fevereft

[fevereft]

charity song line-up (my favorites):

rock the cradle - holden laurence

spiders - martha hill

down by the water - pj harvey

my body's made of crushed little stars - mitski

charity - an april march

child psychology - black box recorder

broken waltz - holden laurence

the girl from ipanema - astrud gilberto

[fevereft]

favorite part of making stories is introducing your friends to your guy and then having them threaten to kill you over what youre about to make the guy go through

[fevereft]

aughghhhh the ocs. thinking about the ocs. reblog if you're thinbking about tghe ocs,,,,

[fevereft]

[fevereft]

@irreveries

yupppp another bowl of black orbs for breakfast

[fevereft]

charity and ezra (i have thoughts)

[fevereft]

fresh spearmint snow.

TINDERBOX / charen. wc: 2.4k. contains: modern and university au, allusions to suicide and abuse, charity-centric, religious guilt and trauma, the americanized college experience (i write what i know), this very well may be terrible since i'm sleep-deprived, i haven't figured out the ezra situation yet

for @irreveries as part of our unofficial writing exchange ^^

“Fuck all of them, anyway.”

Charity Graves does not know who she is cursing. Vaguely all of them. Normally she’d curse herself, find some way to shoulder the blame, but her counselor’s been stressing the importance of redirection. Ergo: fuck all of them.

She sounds unlike herself, whispering those words. The sun is setting over the student parking lot, casting the familiar tarmac in shades of orange and yellow. It’s far too pretty out for what’s happened; the ambulance idles by the curb, its sirens dead and still. Her elbows and knees are growing numb from being pressed together, a direct consequence of being crouched for so long. But she cannot move, and she most definitely cannot alleviate the pressure now, not when she relies on it to stay together. 

The only evidence of her inner turmoil is the minute worry of her lip. Other students pass by on their way to classes and whatnot, but others unabashedly linger, speculating and gossipping, much like the seasoned parishioners of the Church. She cannot blame them for being concerned. Curiosity is human nature — but it’s all becoming too much to handle — and that is a feat in and of itself; Charity can’t remember the last time she couldn’t handle life’s misgivings. 

The young woman discerns many whispers. 

“The problem’s on the second floor, I think. Security stopped me from going up the stairs and told me to take the elevator. I hope everyone’s okay, I’m too scared to head up to my room right now…”

“D’ya think it’s another suicide?”

“Dude, you can’t say things like that!”

“They’re taking a long time. They could be up there raking Tyler over the coals for getting drunk and butt-dialing emergency services again. All the RAs are sniffing around.”

“I didn’t see many paramedics…”  

Charity doesn’t think of herself as very intuitive, but something evil gnaws away at the lining of her stomach, causing the bile there to breach and bubble. Something is wrong, and this something is also telling her that the endangered person in question is already gone. No one’s rushing them out on a stretcher, and a heady silence has descended upon this part of campus. Her emerald bangs split unevenly across her forehead — an unfortunate quirk, further worsened by the heat. 

She cannot bring herself to go inside, to push past the first responders towards her shared suite. A student is rotting on the second floor. They are gone, and she feels the ensuing grief; she lives it. She lives it like she’s committing to residency inside of a waking nightmare. 

Her phone buzzes in the pocket of her jeans. Still, despite the eerie timing, she does not flinch as she fishes it out the denim to take stock of the offending notification. 

…

Soren [7:39 pm] sociology ended

…

Very informative, Soren. 

Charity understands that’s how he communicates, stating things as they are with just enough wiggle room for interpretation. A particularly ludicrous example is the time the arsonist in question omitted the detail of smoke emanating from a smuggled-in hotplate, only texting her something along the lines of you should come back please. Suffice it to say, it’s always better to press further over the phone, where she cannot as easily read her best friend. Responses are always timely, so that’s a positive.

…

Charity [7:41 pm] Got it. Are you headed back now? I’ll meet you halfway

Soren [7:41 pm] yes. are you ok

Charity [7:42 pm] Yep! I’m omw

…

It wouldn’t be good for him to witness all this commotion. Charity’s already standing, ready to busy herself with another task, ready to distract. Soren’s got steel to him, under all that fleece, but didn’t both of them enroll in university to escape? They came here to escape the stench of death, the constant grief of losing acquaintances to harsh conditions and mistreatment. 

Abuse, her counselor at the student center would correct. It was abuse, not just mistreatment, Charity.

However, that’s neither here nor there. She navigates the sprawling sidewalks, weaving in between the menagerie of buildings towards Fateful Corner. She wants to do more, always, all of the time, and that’s where her philanthropic heart lies; no matter how impeded she feels by the imaginary walls of her past captors, she’ll get better. She has to, but she must not wantonly show weakness either. 

The world is her oyster, even if one of her floormates is dead. No longer must her heart bleed for others she does not know. But… where should the line be drawn? How much is someone supposed to care? Because if you care about something, aren’t you supposed to care about everything? It’s only fair. 

Life’s not fair. That’s why she put up with everything for so long. Her routine was to suffer as she grew acquainted with helplessness — and too, her secret companion. What matters now is that Charity pulled herself and Soren out of that place. She would not be wrong to focus on him and her education, but now that she’s free…

There’s no excuse why she didn’t get to know that floormate, why she didn’t recklessly out of her way for them. She let them pass her by, and now they’re gone. 

She hasn’t changed one bit since the transition, has she? She’s not getting better. She’s still pretending to be impotent, even when she’s long skittered out from under her father’s thumb.

That line of thinking is swiftly interrupted as she almost collides with a passing car. It would be, for lack of a better word — bad, if she ended up injured, or even indisposed, right before finals. It’s the fabled calm before the storm right now. Not quite time for cramming, but the presence of normal assignments is about to grind to a halt in favor of study guides and prepwork. 

Maybe that’s why Soren stayed out a bit longer than he usually does, loath as he is to leave her side; it seems no one is immune to exam fear-mongering. Hm.

Charity spots him soon after, a blip in the distance, then an unmistakable figure. That same old turtleneck hugs him tight, and she finds herself inwardly grimacing; it’s way too stuffy for such high fashion, evident by the sweat clinging to his face. He’s wearing those khakis that are wrinkled just enough to be charming, waiting patiently with his hands stuffed in his pockets. There is nothing to do but close the remaining distance, and continue pushing onwards, so that’s what she does.

Those charcoal eyes used to be so finicky, she thinks. There was a time when she couldn’t discern what emotion he was tussling with, what brand of discomfort he was in on which particular day. Only when the sun hit them just right, often through that shattered window partially sealed with gaffer tape, could she make out something in them besides emptiness.

Over time, Soren’s micro-expressions became easier to read. And now that she’s an expert, or at least proficient, she can make out the undeniable concern fleshing out his demeanor.

“Are we going back now?” he asks. 

“No,” she responds artfully. “There’s no reason to. Let’s go get snowcones.” 

The deviation in routine won’t make waves if she doesn’t let it. The young woman reaches over to thread her fingers through her friend’s, subsequently squeezing his hand. Even when it’s sweltering, he’s still so cold. He’s always been like that. Whether holding her close after creeping into her bed without a sound, resting his head on her shoulder while she reads aloud, or attempting to mimic warmth with the futility of a mountain yeti, Soren remains frigid. 

“Charity?”

“The stand’s closing soon!” 

And so she moves on, him in tow. With every step, she feels the suppression building up to some kind of revolt in her chest, no matter how valiantly she imminently battles the feeling. Would shaved ice really remedy it? No. But she must try, or else she will fall apart. 

The nondescript shack near the interstate is a bit of a lengthy walk from their current position. It’s past all the tobacco-free campus signs, the university’s signature colors, and student life in general. Upon arriving, dusk is a present haze, the faintest of stars beginning to peek out from their hiding places. They’re much dimmer here, in the midst of so much light pollution — city life may house many precious commodities, but such leisure can almost be forgotten in favor of what stars should truly look like. 

They should be like sequins affixed to the blanket of night, shining so brightly that they almost burn one’s eyes; lamplighters should blow out their crafts and lament their occupational imitation of what glimmers above. 

Charity doesn’t realize how quiet she is until she hears Soren, the person she forgot was there, begin to order for the both of them. His voice is soft and diminutive. She can’t help but wonder if his voice would’ve been more assured, more confident, if she hauled him out of hell much earlier. These thoughts will not abate, and they will continue to haunt her like vengeful spirits. 

“Raspberry.”

She blinks. “What?”

“Your order,” elaborates Soren. His back that was previously turned to her is no more, though the sight is still burned into her retinas from staring too hard. He’s already paid, holding the two snowcones in his hands gently, though even in the darkness, she can see that the tips of his fingers are turning pink from the cold of the treats. How long was he waiting for her to respond?

She takes her designated snowcone — the one in his right hand. Her order of red syrup is vibrantly crimson in comparison to his usual spearmint; the thing looks barely flavored, like its master just grated a block of ice into a cup. In fact, that’s what Soren originally asked for, months ago, because his stomach could barely tolerate anything else — let alone a sugar overload. The eventual choice of Fresh Spearmint Snow was a bold one. It became his usual after one of these routine visits manifested a leap of faith. Charity was very proud of him for trying something new.

Something new. Choices. It all comes down to what one does and what one doesn’t. 

Snowcones are a way of life here. It’s such a staple of studentry. Can she imagine living without that luxury? Yes. But Charity went down the harder route of embracing change; she chose to run through the isolated cobbled streets, sprinting hard towards the border with a few coins in her pocket that she definitely shouldn’t have stolen. 

It was nighttime then, and instead of sneaking Soren out for a stroll — a temporary escape, the young woman resolved for a more permanent solution — she wobbily ducked into a desolate phone booth and dialed the number she’d memorized off a protester’s sign. And that was that. No more arranged marriages under the guise of religious freedom, no more mold-infested chapels and clandestine rendezvous and heavily scrutinized choir performances. 

(The city’s media was practically itching to fork over helpful resources, to offer the both of them new lives and something close to protection. In exchange for answers to all of their invasive questions, of course.)

Charity examines her dessert, then Soren’s. Expectant charcoal eyes wheedle at her. 

“Come on, let’s sit,” she offers, glancing towards the beat-up wooden bench just to the wayside. It’s probably infested with termites, and it has about a hundred initials carved into it, but it’s charming. Its rough-hewn nature reminds her too much of Wickfeld. When wood would rot, people would live with it. When jumping gnats would crawl and writhe up the walls, Charity would take her velvet-lined hairbrush and smack them dead, examining their corpses stuck to the makeshift lintroller with faint guilt.

“It’s better this way,” Soren interrupts her nostalgic spiraling with his small voice.  

“What, sitting instead of standing?”

The young woman doesn’t pause, ambling over to the bench and sitting, setting her snowcone down and squinting at the glowing streetlights in the distance. Soren doesn’t join her, and though he walks like a ghost might, her gut tells her that he hasn’t moved an inch.

“No,” he says. “Coming here — that’s the best choice you could’ve made. Better here than there.”

She knows that he’s speaking from the heart, telling the truth; he hardly has any reason to lie. Having said that, Soren’s motivations are always…

“You still would’ve supported me, even if I chose to do nothing. Even if I let us rot there.” Charity studies her scarred hands, watching the way that her fingers tremble almost imperceptibly. It’s just from the ice, she convinces herself, pull it together right now. “You… you just care about me.”

He doesn’t deny it; he hardly has any reason to lie.

Then he is upon her, the old bench creaking under his weight as he settles close. She cannot look at him. Even though she is strong, and she does not crack easily, it doesn’t mean that a sentiment so close to I love you no matter what can’t send her tumbling over the precipice.

Soren doesn’t need to say it, he doesn’t need to say anything at all. Her best friend’s shoulder tickles hers — and then, in her peripherals, she observes as he grasps the plastic spoon sticking out of his respective snowcone, the now-congealed substance extracted — before he brings the bite to her lips.

The utensil hovers in front of her. A peace offering or an attempt at comfort, reminiscent of the days when he couldn’t bring himself to eat or even move, and Charity would spoonfeed him flavorless oatmeal or grits.

Without thinking, and before her lips can tremble also, she accepts it. The saccharine taste floods her mouth and blooms on her tongue, as if the sweetness is awfully and wholly attempting to cover up her ignoble faults. Fresh Spearmint Snow tastes terrible. She can only stomach a few bites.

“We could head back,” Soren suggests, not unkind. 

Her brow furrows, accompanied by an onset of nausea. The ambulance is probably still there.

“No,” she decides, embarking upon the inevitable path of choice once more. “Just… let’s stay here a bit longer. Please. Aren’t the stars pretty tonight?”

It’s a weak attempt at diversion, but she punctuates it by finally facing him. Soren is staring only at her, his slightly chapped lips parted and his long tresses illuminated in the graceful, pale moonlight. 

“Yes. They are.”

[fevereft]

anyways. spiderman au w your f/os. u decide who is who

[fevereft]

ezra + 🧼 "Do you prefer to take a shower during the morning or evening? Do you like taking baths? What's your favorite scent of shower gel?"

“I’m what one would call a morning person. Here in Wickfeld — and anywhere else, I suppose — one must rise early. But it’s especially important to seize the day in our town. Our land may be selective, and our soil may be poor, and we may have to conserve water by adhering to regimented, modest showering schedules, but the most important thing to glean from our piety is that we are still here, and we are still given a chance to breathe at all. It is paramount that one does not squander this great kindness. Those who do will surely regret it.”

A pause.  “Shower gel? Oh, you must be thinking of the infused oils that’ve recently risen to popularity. I’m usually not one to go with the crowd — my reputation precedes me just fine — but I do endorse the indulgence. The oils are not quite cosmetic; they’re easily foraged. Instead of bartering for them, I forage them directly from the source — the local flora. Nature and solitude are essential for introspection. I’m partial to honeysuckle. How about you? Do you have a preference?”

[ask game]

[fevereft]

🌻 random in-character questions

an ask game where, instead of replying from your perspective, you answer as if it's your original character/muse/self-insert/etc. answering the question ✨

🌧️ "When outside during the rain, do you use a raincoat, an umbrella, or something else? Do you enjoy rain?"

🍳 "Are you a good cook? Do you enjoy cooking? What's your favorite thing to cook?"

🧼 "Do you prefer to take a shower during the morning or evening? Do you like taking baths? What's your favorite scent of shower gel?"

❌ "Would you do something that someone told you not to do? Why? Is there someone you'd actually listen to more than everyone else?"

🏳️ "What will make you give up?"

📖 "What kinds of books do you read? Do you have a lot of time to read?"

⛸️ "What's your favorite kind of sport? Do you follow sports closely or don't care at all?"

😷 "How often do you get sick? Do you stay at home when sick or do you end up going outside to, say, get some groceries? If you go outside, would you wear a mask?"

🥼 "Do you have to wear a uniform somewhere? If yes, how do you feel about it? If no, what kind of uniform would you love to wear?"

🥂 "How do you celebrate you accomplishments?"

🛴 "What's your preferred way of getting somewhere - own car, public transport, a bicycle, or something else? How well do you follow the traffic rules?"

🕰️ "What do you use to check what time it is?"

🥰 "What would make you feel happy and loved?"

🐇 "Do you believe in other dimensions?"

🎺 "What kind of music do you mostly listen to? Do you know how to play an instrument, and if not, which one would you want to learn to play?"

💽 "Do you collect anything? Why?"

🧋 "What's your go-to thing to drink? Do you prefer cold or hot drinks?"

[fevereft]

fresh spearmint snow.

TINDERBOX / charen. wc: 2.4k. contains: modern and university au, allusions to suicide and abuse, charity-centric, religious guilt and trauma, the americanized college experience (i write what i know), this very well may be terrible since i'm sleep-deprived, i haven't figured out the ezra situation yet

for @irreveries as part of our unofficial writing exchange ^^

“Fuck all of them, anyway.”

Charity Graves does not know who she is cursing. Vaguely all of them. Normally she’d curse herself, find some way to shoulder the blame, but her counselor’s been stressing the importance of redirection. Ergo: fuck all of them.

She sounds unlike herself, whispering those words. The sun is setting over the student parking lot, casting the familiar tarmac in shades of orange and yellow. It’s far too pretty out for what’s happened; the ambulance idles by the curb, its sirens dead and still. Her elbows and knees are growing numb from being pressed together, a direct consequence of being crouched for so long. But she cannot move, and she most definitely cannot alleviate the pressure now, not when she relies on it to stay together. 

The only evidence of her inner turmoil is the minute worry of her lip. Other students pass by on their way to classes and whatnot, but others unabashedly linger, speculating and gossipping, much like the seasoned parishioners of the Church. She cannot blame them for being concerned. Curiosity is human nature — but it’s all becoming too much to handle — and that is a feat in and of itself; Charity can’t remember the last time she couldn’t handle life’s misgivings. 

The young woman discerns many whispers. 

“The problem’s on the second floor, I think. Security stopped me from going up the stairs and told me to take the elevator. I hope everyone’s okay, I’m too scared to head up to my room right now…”

“D’ya think it’s another suicide?”

“Dude, you can’t say things like that!”

“They’re taking a long time. They could be up there raking Tyler over the coals for getting drunk and butt-dialing emergency services again. All the RAs are sniffing around.”

“I didn’t see many paramedics…”  

Charity doesn’t think of herself as very intuitive, but something evil gnaws away at the lining of her stomach, causing the bile there to breach and bubble. Something is wrong, and this something is also telling her that the endangered person in question is already gone. No one’s rushing them out on a stretcher, and a heady silence has descended upon this part of campus. Her emerald bangs split unevenly across her forehead — an unfortunate quirk, further worsened by the heat. 

She cannot bring herself to go inside, to push past the first responders towards her shared suite. A student is rotting on the second floor. They are gone, and she feels the ensuing grief; she lives it. She lives it like she’s committing to residency inside of a waking nightmare. 

Her phone buzzes in the pocket of her jeans. Still, despite the eerie timing, she does not flinch as she fishes it out the denim to take stock of the offending notification. 

…

Soren [7:39 pm] sociology ended

…

Very informative, Soren. 

Charity understands that’s how he communicates, stating things as they are with just enough wiggle room for interpretation. A particularly ludicrous example is the time the arsonist in question omitted the detail of smoke emanating from a smuggled-in hotplate, only texting her something along the lines of you should come back please. Suffice it to say, it’s always better to press further over the phone, where she cannot as easily read her best friend. Responses are always timely, so that’s a positive.

…

Charity [7:41 pm] Got it. Are you headed back now? I’ll meet you halfway

Soren [7:41 pm] yes. are you ok

Charity [7:42 pm] Yep! I’m omw

…

It wouldn’t be good for him to witness all this commotion. Charity’s already standing, ready to busy herself with another task, ready to distract. Soren’s got steel to him, under all that fleece, but didn’t both of them enroll in university to escape? They came here to escape the stench of death, the constant grief of losing acquaintances to harsh conditions and mistreatment. 

Abuse, her counselor at the student center would correct. It was abuse, not just mistreatment, Charity.

However, that’s neither here nor there. She navigates the sprawling sidewalks, weaving in between the menagerie of buildings towards Fateful Corner. She wants to do more, always, all of the time, and that’s where her philanthropic heart lies; no matter how impeded she feels by the imaginary walls of her past captors, she’ll get better. She has to, but she must not wantonly show weakness either. 

The world is her oyster, even if one of her floormates is dead. No longer must her heart bleed for others she does not know. But… where should the line be drawn? How much is someone supposed to care? Because if you care about something, aren’t you supposed to care about everything? It’s only fair. 

Life’s not fair. That’s why she put up with everything for so long. Her routine was to suffer as she grew acquainted with helplessness — and too, her secret companion. What matters now is that Charity pulled herself and Soren out of that place. She would not be wrong to focus on him and her education, but now that she’s free…

There’s no excuse why she didn’t get to know that floormate, why she didn’t recklessly out of her way for them. She let them pass her by, and now they’re gone. 

She hasn’t changed one bit since the transition, has she? She’s not getting better. She’s still pretending to be impotent, even when she’s long skittered out from under her father’s thumb.

That line of thinking is swiftly interrupted as she almost collides with a passing car. It would be, for lack of a better word — bad, if she ended up injured, or even indisposed, right before finals. It’s the fabled calm before the storm right now. Not quite time for cramming, but the presence of normal assignments is about to grind to a halt in favor of study guides and prepwork. 

Maybe that’s why Soren stayed out a bit longer than he usually does, loath as he is to leave her side; it seems no one is immune to exam fear-mongering. Hm.

Charity spots him soon after, a blip in the distance, then an unmistakable figure. That same old turtleneck hugs him tight, and she finds herself inwardly grimacing; it’s way too stuffy for such high fashion, evident by the sweat clinging to his face. He’s wearing those khakis that are wrinkled just enough to be charming, waiting patiently with his hands stuffed in his pockets. There is nothing to do but close the remaining distance, and continue pushing onwards, so that’s what she does.

Those charcoal eyes used to be so finicky, she thinks. There was a time when she couldn’t discern what emotion he was tussling with, what brand of discomfort he was in on which particular day. Only when the sun hit them just right, often through that shattered window partially sealed with gaffer tape, could she make out something in them besides emptiness.

Over time, Soren’s micro-expressions became easier to read. And now that she’s an expert, or at least proficient, she can make out the undeniable concern fleshing out his demeanor.

“Are we going back now?” he asks. 

“No,” she responds artfully. “There’s no reason to. Let’s go get snowcones.” 

The deviation in routine won’t make waves if she doesn’t let it. The young woman reaches over to thread her fingers through her friend’s, subsequently squeezing his hand. Even when it’s sweltering, he’s still so cold. He’s always been like that. Whether holding her close after creeping into her bed without a sound, resting his head on her shoulder while she reads aloud, or attempting to mimic warmth with the futility of a mountain yeti, Soren remains frigid. 

“Charity?”

“The stand’s closing soon!” 

And so she moves on, him in tow. With every step, she feels the suppression building up to some kind of revolt in her chest, no matter how valiantly she imminently battles the feeling. Would shaved ice really remedy it? No. But she must try, or else she will fall apart. 

The nondescript shack near the interstate is a bit of a lengthy walk from their current position. It’s past all the tobacco-free campus signs, the university’s signature colors, and student life in general. Upon arriving, dusk is a present haze, the faintest of stars beginning to peek out from their hiding places. They’re much dimmer here, in the midst of so much light pollution — city life may house many precious commodities, but such leisure can almost be forgotten in favor of what stars should truly look like. 

They should be like sequins affixed to the blanket of night, shining so brightly that they almost burn one’s eyes; lamplighters should blow out their crafts and lament their occupational imitation of what glimmers above. 

Charity doesn’t realize how quiet she is until she hears Soren, the person she forgot was there, begin to order for the both of them. His voice is soft and diminutive. She can’t help but wonder if his voice would’ve been more assured, more confident, if she hauled him out of hell much earlier. These thoughts will not abate, and they will continue to haunt her like vengeful spirits. 

“Raspberry.”

She blinks. “What?”

“Your order,” elaborates Soren. His back that was previously turned to her is no more, though the sight is still burned into her retinas from staring too hard. He’s already paid, holding the two snowcones in his hands gently, though even in the darkness, she can see that the tips of his fingers are turning pink from the cold of the treats. How long was he waiting for her to respond?

She takes her designated snowcone — the one in his right hand. Her order of red syrup is vibrantly crimson in comparison to his usual spearmint; the thing looks barely flavored, like its master just grated a block of ice into a cup. In fact, that’s what Soren originally asked for, months ago, because his stomach could barely tolerate anything else — let alone a sugar overload. The eventual choice of Fresh Spearmint Snow was a bold one. It became his usual after one of these routine visits manifested a leap of faith. Charity was very proud of him for trying something new.

Something new. Choices. It all comes down to what one does and what one doesn’t. 

Snowcones are a way of life here. It’s such a staple of studentry. Can she imagine living without that luxury? Yes. But Charity went down the harder route of embracing change; she chose to run through the isolated cobbled streets, sprinting hard towards the border with a few coins in her pocket that she definitely shouldn’t have stolen. 

It was nighttime then, and instead of sneaking Soren out for a stroll — a temporary escape, the young woman resolved for a more permanent solution — she wobbily ducked into a desolate phone booth and dialed the number she’d memorized off a protester’s sign. And that was that. No more arranged marriages under the guise of religious freedom, no more mold-infested chapels and clandestine rendezvous and heavily scrutinized choir performances. 

(The city’s media was practically itching to fork over helpful resources, to offer the both of them new lives and something close to protection. In exchange for answers to all of their invasive questions, of course.)

Charity examines her dessert, then Soren’s. Expectant charcoal eyes wheedle at her. 

“Come on, let’s sit,” she offers, glancing towards the beat-up wooden bench just to the wayside. It’s probably infested with termites, and it has about a hundred initials carved into it, but it’s charming. Its rough-hewn nature reminds her too much of Wickfeld. When wood would rot, people would live with it. When jumping gnats would crawl and writhe up the walls, Charity would take her velvet-lined hairbrush and smack them dead, examining their corpses stuck to the makeshift lintroller with faint guilt.

“It’s better this way,” Soren interrupts her nostalgic spiraling with his small voice.  

“What, sitting instead of standing?”

The young woman doesn’t pause, ambling over to the bench and sitting, setting her snowcone down and squinting at the glowing streetlights in the distance. Soren doesn’t join her, and though he walks like a ghost might, her gut tells her that he hasn’t moved an inch.

“No,” he says. “Coming here — that’s the best choice you could’ve made. Better here than there.”

She knows that he’s speaking from the heart, telling the truth; he hardly has any reason to lie. Having said that, Soren’s motivations are always…

“You still would’ve supported me, even if I chose to do nothing. Even if I let us rot there.” Charity studies her scarred hands, watching the way that her fingers tremble almost imperceptibly. It’s just from the ice, she convinces herself, pull it together right now. “You… you just care about me.”

He doesn’t deny it; he hardly has any reason to lie.

Then he is upon her, the old bench creaking under his weight as he settles close. She cannot look at him. Even though she is strong, and she does not crack easily, it doesn’t mean that a sentiment so close to I love you no matter what can’t send her tumbling over the precipice.

Soren doesn’t need to say it, he doesn’t need to say anything at all. Her best friend’s shoulder tickles hers — and then, in her peripherals, she observes as he grasps the plastic spoon sticking out of his respective snowcone, the now-congealed substance extracted — before he brings the bite to her lips.

The utensil hovers in front of her. A peace offering or an attempt at comfort, reminiscent of the days when he couldn’t bring himself to eat or even move, and Charity would spoonfeed him flavorless oatmeal or grits.

Without thinking, and before her lips can tremble also, she accepts it. The saccharine taste floods her mouth and blooms on her tongue, as if the sweetness is awfully and wholly attempting to cover up her ignoble faults. Fresh Spearmint Snow tastes terrible. She can only stomach a few bites.

“We could head back,” Soren suggests, not unkind. 

Her brow furrows, accompanied by an onset of nausea. The ambulance is probably still there.

“No,” she decides, embarking upon the inevitable path of choice once more. “Just… let’s stay here a bit longer. Please. Aren’t the stars pretty tonight?”

It’s a weak attempt at diversion, but she punctuates it by finally facing him. Soren is staring only at her, his slightly chapped lips parted and his long tresses illuminated in the graceful, pale moonlight. 

“Yes. They are.”

[fevereft]

soren probably splashes water on his face in the mornings and has flawless skin. life is unfair

[fevereft]

Tag the OC that is not coping with That One Thing as well as they think they are

[fevereft]

fresh spearmint snow.

TINDERBOX / charen. wc: 2.4k. contains: modern and university au, allusions to suicide and abuse, charity-centric, religious guilt and trauma, the americanized college experience (i write what i know), this very well may be terrible i am sleep-deprived

for @irreveries as part of our unofficial writing exchange ^^

“Fuck all of them, anyway.”

Charity Graves does not know who she is cursing. Vaguely all of them. Normally she’d curse herself, find some way to shoulder the blame, but her counselor’s been stressing the importance of redirection. Ergo: fuck all of them.

She sounds unlike herself, whispering those words. The sun is setting over the student parking lot, casting the familiar tarmac in shades of orange and yellow. It’s far too pretty out for what’s happened; the ambulance idles by the curb, its sirens dead and still. Her elbows and knees are growing numb from being pressed together, a direct consequence of being crouched for so long. But she cannot move, and she most definitely cannot alleviate the pressure now, not when she relies on it to stay together. 

The only evidence of her inner turmoil is the minute worry of her lip. Other students pass by on their way to classes and whatnot, but others unabashedly linger, speculating and gossipping, much like the seasoned parishioners of the Church. She cannot blame them for being concerned. Curiosity is human nature — but it’s all becoming too much to handle — and that is a feat in and of itself; Charity can’t remember the last time she couldn’t handle life’s misgivings. 

The young woman discerns many whispers. 

“The problem’s on the second floor, I think. Security stopped me from going up the stairs and told me to take the elevator. I hope everyone’s okay, I’m too scared to head up to my room right now…”

“D’ya think it’s another suicide?”

“Dude, you can’t say things like that!”

“They’re taking a long time. They could be up there raking Tyler over the coals for getting drunk and butt-dialing emergency services again. All the RAs are sniffing around.”

“I didn’t see many paramedics…”  

Charity doesn’t think of herself as very intuitive, but something evil gnaws away at the lining of her stomach, causing the bile there to breach and bubble. Something is wrong, and this something is also telling her that the endangered person in question is already gone. No one’s rushing them out on a stretcher, and a heady silence has descended upon this part of campus. Her emerald bangs split unevenly across her forehead — an unfortunate quirk, further worsened by the heat. 

She cannot bring herself to go inside, to push past the first responders towards her shared suite. A student is rotting on the second floor. They are gone, and she feels the ensuing grief; she lives it. She lives it like she’s committing to residency inside of a waking nightmare. 

Her phone buzzes in the pocket of her jeans. Still, despite the eerie timing, she does not flinch as she fishes it out the denim to take stock of the offending notification. 

…

Soren [7:39 pm] sociology ended

…

Very informative, Soren. 

Charity understands that’s how he communicates, stating things as they are with just enough wiggle room for interpretation. A particularly ludicrous example is the time the arsonist in question omitted the detail of smoke emanating from a smuggled-in hotplate, only texting her something along the lines of you should come back please. Suffice it to say, it’s always better to press further over the phone, where she cannot as easily read her best friend. Responses are always timely, so that’s a positive.

…

Charity [7:41 pm] Got it. Are you headed back now? I’ll meet you halfway

Soren [7:41 pm] yes. are you ok

Charity [7:42 pm] Yep! I’m omw

…

It wouldn’t be good for him to witness all this commotion. Charity’s already standing, ready to busy herself with another task, ready to distract. Soren’s got steel to him, under all that fleece, but didn’t both of them enroll in university to escape? They came here to escape the stench of death, the constant grief of losing acquaintances to harsh conditions and mistreatment. 

Abuse, her counselor at the student center would correct. It was abuse, not just mistreatment, Charity.

However, that’s neither here nor there. She navigates the sprawling sidewalks, weaving in between the menagerie of buildings towards Fateful Corner. She wants to do more, always, all of the time, and that’s where her philanthropic heart lies; no matter how impeded she feels by the imaginary walls of her past captors, she’ll get better. She has to, but she must not wantonly show weakness either. 

The world is her oyster, even if one of her floormates is dead. No longer must her heart bleed for others she does not know. But… where should the line be drawn? How much is someone supposed to care? Because if you care about something, aren’t you supposed to care about everything? It’s only fair. 

Life’s not fair. That’s why she put up with everything for so long. Her routine was to suffer as she grew acquainted with helplessness — and too, her secret companion. What matters now is that Charity pulled herself and Soren out of that place. She would not be wrong to focus on him and her education, but now that she’s free…

There’s no excuse why she didn’t get to know that floormate, why she didn’t recklessly out of her way for them. She let them pass her by, and now they’re gone. 

She hasn’t changed one bit since the transition, has she? She’s not getting better. She’s still pretending to be impotent, even when she’s long skittered out from under her father’s thumb.

That line of thinking is swiftly interrupted as she almost collides with a passing car. It would be, for lack of a better word — bad, if she ended up injured, or even indisposed, right before finals. It’s the fabled calm before the storm right now. Not quite time for cramming, but the presence of normal assignments is about to grind to a halt in favor of study guides and prepwork. 

Maybe that’s why Soren stayed out a bit longer than he usually does, loath as he is to leave her side; it seems no one is immune to exam fear-mongering. Hm.

Charity spots him soon after, a blip in the distance, then an unmistakable figure. That same old turtleneck hugs him tight, and she finds herself inwardly grimacing; it’s way too stuffy for such high fashion, evident by the sweat clinging to his face. He’s wearing those khakis that are wrinkled just enough to be charming, waiting patiently with his hands stuffed in his pockets. There is nothing to do but close the remaining distance, and continue pushing onwards, so that’s what she does.

Those charcoal eyes used to be so finicky, she thinks. There was a time when she couldn’t discern what emotion he was tussling with, what brand of discomfort he was in on which particular day. Only when the sun hit them just right, often through that shattered window partially sealed with gaffer tape, could she make out something in them besides emptiness.

Over time, Soren’s micro-expressions became easier to read. And now that she’s an expert, or at least proficient, she can make out the undeniable concern fleshing out his demeanor.

“Are we going back now?” he asks. 

“No,” she responds artfully. “There’s no reason to. Let’s go get snowcones.” 

The deviation in routine won’t make waves if she doesn’t let it. The young woman reaches over to thread her fingers through her friend’s, subsequently squeezing his hand. Even when it’s sweltering, he’s still so cold. He’s always been like that. Whether holding her close after creeping into her bed without a sound, resting his head on her shoulder while she reads aloud, or attempting to mimic warmth with the futility of a mountain yeti, Soren remains frigid. 

“Charity?”

“The stand’s closing soon!” 

And so she moves on, him in tow. With every step, she feels the suppression building up to some kind of revolt in her chest, no matter how valiantly she imminently battles the feeling. Would shaved ice really remedy it? No. But she must try, or else she will fall apart. 

The nondescript shack near the interstate is a bit of a lengthy walk from their current position. It’s past all the tobacco-free campus signs, the university’s signature colors, and student life in general. Upon arriving, dusk is a present haze, the faintest of stars beginning to peek out from their hiding places. They’re much dimmer here, in the midst of so much light pollution — city life may house many precious commodities, but such leisure can almost be forgotten in favor of what stars should truly look like. 

They should be like sequins affixed to the blanket of night, shining so brightly that they almost burn one’s eyes; lamplighters should blow out their crafts and lament their occupational imitation of what glimmers above. 

Charity doesn’t realize how quiet she is until she hears Soren, the person she forgot was there, begin to order for the both of them. His voice is soft and diminutive. She can’t help but wonder if his voice would’ve been more assured, more confident, if she hauled him out of hell much earlier. These thoughts will not abate, and they will continue to haunt her like vengeful spirits. 

“Raspberry.”

She blinks. “What?”

“Your order,” elaborates Soren. His back that was previously turned to her is no more, though the sight is still burned into her retinas from staring too hard. He’s already paid, holding the two snowcones in his hands gently, though even in the darkness, she can see that the tips of his fingers are turning pink from the cold of the treats. How long was he waiting for her to respond?

She takes her designated snowcone — the one in his right hand. Her order of red syrup is vibrantly crimson in comparison to his usual spearmint; the thing looks barely flavored, like its master just grated a block of ice into a cup. In fact, that’s what Soren originally asked for, months ago, because his stomach could barely tolerate anything else — let alone a sugar overload. The eventual choice of Fresh Spearmint Snow was a bold one. It became his usual after one of these routine visits manifested a leap of faith. Charity was very proud of him for trying something new.

Something new. Choices. It all comes down to what one does and what one doesn’t. 

Snowcones are a way of life here. It’s such a staple of studentry. Can she imagine living without that luxury? Yes. But Charity went down the harder route of embracing change; she chose to run through the isolated cobbled streets, sprinting hard towards the border with a few coins in her pocket that she definitely shouldn’t have stolen. 

It was nighttime then, and instead of sneaking Soren out for a stroll — a temporary escape, the young woman resolved for a more permanent solution — she wobbily ducked into a desolate phone booth and dialed the number she’d memorized off a protester’s sign. And that was that. No more arranged marriages under the guise of religious freedom, no more mold-infested chapels and clandestine rendezvous and heavily scrutinized choir performances. 

(The city’s media was practically itching to fork over helpful resources, to offer the both of them new lives and something close to protection. In exchange for answers to all of their invasive questions, of course.)

Charity examines her dessert, then Soren’s. Expectant charcoal eyes wheedle at her. 

“Come on, let’s sit,” she offers, glancing towards the beat-up wooden bench just to the wayside. It’s probably infested with termites, and it has about a hundred initials carved into it, but it’s charming. Its rough-hewn nature reminds her too much of Wickfeld. When wood would rot, people would live with it. When jumping gnats would crawl and writhe up the walls, Charity would take her velvet-lined hairbrush and smack them dead, examining their corpses stuck to the makeshift lintroller with faint guilt.

“It’s better this way,” Soren interrupts her nostalgic spiraling with his small voice.  

“What, sitting instead of standing?”

The young woman doesn’t pause, ambling over to the bench and sitting, setting her snowcone down and squinting at the glowing streetlights in the distance. Soren doesn’t join her, and though he walks like a ghost might, her gut tells her that he hasn’t moved an inch.

“No,” he says. “Coming here — that’s the best choice you could’ve made. Better here than there.”

She knows that he’s speaking from the heart, telling the truth; he hardly has any reason to lie. Having said that, Soren’s motivations are always…

“You still would’ve supported me, even if I chose to do nothing. Even if I let us rot there.” Charity studies her scarred hands, watching the way that her fingers tremble almost imperceptibly. It’s just from the ice, she convinces herself, pull it together right now. “You… you just care about me.”

He doesn’t deny it; he hardly has any reason to lie.

Then he is upon her, the old bench creaking under his weight as he settles close. She cannot look at him. Even though she is strong, and she does not crack easily, it doesn’t mean that a sentiment so close to I love you no matter what can’t send her tumbling over the precipice.

Soren doesn’t need to say it, he doesn’t need to say anything at all. Her best friend’s shoulder tickles hers — and then, in her peripherals, she observes as he grasps the plastic spoon sticking out of his respective snowcone, the now-congealed substance extracted — before he brings the bite to her lips.

The utensil hovers in front of her. A peace offering or an attempt at comfort, reminiscent of the days when he couldn’t bring himself to eat or even move, and Charity would spoonfeed him flavorless oatmeal or grits.

Without thinking, and before her lips can tremble also, she accepts it. The saccharine taste floods her mouth and blooms on her tongue, as if the sweetness is awfully and wholly attempting to cover up her ignoble faults. Fresh Spearmint Snow tastes terrible. She can only stomach a few bites.

“We could head back,” Soren suggests, not unkind. 

Her brow furrows, accompanied by an onset of nausea. The ambulance is probably still there.

“No,” she decides, embarking upon the inevitable path of choice once more. “Just… let’s stay here a bit longer. Please. Aren’t the stars pretty tonight?”

It’s a weak attempt at diversion, but she punctuates it by finally facing him. Soren is staring only at her, his slightly chapped lips parted and his long tresses illuminated in the graceful, pale moonlight. 

“Yes. They are.”

[fevereft]

fresh spearmint snow.

TINDERBOX / charen. wc: 2.4k. contains: modern and university au, allusions to suicide and abuse, charity-centric, religious guilt and trauma, the americanized college experience (i write what i know), this very well may be terrible since i'm sleep-deprived, i haven't figured out the ezra situation yet

for @irreveries as part of our unofficial writing exchange ^^

“Fuck all of them, anyway.”

Charity Graves does not know who she is cursing. Vaguely all of them. Normally she’d curse herself, find some way to shoulder the blame, but her counselor’s been stressing the importance of redirection. Ergo: fuck all of them.

She sounds unlike herself, whispering those words. The sun is setting over the student parking lot, casting the familiar tarmac in shades of orange and yellow. It’s far too pretty out for what’s happened; the ambulance idles by the curb, its sirens dead and still. Her elbows and knees are growing numb from being pressed together, a direct consequence of being crouched for so long. But she cannot move, and she most definitely cannot alleviate the pressure now, not when she relies on it to stay together.

The only evidence of her inner turmoil is the minute worry of her lip. Other students pass by on their way to classes and whatnot, but others unabashedly linger, speculating and gossiping, much like the seasoned parishioners of the Church. She cannot blame them for being concerned. Curiosity is human nature — but it’s all becoming too much to handle — and that is a feat in and of itself; Charity can’t remember the last time she couldn’t handle life’s misgivings. 

The young woman discerns many whispers. 

“The problem’s on the second floor, I think. Security stopped me from going up the stairs and told me to take the elevator. I hope everyone’s okay, I’m too scared to head up to my room right now…”

“D’ya think it’s another suicide?”

“Dude, you can’t say things like that!”

“They’re taking a long time. They could be up there raking Tyler over the coals for getting drunk and butt-dialing emergency services again. All the RAs are sniffing around.”

“I didn’t see many paramedics…”  

Charity doesn’t think of herself as very intuitive, but something evil gnaws away at the lining of her stomach, causing the bile there to breach and bubble. Something is wrong, and this something is also telling her that the endangered person in question is already gone. No one’s rushing them out on a stretcher, and a heady silence has descended upon this part of campus. Her emerald bangs split unevenly across her forehead — an unfortunate quirk, further worsened by the heat. 

She cannot bring herself to go inside, to push past the first responders towards her shared suite. A student is rotting on the second floor. They are gone, and she feels the ensuing grief; she lives it. She lives it like she’s committing to residency inside of a waking nightmare. 

Her phone buzzes in the pocket of her jeans. Still, despite the eerie timing, she does not flinch as she fishes it out the denim to take stock of the offending notification. 

…

Soren [7:39 pm] sociology ended

…

Very informative, Soren. 

Charity understands that’s how he communicates, stating things as they are with just enough wiggle room for interpretation. A particularly ludicrous example is the time the arsonist in question omitted the detail of smoke emanating from a smuggled-in hotplate, only texting her something along the lines of you should come back please. Suffice it to say, it’s always better to press further over the phone, where she cannot as easily read her best friend. Responses are always timely, so that’s a positive.

…

Charity [7:41 pm] Got it. Are you headed back now? I’ll meet you halfway

Soren [7:41 pm] yes. are you ok

Charity [7:42 pm] Yep! I’m omw

…

It wouldn’t be good for him to witness all this commotion. Charity’s already standing, ready to busy herself with another task, ready to distract. Soren’s got steel to him, under all that fleece, but didn’t both of them enroll in university to escape? They came here to escape the stench of death, the constant grief of losing acquaintances to harsh conditions and mistreatment. 

Abuse, her counselor at the student center would correct. It was abuse, not just mistreatment, Charity.

However, that’s neither here nor there. She navigates the sprawling sidewalks, weaving in between the menagerie of buildings towards Fateful Corner. She wants to do more, always, all of the time, and that’s where her philanthropic heart lies; no matter how impeded she feels by the imaginary walls of her past captors, she’ll get better. She has to, but she must not wantonly show weakness either. 

The world is her oyster, even if one of her floormates is dead. No longer must her heart bleed for others she does not know. But… where should the line be drawn? How much is someone supposed to care? Because if you care about something, aren’t you supposed to care about everything? It’s only fair. 

Life’s not fair. That’s why she put up with everything for so long. Her routine was to suffer as she grew acquainted with helplessness — and too, her secret companion. What matters now is that Charity pulled herself and Soren out of that place. She would not be wrong to focus on him and her education, but now that she’s free…

There’s no excuse why she didn’t get to know that floormate, why she didn’t recklessly out of her way for them. She let them pass her by, and now they’re gone. 

She hasn’t changed one bit since the transition, has she? She’s not getting better. She’s still pretending to be impotent, even when she’s long skittered out from under her father’s thumb.

That line of thinking is swiftly interrupted as she almost collides with a passing car. It would be, for lack of a better word — bad, if she ended up injured, or even indisposed, right before finals. It’s the fabled calm before the storm right now. Not quite time for cramming, but the presence of normal assignments is about to grind to a halt in favor of study guides and prepwork. 

Maybe that’s why Soren stayed out a bit longer than he usually does, loath as he is to leave her side; it seems no one is immune to exam fear-mongering. Hm.

Charity spots him soon after, a blip in the distance, then an unmistakable figure. That same old turtleneck hugs him tight, and she finds herself inwardly grimacing; it’s way too stuffy for such high fashion, evident by the sweat clinging to his face. He’s wearing those khakis that are wrinkled just enough to be charming, waiting patiently with his hands stuffed in his pockets. There is nothing to do but close the remaining distance, and continue pushing onwards, so that’s what she does.

Those charcoal eyes used to be so finicky, she thinks. There was a time when she couldn’t discern what emotion he was tussling with, what brand of discomfort he was in on which particular day. Only when the sun hit them just right, often through that shattered window partially sealed with gaffer tape, could she make out something in them besides emptiness.

Over time, Soren’s micro-expressions became easier to read. And now that she’s an expert, or at least proficient, she can make out the undeniable concern fleshing out his demeanor.

“Are we going back now?” he asks. 

“No,” she responds artfully. “There’s no reason to. Let’s go get snowcones.” 

The deviation in routine won’t make waves if she doesn’t let it. The young woman reaches over to thread her fingers through her friend’s, subsequently squeezing his hand. Even when it’s sweltering, he’s still so cold. He’s always been like that. Whether holding her close after creeping into her bed without a sound, resting his head on her shoulder while she reads aloud, or attempting to mimic warmth with the futility of a mountain yeti, Soren remains frigid. 

“Charity?”

“The stand’s closing soon!” 

And so she moves on, him in tow. With every step, she feels the suppression building up to some kind of revolt in her chest, no matter how valiantly she imminently battles the feeling. Would shaved ice really remedy it? No. But she must try, or else she will fall apart. 

The nondescript shack near the interstate is a bit of a lengthy walk from their current position. It’s past all the tobacco-free campus signs, the university’s signature colors, and student life in general. Upon arriving, dusk is a present haze, the faintest of stars beginning to peek out from their hiding places. They’re much dimmer here, in the midst of so much light pollution — city life may house many precious commodities, but such leisure can almost be forgotten in favor of what stars should truly look like. 

They should be like sequins affixed to the blanket of night, shining so brightly that they almost burn one’s eyes; lamplighters should blow out their crafts and lament their occupational imitation of what glimmers above. 

Charity doesn’t realize how quiet she is until she hears Soren, the person she forgot was there, begin to order for the both of them. His voice is soft and diminutive. She can’t help but wonder if his voice would’ve been more assured, more confident, if she hauled him out of hell much earlier. These thoughts will not abate, and they will continue to haunt her like vengeful spirits. 

“Raspberry.”

She blinks. “What?”

“Your order,” elaborates Soren. His back that was previously turned to her is no more, though the sight is still burned into her retinas from staring too hard. He’s already paid, holding the two snowcones in his hands gently, though even in the darkness, she can see that the tips of his fingers are turning pink from the cold of the treats. How long was he waiting for her to respond?

She takes her designated snowcone — the one in his right hand. Her order of red syrup is vibrantly crimson in comparison to his usual spearmint; the thing looks barely flavored, like its master just grated a block of ice into a cup. In fact, that’s what Soren originally asked for, months ago, because his stomach could barely tolerate anything else — let alone a sugar overload. The eventual choice of Fresh Spearmint Snow was a bold one. It became his usual after one of these routine visits manifested a leap of faith. Charity was very proud of him for trying something new.

Something new. Choices. It all comes down to what one does and what one doesn’t. 

Snowcones are a way of life here. It’s such a staple of studentry. Can she imagine living without that luxury? Yes. But Charity went down the harder route of embracing change; she chose to run through the isolated cobbled streets, sprinting hard towards the border with a few coins in her pocket that she definitely shouldn’t have stolen. 

It was nighttime then, and instead of sneaking Soren out for a stroll — a temporary escape, the young woman resolved for a more permanent solution — she wobbily ducked into a desolate phone booth and dialed the number she’d memorized off a protester’s sign. And that was that. No more arranged marriages under the guise of religious freedom, no more mold-infested chapels and clandestine rendezvous and heavily scrutinized choir performances. 

(The city’s media was practically itching to fork over helpful resources, to offer the both of them new lives and something close to protection. In exchange for answers to all of their invasive questions, of course.)

Charity examines her dessert, then Soren’s. Expectant charcoal eyes wheedle at her. 

“Come on, let’s sit,” she offers, glancing towards the beat-up wooden bench just to the wayside. It’s probably infested with termites, and it has about a hundred initials carved into it, but it’s charming. Its rough-hewn nature reminds her too much of Wickfeld. When wood would rot, people would live with it. When jumping gnats would crawl and writhe up the walls, Charity would take her velvet-lined hairbrush and smack them dead, examining their corpses stuck to the makeshift lintroller with faint guilt.

“It’s better this way,” Soren interrupts her nostalgic spiraling with his small voice.  

“What, sitting instead of standing?”

The young woman doesn’t pause, ambling over to the bench and sitting, setting her snowcone down and squinting at the glowing streetlights in the distance. Soren doesn’t join her, and though he walks like a ghost might, her gut tells her that he hasn’t moved an inch.

“No,” he says. “Coming here — that’s the best choice you could’ve made. Better here than there.”

She knows that he’s speaking from the heart, telling the truth; he hardly has any reason to lie. Having said that, Soren’s motivations are always…

“You still would’ve supported me, even if I chose to do nothing. Even if I let us rot there.” Charity studies her scarred hands, watching the way that her fingers tremble almost imperceptibly. It’s just from the ice, she convinces herself, pull it together right now. “You… you just care about me.”

He doesn’t deny it; he hardly has any reason to lie.

Then he is upon her, the old bench creaking under his weight as he settles close. She cannot look at him. Even though she is strong, and she does not crack easily, it doesn’t mean that a sentiment so close to I love you no matter what can’t send her tumbling over the precipice.

Soren doesn’t need to say it, he doesn’t need to say anything at all. Her best friend’s shoulder tickles hers — and then, in her peripherals, she observes as he grasps the plastic spoon sticking out of his respective snowcone, the now-congealed substance extracted — before he brings the bite to her lips.

The utensil hovers in front of her. A peace offering or an attempt at comfort, reminiscent of the days when he couldn’t bring himself to eat or even move, and Charity would spoonfeed him flavorless oatmeal or grits.

Without thinking, and before her lips can tremble also, she accepts it. The saccharine taste floods her mouth and blooms on her tongue, as if the sweetness is awfully and wholly attempting to cover up her ignoble faults. Fresh Spearmint Snow tastes terrible. She can only stomach a few bites.

“We could head back,” Soren suggests, not unkind. 

Her brow furrows, accompanied by an onset of nausea. The ambulance is probably still there.

“No,” she decides, embarking upon the inevitable path of choice once more. “Just… let’s stay here a bit longer. Please. Aren’t the stars pretty tonight?”

It’s a weak attempt at diversion, but she punctuates it by finally facing him. Soren is staring only at her, his slightly chapped lips parted and his long tresses illuminated in the graceful, pale moonlight. 

“Yes. They are.”

[fevereft]

oc writing coming later today :)

[fevereft]

i'm not a big fan of yandere but when the character is canonically Weird and has a lot of unhealthy tendencies it just writes itself. feels nice and natural.