Rambling Into the Abyss

an older fic! from my tumblr. I didn't especially like this one? I mean I didn't hate it, but it didn't turn out the way it looked in my head. probably because it's from Ashley's perspective, and at the time of writing I hadn't written Ashley in literal years. Ashley is a friend's OC. they used to be Shai's datemate, but that didn't pan out, and Ashley's reaction to that was to stalk Shai for a while in a ceaseless attempt to win them back.

I mostly moved this over here because Shai's first words to Ashley are some the Shai-est words I've ever written.
(content warnings: stalking)

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You…have been gone for some time. It takes a few days for you to realize exactly how long, and when you do you suppose Shai’s reaction makes more sense. You’re not sure you would take it fabulously well if they disappeared for over two years without any warning before popping back up out of the aether. But they don’t know the circumstances. They don’t know the full story. If they did, they would be kinder. You tell yourself that, but much has changed. You have changed.

 

Shai has changed.

 

It takes time for you to begin to realize quite how much. You can’t get close, after all. Being close upsets them, and your desire to avoid that outweighs your desire to explain the full story. For now. But you do keep track of them. To stay near, even if out of eyesight.

 

The townhouse is easy enough to find, and you know that while it is always filled, they are rarely there. It seems a good place to start figuring out their schedule.

 

But when you knock, you are not expecting a middle-aged woman, harried and trailed by a gaggle of curious children, to answer the door with an impatient, “Yes? Out with it.”

 

You clear your throat and recover quickly. “I’m looking for Shaicarus Ilthanuel?” you say, just the slightest uptick at the end. If you seem unsure, then there are fewer walls to wiggle past.

 

The woman’s eyes narrow slightly and she gives you a shrewd once over. One of the more daring children clutches at her skirt and peers around her, and her hand falls to the girl’s head.

 

“The professor ain’t here, my lord,” the woman replies. “Who’s askin’?”

 

There’s a beat while you fit that word into your ever-complicated mental map—professor—before you offer a name. It’s fake. You pulled it out of a hat. Based on the last meeting, if it could even be called as much, you know that Shai won’t take it well if someone tells them that ‘Ashley’ was asking after them. And then you bid the woman a good evening and carry on your way.

 

You suppose the university is the next logical place to check, though that means you still need to narrow down which one.

 

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