CHAPTER 1

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THE SOUL OF A SHADOW!

*:･ﾟ✧

Why did Marc Spector disappear off the face of the Earth and leave his loved ones fumbling in the dark, utterly clueless as to his whereabouts; his well-being?

Corbin had mused, pondered, and nearly wept over that exact question. No one came forward to resolve the conflict hammered down upon him and Layla, least of all Marc himself. It had been 2 weeks now since they last received any sign from him, and in the beginning of his tasteless evanescence — even before that — they'd come to the conclusion that it must've stemmed from his alter ego. The God whispering in his ear, and the pale suit masking him as a Vigilante. However, that was until the papers had arrived on their doorstep. Corbin thought he knew what it meant, it certainly represented what it stood for, but even though it gave both him and Layla a fright, the parchment remains empty as of yet.

"Are you ready to go?"

Layla saunters over to Corbin, a smile on her lips. He watches her for a moment and the pull of her mouth — in all of its halfhearted glory. "When am I not?"

'I know it's not, but it somehow feels...'

'Yeah...it does feel a little weird, but life doesn't stop here. Even when Marc's not around.'

"Well, look at you. Wow." Corbin pushes his formal-dressed self away from the kitchen counter. Their shared apartment is settled oh-so-very still, lives weighed down to half ever since Marc had stormed out with a bag thrown over his shoulder. The sky outside, beyond the sheets of glass, has been moderated to calmer hues all across France. Corbin's attention drops down as he takes a moment to really dig into his partner's attire. "I know I say this a lot, Layla, but as your outstanding boyfriend then I'm obligated to tell you that you look gorgeous," he hums with an eye-reaching smile, guiding the woman into the safety of his arms. "The jumpsuit is lovely."

"Thank you," Layla drawls slowly, teasingly, "you're not looking so bad yourself for someone who gets six hours of sleep nowadays." Her grin begins to fade. Hands vacating Corbin's black button-up shirt and caressing the darkened skin below his eyes with her thumbs, she has cupped his head with attentive care. Her head is tilted to the side. "What have they been saying lately? Your dreams, I mean."

"Honestly? Not much." Corbin gazes down at the woman he's embracing, the way her curls are framing her softened expression and the lines of her doting eyes. He's grateful to have met Layla all those years ago, to be in a future where they've stuck together through various tribulations. If not, the pressure on his shoulders would've never let up without her inquiries of concern. "I guess that's why I've been so restless these past few nights; things are beginning to stir up again. That I know of, anyway." With a drained heart, he catches her left hand and places a soft kiss near the rim of her wrist. Layla melts with his touch, two times over as he proceeds to her forehead. "We should get a move on. Date night won't go anywhere unless we do."

Corbin releases Layla with a meticulous prompt and starts forward. He grabs his coat in a diligent motion, before turning halfway around. "Keys...?"

The noisy item is hung on Layla's finger as she retrieves her jacket. Words of encouragement are sent her way, and in that split second she moves to enter the corridor, she stands silent on the threshold. There is a burning, irritated sensation over her shoulder. She's lured to glance over in that direction, the edge of the divorce papers Marc mailed to her, specifically, weeks ago shoved into a corner of the open-built kitchen. She had half a mind to throw them out the minute she laid her eyes on them, but something stopped her from doing so.

Anger, sadness, hopelessness, and perhaps longing? They're all adequate candidates for her dejection, most of all the latter. Once Layla saw past the terse wretchedness of Marc wanting to break off their marriage, she came to realize that those same papers were the last evidence of him basically existing, prior to wiping any and all contact with the residence housing her and Corbin. That and the fact that she's still hopeful enough to present him with the divorce papers once her and Corbin have tracked him down, to actually finish what Marc started.

✧ ✦ ✧

"Thank you for inviting me out." Hand in hand, Layla has propped an elbow upon the restaurant table they're currently dining at. "It was a really sweet and thoughtful gesture of you, Corbin, given how stressed out we've both been lately. I'm enjoying myself."

Refreshed with a glass of wine and a delicious meal, the air is teeming with a bittersweet sense to it. The lights of Paris are surged against the fluctuating traffic near their seating of choice, rattling utensils and chatter from the other patrons simmering in the background. It's practically a slice of heaven, a piece of respite for them to enjoy until it's time to face the struggles of life once again. "Me, too. I believe it's just what we needed for ourselves. All this concern is enough to give us both plenty of grey hairs and it's just a little too soon for that, babe." Corbin winks at Layla. He's entirely focused on her, their plates empty whilst he gently massages his girlfriend's hand.

Layla's tongue has started to coast her bottom lip. The gleam in her eyes have dimmed ever so faintly, and she begins to fiddle with the necklace Corbin had gifted her many years ago in a cheesy but earnest way to impress her: a piece of string which is adorned with a self-made pendant devised out of clay and glossed over with resin to seal it in. The Egyptian hieroglyph represents the sun rising over a mountain.

"Layla," Corbin utters, picking up on her distracted attitude, "what's wrong?"

"Oh," she gives out a long sigh, "um...it's just that..."

"Hey, something's clearly bothering you. I can tell. Whatever it is, you can talk to me."

Layla peers out across the street to implement a pause for herself, seeing no reason as to why she should hold back, thus uncorking her pent-up frustration at the one person who's making an effort to genuinely listen to her. "The divorce papers." She's firmly trained on Corbin's demeanor, and he tenses up quietly. "I saw you looking at them earlier... The envelope they were delivered in — I know you managed to trace it, but did you ask around?"

"I..." Corbin falls back in his chair, the cherishment he had found himself in crumbling apart.

The sleeve that contained the divorce papers was now three weeks old. In the first week, neither Corbin nor Layla had any intention to heed it but instead call Marc up as if their lives depended on it, and he'd barely brought any conclusion with him. It wasn't until the second week that Layla had independently tried to communicate with Marc in hopes of receiving some type of closure. He did not answer her in any capacity. Marc was gone, his phone either turned off or thrown out. With that, one can only assume you were being ghosted on or abandoned. However, when the third week came up, Corbin and Layla couldn't fend off the thought that Marc might be in danger. Thus the search began. And it had become a somewhat loathsome business altogether, all in order for a simple moment of confrontation.

"Yes, I did get around to it," Corbin imparts to her eventually, "but there's barely any trail left to be picked up on, Layla. It began and ended at the post office. I'd bet my left lung that Marc isn't even where we speculate him to be." Corbin hunches forward again, hands wrung together on the table upon seeing his partner grimace. "Honey, we promised each other we wouldn't discuss Marc anymore. Not until we found him."

"But we're doing it now, anyway. Again," Layla points out, anything but softly. She was honing in on the dents of the matter once more, that familiar stubbornness rising up. "I've seen the look on your face, Corbin, when you glance at the papers. Marc exclaimed that it wasn't working out for us for whatever reason, mysteriously vanished, and then left us scrapping for answers. We don't know if he's safe — he could be kidnapped again! What if he doesn't have the 'suit' like he's supposed to? It's... None of this is okay."

"Babe, I never said it was. I mean, this is Marc we're talking about. He's gotta be okay wherever he is." Corbin unwinds his stance, and taps the surface of the table. "Maybe...it all just became too much for him, you know? The whole Khonshu thing. You saw how he acted, how out of place he seemed that one week before bailing on us. I've never felt him so emotionally distant from any of us before. Not like that."

There's a hint of reluctance in Layla's posture. "So, you're implying...what? That he's out on deep water with this whole vigilante business...?"

"It wouldn't surprise me if he were. It can't just be one of Marc's brooding tantrums, not when he behaved like that. It has to be something else," Corbin asserts, earnestly.

"Then why wouldn't he just tell us? We're what he has, so there's no point in hiding anything from us."

Corbin has gathered his and Layla's hands in one another. He can closely study the anticipation written on her face now. It's all so unfair for the both of them, but even though Corbin would've loved nothing more than to yell at Marc at the top of his lungs, until the mountains of this planet shook, it would also be quite strenuous for him to resist engulfing the man in a soul-crushing hug. He may have crept his way around them, but with how easily Marc can delve into matters far beyond himself without realizing the consequences, it wouldn't be that complicated for death to turn to temptation and hunt him down.

"I agree with you," Corbin says, almost in a hush, "and I'm aware that Marc — the idiot that he is, kept a lid on his sentimentality sometimes but he always meant good by it. He was just too dumb to admit it when he needed to, you and I both know that. It's one of his many loveable flaws."

Layla inhales rather persistently as if she'd held her own breath, and swirls the leftover wine in her glass as Corbin is watching her take an eager sip from it. "This is such a mess," she mumbles, nudging a tangle of hair behind her ear. "I can't believe he would just run off on us like that. After everything we've been through."

"...I miss him, too," Corbin eases her, knowingly. This time he's ready to flatten the table over if he had to, all to soothingly stroke Layla's arm when her eyes are columned with his. He's still able to recall it, that inexplicable day Marc had fussed he was going to be absent for a while and then abruptly left with nothing for the two heartbroken people in his life to go on. Layla was furious at first, and then the tears came pouring out. The same could be applied to Corbin, who didn't show it all that much until he broke unapologetically down in the midst of Marc telling him — over the phone, that it was all for the better if he moved on with Layla.

The aforementioned woman's lips are pursed and then slacked just as quickly, urged along with a toothy smile when Corbin tilts closer to her. There is a lopsided twinkle in his eyes, one that is simply of the many things which she adores so passionately about him. There's a smile as well during their combined silence, but with how fast it's thrown out there and at her, in order to shroud his very own self-made mask of porcelain, she wondered for a moment if it would break were she to stare at it for too long.

"I love you, Layla. You're...incredible, and I'm so glad that you're here with me. And yes, that is the "wine" talking. I think I've had enough for tonight."

A tiny chuckle is vaulted into the blooming night and Layla's cheeks are bundled up together, reminding Corbin of a batch of apples left out to soak on a hot summer day. "Good...because I love you, too."

Corbin takes his eyes off of Layla. The curve of her intense but restorative smile is the last thing he wished to see before registering the pressure on his lips. It serves as a wonderful reminder of their brutal yet appealing lives yarned within a host of unison, once Corbin's digits come to instinctively support Layla's chin as her grip on his arm loosens on a value of trust. He can barely feel the tickling notion of her ringletted hair against his face. They both sink into the company of each other and the world tumbles away, far away, and though their elusive grief for the last person of their relationship declines for a second, they both know it's still there in the cavities of their 'being'.

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Corbin patrols an old dispute with his mind and dreams when everything is finally settled. Resting is as good for him as it is for any human being, but the nature in which he flows through unconsciousness would surely be scrutinized by others if they knew. The interstellar entity presents itself as a huge, tenebrosity mass of ink and tentacles; clusters of spheres pinpointing the tiny form that is Corbin's puny vessel of flesh and blood. If it possessed any configurations other than that, he wouldn't be privy to it. He wished Layla and Marc could behold it for themselves, watching it tower over one's trivial self amidst what could only be millions of stars, as if you weren't even meant to exist in the first place.

'I wonder what they would say if they could see you right now, old friend.'

The creature is observing Corbin in silence, not that there's any sound to begin with. It's a vicinity of quiet he's pushed to adapt to every single time his consciousness is whisked away. It nearly drove him mad the first time it happened, had he remained with the 'alien' any longer than he did back then.

Corbin's mother, when she was still..."alive", claimed she knew of this particular being playing around in the landscape of his mind's exposed points of weakness and sensitivity. She would forsake her routine of sleep in order to comfort him at night when he was a young teen, rocking him back and forth whilst answering his questions about what he cried as nightmares. From what he could piece together, only his mother had been prone to them in the same exact manner as he was, ever since she had been a little girl roaming about her childhood home. Eldread, she had named the cosmic presence as it offered her nothing except its attendance, and it had all been passed down to her son.

All of it.

'What do you want?'

'...Potential,' it answers.

Corbin's eyes are closed shut to expand the nagging influx of abstraction, and they steadily open to the accumulation of celestial regard. Eldread is a force to be reckoned with yet it appears to be incapable of verbal speech. Corbin had deduced for himself a long time ago that it transmits signals or something quite similar to it via a psychic bond, one he's been compactly tethered to ever since he was practically born. Therefore there is no distinct sound to the answers floating through time and space. Eldread has no reserve for any kind of voice whatsoever — what Corbin "hears" within his head is 'nothing'. He just knows.

'Eldread, you have your potential,' Corbin stresses through his mind. 'Just look at yourself! The things you're able to conjure up, the stuff you make me liable to, that's the essence of the word potential.'

'...Possession.'

'What the hell is that supposed to mean?...'

'...Evolution.'

Corbin squints up at the creature, as if that would physically decipher Eldread's riddle-like speech. It has always retained communication this way. There has never been a time wherein Eldread has produced a coherent sentence. There are only patterns of demand, and they never seem to make any sense to Corbin.

'Slumber,' Eldread announces, and the stars attentively give the illusion of a bright pulse which would obscure Corbin's heightened senses.

He inspires a sharp intake of air.

The reverie of Corbin's subconscious has him reviewing the ceiling of his bedroom. His eyes flutter, as if he'd slept with them wide open — unblinking, and the fatigue has struck him just now. Frowning and rubbing his face, Corbin permits himself a moment to consciously breathe. He fumbles through the dark, to his right. His hand faintly grazes the bottle of pills situated on the bedside table and then it ventures further than that; to the leatherbound object.

As quietly as possible, Corbin unfurls the curtain behind him just a bit as he rearranges himself to sit up in bed. The moonshine spilling in through the window lulls him to a falter. The light is dressed with a cold warmth, and Corbin can't help but wonder where Marc is right now in its presence: is he sleeping, or is he awake in these nightly hours?

Please let the idiot be safe, Corbin implores to the sky yet there's no response. He may retain supernatural aptitude, though he lacks the means to engage with Khonshu regardless of it. Marc had let his labyrinthine distaste for the Egyptian God of the Moon be known from time to time over the span of their interchanging relationship, even when it was a rare exchange in itself. He never did like mentioning his source of power or how he came to acquire it, although one would think the opposite with Marc being Khonshu's Avatar and all that technicality that goes with it.

The reflection has passed, however, and Corbin unwraps his Dream Journal. The as-of-yet unfinished entry is documented with his recent notions for tonight, personal or otherwise, so that he may conduct an analysis of it when dawn ultimately breaks out across the skyline. There is a brief sign of movement to Corbin's left which halts his scribbling. He flinches, and Layla writhes before twisting toward him. She mumbles incoherently in her sleep, softly smacking her lips as she traverses through layers of vague details and memories.

The sight distracts Corbin for a time, and his face splits with a smile.

What did I do to deserve such a cute woman in my life?

Layla's cheek is soft as Corbin strokes it. He's still a bit unfamiliar with him sharing his own bed since Layla and Marc occupied a separate bedroom together down the hallway. With Corbin's Insomnia and restlessness, he wasn't the most amazing man to sleep next to and, thus, he willingly retained a bedroom for himself until about a month ago. Layla couldn't handle the thought nor the act of sleeping alone to which Corbin understood, and he felt much safer with someone beside him despite his lack of sleep.

Corbin's knuckles brush shortly against Layla's naked torso before sheltering her with the slipped-off duvet. He spares a glimpse over her shoulder because of it, noting the Marceline Desbordes-Valmore poetry book forgotten on the edge of their bed.

Corbin is certain that what his own writing entails is far from poetry, though he supposed it could always make for a fine book if he was willing to share and sell it. He's not so decisive on that last part, but the pen and paper are spent for the night and Corbin has replaced them with his phone. He grumbles, ignoring the digital clock upon the fully-intact screen, and has found himself scouring through the list of messages exchanged between him and several contacts. The sleep-deprived man has absentmindedly scrolled through a specific length of a previous, one-sided conversation and his thumb jerks to a stop suddenly.

One of the highlighted boxes reads: Layla and I are worried sick about you so either call us or write us back, you buffoon!

Corbin's gaze strays upwards to fully acknowledge the receiver's name.

'Marc 🦆'.

author's note!
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look, don't get me wrong, i ADORE corbin x marc x layla but corbin x layla is fcking somthing istg !! and that dual hurt/comfort??? delicious 🍽

on a side note, and not that anyone asked, buuut i recently went shopping with my family — cut to me entering a jewellery shop looking for one or two necklace pendants. the lady behind the register brings out a selection and what do i SEE in front of me: a gold pendant in the shape of a crescent moon hanging downwards from the middle 💃🏻 EXACTLY like marc's crescent darts (aka that one poster of moon knight's hand holding that one weapon). did not hesitate to buy it and i am now a coincidental, proud owner of a moon knight crescent dart pendant look-alike wtf !! 💆🏻‍♀️✨🎉