s-turmfreiis

[s-turmfreiis]

I wish I could truly say what’s on my mind without having to placate immediately after. 

I’m struggling, I admit it’s a little too hard and I’m on a ledge--that the ledge even exists for me--and I immediately have to pivot to comfort anyone who hears. They’re scared, they say, they don’t want to hear those things. 

Fine, I guess your own comfort and reassurance is more important than the fact I’d want to jump. 

Just a bit too graphic, a tad too much, it’s my responsibility to keep my mouth shut. Yet I have to be honest, so they can gag me and bind me and lock me behind a door to stay alive for everyone else’s sake, rather than finding my own reason. No one wants to take any responsibility in any of their roles, so it must be mine. 

Fine. 

I wish I’d have autonomy. 

[s-turmfreiis]

I'm on a strange precipice where I feel I could just take the metaphorical step off the ledge. Everyone's hands on me are really just shackles the moment I want to let go. Promises of things'll get better, talk to us, we'll help.

You'll just keep me alive for your own concious. Its all to hide your own guilt, loving a conditional version of me.

Dont smoke, dont break down, dont hurt yourself, it'll put us in a tough spot. We'd hate to deal with all your stuff. We'd be disappointed you've taken all this time and energy from us and then gone and left. You vouldnt do the one thing we asked.

I wish I'd be allowed to let go and not be villanized.

[s-turmfreiis]

I wish you'd tell me you loved me one last time. I almost don't even care its a lie.

I wish you'd say you were proud of me. That you'd whisper you're right here with me. That we'd make it, that I meant so much. Even if you're lying.

I wish you'd kiss me one last time, cradle me and whisper to me how good I was. That you understand me, and love me, my moon, my stars.

But I'm no longer your moon and stars. I never will be again.

All I see is you in everything around me. I feel your laugh and see your smile and feel the burn to kiss you in the elevator back to your room as strong three years later.

I'd do anything for you to say you love me one laat time.

[s-turmfreiis]

Is there any particular reason writing is such a personal catharsis for me, yet requires enough energy, positive vibes, the stars in the proper alignment with the perfectly mixed creamer to coffee ratio in order to want to do it?

[s-turmfreiis]

A Drive-In Experience

Fandom: Overwatch Characters: Genji Shimada and Tekhartha Zenyatta mainly, brief mentions of Lucio, Lena, McCree and Hanzo Rating: PG Warnings/Tags: None!

Written for Day 1 of Genyatta Week: Summer Edition! “Movie Night/Drive In Theater” --> it’s pre-established, post overwatch recall, because who needs a full backstory when you got fluff, right?

Summary: Of all the attractions in America, of course Jesse McCree had to take the mission team to a drive-in theater. 

“Nothin’ shouts summer in the USA to me like goin’ to a drive-in theater to see a movie,” Jesse explained, his fingers drumming nonsensically on the steering wheel of their rental car, “They were big ‘round the 1950′s, got a bit of a revival.” 

Genji heard of a few drive-in theaters in Japan, usually near the coasts and relatively small in size; a crop of Western-born culture in Eastern soil. He never bothered with them, not when the theaters in Hanamura had heated recliner seats for their movie goers.

It was surprisingly cheap to get in, the crackling of tires on gravel momentarily deafening as they had maneuvered around the vast, surprisingly vacant lot of the drive-in. Genji let McCree speak of his favorite films, the times he slipped in the trunks of stolen vehicles with other Deadlock members to catch a movie or two--almost always a Western film, it seemed like--before going on their next trip. 

They backed into a spot away from most of the other movie goers; far, but just far enough to still have the full size of the screen. Lucio and Tracer were quick to set up their blankets and (briefly) hotel pillows on the ground in front of the truck, their backs leaning into the van’s frame as they unpacked their theater candy. McCree and Hanzo took to the roof of the van (something Genji is still amazed Jesse managed to convince Hanzo to do, something the cowboy claimed he always did; “It’s the best view in the house, darlin’!”) 

Which left Zenyatta and Genji to themselves, nestled inside the folded up back of the rental van.

“’Hero of My Storm’” Genji reads the smudged ink of the paper ticket from the drive-in window, the soft music of the opening credits echoing through the metal pole speakers on either side the van, “I didn’t realize Hana was also an actress.” 

Zenyatta gives a hum beside the Shimada, watching the screen idly as Hana’s face flashed before them, energetic and eager as always, “She mentioned it to me once, having worked with omnic directors like Alfred Glitchbot.” Zenyatta remarks, the faces of the main cast cycling through midst the colorful action on screen before-- “Oh!” 

Genji stirs, the surprise and the giddiness in the omnic’s tone warm and unexpected. “What is it, Master?” 

“Thesbian 4.0!” Zenyatta points to the omnic’s face on screen, currently struggling to keep a hat on his head in the face of the mass winds blowing about him, the impending doom of the ‘Storm’ looming in, “He is one of my favorite actors.” 

“Really?” Genji asks, contemplating the image momentarily as the film begins its opening scene, “I did not realize you you followed things like this...” 

The laugh that bubbles out of Zenyatta distracts Genji from the first scene on screen--Hana speaking urgently with a larger man in a lab coat, a scientist maybe?--the cyborg looking towards the omnic. 

“I may be a monk, Genji, but that does not mean I am not with the times.” Zenyatta explains, his tone light and full of amusement, “The Shambali were very interested in the progress and the lives of our brothers and sisters across the globe--to hear of omnics like Thesbian and Alfred Glitchbot making great strides in the world of film excited and encouraged my siblings to pursue their own interests, and to support them.” 

Ah, so that was it. Genji nods, smile flickering beneath his helmet as he returns to the movie, the next scene already underway. He’d say more, but... Zenyatta was already engrossed in the film, his hands idly playing with the fabric of his pants as the story was laid out: a massive tornado was to strike the city, and it was up to the characters of Hana,  the scientist, and the civilian Thesbian to save it before it was too late. 

While it did capture his attention, Genji couldn’t help but let his attention draw elsewhere, always easy to drift when requiring him to focus on anything while sitting still. 

He listens to the quiet voices of Hanzo and McCree above him--something about a foolish decision made on the part of Hana’s character, quick and impulsive, with a laugh from McCree. He watches Lena and Lucio’s heads bop to the music of a montage, Lucio eager to claim credit on a particular track. His attention once again drifts to his Master, and while his face plate remains permanently stagnant, he can't help but notice the little ways he moved. 

The way Zenyatta’s shoulders lifted at a particularly intense action sequence, nearly costing Hana and the Scientist their newest discovery, the soft and eager exclamations of surprise he gave almost... adorable, if he could label it such. 

“Do you think they will be able to stop the storm, Master?” Genji asks during a particularly quiet scene, the looming image of the tornado bearing down upon the city. 

“Hm... I cannot say, though the solution they have come up with to change the path of the storm seems... plausible, at best.” Zenyatta replies, his gaze still locked on the screen, “Though, Thesbian seems to know something the rest do not, even if he is not yet working alongside the scientists... he might know something.” 

“Maybe,” the Shimada hums, pulling a blanket from beside him over his shoulders, “I’m not quite sure... it seems a bit over the top to me to follow the laws of physics, Master.” 

The omnic chuckles, a low sound in dancing light of the movie screen, his frame easily slotted against Genji’s, “Might I argue that your favorite movie does not particularly follow the laws of physics, either?” 

Genji splutters, “I--Green Sentai does not have to follow the laws of physics, Master! He is Green Sentai!” 

“And that permits him to do as he wishes regardless for realism?” Zenyatta retorts, a teasing edge to his tone. 

“Yes!” the cyborg laughs, his arm lifting the other half of his blanket over Zenyatta’s shoulders, closing the little distance left between them from the start of the film, “That’s the whole point of the Sentai Rangers!” 

Whatever is happening on screen, Genji is not particularly paying attention anymore, though it seems Zenyatta is not, either. They fold into one another, the blanket linking them as they continue to quietly muse to one another, the words coming ease as laughter bubbles between them. Genji is quick to remove his helmet, knowing full well no one else will catch his face, and presses a kiss to the monk’s face plate, earning a soft and amused ‘Genji, the film--’ from him. 

“The film? What film?” Genji is quick to retort, eagerly pressing another kiss to Zenyatta’s forehead array, “You are much more interesting.” 

The end of the film comes much faster than Genji would have liked, only managing to plaster a few dozen kisses on the omnic before they are forced to part, though unable to pull away from one another as the credits roll. Lucio and Lena’s faces are quick to reappear from the screen, singing praises of the movie before they begin to pack. 

“Well, what’d y’all think of the drive-in?” McCree asks, tossing Hanzo and his’ blanket down from the roof of the van. 

“I rather enjoyed it.” Zenyatta replies, his fingers laced together with Genjis as they pull themselves from the back of the van, “It is quite different than being in a theater, much more personal to the viewer.” 

“I know, right?” McCree’s laughter comes as he hops from the roof, Hanzo already having dropped down and rolling up the blanket, “Theaters are stuffy and you don’t get the fresh air!” 

Lena’s head pokes from the other side of the van, smile big, “That’s what I was gonna say!” 

Lucio’s enthusiastic nod can be seen through the rolled up window of the van, the last of their things packed and the seats pulled back up. 

Genji claims Lucio’s seat--the far back--with Zenyatta, everyone’s frames heavily nestled into their seats as McCree starts the van. He wastes no time to link their arms and lace their fingers, Zenyatta’s hand a comforting weight as they lean into one another. 

“We should do that again,” Zenyatta muses in the quiet of the van, his voice just raised enough for Genji to catch, “I would very much like to show you more of Thesbian’s films.” 

Genji smiles, nodding gently. “Yeah, let’s do that again... ourselves, maybe?” 

In the passing street lamps, Zenyatta’s face plate flickers into view, forehead array dim but blinking as he laughs, “Yes. Ourselves.”

[s-turmfreiis]

The Path is Never Straight

Fandom: Overwatch Characters: Genji Shimada and Tekhartha Zenyatta Pairing: Genyatta Rating: T  Length: ~6,000 words, one shot Warnings/Tags: Mental Breakdown/Dissociation, mentions of bodily dysphoria, otherwise mostly fluff and friendly banter. 

Summary: Genji Shimada follows the road to self-acceptance with the help of Zenyatta, his first year under the Shambali’s care already under his belt–but he still has much to learn. 

A/N: Haven’t seen anyone try to tackle Post!Overwatch Genji in this context, on the road to healing and self-acceptance but not quite there yet. I wanted to give it a try, so here it is–enjoy!

Genji notices it the moment he wakes up.

Numbness, deeply embedded in his core. He feels the weight of it press against chest, heavy and unyielding even as he tries to move. Pin-pricks of sensation bristle his sensors, the cyborg shifting with a displeased sound. 

I thought I had left this behind. . 

Funny, how some things never truly left him. 

It always started in his chest, the numbness reminding the cyborg of a limb falling asleep, the static-like sensation that bristled his sensors his body’s attempts at waking up.

Problem is, his chest doesn’t wake–and it spreads, flooding his sensors with excess stimuli until he could no longer register anything around him, locking him in his own body.

No, not today. Take it slow. 

Genji closes his eyes, taking slow breaths as he calls upon one of many teachings; “Ground yourself in the moment, try to bring your focus to what is around you when you feel it happen.” 

It takes a moment, but his sensors finish calibrating, fully registering the cold embedded in his prosthetics. That’s one thing. His fingers drift off the sides of his mattress, soon touching wood (another), then something smooth and icy–his visor (a third). 

Reluctant, he opens his eyes, much sharper and faster to adjust to his surroundings than a humans. 

A dark brown ceiling, sunlight carving black lines and cuts into the wood. Bare, tan mattress. A small table with candles on either side of a color worn photograph. A sword stand, a desk with a pile of books, paper littering the surface.

He sighs. Still numb, but less.  

Well done, Genji. 

Dawn crests the Nepal mountains, the cyborg pulling himself from his mattress to prop it back up against the wall. His hand finds his blade without trouble, his visor clicked into place as he makes his way outside. 

It stiill happens, sometimes; its something the Shimada grew well antiquated with in Blackwatch, Mercy having described it as “bodily dysphoria.” 

“Your body needs to adjust to itself,” She had explained, her voice low and worn from fatigue she failed to acknowledge, “Everything may be healed and functional, but… your body may attempt to reject the cybernetics, Genji–feel there is something wrong, or it does not belong, when there isn’t. I can’t say how your body might react.” 

In the end, his body had become a stubborn child, nigh unpredictable; days his cybernetics worked as intended, seamlessly integrated with what little organics he had left–and then days like these.

Days his body was in limbo, unable to accept what it now was as it struggled to find what was already gone, constantly calibrating itself in an effort to place itself back into the world.

It wasn’t until he had wandered the world for years consumed by his anger, loathing his body, that he found the Monastery. 

Found Zenyatta. 

The Dragon blade rests heavy in the Shimada’s grip, his limbs not quite moving how he wants them to as he carries himself through morning practice. He follows the motions hes memorized since he was nineteen, body flowing from one end of the training ground to the other like it was a dance, practiced to perfection.

Yet, as Mercy had said–absolutely nothing felt right. He pauses, aligns himself, and attempts to carry it all through again. Its the same as its always been, like flowing water down a river, but he can’t shake the feeling that he mis-stepped, that a stone had cut off the flow.

Don’t think too hard about it, Genji tells himself, swinging his blade hard through the air with an audible hiss, Flow. He does, motions fluid and blade an extension of his own body; a perfect execution, and yet, he can’t shake the unease of something out of alignment. A disconnected nerve? A broken vent, some rust?

Don’t think about it. You are better than this, Genji Shimada. 

Genji carries himself through his practice a few more times before leaving, dissatisfied. The tightness in his chest is a near throbbing presence as he makes his way to the sanctuary for morning meditation. 

It doesn’t leave him. 

Of course it doesn’t. Meditation leaves him just as restless as he feared it would, his thoughts unable to pull themselves inward and settle as his chest grows heavier. It worsens with each breath, his chest prickling with a sharp numbness as he tries to level his breathing. 

Why can’t I do it? I thought I got the hang of it by now. Beneath his visor, he frowns, eyes closed tight. Don’t get caught up in your own head, Genji, just breathe and–

“Is something wrong, my student?” Zenyatta’s cautious tone drifts from his left, pulling Genji from his thoughts, “You seem restless.” 

Caught, Genji shifts in his seat, a low sigh escaping him. “No, Master,” he says “I will be fine. I did not do as well as I would have liked during my own training this morning, and I am eager to fix that.” 

Lies, all lies–he wants to be able to meditate, to fill his thoughts and company with the warmth of the sanctuary and Zenyatta’s stable presence beside him. He wants to think of everything and nothing, free of this emptiness. 

“I see.” Zenyatta straightens his back, his forehead array luminous in the warm orange light of the sanctuary, “I will not hold you here if doing something else may benefit you, Genji.” His head turns, the way the light gleam off his face plate momentarily silencing Genji’s thoughts. “Though, I wish to meditate with you properly in the evening, Genji.” 

Genji is quick to rise, momentarily bowing towards his teacher. “Of course, Master–I would be glad to meditate with you then. Thank you.” 

He does not have to look back to know Zenyatta is humming in reply, the sound warm and soothing as it echoes in the chamber around him. 

Its a sound he’s begun to grow quite fond of. 

His second attempt at training comes up just as fruitless as the first. 

Genji figured it would, yet he tried again–a foolish hope that somehow, somewhere, he will find his error, and all will be right again. All he gains is a loss of time and a dull throb in his core.

The numbness spread down in his arms, down his torso towards his hips by the time he makes his way across the Monastery, his thoughts pulling back to another teaching. 

“To focus on an issue does not always solve the issue–sometimes you must take a moment to step away from it entirely, and return with a fresh mind.” 

And he does. 

He offers his services to practically anyone he can find, lugging large singing bowls and scrolls of sacred text from room to room. He clears snow from the temple stairs, washes clothes and banners and leaves them in the sun to dry. Anything and everything to keep his mind and his body occupied. 

A temporary solution he fools himself into thinking works. When all the work is depleted, and he is left to his own means, he finds himself back where he started: numbness, disquietude and all. 

And it angers him. 

It angers him as every vital teaching of Zenyatta’s slips through his fingers, all but useless in his efforts to quell the dysphoria, the numbness already having invaded his limbs all the way down to his fingertips. 

Genji carries himself through his fifth trip circling the small space of his room, the mountains outside looming as he moves, never stopping, never looking up.

He wrings his hands together in an effort to cling to what sensation he can, the friction of his hands sending nigh painful jolts of static through his sensors–like his entire body had fallen asleep. 

I thought I was better than this, Genji seethes, flinching at the jolt of sensation in his palms as he squeezes them, It’s been years since Overwatch rebuilt me, yet it’s still happening. Why? Why does this keep happening?

The cyborg stills, his hands firmly clasped as he struggles to level his thoughts, his breath shaky.

Nothing’s working. he breathes in, slowly, closing his eyes as his body tingles sharply, his chest feeling tight and empty, Why isn’t anything working? 

It wasn’t happening, for awhile. 

He had been making progress, that was what hurt him the most. 

Genji Shimada, for the first time in years, finally felt he had begun to try and accept what he was–his dual nature, his body no longer something othered and foreign to himself: it was his, and that was okay.

Days like these had become so few, manageable even, with Zenyatta’s guidance.

Now look at him. 

How easily his own thoughts gave to temptation, his soul burning with the desire for a human body he longer had–of flesh and bone with muscles that ached from the strain of a good training session, that sweated in the heat and made his clothes stick to his back. 

No, don’t think about it.

Only he does.

He thinks of the warm sensation of fingertips on his human skin, the fire that rose within him when suitors splayed themselves before him in confidence, or palmed at him just right. He misses the warmth of his skin pressed up against another’s, and the heat of pleasure that came from good sex. The Shimadas had at least blessed him with the looks and the money to get it.

Hanzo took even that from him, in the end.

He didn’t. Genji argues with himself, a frustrated growl coming low from his chest. He didn’t–I am still whole. I am different but that does not mean I am no longer human. 

Yet this body didn’t belong to him, and it knew it.

Clumsily, the Shimada reaches out to feel his blade, his sensors registering nothing but the continuous prickling of excess energy, filling his brain with it like a static television. This is my body. This is my room. I am here. I am whole.

He fights to keep himself grounded, feeling static as sinks to the floor. Static when he thinks of the meditation session he missed–the meditation session with Zenyatta, who currently knows nothing of this–static filling his not-real lungs and making his not-real heart tingle in his chest. Static, static, static.

“No.” Genji pulls at the visor on his face, the familiar click and hiss of steam briefly registering in his ears as he throws it to the floor, “No, no.” he takes another deep lung-full of air, his insides hollowed out. He could feel his heart–no, his core?–the static igniting his anger. “I am fine.”

The lower half of his helmet joins his visor upon the floor, his body beginning to shake as his hands run over the smooth, black synthetic mesh over his nose and mouth . “I am fine.” he says again, his breath shaky as he tries to feel the distinct separation of synthetic and human flesh beneath his sensors. “I-I am fine.”

It always came to this. Where he feels his body begin to crumble in his hands as he loses his grip, trembling and shaking and completely terrified of what’s to come, even with all the preparation in the world. “I’m fi–ne…” he feels his voice break, every part of his face foreign to himself beneath his hands.

His skin–where is his skin? Fear surges through him when he fails to feel where his skin begins and the foreign body he sits in ends, everything feeling the same; wrong, wrong, wrong.

There’s nothing left of him, he can’t feel it–every inch of him is machine, his human soul screaming raw.

Everything caves.

                                   _______________________

“…–ji…!”

It subsides.

Slow, at first. Like ebbing out of a dream and easing into a reality he was just waking up to, with none of the tiredness.

Instead, he feels worn, as if he was a piece of taffy that had been overworked and left to hang on its hook. The ache in his chest is deep, his mind only now registering the tension still held in his limbs.

He takes the first deep breath he can manage, the residual tension of his synthetic muscles and the cold on his face grounding sensations he immediately tries to cling to. They slip from his hands far too quickly to utilize. 

“…Genji…?”

Master, he wants to ask, Is that you?

“… I-I–” Genji hates the way his voice breaks up raw in his throat. His thoughts feel heavy, coming in all at once yet completely void. Can’t think.

It’s Zenyatta’s voice. Talking, yet he can’t figure out what his Master’s hands were doing, the orbs rapidly spinning around them disorienting. His sensors were still overloaded, body desperate in its attempt to ground him; all in one ear, out the other.

Genji barely notices the groan that escapes him.

“Genji?” Zenyatta’s voice again, something the cyborg can recognize in the din–was that panic in his voice?

I can’t think. Genji shakes his head, palms digging into his eyes.

He doesn’t catch what Zenyatta says. He keeps his hands in place and breathes in deep. Again, his thoughts pull to the steady pulse of his heart, unconsciously counting the beats that ricocheted in his skull as the seconds tick by. The heart of a man still beats inside me.

He feels the depth of each breath, the coolness of the air against the remaining skin of his face as he steadies himself. 

It takes time. He half believes it won’t work, not when every attempt before had turned up empty handed.

And yet, everything steadies. 

Before him, Zenyatta rests on his knees–his lithe form all hard cuts and sharp angles in the lowering light of the sun. All nine of his forehead lights were dark, just beginning to flicker in nonsensical patterns. His form shifts, face plate all soft curves and warmth in the orange of the sun as it tilts. Around the back of him, Genji notices the slowed rotation of his mala.

“Genji?” uncertainty edges into Zenyatta’s voice, Genji notices the tension in the way his Master moves.

Can’t talk. He wants to, he does, but he feels drained of all the strength left in him. Slowly, carefully, he manages to nod. He wonders if he looks like a bobble head with a weight attached to the back, all tension and slack in the wrong places.

“Genji…” relief floods Zenyatta’s tone, the cyborg sure he would see a smile spread on his face, if he had one, “Are you alright, my student?”

Not even close, he thinks, Does feeling half dead count? Genji opts for a shrug, his gaze pulling down towards the floor. The orbs rotation began to dizzy him.

“That is alright. Take your time.” the monk’s voice felt soothing to his ears, a calm and steady lifeline. Genji finds himself clinging to the sound, focusing on the nuances of that synthetic, yet wonderfully soothing voice.

My head feels heavy. Again, the bobble head comes to his thoughts, this time with a full size dumbbell crushing its tiny little head to its chest. Yeah, that feels a lot more accurate.

He forces himself to look up and take stock of his surroundings, catching Zenyatta’s carefully tensing form in the corner of his eye. Incredibly human, for a being so vastly different from one…

One hand raised, he manages to point towards his bed.

Zenyatta catches on fast. “Can you stand?” he asks, “Take my hands.”

Genji hates to admit how much effort it takes to even adjust his seat on the floor, the sensation reminding Genji of his first days adjusting to his new body; a newborn calf discovering its body, all mass and dead weight with no control over it.

He rests his palms against Zenyatta’s, the Shimada drawing his legs underneath him to pull himself to stand. He teeters, barely catching Zenyatta’s hurried “Careful, my student–” as he cautiously reacquaints himself with his own limbs. For a fleeting moment, Genji is thankful for his Master’s strength, so easily hidden in such a thin metal frame. It’s with his firm grasp and gentle pull that Genji manages to stand. 

“Well done, Genji.” the monk praises, his voice golden as it soothes the cyborg’s core. Genji always found his Master’s praise to be the highest, something hard earned and equally rewarding. Even if all he did was stand on his own two feet. “This way, now.”

Like a dance, they take cautions steps across the small space, hands held tight. Genji focuses on his hands and his feet, the firmness of Zenyatta’s hold grounding him with each advancement. Strength steadily returns to his feet, easing into his calves and his thighs as he moves, the warm hum of approval from Zenyatta filling the Shimada with confidence.

And then it’s over, their hands parted as the omnic pulls away to lower the bed from its perch against the wall, like a routine. Its fleeting, brief, but his firm grip returns, helping ease Genji to sit upon the mattress. 

How many of these have I bared alone? Genji lays back, his Master’s frame shifting in and out of his focus as he watches lazily, How many times had I hid myself from the world, thinking it was best not to let anyone see… before him?

Instead, he watches Zenyatta string him back together, picking up the strewn pieces of his visor from the floor to set them on his desk. 

“Genji,” The omnic hesitates before speaking, “Do you wish to rest?” 

A nod.

“Alright. I will leave you to rest, I will be close by in case you need me.”

Leave. Quickly, Genji shakes his head, earning a curious tilt of the head from the other. No, don’t leave, he wants to say, yearns to say, Please. Please don’t leave. I do not wish to deal with this alone.

Genji tries. “Stay?” the sound feels wrong in his throat, but it’s enough to be his voice.

The orbs about Zenyatta’s neck make a steady, fleeting rotation. He crosses the space, easing himself to sit upon the floor beside his student. Gently, his body rises from the ground, lifting several inches into the air. One by one, his orbs begin to chime, rising and falling with a unique warm tone as they orbited him.

“Then, I shall not leave your side, Genji.” the monk says simply, “I shall be here until you wake up.”

“Okay…”

It isn’t long after he directs his gaze to the ceiling that Genji drifts to the chiming of the orbs, its melody swallowing him whole.

                                __________________________

Zenyatta kept his promise.

Its more than relief that fills Genji’s core when he sees that all familiar frame still resting beside his bed; it’s flattery. Flattery that Zenyatta had never left his side, and had respected his seemingly childish request as he would any other. When even was the last time he had asked–in this case, almost begged–someone to stay by his side?

Embarrassment comes like a breeze, tickling his sensors before a swift departure. He has no reason to feel embarrassment, he had broken down; this wasn’t the first time he had done such a thing. It was almost nostalgic, in an unsettling way.

And yet, this time had been very different from the times he was alone; Zenyatta’s teachings had kept the dissociation between man and machine at bay, for awhile. Controlled, even. I suppose it is something I simply cannot control, he thinks to himself, Even with my Master’s teachings.

Carefully, Genji sits himself upright, using the heel of his palm to rub at his eyes. His head swims with the telltale signs of crying, scarred skin puffy against the sensors in his fingertips. A steady pinch to his brow, followed by a low sigh. Had he cried during all that? He could barely remember.

A quick glance out his window reveals that it was nightfall–a sliver of moon hanging low from the sky, just about to dip away under the horizon to give way for the sun. His room was dark, no candles having been lit, his eyes easily adjusting for the night time.

Zenyatta was no longer floating, his back propped against the wall, head bowed low as the orbs lay dormant in his lap. He must be hibernating. Genji is careful not to disturb the resting frame, unable to help the soft pat-pat of his feet as he retrieves his visor and his helmet.

He’s done enough sleeping, his body requiring far less of it than he used to; he opts to meditate, instead. 

Several more cautious steps about the room allow him to retrieve a floor cushion and his candles, the Shimada making his way out the other side of his room to the wooden balcony.

Wordlessly, the mountains greet him as they always do, the wood beneath his feet creaking as he kneels. In the moonlight, the mountains rise sharply, cutting through the dark in geometric shapes glowing in soft white; resilient, powerful and unquestioning–all things Genji of the past had desperately needed.

Heat tickles the sensors in the cyborg’s fingertips as he lights each candle, a welcome contrast to the cool air around him as the wood creaks to his weight. He places the pieces to his visor beside him, easing to sit lotus style upon the cushion. Before long, he feels the tension in his limbs begin to fade, the familiarity of the night easing into his systems.

Morning was on its way. In his earliest days at the Monastery, he had grown well acquainted with the rise and the fall of the sun, unable to bring himself to calm. He lets his focus rest there, to how long it has been since those days, and sighs. I have come a long way since then.

And yet, it wasn’t enough, was it? He still broke down. Shame licks at his core, the sensation of a frown flickering under black mesh features. He was healing, yet moments like before made him feel he was dragged back to the starting line of the race–square one, having to twice as hard fight to get back to where he had been.

Will it ever go away? he wonders, his fingers intertwining in his lap as he sighs, Will I ever feel whole, and never let it pull me down?

“Genji?”

Genji lifts his head, his head turning to catch sight of Zenyatta’s frame settling beside him in the darkness. His forehead array was dim, the nine blue lights a cool and gentle glow that did not overpower the sight of his face plate. His nine mala were not with him.

“Master, I didn’t mean to wake you.” Genji apologizes, concern bubbling within him.

A soft laugh emits from his left. “It is alright, my student. I had meant to stay awake until you had woken up, but I was in need of a hibernation cycle–I made it as brief as I could.” Zenyatta confesses, his tone light.

“Brief?” the ninja echoes the word, turning the words over in his mind, “Master, if you needed to hibernate, you should have done so fully. You did not have to stay up for me!”

“Oh, but,” comes the considering sound to his left, on the edge of teasing, “I wanted to.”

Genji falls silent, his gaze lowering to his hands in his lap. 

“I wished to be awake in case you needed me, Genji. I know my limits, and took the necessary steps to make sure I was rested enough, if you are worried about that.” Zenyatta explains, “I was more concerned for you than anything.”

Again, flattery floods Genji’s systems, and he has to wonder–what on earth did he do, to be blessed with the opportunity to meet someone so… genuine, so lovely? His core blooms with warmth at the thought, sinks into his systems like sunlight. “Thank you, Master.”

The monk gives a satisfactory hum, before he asks, “How are you feeling now, my student?”

“Worn.” Genji says all too quickly, “But… better.”

The giggle that escapes Zenyatta is a sound Genji realizes he loves to hear. “Considering you have trained double the amount you usually do, and then this…” Zenyatta remarks, his tone playful, “I would be very impressed if you did not feel worn out, Genji.”

“Ahh, but maybe I am starting to get old, Master.” Genji confesses with a soft chuckle, “I used to be able to train most of the day, before growing worn.”

“If you are getting old now, then I am no longer as youthful and carefree as I thought myself to be.” comes a warm retort, smile clear in Zenyatta’s tone.

“Master, you are fifteen years younger than me–”

“I have lost my youth, Genji! Old age is but on the horizon…”

“–I was already a teenager by the time you were made!”

His Master’s laughter bubbles up into the air effortlessly, filling the space between them. He barely notices his own tired laughter joining in, a sound a year or so prior he thought he’d never hear again.

All because of this single omnic–this single soul sitting beside him.

What have I done in my life, to gain something like this? Ah, the thought comes before Genji can help himself, eyes closing as he soaks in the Nepali night air. And yet…

And yet, there he was; his body begging for what once was with nothing fully human to return to. Zenyatta had given him much, lead him on the path to recovery–to self-enlightenment–and he fallen right back to the starting line.

“Genji, is something troubling you?” too quick, always too quick to sense something amiss–Zenyatta’s faceplate looking right at him, his forehead array flickering in the darkness.

This time, Genji relents. “I… thought I had been making progress, Master.” he admits, more to himself than to the omnic, “I found myself longing for the past less and less, instead waking up to look to the present… and, even a future, sometimes.” the admission garners flicker of a smile in his eyes.

“I felt I had even begun to grow used to this body. It did not bother me as often as it did before, the discomfort it had brought me less frequent with your teachings in mind. And yet… and yet I’m back here.”

Genji shakes his head, sighing “Right back where I started. I had thought that I was beyond all of this… the discomfort, the dysphoria, your teachings easing my body and my soul when it grew difficult for me, but–here it is again.” he lets out a chuckle, low and weary.

“I have had episodes since I have stayed here, but none were as bad as that… not since I agreed to stay here as your student. I followed all of your teachings, yet nothing worked–it only brought me more frustration, until I could no longer do or feel anything with this body.” Genji turns back towards his Master, yet could not lift his gaze to stare at him direction. “It…it felt like none of your teachings mattered in that moment, like no time had truly passed since I’ve stayed. Just another relapse, until the next one.”

Falling silent, the two sit in the darkness, the candles beginning to drip their wax into the tiny tray below them. An unspoken comfort of confessed thoughts and feelings, the weight between them from the day less palpable in this moment.

Genji thinks he would not mind if this is the moment he was to spend eternity.

“You have undone no progress, my student.”

Zenyatta’s voice pulls the Shimada from his thoughts, taken aback.

“Master–?”

“You have lost nothing, Genji,” Zenyatta says again, more firmly as he turns himself to completely face his student, “You made an effort to follow my teachings–you put up a fight. You did not reject my aide, and you have spoken freely of how you feel and your emotions.”

The monk reaches forward, a momentary glance at his student before receiving a nod of consent. He rests his hand against his student’s knee.

“Even this. You have healed so much in the last year and a half, and have fought well and hard for it–I could not be more proud of your progress, Genji.”

How easily, such high praises come from Zenyatta’s voice with such genuine warmth and joy–so human, yet so uniquely his own.

Flattery burrows its way into Genji’s chest; he feels the sensation of a smile still buried in his neural pathways, beneath the black synthetic mesh.

“I–thank you, Master…” his admission comes softer than intended, shoulders giving a sheepish shrug as his smile seeps into his voice, “It’s… all because of your guidance.”

Immediately, the monk shakes his head, his grip on Genji’s knee growing firm. “I may have nudged you on the right path, and given you tools to help, but you have made the progress you have because of your own volition, Genji.”

He pulls his hand away, Genji momentarily mourning the loss of contact as Zenyatta continues, “To fall does not mean to fail; recovery is never linear, my student, it comes with its ups and its down, but it is the moments you have pulled yourself back up, done what you could to stay on the path to heal that are important.”

“Do not be discouraged when these moments happen, Genji; as long as you continue to get back on your feet, you have lost nothing. You have learned much, but you have much still to go.”  

Slowly, the cyborg breathes, the last of the tension in his form giving way as he begins to hunch forward. He lets Zenyatta’s words run over him, sink deep into his systems. What have I done, to deserve him?

“I…” a thought comes, and Genji is quick to discard it. He tries again. “I–Master… why are you so determined to help me?”

For a moment, he fears Zenyatta won’t give him an answer–the pause after his question beginning to stretch on moments too long when he gets his answer.

“Because you are one of my dearest friends,” Zenyatta admits, softly, “And I wish to see you healed.”

Friend. It echoes in Genji’s mind, a word already well associated with his Master in his thoughts, and yet–it lacked. It carried the right emotion, but it wasn’t strong enough; a sensation deep within the cyborg’s chest that blooms when he shares Zenyatta’s company. Like the touch of the Iris, golden and beautiful and whole, something that fills him and gives him a sense of completeness.

“But I was not always your friend, Master.” Genji remarks, comfortably settled in the newfound sensation within him.

“No, we were not always friends, but… I care for you, Genji. ” Zenyatta falls quiet, his words spoken with consideration to their weight, “At first, I simply wished to help ease the disquiet of your soul, for I was there and you were in need my help. As I have grown to know you, I have wanted to see you grow, and wish to see what you will become, for I care for your well-being.”

It dawns on Genji the moment its said, the same sentiments echoing within him. I care for him. Zenyatta was more than a teacher, but an irreplaceable friend–their banter so easily passed back and forth between them, both eager to learn and explore and wish to be held down by no one.

In his youth, Genji had many acquaintances; all flushed faces and naked bodies on silken bed sheets with loud parties and alcohol as their common ground. People he knew the dip of their hips better than he did their names, Genji nothing more to them than money and title and good sex.

All Shimada Genji, but never Genji.

Rarely anyone wanted just that. Zenyatta is one of the few that has, and allowed it to grow and flourish. He cares.

“I care for you too,” how easily it comes, the words flowing out of Genji like they were always meant to be spoken, “Not simply because of the gift you have given me, but… because you really are incredible, Zenyatta.”

Such a soft sound a surprise escaping the monk only encourages Genji, the male turning himself in his seat to face his Master directly.

“You are! I mean–you are wise, but witty. You are powerful yet docile, considerate of others and their space and graceful as you are prone to mistake. You’re quirky and so different than the other monks, and it amazes me. That you are an omnic, and possess more sense of self than many humans do. I greatly enjoy your company.”

I’m rambling, shit. The thought sharp as Genji stops himself. He quickly averts his gaze back to the mountains (did they always have that many peaks? He swore there were less) as he falls quiet. 

Zenyatta’s fans cut into the quiet, a soft whir as gentle laughter escapes the omnic, far lighter and softer than before. “You’ve really thought all that of me?” he asks.

Quickly, Genji nods.

“Ah, well–” Zenyatta pauses with a laugh, as if collecting himself, his forehead array flickering nonsensical patterns, “Thank you, Genji… I  believe you don’t realize how incredible you are yourself.”

Now Genji is the one to freeze up. He laughs, nervously, unsure if he is ready to have the attention drawn back to himself. “Master…”

“It is true,” the monk returns, quick to the uptake, “I only hope that you continue to explore yourself while you are here, for I am eager to see what you will become.”

I am, too, Genji thinks. He thinks back to his earlier confession, thinking ahead to a tomorrow where he is fully healed; where he can look back on all he has been through with no pain, to which he does not dwell on the times of the past. He has already begun, is no longer raw, but he has much to go.

“Thank you.” is all Genji musters, the sensation of what a smile would feel like still deeply ingrained in his neural pathways, his soul alight yet at ease. “I wish the same for you.”

Zenyatta hums, low and full, and they both turn back to face the mountains as the sun begins to flicker over its large peaks. Dawn has finally caught up with them.

“Do you feel better now, Genji?” the omnic asks, his face plate still directed towards the mountains.

The cyborg sighs. “Much.”

“Good, for as much as I love your company, I do require a full recharge cycle.” Zenyatta confesses.

“Then go, Master, I do not mind if you leave.” Genji says, fully content with greeting the early morning himself.

“Very well, but only after the sunrise.”

“Master, that is not–”

“It is perfectly reasonable to wish to see it–”

“You need to recharge, Master, go do that–!”

“And what will you do if I do not move?”

“I–” Genji pauses, exasperation flickering over his features, “Then I’ll carry you back to your room.” he replies.

“Ah, but would you really deny an aging omnic the joy of seeing the sunrise? What if today was my last functioning day in this world, would you deny my seeing my last sunrise?”

Zenyatta’s laughter drifts as Genji lets out a started “Master!”, quick to wave his hand.

“I am teasing, Genji–!”

“You better be!” 

“Or, what, my student?” 

There comes that retort–that sly tone, so carefully slid forward. Genji stiffens, looking away, his thoughts still lagging behind him. “Or, uhm… I will have to get back to you on that,” he mumbles. 

Amused, the Monk chuckles as he rises from his seat, turning away from the mountains. “Very well, Genji. I shall see you when I am rested. You know where to find me.” 

Genji finds himself smiling, eyes closing as the warmth of the sun tickles his skin. “Yes, Master.” 

[s-turmfreiis]

recharge

Fandom: Overwatch Pairing; Genyatta (established, post Overwatch Recall) Rating: G/PG Summary: A long overnight mission in King’s Row leaves Genji and Zenyatta with just enough time to seek one another’s company.

A little bit of self indulgence writing, and a notable lack of genyatta cuddling when taking a dive into the tag--I’m here to fix that! Also a bit of a writing exercise for me, I’m out of practice; enjoy, nonetheless! there’s pg butt touches, it was a request and i dont shrink from a challenge. 

It had been an achingly long night.

Overwatch’s latest over-night mission had stretched from the last moments of dusk to the early moments of dawn, a live wire of tension drawn over their communicators as stocked payloads shuffled in and out of the city in the dead of night. 

Zenyatta’s patience was infinite, the work long worth the wait--he could never lose patience in an effort to safely relocate his damaged brothers and sisters outside King’s Row. 

The city was on the verge of another omnic crisis, tensions steadily climbing towards an all out war once again. Null Sector had laid a heavy scar on King’s Row, still healing years after Overwatch had put an end to Null Sector’s control. With tensions rising, Mondatta’s assassination becoming a catalyst in the fight for omnic rights... there was no way Zenyatta, or the newly reformed Overwatch, could sit back and watch.

It had been a full day’s effort to coax many of his siblings to somewhere safe, stashed away in the payloads they escorted across the city. He was relieved it had been a success, that he himself hadn’t been caught among them; he road in as many of the payloads as he could, helping repair what violence-induced damage he could on models similar to his own.

Zenyatta was relieved Winston kept the mission debrief on the way back to Gibraltar short, the exhausted look in everyone’s faces enough evidence that they all wished to keep it quick. He was quick to pardon himself, as was everyone else, to finally rest.

Alone, in the dimly lit quarters of his room, does Zenyatta finally allow his shoulders to sag, his frame sinking onto the little-worn mattress of the bed. He finally feels the heavy weight of his limbs, his core feeling drained and in desperate need of a charging cycle. He would normally muster the time to meditate before doing such, clearing his thoughts in order to slide into it naturally, but... even that felt like a monumental task he lacked the energy for.

Instead, he opts to sit in the silence. He falls onto his back, staring up at the dull ceiling above, and lets his thoughts drift.

Genji comes to mind first, his body catching in the dim light of the moon and low lit street lamps as he kept their path safe. Save the moments Genji flitted to his master’s side--a brush of his fingertips, the lingering press of their foreheads together--they had been apart for much of the night.

Which prompts no surprise from the monk when he hears the soft click of the door. He doesn’t lift himself from his place on the bed, his sensors groggily registering the change in pressure as Genji slots himself against Zenyatta’s side. A soft click and a hiss cues him that Genji had removed his visor and his face plate, both giving a soft ‘clink!’ as they were set on the floor.

“Are you trying to sleep, Master?” Genji’s voice is low in the dim lighting of the room, which was beginning to cast the space in a dark orange glow.

Zenyatta manages a chuckle,  “No, I was just taking a moment to clear my thoughts... I find I lack the energy to pull myself up to truly meditate.” He feels his student’s arm find its home comfortably around his waist, a tickle of sensation as his sensors pick up Genji’s face nestling in the crook between his shoulder and his neck pistons.

“I’m exhausted,” Genji sighs into the omnic’s shoulder, “And I barely got to see you.”

A thoughtful hum escapes Zenyatta, a hand coming up to brush stray locks of hair from his student’s face. He wonders how soft it must feel, the sensors in his fingers tingling as the strands slipped through his fingers. “I as well. Though, I did appreciate your efforts to be at my side during the mission, my sparrow.”

He hears Genji let out another laugh, much softer this time, the monk coaxed by the sound to roll onto his side in order to face Genji in bed. “I would’ve done it more... spent a little longer...” Genji’s words slipped to silence, his hand trailing down the delicate line of wires down Zenyatta’s back. He seemed lost in thought, the warm brown hues of his eyes not quite focused.

“Longer?” echoes the monk, enjoying the tingle of sensation Genji’s hands brought against his sensors.

“Longer.” Genji replies, as if the word filled the space he had previously made with it. His face was outlined by the warm traces of dawn peeking through the curtains, the scars and mending of synthetic to organic flesh warm and otherworldly. He gently closes his eyes, the remaining tension in his body beginning to melt away against Zenyatta.

The monk has to wonder if he’s always looked this beautiful. He’s pulled from his thoughts when he feels his student’s hand fall past his back and the waistline of his pants, only to reach--

He lets out a small chuckle “Genji.” he says.

“Hmm?” Genji’s made himself a home against Zenyatta’s chest plate, nose pressed against his neck pistons as the hum escapes him. His hand was gently rubbing now, an absentminded motion as he drifted.

“That is my butt, Genji.” laughter tickles the edge of Zenyatta’s voice, his fingers beginning to play with Genji’s hair.

Slowly, the ninja finally stirs, his head lifting with sleepy brown eyes resting upon the monk’s faceplate. “Oh...” he mumbles, tone heavy with exhaustion, head lowering before a jump causes Genji’s whole body to perk, “Master!”

Zenyatta can’t hold back his laughter, his own hand having drifted down to mimic the same rubbing motion against Genji’s behind. “I am only doing what you’re doing.” he leans forward to mimic a kiss to Genji’s forehead, humming, “I don’t mind at all, my student.”

A huff cuts through the quiet of the room, Genji flopping his head back down beside Zenyatta’s. He moves his wandering hand, both arms wrapping lazily around the omnic’s waist in order to pull him closer against himself.

Its not long before Zenyatta feels Genji’s face pressed against his chest plate, his hair tickling underneath the monk’s chin as Genji practically wrapped himself around Zenyatta’s slighter frame. He raises no protest, his own arms wrapping around his student’s shoulders in order to keep him close to his chest. His processors were beginning to slow, his sensors dulling, his body once again reminding him for its desire to recharge.

Zenyatta gives in only when he feels Genji drift within his arms, the gentle rise and fall of his chest signaling he had finally slipped into his own way of sleep. And yet, he stays awake a moment longer, fingers gently combing through loose knots and tangles in Genji’s hair, before placing a make-shift kiss against his student’s head.

“Goodnight, Genji.”

[s-turmfreiis]

Isn’t it strange, how guilt manages to worm its way into people’s lives, even when there is no need for it? 

A parasite in itself--always seeping its way into people’s bones with little to no regard for it’s necessity in their lives, always finding a way in. A passion, a desire, an action, a thought, a breath. There’s always for guilt to be let in; is it not strange that we, technically, are the ones who let it in? 

Everything can be made to be a regret, with the right angle, the right wording. People judge other people and make them feel guilt, unlocking the door for it to crawl right on in with the right key in hand. A mother’s disappointment, a society’s disapproval, a call to shame by those who’s opinions certainly don’t matter, in the long run. Some might, but when its really focused on... how many billions of people’s opinions directly matter? 

Here’s the tricky part; guilt isn’t easy to shed. Its a life long parasite that knows when to rear its head, with just the right coaxing--an unwanted house guest that possesses the keys, and its the person’s job to nab the them. 

Not exactly easy. It takes a lot of work, self understanding and coaxing to slowly detoxify oneself. All things, strangely enough, our society lacks as a collective whole; self-care, meditation, self-acceptance and desire for self-growth. Its simultaneously never, yet always, about the self--the self in the eye of the collective, but never the self in benefit of itself. 

Maybe there’ll be an answer to why that is, or a solution, even; a way for a global consciousness, slowly being stitched together with mass communication and globalization, to move into a better state of mind for the self, that makes up a better whole. 

[s-turmfreiis]

“You think it’ll ever go away?” 

He says it like a passing thought, lined thick with cigarillo smoke and a weariness Hanzo’s never heard before. 

“I don’t know.” he replies.

Hanzo feels the heavy press of the mattress against his back prodding him to let the cowboy continue. He swears his thoughts are scrambled eggs, his body taxed and his mind wrung. He wants to sleep. He knows it won’t come no matter how spent he is. “What do you mean?” 

“All this.” comes the familiar drawl, “The missions. The runnin’. The guilt.”

 A wave of a hand captured in the thin stripe of light from the moon between two loosely drawn curtains. His cigarillo dangles between his pointer and middle finger, mechanical parts black and white in stark contrast with shine and shadow. The smoke pooling off the end makes the image hazy. 

“Imaginin’ that bein’ it makes me awfully tired.” McCree’s lips come into view, taking a low drag from the cigarillo. Hanzo doesn’t need the light to see they’re horribly chapped. “Always goin’, til one day you’re just not goin’ anymore.” 

The cowboy’s usual tone is gone--each word heavily laid down, no longer masking the exhaustion of years going, going, going--being broken, pieced back together, broken up again. Just a man. 

Hanzo feels exactly what McCree is talking about, that heavy stone in his chest that makes it impossible to rise out of bed. Missions, running from bounty hunters, running from the Shimadas, the guilt--oh god, the guilt--the fragmented ache that makes Hanzo wonder if there’s anything left to call a man inside. Will any of it ever end? 

“... No.” the archer’s voice feels foreign in his own mouth, something he doesn’t expect to hear, “It will not. Is that not why we find ways to cope?” 

“But that ain’t livin’, is it? Always copin’, never livin’--can you imagine livin’ a life where it didn’t just mean finding some way to cope, but to live?” 

There’s no anger there--just exhaustion, an edge that sinks on the lines of depression. Exhaustion of life. Hanzo feels every word to the core. 

“...I do not deserve that kind of luxury, then.” Not with what I’ve done, Hanzo thinks. He moves to stare back at the ceiling over their heads. Solid black. 

A low, pained chuckle from Hanzo’s right. He can see the curl of his lips in his thoughts, that messy hair of his falling into his face. 

“Me neither, Hanzo. Me neither.” 

[s-turmfreiis]

It’s been decades since you’ve tried this. Like a rusted sink, none of the pipe work feels like it’s working quite right, the words forcibly held back and the methods all locked up and blocked. Buildup threatens to crack the pipes, leave gaping cracks in your skin. 

An entire system off kilter--metal not quite in alignment, pieces worn from neglect and lack of uptake. You wonder why you ever let yourself get to this point, let your greatest childhood passion begin to sit inside of you and rust away like it was never something you dreamed upon. It just... stopped, one day; things took more precedent, your interests left in the corners of your mind and soon forgotten about. How could you let that happen to yourself? 

You hate how off everything feels--your thoughts are never quite in alignment, not the kind you would like anyway--but the disphoria, the haphazard way it feels your body’s pieces were crashed together with tension as the glue. It aches you, how you can’t be a little less you and a little more what you hope to become already. It’s the anxiety in you. 

Disphoria, anxiety, a shaken mess inside you that keeps you too tense, too focused on everything else but what you need. How badly you want someone to take it all out of you. How badly you wish you weren’t so selfish to ask that of him, to use him as often as you do to offset your own troubles. It’s not fair to him. It’s not fair to anyone.

Mere feet from the finish line, if only for a week, yet you wonder why you’re already beginning to crack again--the glue never stays, the happiness never lasts, yet that’s what life is; a constant reinvention of peace. Always having to find a new glue and a new purpose, when all of them are non-permanent. 

It’s still rusted--it’s still there, a sharp throb between each rib that settles neatly on a tensed diaphragm, built up inside the pipes. Nothing’s cracked yet, but they’re not going to last for long. What happens if they break? You don’t have time for this. 

You’re too tired. 

[s-turmfreiis]

It's not as scary as you thought it'd be. Picking up the parts of yourself you cherish up off your bedroom floor, leaving some for bygone memories to be left in a mosaic of an old Era of your life on the floor. You shove clothes into every box that isn't quite heavy enough and somehow convince yourself all your books in one box isn't too much for three flights of stairs. It's not like it'll come back down any time soon. Everything zips by (partially) in a way you hopped it would--not enough time to let it sink in, hurried goodbyes and I love yous before the massive uninstalled carpet takes precedent. Then your first week of classes. Then your first midterms ("Already?!" people add "That's insane!!"), though it's not like you allowed yourself a moment to reflect. You figured your first week would be the roughest--the rest ironed out like crinkles in a dress coat, but you quickly realize it's your third week that's your hardest. Your patience had bleeding scrapes and you never touched the growing weight on your shoulders, always convinced you had something else to notice--the immediately apparent. You quickly realize that's your Achilles heel. You felt strangely raw by the time you scraped your skin clean and finally professed you needed bandages. You thought you'd be smarter than all to wonder so much about yourself at once--you may have a clean slate, but things always get transfered from the old whiteboard. You figured a lot of things, and felt ease with the accustomization to the motions. You sort it all out and straighten everything into a line. Your mental health's a lot more linear. That only feels like a blip on the radar--you find yourself so caught up in motions and laughter and discussions that one day turns to one week, and one week into a whole month; a blink of an eye as a day, yet somehow managing to stretch itself out when you least want it to. You do well on your tests. You stumble every now and then but you breathe and you keep walking. You soak in new knowledge like a dry sponge thirsty for water, and submerge yourself into what you still consider the biggest mental reprieve of your life. You're free and you're autonomous and you cannot believe you've made it.

[s-turmfreiis]

You think you have relationships with others down--the equation to them familiar to you since the earliest days of childhood with 19 years of practice backing your skill. You can get by, trial and error have taught you enough to have a greater success than failure rate. It's here that you find things are uniquely different. And entirely in your power. Often you ask for advice, popcorn questions of doubt and concert over the smallest of dilemmas--the resources were right there, the voices willing to listen. You hated to get things wrong, if there's a way to avoid it you will. Maybe in a lot of ways it left you naive. Others more content. The voices are still there, just miles away over an invisible telephone wire. You begin to tread new territory on your own and feel the weight of independence in it--that you are at the mercy of your own decisions. You find you are less afraid of the insecurity in the unknown, but empowered with the ability to even make a decision. Not much as changed; the shots are still yours to make, but you find that they're shots you want to take, and you aren't afraid. Consequences are still there, things could go wrong and relationships can fracture; you used to hate the thought of pouring everything you had into something too soon, only to have your heart fractured like so many people. You felt that fear even when you began to feel love bloom inside your bones. If you showed too much too fast, it won't last, and you'll break. It's still a real consequence--the future still unpredictable, only there's some comfort residing inside of it. That you can make this work, hell, you WANT to make this work. You think you can. You think even if it begins to slip you'll keep something, and be okay. Not lose everything. And that's something insanely powerful you don't mind weilding.

[s-turmfreiis]

You think you’re in love.

You didn’t think love would come into your life as seamlessly as it did. 

It made stitches in your heart the long hours you spent typing, smiling, giggling, bursting into laughter on calls over miles of distance. It planted seeds along your sternum for your lover to kiss and bloom; filled your lungs with warm, nervous energy and your stomach with butterflies. 

You weren’t sure what love was going to feel like. It often was described as something so fictional you placed little faith in it, wondering just how someone could fall so quickly to something--find such immense satisfaction in everything so small and so pure in a world with such corruption and deceit. More things took president, and you looked at yourself in the mirror with wonder, for your body was something you knew but never filled with anything. 

Neglect, in some ways, led to the wonder; it wasn’t like the weight of your existence was going to feel like much with stardust hanging over your head. Your body was merely a body you dressed to your own satisfaction, but never something you allowed to be grounded and stripped bare.

You didn’t feel the seeds being pushed into your bones, your heart. Even when you finally noticed them, felt their little bodies begin to crack open and spread apart your bones and your lungs, you didn’t think it was really anything; just a sensation that sent your heart beating fast and your chest tinging as the stems and the leaves brushed against you

Its when they kiss you and trail their love down your chest that you feel the buds along your sternum begin to blossom, and it left you breathless--euphoric and intoxicated. 

You never expected love to feel quite this beautiful, and leave you such a mess in its wake. Your heart was cracked open with fire lilies and the breaths you took were filled with pollen; your arms were teeming with daises and your rib cage peppered in apple blossoms. Each bud along your skin unfurled with each kiss, and you swear you’ve never felt this perfect; whole. Full. 

You were afraid of what the buds were at first, brushed against them with your fingertips in the mirror at night and felt your heart tremble. You feared the tenderness was misplaced, an unannounced and unwelcome guest in your body, something that was beginning to be grounded to your consciousness every time you traced your hands along it. You felt fear in disappointment, in something faulty you knew just had to be there--even if you couldn’t see it. 

And yet you couldn’t bring yourself to live in fear of the unknown--you let every bud bloom and leave your heart beating fast with every kiss down your stomach. You let the stems tangle in your diaphragm and the flowers crack open upon your abdomen, birthing love for them and yourself.

You never thought you could ever feel this incredible--you think you’re in love.

[s-turmfreiis]

3AM soaks into you eyes and you bones and your skin like acne cream. Dry. You realize the closer you approach the day you’ll be leaving the more your sleep becomes erratic in protest, your mind a hodgepodge of doubts and hopes for the future. All you want to do is sleep, and be able to wrote as passionately as you used to–so full of good dreams and cotton candy. As sweet and as light as air. Instead it carries weight of uncertainty, clarity and strength but a lack of growth to be seen over the last year. Your rate of expansion has slowed down from the tips of earth’s endless expanse to the walls of your bedroom, your closet. Clothes of words and stories and dreams you’ve now considered more or less impractical hang up on old hangers and collect dust. You don’t have the heart to throw them out. You try to think of a few ways to kickstart a second growth spirt, and realize, maybe this isn’t the time to worry about that. You decide kickstarting sleep is easier than 4 years of work.

[s-turmfreiis]

Prompt 1: Our House of Stone

Prompt #: 1 Title: Our House of Stone Rating: G Characters: Xerxes Break ; Liam Lunettes ; A brief word from Sharon Rainsworth Word Count: 1,202 Summary: Liam remembers the house of stone he built from the ground up; at first, alone, and then, with a friend. 

+6 Points for Team Pandora!

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[s-turmfreiis]

Prompt 2: What Can't Be Put to Words

Prompt #: 2 Title: What Can’t Be Put to Words Character(s): Kevin Regnard, Shelly Rainsworth, Liam Lunettes, mentions of little Sharon Rainsworth Word Count: 2,149 Summary: Shelly’s done nothing but smile, the occasional cough raising to question just what was wrong. Though, Kevin doesn’t connect the pieces until he’s faced with a very weak and very ill Shelly; and it’s only then that he realizes something about her he hadn’t been able to put words to before.

+10 points for Team Pandora

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[s-turmfreiis]

Prompt 3: Dark and Stormy Storytelling

Prompt #: 3 Title: Dark and Stormy Storytelling Characters: Lacie Baskerville, Oswald Baskerville, Jack Vessalius, a brief appearance from Levi Word Count: 1,747 Summary: Thunderstorms, a crackling fire and some freaky stories. It’s not something they’d normally do, but it seems the circumstances all lined up to make it feel fictional.

+8 points for Team Pandora

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