him if he couldn't known that Dove--that Phedre--was all right.

He lightly knocked on Nathan's door, leaning in the frame. Lounging, really. Even with all that military training kicking around inside his head, Sam Guthrie was, at heart, a country boy with a wide, sunny grin and tendency to lounge.

He crossed his arms, looking at Nathan. "So. Can you fill me in on why baby Sinister's so jealous of your attention he wants to kill me, s- Nathan?"

The aborted word came out strange--halfway between sir and sweetheart. Sam made a strange face at himself, recognizing it, but settled for pretending it hadn't happened.

Most of the Dashkovs got up early. That was just par for the course when you ran a bakery.

Ilya wasn't often up this early, though. Still, if he couldn't sleep, he might as well be working. So he'd gotten up early to make dough and now he was in the kitchen, barefoot, wearing a wifebeater and jeans. His hair was a little spiky, so he'd tried to sleep, at least. It just hadn't stuck.

And now he was kneading bread with his fists so violently that it must have insulted his masculinity.