#/ even if sunrise or outside day noise wakes me up ill have had enough sleep

[nerice]

i thought id just pass out and sleep a lot after thesis but i keep having insomnia/wake up early :(

[the-dead-skwad]

Lost Part 1 X Daryl Dixon X Reader

It’s been a while but I’m back with a Walking Dead fic. So happy I’m back into this. There’s going to be at least 2 more parts to this I hope. 

Sumarry: On the farm your making yoruself ill searching for the missing.

Warnings: Missing child. Swearing. 

The leaves and twigs crunched under your feet as you stepped through the woods. The light of the sun slowly setting making it harder to see around you. You followed your own tracks back to the farm. 

As you reached the perimeter you wave to Andrea who was posted on the RV roof. Just to let her know you weren't a walker. She waved back so you headed to your own tent. 

You had put it further away from everyone else. Due to recent events you decided being friends with people wasn't an option. You weren't stupid, you knew exactly what the world was like now and everyone you loved would eventually die. It was always like this, in fact you were close to many of the group back at the first camp. But things change, people change. 

You sat outside your tent on a small log, taking out your gun to clean it. "You know you can't keep doing this." Daryl's voice came from just ahead of you. 

"There's two girls out there missing. You think for one second I'm gonna stop, you can think again." 

"You can't just push every one away." His voice was so soothing to you but like you said, no friends. 

"And what are you doing? You go out there as much as I do, you have your tent further away than me." You looked down "Rick lost Sophia, I know that.... But Emily. That's my fault." 

He sat down next to you "It's not your fault Y/N. You can't blame yourself." 

"Then who do I blame? She is the only family I have left and I lost her. The heard came and she was right next to me, then all of a sudden she was gone. You don't understand the fear I feel every day knowing she could be out there, crying asking herself why I haven't found her. Why I left her down." Tears formed in your eyes. You hadn't shown how broken you were even though everyone already knew. 

He wrapped an arm around you and pulled you closer to him. "This is not how you find her, look at you. You don't eat. You don't sleep. From sunrise to sunset you're out there. You're going to get ill or hurt." He placed his hand under your chin and turned you at face him. With a rough course thumb he wiped a tear from your cheek."Please Y/N they care about you. Hell I care about you." 

You spent a good 30 seconds looking into his eyes. You could see all the pain he felt. Without another thought you leaned forward and pressed your lips against his. He was taken aback at first but then he kissed you back. His stubble scratched your face but his lips were so soft. 

You were lost in the moment until suddenly you snapped back to reality. Pulling away he looked confused. "Daryl I'm sorry." You stood to go back to your tent. 

"Wait.." He took hold of your hand. "What you doin?" 

"I didn't mean to do that’s. I was just upset. I'm sorry but I can't." You stepped into your tent and zipped it up behind you. You could hear the grass as he walked away. You lay back on your camp bed "Fuck." You sighed. 

--

Opening your eye it was actually day light. "Oh shit!" You sat bolt up right, swung your feet off the bed and pulled your boots on. Usually you would wake up before sunrise so you could get as much time out searching as you could. You were still absolutely exhausted, you had spent most of the night staring at the top of your tent thinking about what Daryl had said. 

Your grabbed all your things and rushed out the tent. Looking over to the other tents you could see Lori, Andrea, Maggie and Carol all together putting the washing out. 

It took you a moment but you knew you had lost the morning. There wasn't going to be enough day light to get as far as you wanted to go. You put some things back in the tent, water bottle, jacket and you hid your gun. Hershel was still insisting no guns. 

Walking over to the women you realized how dirty you looked compared to them. "Hey." You approached them hoping they wouldn't hate you for shutting away. 

"Hey." Lori looked at you concerned "How are you feeling?" 

"I'm pretty tired but I'm alright." You looked at the basket of clothes on the floor "I would help but..." You held out your arms, they were covered is cuts and bruises. Some of the cuts were so fresh they were still bleeding. "I don't want to mess up the clothes." 

"Oh sweetheart." Carol put down what she was doing and walked to you. She took a closer look at your hands. "Please, go up to the house. Get yourself cleaned up and I'll make you something to eat." 

"Oh no, Carol. You don't have to do that. I'm fine." 

"No you aren't" She was putting on her mom voice "You spend all day everyday looking for our daughters. This is the least I can do." 

"I..." Looking at the others you could tell there was no point in arguing "Okay. Thank you but please know you don't owe me anything." 

Maggie walked to you "Come on, I'll walk up with you." 

You both headed to the house, it was silent for a minute "Ermm I'm sorry if I have come off so standoff ish." 

"What you talking about?" 

You stopped outside the door so you could talk to her "Ever since Emily and Sophia went missing I just shut down. I came to your home and I didn't even say thank you or bother to make any sort of friends."

"Don't be silly. What you are going through is unthinkable. You are more than welcome here." She walked you through the house. "This is the bathroom. Leave your clothes out here and I can bring you some clean ones. I'll get my dad to check you over just to make sure." 

You smiled for the first time in a long time "Thank you." 

Stepping into the water it was freezing, all your cuts stung like you were bathing in lemon juice. The water was almost black when you had finished. You cleaned the tub out and went into the next room. Some of your clothes were laid out on the bed. You hadn't seen these clothes since the fall of the first camp.

You went down to the kitchen where Carol was. "Thank you again. You're too nice." 

"Oh shut up and sit down." She placed a plate in front of you, full of all sorts of food and left you to it.

Your stomach grumbled for the first time in a long time. Tucking right in, after half the plate was gone you sat back for a second. Something didn't feel right. You ran to the sink and threw up everything you just ate. 

"Shit!" You heard Lori from the other side of the room. She ran to you and pulled your hair back. "You okay?" 

You wiped your mouth and swilled it out with water "I thought I was, but I guess not." Black spots wizzed around in your head and you fell to the ground. 

Maggie had walked in too at that point, she saw you on the floor "I'll get dad." 

--

Spread across the bed you were sweating all hell out. Hershel was looking at the wounds on your arm. He looked at you with a look of annoyance. "Some of these are infected, that’s why your sweating so much. I got something that will sort that right out, and you threw up because you didn't eat for so long then tried to eat everything." 

You gave him an awkward smile. "Sorry, I guess I just switched off my entire body." 

"I think when you sat down and actually gave your body a rest everything just caught up with you. Take these," He passed you the pills "Drink plenty of water and get some sleep. God knows you need it." 

"Thank you." You watched him leave the room.

Maggie sat on the edge of the bed next to you. "You gonna listen to him right?" 

"I'll stay in here for a few days but as soon as I'm okay I'm going back out there."

"Please, rest. You'll just make yourself more sick and then you'll be no use at all." 

You rolled your eyes "Fine." You noticed the sun was starting to go down. You must have passed out for a while. "Have you seen Daryl today?" 

Lori had heard you as she came down the hall. "He left this morning, about the time you usually leave. He's not back yet." She stood in the doorway.

"Shouldn't he be back by now? What if he's hurt?" The panic in your voice was obvious. 

"He says the same thing about you most days. It's Daryl, he'll be fine." 

Maggie grabbed your hand "Stop panicking. You'll only make yourself feel worse." 

As if on que a gunshot rang through the farm. "I'll go." Lori ran down the hallway and out the house. 

Maggie saw the look on your face "It's probably just a walker. I'll have a look for you." She went to the window and looked around. "Oh shit." 

"What?" You sat bolt upright in bed "What is it?" 

"Stay here." She ran out the room. 

You sat there looking around. "What the fuck?" You said to yourself. 

You heard the front door open and a commotion coming up the stairs. "Get him in there!" Rick was shouting over all the noise. 

"I'm sorry I thought he was a walker! Is he going to be okay?" Andrea cried out. 

You got up out of bed and walked to the door way, your legs felt they they were going to give out under you and your head was spinning. Through blury eyes you saw them carrying Daryl into the room just down from you. Your heart fell to your stomach. Holding onto the wall you forced your self to them. "What happened?" No one was listening to you. "Let me through!" Pushing past everyone you got to the door. He lay on the bed unconscious. 

Hershel turned to look at you "You should be in bed." 

"I'm not worried about me right now." 

You knelt down at the side of the bed and held onto his hand. "I'm sorry." You whispered only to him. 

"The bullet just skimmed him but he has a puncture wound I need to stitch. You need to go back to your bed." He wasn't having any of your shit. 

Maggie walked behind you and helped you up. You kissed the back of his hand and walked back with her. Walking past everyone they all looked at you weird. 

She helped you back onto the bed "So... Daryl huh?" 

"I don't know what you mean." You smiled a little.

"What happened if you don't mind me asking." 

You sighed "We kissed and then I told him I didn't want him. Which is a huge lie."  

"And why would you do that?" 

"I thought if we got close then something would happen to him and I can't take much more death." 

She sat next to you and held your hand softly "I'm afraid that's life now."

"I guess he got hurt anyway.. I should have just told him how I felt." You whole body was acing. 

"There's time for that."

"I hope so." You closed your eyes so stop your head spinning. You could feel her stroking your hair slightly. 

--

Sitting straight up you breathed heavy, tears coming down your cheeks. Another nightmare about Emily. You wished you could shut your brain off for a minute. Catching your breath you looked around the room, it was pitch black and you were all alone. For once You didn't want to be. 

Placing your feet on the wooden floor you made sure to make no noise. Trying your hardest to make sure the floorboards didn't squeak you headed down to Daryl. You stood in the doorway for a short while, he looked so peaceful even if he was banged up. 

You were about to turn back when you head his gruff voice, "Hey." 

You smiled "Hi." 

"What the hell happened to you?" 

"I could say the same to you." You walked over to him and sat on the edge of the bed. "I'm sorry, I was a real asshole the other night." 

"Don't be dumb. Now come here." He held his arm up.

You lay on the bed and put your head on his chest. Without saying anything else you both fell asleep together. 

--

It had been a few days and both of you were on your feet and back helping on the farm. The only person who knew about you two was Lori because she found you both asleep together. 

You were helping Lori go through all the clean washing. Daryl sat not far from you sharpening his knife, the sun bounced of the muscles on his arms. 

"Y/N!" Lori snapped you out of your day dream "You with us?" 

"What? Yeah sorry." You carried on with the washing. She just laughed at you. 

You took a moment to have a look around. Everyone was there for each other and for the first time in a long time you felt some hope. But all came crashing down when Glenn approached the group, his face full of worry. "There's walkers in the barn." 

[bittys]

dads slutty new shorts are really a bear magnet - seirei - 1/3

READ ON AO3 

Pairing: reigen arataka/serizawa katsuya 

REBLOGS > LIKES 

Summary- Reigen decided to make his new highly attractive neighbor a pie as a "welcome/thanks for waking me up at six in the morning/sorry for your ugly house" gift. And it was a good idea at first, he thought, it coming out of the oven lopsided could have been the only problem. Until it turned out that the new neighbor, while highly attractive, was also allergic to almonds. Yikes. Seriously, who doesn't consider nut allergies?

...At least he gets a date out of it.

   Saturday morning, Reigen awoke to the sound of a buzzing truck engine and soft laughter. The frame of his bed was vibrating softly with the noise, the first time it had moved with such expeditious energy in a while. He groaned. It was early, he could tell as he carefully slid his eyelids open to the bronze sunlight that peaked underneath the cracked window and brought in the smell of last nights rain and early sunrise dew. He lolled his head over to the clock that shone in red, 6:37 A.M.    Who was awake, causing this much noise, at 6:37 in the fucking morning? Oh how he’d love to meet the bastard.    He rolled back over to the empty space next to him, stared for a moment, and then swung his legs over the mattress. There was no use in trying to sleep again, not with the constant vibrations of the truck parked but yet to be shut down out front. Beside the noise that seemed to come through louder when his bedroom door shut, the rest of the house was silent; Absent of the screaming, annoying kids that he loved so dearly. He shoved the curtain at the window by the front of the door aside, and squinted past the sun rays that painted across the pink and orange horizon, to see a large moving truck.    The house that been for sale since they had moved into the neighborhood six months ago had finally been sold, apparently, with a cost that wasn’t the absurdly high mortgage price. It was downright ugly. At first, Reigen had thought that it perhaps had been haunted or something, it couldn’t of been that bad. But the more he had to live next to it and look at the damned thing when he was parking, the more he realized that even the dead had to have taste. The dreary green topped off with the growing moss on the shutters was enough of a sight to make him want to go over and paint and clean the entire thing himself.    There was only one simple moving truck outside, the name of the company printed in bright orange on the side. A few movers came back and forth from the house to the truck, doing what you’d think they’d be doing, carrying boxes to-and-fro. But absent of the generic beige outfits the movers wore, was a taller man, thickened around the edges of his body, wearing a pair of track pants and a white sweater. By the ruffle of his dark hair and the shadow on his face, he looked as equally as tired as Reigen.        But hell, if he wasn’t attractive.    Reigen pulled the curtains shut and turned to the kitchen with a sudden need for a cup of coffee.    He poured his cup. Straight black, as always. And he sat on one of the leather stools at the island. The house was quiet without the kids up to make trouble. It made him shift awkwardly in his seat, like he didn’t know what to do with himself. Usually, when the kids weren’t up to bother him, he’d be talking with Ekubo, or sharing smiles, or ignoring the chatter on the television because they're too distracted with their own gossip and gentle kisses. But in the end, he did what he did best and left the house with a deafening silence. Reigen sipped his coffee.    He thought about the new man living next door. Perhaps he should strip his bitter mood with a bit of sweetness; he could make the new neighbor a pie. That wasn’t something he’d normally do… and hell, did neighbors even welcome each other with sweet pies and casseroles anymore? He wasn’t sure. But he was sure of the thoughts of disgraceful men in his head, how tired he was, and how maybe a bit of good karma would help him out. It didn’t have to be of good nature, did it? As long as he made it with kindness and love, he could totally write in pink icing: Sorry about your ugly house! Or say something along the lines of: Thanks for waking me up at six thirty in the morning and ruining my entire day! Whilst handing the man the pie.      Okay, so Reigen didn’t know much about how that worked. And that man was far too attractive to get something with such ill-mannered intentions. But he did know that there was an overwhelming amount of strawberries growing from his and the kids’ strawberry bushes planted in the pots in the backyard, and a package of almonds he’d bought a few months ago before he realized he absolutely did not like almonds. The kids could pick the strawberries, he could make the pie and bring it by during lunch later. It was a rare, yet good, idea.    For the good karma, not the hot men. Of course.    He pushed himself up from the barstool, leaving his coffee half-drunk. He pulled open the pantry door and located what he needed: Flour, sugar, salt, cornstarch, extract, shortbread cookies, and of course the opened bag of almonds with only one almond missing. He towered them in his arms to carry to the island and lay them out in the order they’d need to be in— not including the refrigerated items. He then slapped his hands together to brush off the stray flour accumulated on the bag and transferred to his hands from carrying, and turned to the fridge to do the same with the rest of the ingredients: butter, milk, and whipped cream.    It was 7:16 A.M by the time he began baking, and 8:40 A.M once the boys had awakened from their slumber. They came padding out of their shared room, eyes lazily half-lidded. “Smells good,” Mob mumbled as he rubbed a small fist against his eye.   Breathing in the sweet scent of the almond crust, Reigen pulled out the pie pan from the oven. The crust was baked a perfect golden brown, small cracks around the curve of the pan but smooth over the thick bottom. “Pie!” Reigen exclaimed, twisting to place the pan on the counter. He pulled off his pink mitts and kicked the oven shut with his foot. “Do you boys wanna go pick some strawberries for me? We’re gonna go visit the new neighbor today and I need it for the pie.”    “Only if we can have a slice,” Ritsu responded. He was already walking to the back door to flip the lock.    “If he offers it, sure. But don’t be spoiled,” Reigen said. “Mob?”    Mob shrugged. “Sure.”    Reigen gave them a smile and watched as they left to the backyard. It was a small deck surrounded by the limited greenery of the yard, but it was enough to carry a few medium sized planters pots for their growing fruits and vegetables. They didn’t get into the gardening hobby until Ekubo left, leaving them with less funds for food and outdoor activities like beaches and parks. Despite that, it was fun and good for bonding. So far, they had plenty of cucumbers, melons, tomatoes, strawberries, and other sorts of foods that they enjoyed better than store-bought.    They came back inside a few minutes later with strawberry stained fingers, pink around their mouths, and handfuls of dark red strawberries. They release them onto the counter, watching them roll across the surface before losing interest and scrambling up onto the barstools to watch Reigen instead. The both of them are in sync, leaning their cheeks onto their tiny fists. Reigen collected the strawberries off the counter. In the cup of his hands, he rinsed them of the soil and— a contribution from the children— stickiness, cut the leafy green tops off, and threw them into a bowl. He mashed them, poured sugar and a couple other ingredients in, and stirred.    “We have a new neighbor?” Ritsu asked. “Do you think they have kids?”    There only seemed to be a man present, but Reigen wasn’t sure. He found himself hoping that there weren’t any kids, that it was just a single man living on his own in an ungodly green house. “We’ll have to find out, won’t we?” He said as he poured the mixture on top of the crust. As soon as the mixture emptied the mixing bowl and filled the pan, apart of the crust crumbles. “Shit.”    He frantically tried to push the crust back into place with the tips of his fingers, but he was far too shaky and the crust was already too hard to shape. He sends a prayer to the Gods and simply covered it with the strawberry mixture and a spoon.    “You messed it up, Daddy,” Mob pointed out. Reigen rolled his eyes and shoved it into the oven, annoyance prickling at his chest.    “I did not. This is fine. It’s fine.” He clicked the button on top of the oven to start the baking again.        Brunch went by quickly, and the house was beginning to fill with the scent of bitter sweetness. After he cleaned up his mess, he poured himself another hot cup of coffee, and made bacon and eggs for the boys and himself. They ate with some chatter here and there, but it was mostly a comfortable silence until they finished eating.        “Will you marry the new neighbor, daddy?” Mob suddenly asked.    Reigen almost choked on the sip of his coffee. “Not in the foreseeable future,”    “But you’re making him a pie~” Ritsu chimed in, a song to his voice.    “Why don’t we go get dressed and decide on that when we bring it by?” Reigen set down his cup and smiled awkwardly, a tight grip at the sides of the stool to push himself down. The kids jump out of their seats with a clap to their feet as they run to their bedroom, apparently delighted by the idea of another marriage.    With Reigen’s own luck, the man is going to wind up married with five children. Or maybe 70 years old with a great skincare routine.    Reigen rinsed the plates and set them into the dishwasher, then retreated into his own bedroom to pick out clothing. It shouldn’t of mattered what he wore, but he found himself pulling things out of his drawers carelessly until he decided that nothing was right for the matter of occasion. He decided simply on a t-shirt and a pair of new pink shorts that reached barely mid-thigh. He’d recently bought them on sale at a thrift store. The kids didn’t hesitate to make fun of him for them. They exposed the coarse hair that rose to his thighs, and the fact that he never really went outside.   Mob and Ritsu are dressed when Reigen leaves the bedroom. They’re bouncing excitedly on the couch.    “Are you ready to go?” Reigen asked as he moved to the kitchen to pull the pie out of the oven. The thickly filling had seemed to cover the collapse for the most part, but it was still evident in the way the red leaked out and snuck between the crust and the pan. Yikes.    He pulled it out, wrapped the pie in foil, and they left the house.        The sun beamed down on their skin as they walked. Reigen was already sweating by the time they were half way down the sidewalk, an uncomfortably damp residue beneath his armpits. The moving truck was gone, and the outside of the ugly green house was absent of any other person. There’s a couple of small boxes on the concrete patio.    They walk up the dusty pathway, Mob and Ritsu trailing behind. Reigen used his hand free of the intense heat seeping through the tinfoil to ring the doorbell. The walls of the house are thin enough to hear the echo of the ring from the inside, and the sound of approaching footsteps. He straightened his back and checked the tinfoil that covered the pie to make sure of no flaws like a rip or a hole.    The doorknob twisted and the door swung open.    No woman or small child, it was the same man that he had seen out front earlier. This time dressed down to a white t-shirt, and the same tracksuit pants with white lines at the sides. He looked more rugged up close, but daringly attractive at the same time. His hair was a sweaty, ruffled mess. His beard far more lighter and sparse than what it looked to be through the window, and there are prominent bags under his eyes that could not have been visible from so far away.    “Oh! Company. Hello!” The man smiled through his tired look.    Reigen swallowed down the dryness working its way up his throat. The resent for his early rising was suddenly gone, replaced by heat buried deep in his chest. “We’re sorry to bug you, you must be busy unpacking and stuff. But we made you a pie to welcome you to the neighborhood.” He shoved the pie outwards with a lopsided grin. A bead of sweat rolled down his forehead. With the short pause in the conversation, Reigen scrambled for a grip on his introduction that was being pulled away by new infatuation. “Reigen Arataka, by the way. These are my two sons, Mob and Ritsu.”    The man looked down at the tin foil, then up from Reigen’s pink shorts to the two children behind him. Under the glaze of the sunlight, a flush creeped up his cheeks. “It smells great, thank you! I’m Serizawa,” He paused just as Reigen did, and then, “Katsuya. Sorry, Serizawa Katsuya. Hah, It’s been a long morning moving in this heat all alone.” He scratched the back of his neck.    Reigen doesn’t want to think it, but, score!    “If you ever need any help, I live right next door.” He doesn’t exactly mean the offer, because really, who willingly moves and unpacks boxes unless there was something in it for them like money— or in his case— an attractive man.    Serizawa Katsuya reached out and grabbed the pie carefully. The thicker tips of his fingers brush over Reigen’s as he did so. “I think you’ve done enough already, nobody would ever do this in Tokyo.” He gestured with the pie. “But if I may, would you like to come in and help eat some of this? I live alone, it wouldn’t be respectful to let it go stale…”    While Ritsu did tug on the back of Reigen’s shorts as if to say yes, yes! he’s already hastily accepting the offer. They followed Serizawa into his home.      It was nicer on the inside than it was on the outside, with a similar layout to their own home. Boxes were strewn out across the living room, some opened, some still sealed. The couch, a mustard color with a soft looking texture, sat covered in plastic in the middle of the room. There was a television already on a glass stand, unhooked. But besides that, unopened boxes, and a few paintings hung on the white walls, the place was practically empty. Nobody else was around, it seemed. The house was just as quiet.    They were lead to the kitchen. There were two chairs already pushed underneath the island, a different colored marbled top than their own. Serizawa set the pie down and began dismantling the tinfoil. Reigen’s heart skips a beat or two. If only he could turn back time for a few minutes and bake the pie just two minutes longer. It wouldn’t look like the lopsided mess that it was now.    “Ah… The pie is a bit…crumbled. Amateur here.” He stared down at the way Serizawa’s hands slow to intricate movements across the foil, nails sliding carefully underneath as so not to cause more destruction.    “No worries,” He got most of the foil off but kept it beneath the glass pan to rewrap with later. “Do you bake a lot?”    “Sometimes. The kids and I garden, so we have lots to make sometimes.” Serizawa bent down into an open box, and pulled out four glass plates and a wrapping full of utensils. Apparently, the utensils were more important than the glass dishes. He set them out on the island. The kids each grabbed a plate and held it close to their chests, eagerly awaiting a taste of their fathers baking.    He doesn’t bother with the collapsed side as he cuts it, and Reigen doesn’t feel the slightest offended. The strawberry filling floods over the sides and collects in a puddle at the bottom of the glass, steaming with a sweet sent. “So is it just you and the kids?” Serizawa asked and then stopped his movements, “Sorry, that was rude.”    Reigen opened his mouth to speak, but proving to be listening, Mob chimed in. “Daddy is thinking about marrying you! You can be our new dad also!” Ritsu slapped him on the arm. “Ow.”    Reigen’s eyes widened, heat flushing across his cheeks to match the newfound coloring on Serizawa’s.    “O-Oh.”    “No, no, no, no!” Reigen waved his hands in front of himself frantically. It suddenly felt hot in the room, all across his body. He wanted nothing more than to slap the shit out of his child. Or maybe himself, because he did say that in a way. “No. I did not say that oh god—Mob!— I am so sorry. K-kids, you know?”     Beneath the island looked far more comfier than beneath the sight of surprised eyes. But then, he laughs and goes back to cutting. “Oh gosh, that’s okay. I can take that as an answer to my question, yeah?”    With a quick nod, Reigen grabbed himself a slice. He considered not giving the kids a slice so not to fulfill their hyperactivity again, but Serizawa placed each of them a sliver of a piece before he could object. “Thank you, Mister,” Ritsu said.    They ate in silence. It’s unsettling to not know if it was because his kids had big mouths, or there just wasn’t much to talk about. At the very most, the pie was delicious. A smooth filling, bitter but sweet with the soft chew of melted down strawberries. Serizawa threw a few compliments his way, and that made up for the lack of conversation until their plates were empty with leftover crumbs and jelly-like spots. Eating was a great first date, because you didn’t have to talk through the awkward parts. You could simply just fill your mouth with savory foods until you pile up your dates bill and leave, or find something else to talk about. But this— to Reigen’s misfortune, anyway— wasn’t a date, just a welcome made awkward by a seven year old. The idea, he supposed, still counted.    Serizawa was on his last bite when he coughed out the barely chewed forkful. It landed disgustingly on his plate, a splat. Was it really that bad? He dropped the fork next, his hands flying up to his throat.    The kids jumped up from their squeezed spot in the chair and run to Serizawa. They pull on his shirt.    “Woah, woah. Are you okay?” Reigen followed behind and started clapping his hands against his back.    He struggled. His shoulder blades quivered beneath the frantic touch of Reigen's hands. As his own hands awere wrapped tightly around his throat as if to help the choking somehow, he managed out, “What was in the pie?”    Ritsu let go of his shirt and looked at Reigen accusingly. “Dad, did you poison the pie?”    Reigen pressed his eyebrows together. “What? No. There’s uh…” The memories of the ingredients fall short in his memory. He didn’t do good under pressure. “Uh, strawberries…sugar…almonds…butter-“    “Almonds!” Serizawa choked. “I’m- a-allerg-“ He coughed more. He didn’t need to complete his sentence for Reigen to realize what was happening. He dealt with it all too much when Mob was little. Fish, peanuts, you name it, he couldn’t have it. He was having an allergic fucking reaction, all due to his shitty, sloppily made pie. Who makes things with nuts on the first day of not knowing someone? That was purely idiotic, a thought that had escaped him due to the need of wooing a man.     He stopped and pocketed his cellphone to dial an ambulance.    The hospital waiting area was stuffy, the air carrying an undertone of strengthened bleach. The few people that sat in the dull grey chairs didn't look like they needed to be there— one had a cough, the other sat on their phone, bored with half-lidded eyes. Quick moving nurses took Serizawa immediately. By the time the ambulance had arrived, his face had grown purple and puffy, and disregarding of the thousands of fumbled apologies Reigen gave while they wheeled him out.        Mob and Ritsu played at the small children’s corner with a bead rollercoaster and a couple of small toy trucks, when a nurse came out. She was pretty, long black hair tied into a ponytail, with the same dull look on her face as the people in the waiting room. “Mr. Serizawa seems to be holding up okay. He’s awake and has been treated. You’re free to visit him now if you’d like. Room 203.” She explained before she walked off to tend to another, her ponytail flipping onto her shoulder.    Reigen nodded as if she could see him and he walked over to claim Mob and Ritsu.    They walked down the hallway, where the scent of bleach only grew stronger. It had about as much personality as the rest of the hospital; opened doors exposing bored-stricken sick patients, dull blue floors and dove walls with paintings of oceans and lakes and trees. The place certainly isn’t run by risk-takers such as Reigen, baking pies for people with nut allergies, and he guessed he should be grateful for that.    Amongst the various slates with numbers besides the doors came room 203. Reigen knocked gently and twisted the knob. The kids stumbled through the cracked doorway into the room, excited to see Serizawa in all his swollen glory.    Except, he looked rather fine now.    “Hey, Serizawa…” Reigen cracked an awkward smile.    Serizawa lay covered by the thin hospital sheet, a pillow perching his head up to view the television, turned to a news broadcast. His face, unlike before, was slimmed down again with only a flushed tint around his eyes.    “Reigen,” He greeted. He pushed himself up, sheets falling into a bundle atop his lap. The kids moved to sit on the two visitors chairs pushed against the wall by the counters. “Thanks for following me here,” He sounded sincere, not sarcastic.    Reigen perched himself on the mattress with precision as to not sit on Serizawa’s feet and cause even more damage than before. “I’m really sorry, this has been an awkward meeting from start to finish. I hadn’t considered the possibility of an allergic reaction…I-I—“    Serizawa cut him off. “Oh, Reigen. Don’t worry. I’m fine! How could you of known? You did the right thing, I don’t even have an Epipen in my house.” He chuckled nervously and scratched the back of his neck.  “It could have been worse, really.”    “How can I make it up to you?” Reigen ran his hands down his face.    Glancing from the kids to Reigen, a soft pink blush matches the red around his eyes. “Tomorrow,” He said, “You can take me on a date.” 

[xxx-cat-xxx]

Not Us

Inspired by the latest Endgame trailer.

I know that I can’t do justice to the whole Tony-Steve relationship mess with one 1.7k-word fic. I’m not even trying. Imagine this as part of a larger project that may or may not ever be written. Let’s pretend for this one that Pepper and Rhodey died in the snap or are otherwise indisposed. It contains illness and might be a bit sad (very very light suicidal TW for the last paragraph).

A million thanks to @whumphoarder for beta-reading.

Steve remembered the way his heart had been pounding in his throat when the spaceship first landed in front of the compound. How they’d all run outside and then stopped as if on command, torn between hope and dread at what awaited them.

What they’d seen when the ship finally opened its gates was somewhere in between the best and worst case scenarios. Tony was alive, albeit barely, dragging himself down the ramp with the help of a robot girl, his eyes looking through all of them as if they were just another group of ghosts that haunted him.

He’d spent a few days in the medical unit, just enough to get out of the danger zone that dehydration and malnutrition had brought on. He and Scott Lang had started to work on a plan the moment he was strong enough to hold a tablet. He’d gotten down to the workshop as soon as he could walk again, silently daring anyone to try and stop him. He still looked ill, desperately thin under the clothes that were so oversized they seemed to belong to someone else, and heavily favoured his left side while walking, aching from the remainders of an injury he wouldn’t allow anyone to tend to.

Some people move one. But not him.

Steve would never know the details of what had happened on Titan, having to make do with the bits and pieces Bruce and the others slipped him, although he was sure even they would never get to hear the full story. There had been a boy with Tony, they said, a child that Steve remembered blurrily from the battle in Leipzig as extraordinarily strong and a bit too talkative, a child that hadn’t returned to earth. But whatever had happened, it was clear that it had shaken Tony to his core, changed him to someone Steve hadn’t thought he possibly could become.

The early mornings at the compound had always been Steve’s alone to jog and quietly read the news upon return, to watch the sunrise without another soul around. But nobody could sleep nowadays.

Sometimes he’d meet Bruce in the kitchen, making tea with the calm, habitual movements of an old man, but the circles under his eyes would betray another sleepless night. Natasha was often found in the common room, silently staring out the window, as if looking out for someone who would never return. Sometimes Steve sat with her, the shared silence as comforting as anything could be these days. Sometimes it was too much to bear, and one of them would leave after minutes without speaking a word.

Some people move one. But not them.

One time at dawn he’d found Tony on the couch, thrashing and turning in the grip of a nightmare, an overturned scotch bottle on the ground speaking of how he’d tried to drown his thoughts the night before. Steve hadn’t dared to wake him, had stood silently, and, when the moans had become too frantic, had turned on his heels and called Bruce to intervene.

Tony was of course not the only one suffering from nightmares. Steve had never slept as badly as he did these days. Sometimes the dead came back to life. Then Bucky stood next to him, both of his arms made from flesh and blood, a smile that hadn’t been seen in decades hanging on his lips when he looked at Steve. Sometimes Sam was there too, circling high above them like the falcon that gave him his name. These were the nights when Steve would wake up with tears on his cheeks, when he would give anything to stay in that world the dreams opened up for him.

More often though, it was the living who’d step over into the world of the dead, the few souls that still meant something to him taken away at last. Natasha’s hair was always red when she died, nearly the same colour as the blood spreading rapidly beneath her body once it hit the ground. Sometimes Steve was the one who couldn’t save her. Sometimes he was the one who pulled the trigger.

They all were broken beyond repair, but the change was most obvious in Tony. The man’s unlimited energy was still there, but now it was of a dark, destructive nature that seemed to entail despair. The sparkling of creativity that had brought so many inventions to life had transformed into a mad, raging fire that everyone knew would leave him burned out and hollow at the end. He wouldn’t sleep, hardly ate a thing, and talked much less than he used to. His jokes, as rare as they were now, had gone from good-natured irony to stinging cynicism.

Even in the worst periods, Tony Stark had been a man who enjoyed life, who wanted to survive just for the sake of living. Now it was different - Steve felt that all that kept the man going was the determination to bring back the ones they’d lost, that the moment this would happen, he’d crumble to earth without anything left to force him into getting up again.

Two weeks after the landing, Tony started coughing - a cracking kind of noise that sounded painful and dry. Bruce tried to talk him into getting checked out by the only doctor left at the compound, fearing he might have caught pneumonia after the long period of isolation in space. But Tony refused with the same stubbornness he’d refuse to eat and rest, ignoring the way the cough slowly turned into a wet rattling deep in his chest.

The worry creased in Bruce’s face became permanent, nothing left of the gleaming hope that had sparked in all of them when the spaceship had first shown up on their radar. It was only reluctantly that he left with Nat when the first message of Clint’s whereabouts reached them. Tony, looking sweaty and flushed, essentially forced them out of the door. The moment they were gone, he vanished back into the workshop without another look at Steve.

Steve was in the gym the next night, trying to chase away depression with the pain that would only come from hours of working out, when Scott entered without knocking.

“You need to get downstairs,” he stated without a greeting, “I think Stark’s having a panic attack.”

“What?” Steve frowned, caught off-guard, “I don’t think I’m the right person to -”

“No one else is here, unless you count that robotic girl who’s currently taking apart her own leg in the swimming pool. Look, I don’t care what happened between the two of you. I’m here to bring back my family, not to deal with Tony Stark’s PTSD. You’ve got much more experience with this kind of stuff, and you’ve known him far longer.”

So Steve had gone.

The lab still smelled like it used to, but it seemed larger and darker without robots whirring around and with a distinct lack of rock music blaring from the speakers.

Tony was pressed into the small gap between a cupboard and a workbench, trembling and drawing in small, flat breaths in quick succession. He was staring into space with wide open eyes, their darkness in stark contrast to his otherwise ghostly white face. It was clear from a mile away that he was running a fever, the glassy eyes and beads of sweat above his brows betraying the illness even before Steve could feel the heat coming off him in waves.

“Tony?” he asked in a forcibly calm voice while kneeling down a few steps away, knowing better than to touch him.

There was no reply except a sucked-in breath that made Tony’s lungs rattle. The distressed look on his face morphed into outright panic when the air didn’t reach its intended destination. His frail hands clutched at his chest in a useless attempt to force oxygen inside.

“Tony. It’s okay, you’re safe. We’re at the compound, in New York, remember?”

Tony sucked in another mouthful of air, setting off a coughing fit that had him doubling over in pain. His head hit the workbench in the process, and maybe that was what made him snap out of it. When he looked up, there was a bit of recognition in his eyes.

“What-What the fuck are you doing here?” he croaked.

“You’re sick, Tony. You need to-”

“You’ve got no idea what I need, Rogers. And no right to tell me what to do.“

“You’re angry. Fine, I understand. But Tony, you haven’t talked to me-”

He was cut off by Tony descending into another coughing fit that had his whole body shaking. He wheezed and retched, hacking up strings of red-tinged phlegm that stained the collar of his shirt.

Steve put a hand on his back, reflexively trying to ease him.

“Get off me,” Tony gasped, his voice full of spite, but when Steve looked at him, his face conveyed pure terror. It was the same look he’d had in Siberia, when Steve had smashed the arc reactor instead of his head, ending the fight. Ending everything else that had ever been there in between them.

“Okay.” Steve backed off. Tony was taking rattling breaths, his eyes half-shut, looking like he was having a hard time staying conscious.

“I’m… I should leave, I think. I’ll ask Scott to help you to your room,” Steve said quietly.

But he didn’t move, the clouds of unspoken words hanging heavily in the air, paralyzing him.

In the end, it was Tony who broke the silence.

“Why us, Steve?” he slurred deliriously. “Why did we survive, while the ones who deserved to live had to go?”

“I don’t know,” Steve replied, all the sadness of the world caught in his voice. “I always thought that there was justice in what was happening in the world, a deeper sense to why we’re here. But now I think it’s all just madness.”

“What will we do?” Tony asked, desperately. “What will we do if we can’t get them back?”

“We have to.” There was only one reply Steve could give, the only one he’d ever had.

Some people move one. But not us.

Steve leaned forward, laid a hand on the other man’s bony shoulder, feeling the heat pulsating through his shirt. Tony looked up at him, sick and defeated and lost, frantically searching for something that would be worth staying alive for. This time, he didn’t push Steve away.

[ljouonline]

morning with the twins

created October 4, 2020 at 12:28 PM, modified Friday, April 23, 2021 at 8:51 PM, posted Thursday, May 6, 2021 at 10:45

A/N: hi guys, I was thinking of (ask me if I do it every day I say often) this thing I wrote some while ago, and id always wanted to share. enjoy my daydream <3

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Its 4 am on a Tuesday morning. Theres fog outside the window but right now all you can think about is getting to your little boys’ room. One started crying a second ago, and in the time it took you to put on your robe and slippers the other had joined. Going around your bed, leaving your husband peacefully snoring on his bedside, you walk across the living room into your sons room. They’re still crying, but as they hear you enter, coo in a manner of needing comfort. You pick them both up, making sure to alternate who rests on the left and right sides of your bosom. Your husband fed them a little over two hours ago, so you know its not hunger. as you sit on the plush green rocking chair they’ve quieted down, enjoying the warmth of their mother. You lean back and hum mindlessly as you softly rock their little bodies. Looking out the window you see nothing but stars. Their room being perfectly situated to see a sliver of sky from the chair and cribs. As you feel their little snores, you can’t help but remember your husband back in bed. Like father like sons. As you return them to their bed and carefully pad out of the room, your heart can’t help but swell as they curl up into each other, as they did in the womb.

Like you imagined, your husband’s just where you left him. Face down, back and tattoos exposed as his soft hair fluttered over his face, and softly snoring. The soft skin and gentle hair you had just left in their crib now emanating from your own bed. His muscled back flexing with every breath, and as if he felt you watching, as you often did, shifting onto his side. Climbing in beside him you caressed his hair away from his eyes. Eyelashes fluttering and beautiful eyes asking if your sons were alright. Simple; a kiss on the cheek and a cheek to his heart. His rumbling voice as he asked what you needed and textured fingers against taught shoulders.

Honestly you needed the physical closeness. Not that your simple nightgown and his basic boxers provided much of a barrier but you needed his skin on yours. closer. Asking for permission to venture lower, and a sleepy reply later had you shifting your hand through his body, and his through yours. Removing the nightclothes was easy; everything was easy.

You took him into your hand, placing a kiss right over the base of his member, and licking your way up. Never would you get tired of looking up at him spread and ready, even if a bit sleepy from your choice in schedule. You loved feeling his weight, his scent, his twitching under your ministrations. The warmth radiating from his skin as you proceeded.

Once you felt satisfied, you let his hand rake through your hair, massage your scalp as his full lips passed yours. Soft and comfortable and warm and home. You pulled him over you, hair fanning out in the pillow below you and you never missed his look of awe and admiration as the sliver of light caught his eyes, sleepy not with tiredness but with content and comfort and love. No barrier, no discomfort, no hitch. Just what you both knew instinctively, what you had practiced and moved through and felt but never tired of, never took for granted.

The feeling of him so deep inside you, the pressure in your core in the most intimate part. His head on your shoulder and his strong arms encompassing you, encouraging and coaxing your satisfaction. You weren’t looking for something specific, just the closeness, the warmth the weight the ~feeling~. When you were done and he’d made love to you wave after wave, he lowered himself, much like you had done previously and doted on you. Cleaned and tasted and lavished you with love. Warmth surrounding you as you snuggled together. The mutual enjoyment of you resting your head on his chest, your bare breasts pressing against his hot skin arms wrapped around each other and drifting back to sleep. So comfortable, so warm- home

Waking up in that same position and giggling at the struggle to untangle each other so you could turn off your alarm. The chilly morning called for warm tea and a hot bath. It was still early, your sons sleeping peacefully, tightly hugging each other, their content shining through the baby monitor making your eyes glassy. You started the bath and moved to the kitchenette to start the kettle. You lit the hearth in the room and made your way to the balcony as you waited for the tub to fill. The trees were snowcapped and the small flurries that had been falling since the night before continued. Looking back over your shoulder at the man splayed right in the center of the huge bed, sheets tangled in his naked legs, doing little to cover his torso. His morning voice making you ache and blink slowly, happily. He sat behind you in one of the chairs on the deck, big enough for you both as you sat in his lap, curling into his warmth and him wrapping around you. You stared at the sunrise and he carried you to the tub as you lazily kissed. You had all the time in the world, all the comfort in the galaxy. Still in his lap, now surrounded by the hot water of the tub you washed each other, soaping shoulders and scrubbing backs. Still lazy, still kissing, still like the first day where you had both enjoyed it so much you did it as often as possible. Your offspring still slept soundly and you watched the sun creep up behind the forest resting against the man you loved, who adored you tenfold. When it was time to dress, you could still enjoy the sight of him on the tub, resting against the rim, shooting hearts from his eyes as he watched you wrap a fluffy towel around your torso, gently comb out your hair and apply every little cream and serum and oil and concoction you desired. Dragging himself from the bath and heading to his own sink, you still admired each other through the mirrors as you simply went about your morning care routine. Walking into the closet you picked out a soft turtleneck sweater and comfortable pants, socks and lazily dried your hair, still padding mindlessly through the room. Soft music he had put on some time ago drifted through the room and the smell of home intensified as the fire crackled.

You padded back over to your sons room, picking up a casual read you had left on the table on the way. Being so lovely to sit in their presence as you did your own thing you felt them sleep soundly as you read to yourself, waiting for them to wake. When they did they didn’t cry, but softly cooed and noised as you walked over. You smoothed their soft baby hairs and almost cried at their radiant little faces. You settled one on your hip as you set the other on the changing table, and joked to your husband as he came in and covered all three of your faces in kisses before taking the boy on your hip to dress him as well.

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A/N I hope you guys enjoyed <3

This is a dream I've had a couple times and wish with all my heart that comes true.

Also I'll never admit this has anything to do with the Miya or Hitachiin twins. Zero admittance. sorry. anyways... I have a couple other GM tagged archives ill be posting uwu see you soon, wish me luck with finals!

[fandomsallaroundme]

Cure for the Common Cold

Author:  QueenPersephoneofHades Fandom: Ducktales 2017 Characters: Scrooge McDuck, Huey Duck, Louie Duck, Dewey Duck, Webby Vanderquack, Mrs. Beakley Word Count: 4,235 Summary: Waking up with a splitting headache and a burning forehead is never a good sign.

on FFN and AO3

Rising with the sun is a habit gained from over half a lifetime spent sleeping under the open sky, face turned toward the opposite horizon but ultimately left unable to ignore the stinging brightness of a new day, soon to be filled with hard work and aching bones.

Scrooge hasn’t beaten that habit yet, not in the fifty and some years since he’s consistently had to sleep outside.

Most days he snaps awake instantly at even a hint of light shining through his bedrooms’ curtains, the distant memory of a brisk winter chill in the air bringing him around within seconds. Sometimes, if he’s feeling particularly selfish, he can hold out for a bit, doze for nearly twenty minutes before long engrained routine compels him to get up, get moving, get on with it all.

By Selene, he hates routine. Some days, the thought of going through the motions for the thousandth time in a row had been nearly more than he could bear.

A month ago, there’d been far too many of those days to count. Mornings where routine had become something to slowly despair in, rather than take comfort and pride in. He had built himself an empire to withstand the ages, yet it had seemed he would crumble in the face of the mundane far sooner than he ever thought possible.

But recently, that had changed.

The glowing dawn and steady awakening of the world was no longer something to dread, the terrible dullness of the last ten years abruptly filling with unexpected noise and color at a truly alarming rate. It was all new, a bit strange and anything but routine, so Scrooge can awaken and look forward to a new day of ridiculous shenanigans brought about by his family for the first time in a decade.

The sunrise was easier to wake up to, now.

So, when he woke up nearly an entire hour after it had risen, that was the first clue that something was wrong.

It’s the quiet creak of the door opening that finally starts to rouse him from slumber, the scent of freshly brewed tea and the measured shuffle of Beakley’s footsteps across the floor slowly bringing him closer to the living world.

Awareness, no matter how muted, brought with it a steady drumbeat to the inside of his skull in time with his heart. The dull pain only made consciousness even less pleasant than it usually was, and the groan Scrooge muffled into his pillow as he feebly turned his head and tried to chase oblivion was entirely juvenile.

“Sir?” In her thirty and some years working in the Manor, Beakley had only seen her employer still asleep so long after dawn a handful of times, and all of those times had been after he’d been bashed into unconsciousness by some monster the night before.

Beakley approached the bed a tad cautiously, trying not to be too concerned when the only response she received was another stubborn grumble. Honestly, Scrooge McDuck was ten years her senior and yet he could be more immature than the actual children in the mansion. It would be amusing if it weren’t so irritating, or in this case, worrying. “Sir? Are you feeling alright?”

Grumbling in protest of being woken had long proven to be ineffectual in warding off anyone who wanted your attention, so Scrooge reluctantly decided to count his losses and blink himself into wakefulness.

The pounding in his head intensified when he opened his eyes and moved to sit up. He quickly halted his ascent, wincing as the pain dimmed back into a somewhat manageable ache. Grumbling a few choice words under his breath, Scrooge looked up and did a doubletake at his expectant housekeeper. “Beakley? You’re certainly up early this morning.”

The mild concern wrinkling Beakley’s face only grew more pronounced as she set her tea tray onto a table. “Sir, it’s nearly 7:30 in the morning. You’ve slept in for an hour and a half.”

“What?!” Scrooge is halfway out of bed the second the words process, one hand pressed to his temple as the pain in his skull jackhammers along with his pulse. Only a steadying hand from his housekeeper kept him from falling over completely as he snatched desperately for both his phone on the nightstand and his robe hanging just out of reach.

Beakley drew her hand back from the unexpected dampness coating Scrooge’s back as he fell back onto the bed, phone clutched in one hand and the other keeping him from sprawling backwards completely. As he heaved for breath over such a simple task, clumsily flipped open his phone and began typing madly on the keypad, Beakley grimaced and wiped the sweat off on her apron, appraising his state of exhausted disarray with new eyes.

“Sir-”

“Not now, Beakley. I need to make sure the trade meeting doesn’t start without me; it’s happening in thirty minutes, if I can just get Launchpad here fast enough I might only be a few minutes late-”

“Sir-”

“-he’s always driven like a lunatic, he won’t mind having to come in a rush-”

“Sir-”

“-what I was thinking, not setting an alarm for today of all days is beyond-!”

“SIR!”

Scrooge startles sharply, not only at the volume of Beakley’s voice, but also at the firm hand suddenly pressed firmly to his forehead, keeping him from attempting to rise and rush about his room like the frantic teenager he no longer is.

He would have something to say about this rather abrupt intrusion of his personal space – several very loud things, in fact – if the pain in his head hadn’t spiked so hard he felt lightheaded, making him lean a little more into Beakley’s palm if only to keep him from falling over himself.

He squinted through the pain to see his housekeeper’s face go stubborn in that way that reminded him quite a bit of the woman’s granddaughter right before something disastrous happened. “Beakley-” he started, but she’s quick to cut him off before he can get going.

“You can’t go in today, sir.”

The interruption only makes his eyes fly open, any pain quickly pushed to the side when the McDuck temper flared high whenever anyone attempted to give him orders. “And why in God’s name would I-?!”

“Sir, you have a fever-!”

“A fever?” Scrooge bats the restraining hand from his forehead, making a great show of rolling his eyes dramatically. “You think I’ve never gone in to work with a blasted fever before? I’ve slogged through freezing rain and rivers of mud, a little fever never stopped me then!”

Even in the middle of his rant, he could feel a familiar feeling settling over him; he barely has enough to raise his arm to muffle the sneeze into his elbow, once, twice, three times, all aggravating the ache in his head into a splitting pain that actually laid him out flat on his back. When the fit passed, he pried his eyes open to give Beakley’s anxious ‘I told you so’ expression a feeble glare. “This proves nothing.”

Beakley sighed softly through her nose, shaking her head as she stiffly turned to the tea tray she’d set aside to pour out a cup, casting a stern look over her shoulder at her still floored employer.

“I can go out and purchase some cold medicine later, but for now we have some basic aspirin that can at least make you a bit more comfortable. I’m going to get you some, you are going to drink this,” she said, firmly setting the tea cup and saucer down within easy reach on the nightstand, “And you’re going to lay down and rest. You’re not a young man anymore, sir. You can’t go running about while you’re ill and expect everything to be fine.”

It’s sound logic, and all completely true, but no McDuck had ever laid claim to good sense when obstinate refusal was always an option.

Scrooge starts levering himself up again before Beakley’s made it five steps away, and when she turns back to glare at him he glares right back with only the sideways slant of his mouth to suggest the headache is still making it hard to focus on anything.

“The negotiations for a huge deal in Cape Suzette are happening today, Beakley. I can’t miss this meeting; three whole months will have been for nothing if I don’t go in.” He will not plead with her. He doesn’t need to. She is his employee when all is said and done; she cannot stop him from doing something he feels must be done. He doesn’t even need to argue with her, he could simply order her to have Launchpad bring the car around.

But even McDuck stubbornness will waver when it feels like the top of his skull is splitting open, leaving him squinting through one eye as he focuses on not falling over again.

Beakley is completely stern and unsympathetic in the face of his explanation, which is exactly what he hired her for in the first place. “I’ll let your executives know you won’t be coming in today. I’m sure they can figure everything else out for themselves, and if things go too poorly, I’m sure you can find a way to reschedule next week.”

All completely, maddeningly true, and even as more protests rise to the tip of his tongue, another pulse of pain through his head has him accepting defeat before the words can leave his mouth.

Scrooge slowly lowers himself back to laying down as Beakley left the room, doing his best to breathe evenly and think about the softness of the comforter, the warmth of the sun peeking through the still drawn curtains, the smell of freshly made tea; anything to keep his mind off the potential business disaster he isn’t able to prevent right now. He hasn’t felt this helpless in quite a long while. He doesn’t appreciate the feeling one bit.

Eventually, when his heartbeat is calmer and the ache subsequently a bit more bearable, Scrooge manages to sit up enough to sip the tea Beakley left. It’s a bit cooler than he prefers, but it helps, even if only a little.

The meeting will go fine, he’s sure – none of his executives were hired for their looks or their charming personalities. All three of them are savvy businessmen who know what they’re doing, and have worked with Scrooge long enough to know exactly what he’d want out of the Cape Suzette deal, but…

Priorities. Right.

No sense in suffering through a business meeting when his head already feels like it’s met with a brick wall several times. Scrooge reminds himself of that every time he chances a glance at his phone and watches time tick by in silence, the lack of any phone calls as the meeting starts only serving to make him more anxious.

God, how did people even survive days off?

He’s just managed to find a comfortable position where the light from the window isn’t falling across his eyes and making stabbing pains run through his head when the muffled patter of multiple webbed feet running past his bedroom door becomes audible.

Scrooge stifles an amused grin at the thought of the kids’ antics – their ridiculous and often excessive games had been strangely entertaining in the weeks since his nephews had moved in, despite Beakley’s loud insistence on the contrary.

Normally, he’d go out and offer some tips on how they could ambush each other during one of their games, but the throbbing in his skull keeps him rooted in place.

And normally, their tomfoolery doesn’t bother him no matter how out of hand it gets – unless something gets broken, of course – but the sudden loud thud outside along with the rising volume of four childish voices makes his eye twitch. They’re not being any louder than usual, but his migraine seems to think otherwise. The stabbing pains intensify as one voice cries out, “That’s not fair!” and when a subsequent scuffle seems to break out, Scrooge has to grit his teeth to keep several loud curses from escaping. Experience had taught him long ago that shouting when his head hurts this much would do no one any favors.

“Webby!” Beakley’s call, sharp but much quieter than it normally would be, brings the muffled fight to a standstill, and Scrooge has never been so grateful to hear her so infuriated.

Hurried footsteps signal his housekeeper rounding up the children, and whatever tirade she bestows upon them is blessedly muffled enough to be virtually inaudible, leaving Scrooge to focus on stifling the sneeze he can feel slowly creeping up on him.

He succeeds (barely) just in time to hear the highly dramatic shout of “Is he dying?!” be immediately deafened by several exaggerated shushes, a light thump and a yelp that suggested that the triplet who had cried out had been summarily silenced by the ever-enthusiastic Webby. A good egg, that one. When he wasn’t sniffling pathetically through a terribly stuffed nose and desperately ignoring what felt like his skull caving in, he’d have to remember to raise her allowance.

Scrooge squints one eye open (when had he closed them? It was getting hard to tell) at the sound of the door opening. Beakley enters, carrying a glass of water and some aspirin. Behind her, four tiny heads peek around the open door, several varying levels of concern and sheepishness on their faces.

“Any better?” Beakley asks, setting the water glass beside his room temperature tea to help him sit up.

Moving his face too much only makes the pain worse, so the best Scrooge can offer is a tired deadpan stare. “Aye, as long as I don’t move, or blink, or breathe, or think, it almost feels like my brain isn’t leaking out of my ears.”

Beakley, while clearly unamused by his observation, is at least sympathetic enough to wince as she hands over the aspirin. “I’ll be sure to get the heavy-duty medicine while I’m out, then.” She tries to help him wash the pills down, but he snatches the water from her before she can do anything more than hold it; he isn’t a toddler, he can manage a sip of water without dribbling all over himself. He pointedly ignores her reproachful look, though he at least hands the glass back without prompting once finished.

He also pretends not to notice her rolling her eyes before she asks, “Is there anything else I can get for you from the store, sir?”

He doesn’t like the idea of wasting so much money on disposable items, but the thought of using his elbow every time he has to sneeze is not pleasant. “Handkerchiefs, perhaps. And cough drops, if there are any cheap ones.” He hasn’t coughed yet, but swallowing has been distinctly uncomfortable for his throat, and dealing with that on top of a migraine is just ridiculous.

Beakley nods, mentally preparing a shopping list before his eyes, before collecting the tray of now cold tea from his nightstand, leaving the half-full glass of water in its place and turning back to the door. Scrooge can see all four of the kids are still there, appearing far too anxious over a case of the common cold.

“Granny?” Webby asks timidly, shrinking a bit more behind the doorway now that she is the center of attention.

Scrooge has never seen her so nervous, not since she first moved into the manor seven years ago.

He doesn’t like that expression on her face.

He also doesn’t like the worried looks shared between his three nephews. Honestly, what had Beakley told them? He’d been in states worse than this plenty of times before.

Scrooge tries to muster a smile, or at least an expression that isn’t a grimace. “It’s nothing to worry about, Webby darlin’. Beakley’s just being a bit paranoid about a headache is all,” he reassures them, trying not to twitch as Beakley snorted beside him.

“A headache that laid you out flat on your back,” she muttered to herself, luckily closer to Scrooge than the kids rather than vice versa, so hopefully they didn’t hear that. Hopefully. It was hard to tell how loud voices were when his ears started ringing like that.

Luckily, Beakley seems to sense his distress before he can say anything, because she marches to the door, tea tray balanced on one hip as she waves the kids out with her free hand. “You can play on the other side of the manor for today, children. Let Mr. McDuck have his rest. Sir,” she says over her shoulder, casting him a knowing look that reminds him very much of his late mother, “I expect you to stay in bed and sleep if possible. I’ll be back in a few hours with something light for lunch. If you’re not here when I arrive…”

She leaves the threat hanging. He hates it when she does that.

Then the kids and Beakley are gone, the door gently thumps shut, and he is left with sunlight shining cheerfully through the curtains and cloud soft blankets that certainly didn’t feel this uncomfortably warm yesterday.

He dozes in fits and starts, always pulled away from the sweet relief of oblivion by even the slightest hint of discomfort: the blankets are kicked off in a fit of frustration, but in less than ten minutes they’re back on when he figures slowly baking is preferable to freezing to death. A sneeze is muffled into his elbow. His throat finally becomes so parched that he drains everything left in his water glass and is still left wanting more. The sun’s path across the sky finally brings its light directly into his eyes, and he’s forced to turn on his side. Another sneeze hits him just as he was on the edge of complete unconsciousness, and the curses that escape his mouth would have made even foul-tempered Hortense blush.

Eventually, Scrooge simply lays in agony, staring at the canopy above his head and contemplating everything awful in the world because even though thinking hurts there’s literally nothing left for him to do with sleep evading him like this.

To think, in his youth, he might’ve once been able to keep working in this condition, keep facing forward through such torment. He can scarcely imagine it now.

Amidst the haze of fever and exhaustion, the click of the door opening again is an abrupt reminder that the outside world exists and isn’t completely full of suffering.

Scrooge has to blink several times before he can muster up the energy to lift his head and see who his latest visitor is, and by then a rather loudly whispered argument is already reaching him.

“-said to let him rest!” says a voice he dimly recognizes as Webby. She sounds absolutely furious, which is both gratifying and amusing. “He doesn’t like people going into his room-!”

“Yeah, but he’s supposed to be sleeping, right?” Louie reasons, ever the negotiator.

“We just want to make sure he’s okay!” Huey says brightly, seemingly unaware of the worry shadowing his tone. “We told you; a quick peek, in and out, and he’ll never know! It’s no problem!”

“Except if he wakes up,” Dewey points out, ever helpful.

The opening is too good to pass up; Scrooge levers himself upright, smirking at the four petrified faces that greet him.

“Too late, I’ve been awake the whole time.” He looks between Webby and his nephews, finally managing to raise both eyebrows without grimacing for the first time this morning. “How long have all of you been standing out there daring each other to open the door?”

All four of them flush brilliant shades of red, and by some small mercy his laughter only causes a dull pain instead of stabbing torment.

Huey, always far braver than he first appears, is the first to enter his bedroom properly, walking all the way up to the foot of the bed, wringing his hands and smiling a bit too widely. “How are ya feeling, Uncle Scrooge? Better after your nap?”

“Haven’t slept a wink since you left,” Scrooge admits flatly. Honesty was always the best policy.

Except when it makes his nephew’s face fall like that. Perhaps he could’ve said that a bit better.

From the doorway, Louie looks completely scandalized. “What?! It’s been, like, three hours!” He, Dewey and Webby edge into the room, clustering around the crestfallen Huey like responsible little bookends.

Scrooge honestly can’t help the look of utter disbelief on his face, because what.

“Have you been standing around out there this whole time?! Beakley said it was alright for you to play in other parts of the manor, didn’t she? Kids your age shouldn’t be inside on a day like this!” He actually had no idea what the weather was like outside aside from ‘ten times brighter than Flintheart Glomgold’, but that was beside the point.

The awkward shuffling at the foot of his bed only becomes more pronounced.

“Not the whole time,” Dewey mutters, crossing his arms petulantly. Della’s son, for sure.

Scrooge regards the quartet in complete flabbergasted silence for a solid minute. He hasn’t seen any of them hold still and stay silent for longer than twenty seconds at a time, and they’d been quiet outside his door for nearly three hours? Were they really that jumpy?

“I’m not about to collapse, kids. Why would y-?”

“We were worried about you, Uncle Scrooge. You looked like crap this morning. Still do.” Only Louie was ever so blunt. He shrugs his shoulders, unrepentant in the face of Scrooge’s scowl. “Just because no one else is saying it doesn’t make it not true.”

Webbigail, always so quick to please, grins sheepishly at him as she clamps a hand on Louie and Dewey’s shoulders and begins bodily dragging them backwards. “We’re so sorry, Uncle Scrooge! We just wanted to see how you were doing before leaving you to your nap! We won’t bother you again, I swear!”

Going back to staring blankly at the walls and ceiling in absolute silence sounds absolutely awful, actually.

“Ah, wait dear!” It comes out a bit louder than he means it to and he clamps his beak shut, but not before it makes Webby freeze in her tracks and the boys all turn back to him, nervous for a completely different reason now.

They all stare at each other for a moment, at a loss for words.

Then Huey, with all the empathy and understanding Matilda had once had, smiles wide and asks, “Do you like to read, Uncle Scrooge?”

The question is so out of left field it throws him for a loop. “Sorry?”

“Do you have any favorite books?” Huey clarifies, twiddling his fingers as his brothers and Webby watch him, wide-eyed. “If you’re having trouble sleeping and your headache makes it hard to read, I could read a few chapters of your favorite book with you, if you want.”

Now that is unexpected. “That’s quite kind of you, lad, but you don’t have to-”

“It’s just-” here Huey flushes again, gaze darting to the ground and finger-twiddling picking up speed, “I usually do that when we’re sick and Uncle Donald is working late, to help us sleep, you know? I know it’d be kind of weird for me to do that for you, but I figured, you know, since you can’t sleep and all-” here his voice drops into embarrassed mumbling, and Dewey and Louie both look seconds away from either laughing or hugging their ridiculous brother. Webby beats them to the punch, wrapping her arms around him with a giggle.

(Scrooge is struck hard with a memory, faded and indistinct, of Matilda tugging on his sleeve, clutching their sleepy little sister to her side, “One more chapter, Scroogey, she’s almost asleep!)

Scrooge rolls his eyes at their blatant display of affection, leans back against his pillows with a groan. “There are plenty of more valuable things you could be doing with your time than wasting it with me,” he can’t help but point out, but before he’s even finished he knows it’s a futile effort. These are McDuck kids, through and through; their stubbornness would win out on principle.

And then Louie has to go and say, “How could time spent with you ever be a waste, Uncle Scrooge?”

And suddenly Scrooge has to start blinking rapidly, lest the rest of his dignity be stripped away by a group of children.

There’s not much more to say, after that.

The children clamber up onto his bed as Huey sneaks over to the bookshelf to make the selection, Dewey and Louie still seated near the foot while Webby inches a bit closer, sitting crisscross next to Scrooge’s knees, eyes absolutely sparkling.

When Huey returns with a mischievous grin and plops down right next to Scrooge, he takes one look at the cover of the book the boy selected, and gives him the most deadpan stare he’s ever given anyone. “Really.”

Huey shrugs, grin twisting with amusement. “What? It was up there!”

A joke from Mrs. Beakley, no doubt. He can’t say he disapproves when the other kids’ faces light up as Huey opens to the first page and starts to read the time-honored words,

“Marley was dead, to begin with.”

A/N: AND BEHOLD, IT IS DONE! Sweet Lord, that took far longer than it should have! I started this story last week when I got sick and had to stay home from work for a day. I gave poor Scrooge all my symptoms, then felt bad and let him have family bonding time instead of constant unending suffering like me. I only had the time and energy to finish this now, an entire week later. Yikes. Well, that is one way to end an eight-month writing hiatus, I suppose. Hope you liked it! See ya later! ~Persephone P.S. the opening line of the book Huey’s reading is from Charles Dickens’ “A Christmas Carol”

[heartbreakweathervinyl]

What’s Left Of The Ones We Love

Summary: After Niall's death the four remaining members of One Direction have a hard time moving on. 

Trigger Warnings: Death, Cancer 

Words: about 3900 

Read on Wattpad (English)

Read on Fanfiktion.de (German)

Raindrops were falling from the sky. It was not the kind of rain where the raindrops were big and left big circles in the water. No, they were small and it was almost like they weren't falling but sinking down to earth. Calming almost. Safe.

Liam hated the weather. How could the sky dare bless them with such a wonderful sight when all he wanted was the biggest storm to ever exist? It certainly wasn't the time for the peaceful pitter-patter against or the smell of beautiful fresh air that came through the openend window.

He used to love this house and everything that came with it. The cozy interior design, the always green garden with the apple trees and, of course, the people who lived there.

They were here with him as well. All three. Liam held his head high even though he felt like crying in the nearest corner. He was the strong one, the one who was supposed to be there for the others and to protect them.

His eyes landed on his most important people: Harry, who was sitting at the table with his arms on the surface and his head burried into it. Without seeing his face, Liam knew Harry was crying but the long, curly locks helped shielding him from the beautiful, cruel world. Louis, who was just standing in the hallway and starring at nothing in particular. His face was an emotionless mask but Liam knew what was going on inside of his head. Zayn, who was just outside, that's why Liam couldn't look at him right now. He was, just like Louis, just sitting on one of the steps in their garden and starring into the rain like it had any answers. Answers for questions they didn't have.

Liam closed his eyes. There was one person missing and even though he knew it wasn't his fault, he felt like it was. He was supposed to protect all of them and let nothing bad happen to them and yet he failed because they were only four when they used to be five.

Liam couldn't protect Niall.

He tried, oh how hard he tried to care for him but in the end nobody was able to help him and this gruesome disease took their boy away from them. That's why the rain shouldn't be this calm! Because his family, his friends were sad and Niall wasn't here anymore and it was supposed to be storming because that's what Liam felt like inside.

Why couldn't he save Niall?! Why? Wasn't he strong enough? Didn't he try hard enough?

The doctors told them all that there was nothing left to do and Liam knew that but that didn't mean that he understood why he, the strong one, couldn't heal his best friend. It broke him.

If someone would look at him right now, they would see a person like Zayn or Louis or even Harry. Liam didn't know how the time could go forward. Time wasn't allowed to continue without their young boy. Time didn't seem to exist to Liam anymore while he was just standing there with his eyes closed while remembering the last exhausting, hurting months.

---

"But I have to sing. We are supposed to be on stage for the next few months. You can heal me, right? I can't miss our concerts and I won't let them sing without me", Niall said. His voice was calm but Liam saw the tears in Niall's eyes. They were in his as well.

"Like I said, Mr Horan, there is little to nothing we can do as we only discovered it in this late stadium. You said yourself that it hurts to breath and if you decide to continue singing, without listening to your doctors, I'm afraid it will go downhill sooner than later." The doctor, a man in his late 50s, sat in the chair behind his desk. Niall and Liam were seated on the other side.

It was a few days after Niall was at the doctor's to get tested because he was complaining about his hurting chest all the time and Liam, the protective one he was, insisted on going to the doctor. Niall only obliged because Liam promised he would come with him as he knew how scared Niall was.

The diagnosis wasn't anything they dared to think about. Liam just wanted to cover Niall with a thick blanket to protect him and cuddle him until they were asleep.

He just couldn't believe that Niall had lung cancer.

---

The tour was cancelled after that devastating conversation at the doctor's office and just like that everything seemed to get worse.

It wasn't long after we got the diagnosis that Niall felt worse every day and so much changed.

He used to be a morning person, waking up at 7am to be able to enjoy the whole day but now there wasn't a day he would wake up before 10am  or even later. It varied. But neither of us boys would dare wake him. He needed the rest, we knew that and when he woke up, one of us would help him get down the stairs to the living room, where he spent his days mostly. Sometimes he could go down the stairs by himself, somtimes he needed a helping hand to support him and occasionally we had to carry him because he had no energy to lift his limbs. Those occasion soon became a daily thing and eventually came the first day, he would stay in his room the whole day.

He wasn't sleeping all of the time but dozing or doing something different. His energy levels were really low.

He used to sing a lot, even though he knew it hurt like hell but singing was his life and when the day came, where he couldn't sing anymore, he cried and sobbed but we were by his side and since that day we sang to him. It calmed him and he told us the pain wasn't as bad in those moments.

The fans asked of course and Niall would have loved to tell them that everything would be fine but- he couldn't. His doctor told him there was no chance for him to survive this and Niall understood. That didn't mean he was juts giving up. No, he fought.

Every day, instead of doing nothing he tried to do things he loved. Those things got less with every day that passed though.

Niall wanted to do a small press conference for people to ask him about his condition and to clear some things but the day came and Niall felt worse than ever before, which resulted in him going to the hospitalt. Liam was by his side on that day and together they watched the press conference which was now held by Louis, Harry and Zayn. Liam never loosened his grip on Niall's hand. He was too afraid that the young boy would fade away if he did.

The doctor's were concerned and didn't know if Niall would live to see the next sunrise.

He was even more dependant on his oxygen tank.

---

"Liam, are you awake?", a small, shivering voice asked next to Liam.

Liam woke up instantly, he couldn't sleep really deep anymore. He turned aroung in the bed and faced the young boy who was laying under two blankets and was still shivering.

Niall's condition was now so bad that the boys didn't dare leave him alone for only a second. Liam was now sleeping in Niall's room all of the time in case the ill boy needed something or he- well.

Truth be said, Liam knew there wasn't much time left. Niall was only skin and bones anymore. The food he ate, he through up instantly which was why he was light as a feather. He was always sleepy like he didn't sleep in three days but the naps he did (he couldn't sleep anymore) were even more exhausting. He didn't have any energy left and was completely dependend on his four best friends. Even though the four guys told him that they wanted to help and did this because they cared, Niall still felt like the biggest burden.

He needed to be washed and to be fed. He was carried to the toilet when he needed to and one of them held him because if they didn't, Niall would crumble down and wouldn't be able to get up again. The oxygen tank was heavier than Niall. The oxygen tank was definitely the bigger burden.

Niall wasn't a burden. The boys tried to convince Niall of that but it never really worked.

"Yes Niall, I am awake", Liam finally answered just as softly. Slowly and carefully he raised his hand to lay it down on Niall's forehead. The fever was still there but that was nothing new. There was nothing they could do against it. After that he let his hand slip down a bit. It was now laying on the pale boy's cheek.

Niall looked him in the eyes with his big, innocent and yet so hurt blue ones. There was nothing Liam wanted more than to make everything better and lift all the pain off his little friend. After a short silence Niall opened his mouth again. "Liam, I'm really cold. And I'm so tired."

It broke Liam's heart because he knew all of the things Niall said. He knew Niall was as cold as ice and yet burning up at the same time and that it was hard for the blond boy to keep his eyes open even though he wouldn't be able to sleep because the pain was to much for his small, broken body.

"It's okay, Niall. I know", he said. Was there anything else he could say?

"Can you sing something?", Niall asked which surprised Liam a bit. The boys almost never sang anymore in this house because the loud noise hurt Niall's ears or the young boy was too sad. He wanted to sing as well. But he couldn't. There was just no way.

Without thinking about it too much, Liam nodded a bit and tried to think of a song.

He couldn't really think of a suitable song but decided on singing a slow version of 'Little Things' because he knew how much Niall loved the song. Whenever they sang it on stage and Niall had his solo he would cry because the fans reminded him of how much he was loved.

Liam sang.

And while he was singing, Niall's eyes slowly closed and for the first time in so long, his face didn't show any sign of pain.

Liam not only sang but moved closer to his friend, laid his arms around his small frame and cried, the tears slowly falling down his cheeks.

---

The worst day in Liam's life will probably be Niall's funeral. Never in his life has he felt like something was this wrong. There shouldn't be a funeral and especially not their Niall's.

Everyone was crying. Niall's family, his friends, the fans.

Liam volunteered to give a small speech, like a little goodbye for the blond boy. While he was standing in front of all those people Liam knew oh so well, he felt lost. Next to him was this damned coffin and in it his little friend. He had to look away.

Instead he trained his eyes on the crying and devastated people in front of him who waited for him to start speaking, hoping for comforting words. Liam knew his words would never be comforting. The only comforting thing would be if Niall was here.

But he wasn't and Liam didn't want to stand here.

He closed his eyes for a few seconds, breathing in and out and repeating this a few times. Of course he knew that the people were waiting for him to speak but they wouldn't push him because they knew how he felt.

As soon as Liam opened his eyes he was blinded. The sun shone right through the big window Liam was facing and Liam knew that Niall was here. He was listening.

Liam smiled.

"To be honest, I don't really know what to say. What do you say on the funeral of your best friend?", he began. His voice was firm, not shaking even the tiniest bit but the tears were still on his cheeks.

"For the ones who don't know me, which I honestly doubt but whatever (everyone laughed a bit): I'm Liam, Niall's band- and flatmate. Niall and I had a really strong bond, we were like brothers and best friends at once." He cringed. "You can't imagine how hard it is to talk about him in the past. It's so hard." He needed a second to recompose himself.

"I'm sorry." Some people were nodding understandingly. "When Niall started to complain about his annoying chest pain I thought he just had a harmless cold but eventually I started to realise that it didn't get any better and Niall was coughing more and more. I decided to take him to a doctor because better save than sorry.

You all probably know how much Niall hatet doctors and being sick, so it was really hard to get him convinced that he was ill enough to go to the doctor, which we eventually did. We had to tell the doctor all of Niall's symptoms, which I can't all remember to be honest, but I remember the concerned look on the doctor's face after we finished. There were so many tests Niall had to go through just to get this damn diagnosis.

It was awful, I'm not gonna lie, I'm sorry. That day in the doctor's office when the doctor told me and Niall he had lung cancer? I don't know everything that happened anymore. Only that Niall couldn't believe it and tried to convince the doctor into telling him he was lying. When that didn't change anything he was crying and begging the doctor to heal him because he wanted to continue on singing and going on tours with Louis, Harry, Zayn and me. A crying Niall. You all know that isn't anything someone wants to see. And the worst part was that I couldn't console him. I felt useless."

Everyone was quiet. Not everyone has seen the young boy crying but listening to Liam's words was enough to make them believe that it was, indeed, awful to see.

"The following months were the worst thing I've ever lived through. Seeing someone you love deteriorate as quickly as Niall did is nothing I wish my worst nightmare. At first it was kind of okay. There wasn't much of a change in his behaviour or his self but we knew it wouldn't stay like that.

He got weaker every day and eventually couldn't do anything without me or the lads carrying him or taking care of him."

Liam stopped talking and remembered the last night. Was he ready to talk about it? There was nobody but the two of them in Niall's last night and nobody has heard what happened. But with one look to Niall's coffin and another warm ray of sunshine he decided he wanted to talk about it.

"Like I said, I was there when he got the diagnosis and- and I was there when he took his last breath. It was-", he tried to remember when it was, "two weeks ago, I think?", he asked aloud because he had no concept of time left. Some people were nodding almost unnoticeable.

"Yeah, it was two weeks ago and Niall had a high fever for some days already. He was too weak to do anything and we knew he hadn't had a lot of time left, that's why we never left him alone again and I moved into his room. That's why I was there.

He woke me up and asked me if I could sing him a song, which I did. He was so cold and shivering like he was laying in a bath full of ice and he told me how exhausted he was. It broke my heart for the thousandth time but nonetheless I started to sing. While I sang he-", his voice broke.

"He closed his eyes and looked the most calm I have seen him in a long, long time. There was no trace of pain on his features."

His voice got quieter with every word he said and finally he finished. The silence in the room was deafening. Nobody dared to say something.

Liam stood there, thinking. Then he began to talk again.

"Niall may be dead but we won't forget him because he will be with us forever. In our hearts, in our minds, on CDs and even DVDs. He will always be our Nialler and nothing will change that."

---

Sadly, after the funeral nothing was better and even though everybody remembered Liam's words, grieving wasn't to be forgotten easily.

That's why Zayn. Louis, Harry and Liam were now standing devastated in their home, the house where Niall lived his last months of life and the house the four boys avoided for days. The memories were too fresh but somehow they were here again.

The plan was to get Niall's belongings together and throw them away but they all knew, they could never do that. They wanted to pile them up at least and put them away until they were ready to face them again. The didn't start yet though.

Knowing none of the other three lads would start, Liam focussed on the real world and decided to start what they wanted to do. Not only that but he wanted to begin in Niall's room where the memories would hit him the most but he kind of needed to be around Niall's things and where better to go than Niall's room.

He slowly moved forwards until he reached the stairs. The stairs. He had to carry Niall down these stairs a lot of time which wasn't really a bother as Niall didn't weight much at all. Liam cringed at the thought. Niall's bones were poking his sides and they almost hurt.

Closing his eyes he climbed the steps. He knew them well enough to remember how many steps there were and managed not to trip and fall down. He just couldn't face the stairs.

And then he wanted to go into Niall's room? Good luck.

Speaking of which, Liam now stood in front of the wooden door behind which there would be Niall's whereabout for the last whatever months. He hesitated but with another deep breath he gripped the door handle and slowly opened the door.

He immediately wanted to close it again and run away. The room smelled like Niall, there were his belongings everywhere and his bed wasn't even made yet. It was the bed Niall died in, Liam realised and began to cry again.

He took a few steps into the room and when he stood in the centre he slowly turned around himself. There was Niall's bed, his cupboard and his desk, where he wrote his songs.

There was a notebook on the top of it and Liam wasn't sure since when it was laying there because he never noticed it. He wondered if he wanted to take a look into it. His decision was yes. He had to begin somewhere.

He took the notebook into his hand and opened it to the first side.

'Hello, this is my first time writing something in here and I've never had a diary before, so I don't really know what to write. My mom gave it to me as a present because I won't be home for a few weeks.

You may ask where I will be. Well, I finally auditioned at x-Factor and I've come through! Can you believe that?! Greg laughed when I told him I got through but that's okay because I will show him what I can do and I will win!

Well, we will win. We? Yes! I wasn't good enough to get through as an solo artist, that's why Simon Cowell (I've actually met him!!!) put me into a band with FOUR!!! other boys. Their names are Harry Styles, Zayn Malik, Louis Tomlinson and Liam Payne. They are great and actually a lot better than I am but I am really greatful to have them in the band. Harry also said it would be cool to call us One Direction because we all want the same thing.

So, this diary will document my days in One Direction! I'm really exited to see what will happen with us and where we will end up. Maybe some time in the far future we may be going on tour? Who knows?

I already love them so much and I can't believe they are my friends. Firstly, we have to win the x-Factor though and then we can spend the rest of our lives together!

Maybe this diary will some day be my memoir and it gets published because I'm a big Rockstar. That would be amazing! If it will get published then my best friends will read this. I'm probably hiding somewhere when someone reads this because it is sooooo emberassing. I mean, isn't a diary a girl thing? Well, I don't care. Boys can do girls things, right?

If this gets published and One Direction reads this: This book is for you because you are the best people in the world.

Harry, I really love your hair and I hope I'm allowed to touch it some day when we are best friends. Also, I've tasted the cake you made yesterday without telling you and I'm sorry but it was the best cake I've ever eaten. Hopefully I can eat it again.

Hey Zayn. I think you are the cooles person to exist. I think you are a good dancer, even though you didn't want to dance in front of the judges. You are so much better than me. Also, I'm really jealous about how high you can sing!

Louis, I've learned that some people call you Tommo. That's amazing and I'm going to call you that for the rest of my life... If I don't forget. I think you are really funny and you make the best jokes. I hope we can play football together soon because I know you are a good player.

I'm sorry I've called you dad yesterday, Liam. It's just that you act exactly like my dad and you even talk like him! Your voice is really smooth and I love it so much. I hope you will sing a song some day and I am allowed to fall asleep because your voice calms me so much.

Now my hand is hurting. I think I'm going to mention you other people on another page.

Bye bye Niall'

Liam cried so much.

He didn't know that Niall had a diary and wrote such beautiful texts into it. His heart was melting. He realised that he had to show this to his other three bandmates.

After closing the notebook again and leaving the room, he made his way to his grieving friends and telling them about the diary Niall left.

This was what Liam was talking about. Niall may be dead but he is still here! Well, Liams words did stay in the people's minds but it was something different to get a reminder of Niall himself.

Niall was still here and they just had to remember him. Then he would never die. It may take some time for them to be able to smile and laugh again but sitting on the veranda of their home while the notebook was in front of them and seeing the single ray of sunshine that shone right on the book, it didn't seem to be impossible anymore.

[sunken-standard]

So the scene I was talking about in my ask before.

Here’s the context:

Post-TRF, Sherlock is still in London(mostly) and Molly is helping him here and there, your basic set-up.  He’s using again, but not coke, just OTC stuff he cooks into something stronger.  Then one night he does finally go back to coke, comes to her flat, kisses her and gets a little scary but stops when she tells him to, he runs away, Mycroft hides him in the old family manor to detox.  More things happen, and then there are murders and Molly comes to help him.  They solve the case and this is the immediate “after” (though, I mean, without the whole thing, it doesn’t have nearly the gravitas it does in context; there were 13k words before this scene).  I might have stolen a few lines from myself to recycle, too.  Eh heh.

*

It takes three days for him to find the source of the murders.  It's not Moriarty, or even a criminal network, per se.  Three very sick teenage boys had met on the internet and converged in the city to try their hands at killing.  It was a competition between them; the homeless were easy targets and no one cared about them.  It wasn't a coincidence that the victims were all of a certain age, that was one of the rules.  Twenty-four hours, no one under fifteen or over twenty-five, no disabled, pictures or it didn't happen.  He'd read their chat logs.

Sherlock uses the Network to pass the information along, enough to give the police a starting point.

She's a bit numb.  She feels a horrible sense of relief that it wasn't related to Sherlock, and she thinks that must make her an awful human being.  The whole thing was so... senseless.  

She's seen scores of murders, and while they were sad in the abstract, she'd never had trouble sleeping at night.  People had always thought her a bit twisted for that, but if she allowed herself to be affected, she couldn't do her job.

This is different.  She'd never personally known anyone who'd been murdered, but she'd known some of those kids.  It wasn't like seeing someone she'd recognized pass through the mortuary, or knowing people who'd died from illness or accidents.  It was outside the scope her considerable experience with death.

She catches Sherlock's bloodshot eyes across the kitchen island; there's a kind of recognition there.

She finishes her coffee and excuses herself; she's been up for two days to Sherlock's four-plus, but she doesn't think sleep will be coming easily to either of them any time soon.

She fills the massive antique tub in the en-suite, the water as hot as she can stand it.  She's chilled to the bone from being in the attic.

She stares at the fixtures, letting her mind wander away from the last few days.  She thinks the bathroom was probably once a bedroom, split down the middle probably sometime between the wars.  The pattern and colour scheme of the tiling has a kind of Art Deco feel to it, but she's no expert.

Every room is like a snapshot of a different era, not that she's been in many of them.  Mycroft's study is Victorian, all dark wood and brass and green velvet.  There's the Mad Men sitting room and the modern French Provincial-style kitchen.  The corridors of the east wing (closed off, but it's the shortcut to the attic) have fading vines and birds painted on the plaster; the floorboards are wide and worn with age, centuries old.  There are all kinds of odd staircases leading between the original house and the additions that had been built over the years, others that end in a wall or ceiling.

God, she can't believe anyone grew up here.  It's a far cry from the semi-detached in Earls Barton she'd been raised in.  The whole thing, her being here, really is a bit like a Mills and Boon book, or maybe something Jane Austin (not that she's read much of either).  She stops herself from continuing that line of thought; it's a bit depressing and rather embarrassing.

She stays in the bath until the water goes tepid and her hands and feet are pruny.  She's no more relaxed than when she'd lowered herself into the tub.

It almost feels indecent to be wandering the halls in her pyjamas. Well, she's not really wandering, she's going to the attic to get her laptop so she can watch a film or something, but it's more of a meandering pace than usual.  

She runs her fingers over the smooth plaster walls of the corridor, thinking that if she still believed in ghosts, she'd be scared right now.  Everything is dark and quiet and utterly still.  Maybe she'll watch The Others again; it seems appropriate.

Sherlock is in the attic, halfway through taking papers down from the wall.  The blackboard has already been erased; he's got a smudge of chalk dust on his bare forearm.

"Want some help?" she asks softly.  She doesn't know why she keeps her voice low, they'd been talking in normal conversational tones for the past few days.

"No," he answers quietly.  "You can stay if you like, though."

She takes up her seat at the desk and watches him methodically place the papers in a cardboard file box.  She'd only ever seen him work in bits and pieces, never the whole thing at once.  Even this is part of it, she thinks, packing everything away is some kind of ritual.

Eventually, she staggers down the stairs to bed, leaving Sherlock hunched over her laptop copying files onto a memory stick.  She's wound down enough to finally sleep, she thinks.

She's jolted awake by the feel of her foot colliding with something on the side of the bed.  She swallows back panic when she sees a pale face framed with dark hair looking at her from over the edge of the mattress, thinking of The Grudge and The Ring and--

Her brain comes partially online and she realizes that it's only Sherlock.  It's got to be around sunrise, judging by the quality of light in the room.

"Did I kick you in the head?" she asks stupidly.

"Yes."

"Sorry!  I- what are you doing?"  She rubs her hands over her face to wake herself up a bit more.

"Can't sleep," he offers simply, which doesn't explain anything, really.

"Oh.  Do you, ah, want to sleep here?  In the bed, I mean, not on the floor."

"I shouldn't."

She sighs and shifts over to the other side of the bed, lifting the covers.  It's sweet that he's thinking of her comfort and worrying about his self-control, but chivalry doesn't suit him.  "I trust you."

He scrutinizes her for a moment, then rises a bit unsteadily (stiff from exhaustion and the hard, cold floor); he drops the blanket from around his shoulders and slides into bed next to her.  He settles flat on his back with the duvet hiked up to his chin, rigid as a board; like a virgin on her wedding night - all he needs is the frilly nightgown, she thinks, and that's really in bad taste, but she's bloody tired.

She wakes again to the sound of someone hoovering in the corridor. She pushes herself up on one arm to look at the clock; it's only been a little over an hour since she'd fallen asleep this time.  She whines and rolls over, coming face-to-face with a wide-awake Sherlock.

"Were you asleep?"

"No."

She sighs, reaching up to trace his hairline.  "Can you tell me what's wrong?"

"I can't shut off."

"Can you talk through it, like you did those other times?"

He closes his eyes.  "No."

"Why?"

"It's you."

"Oh.  Should I, erm, leave?"  She doesn't want to, it's her bed (well, the one she's using, if she were inclined to split hairs), but she's beginning to worry, now.  He'll be going into his fifth full day without sleep, and while not lethal, it certainly isn't healthy.  

"No.  I don't-" he huffs a breath and blinks.  His eyes are bloodshot and glassy and--

Oh God, he's crying.  Not sobbing, only tears leaking from the corners of his eyes and over the bridge of his nose.  She thinks he's too tired to control it.  

She smooths her hand over his cheek.  "Stay here a second."

She gets out of bed and pads out into the corridor.  The cleaning lady powers down the hoover and looks at her curiously.  She asks her very nicely to please not make much noise today, she'll gladly do whatever needs to be done on the floor.  The woman shrugs and wheels the hoover away, picking up a bucket full of cleaning supplies on her way back down the corridor.

Sherlock has curled himself into a ball on the bed, his face pressed into the pillow.

"Hey," she says quietly, pushing gently on his knee, "Straighten out so I can lie here."

Surprisingly, he does.  She settles on her side, her head propped up by her hand.  She uses the other to comb through his hair, then presses her lips to his temple.  He turns his face from the pillow and pulls back a bit, staring at her.  She cradles the back of his skull and kisses his forehead, lingering there for a few moments.

She feels him exhale sharply; his hand comes to rest tentatively on her waist.

"It's fine," she says, smoothing his hair.  She shifts down a bit and slips her arm under the pillow, then guides his head to rest against her collarbone.

He begins to ramble about how the mechanisms of addiction mimic the chemistry of love; love is the original addiction, refined by hundreds of thousands of years of evolution to ensure the continuation of the species; he doesn't know if he loves her but it's a compulsion to be near her and he's afraid of himself when he's too close to her; he's an animal and a monster and he'll only hurt her again and he should be better than that because his body is only transport.  She feels fresh tears soak through the fabric of her shirt.  

He tells her about every woman he's ever wanted in some way or another; it's a relatively short list, starting with a girl who'd smiled at him in a bookstore when he was nine, through the awful girls at uni who'd called him a freak and said he looked like a horse and pretended to flirt with him for a laugh, to Sally Donovan, who'd caught him looking once and sneered at him, all the way up to Irene Adler (he confirms she isn't dead, but he'd told her never to contact him again and he doesn't think she will, even though she's clever enough to have figured out he isn't dead either), who'd been his equal in wit and cunning but made of stone and how she'd used him and then fallen in love with him, but it wasn't like how she loved him, and he didn't understand how she still could.

Privately, she's asked herself that a few times.  She keeps her voice soft and even when she tells him he's beautiful and brilliant and he smells nice (that bit was for levity, though it's true), to which he launches into another bit about major histocompatibility complexes and mate selection, and they'd probably have children with healthy immune systems if they were to procreate--

--Which, if she's being honest with herself, she's thought about in the abstract.  Holding a baby, leading a small child along by the hand, things like that.  She doesn't really want to have kids, the thought of pregnancy scares and sort-of repulses her (Mum said she'd grow out of that when she met the right man; she hasn't yet).

His voice is hoarse, but at least he's beginning to wind down as he talks about dominant and recessive traits and what their potential offspring would inherit.  It's a purely intellectual exercise for him, his tone is factual and detached.  She tries not to picture any of the combinations he describes.

God, she's exhausted just listening to him.  She wonders what he did before this when he couldn't fall asleep after being up for so long. Drugs, most likely.

She tilts her face down and kisses his forehead again.

"You're the only woman I've ever kissed."

She feels a bit like the floor's dropped out from under her.  He'd said he'd never had a girlfriend, but she'd assumed some sort of first-hand experience on his part with sex (even with all those women he'd talked about, they were just the bad ones, right?) and oh God she is not going to think about Pretty Woman right now, because that's...  No.

"No, I've never kissed a man."  

She hadn't actually got to that particular line of thought yet, but he is much quicker than she is, so.  Not that she'd really thought he was gay, though that was about in line with her luck and her gaydar isn't as finely-tuned as she'd once thought (although Jim had been playing a part, so it was up for debate, but back to the 'only woman' thing--).

"I'm sorry it's a bad memory for you," she says.

"Isn't it for you?"

How does she answer that?  It's not her best memory of a kiss or of him, that's for sure, but she's over it.

"Only because I was scared, not because it was you."

"Would you ever-"  He cuts himself off and turns his face into where her arm disappears under the pillow.

She doesn't hesitate.  "Yes."

His breath hitches and she thinks it's a very stupid idea, but all her ideas regarding him are stupid, so--

She carefully eases back while stroking her thumb over the light stubble on his jaw.  

"Sherlock."

He turns his face straight ahead again; his pupils are dilated and there's the slightest pink tinge to his cheeks.

Before she can talk herself out of it, she closes the few inches of space between them.  The kiss is soft and light and chaste, and then she feels an answering pressure against her lips.

It's- she should stop, let things as they are, one nice memory to overwrite the old, but she's wanted this for so long, and she deserves something for herself--

She tilts her head, realigning their lips to fit better.  Sherlock is tentative, completely unlike the last time.  His hand squeezes her waist, almost as though he's not sure if he wants to pull her closer or push her away.  He follows her lead, mirroring her movements, learning.

It's insane, she's insane, this is the absolute wrong time to be starting anything; every protest dies in her mind when his fingers slip under her shirt to skim against the bare skin of her back.  She draws his bottom lip into her mouth and flicks her tongue against it; he inhales sharply.

She's not sure how long they kiss, it could be minutes or hours or days, but when they finally break apart her lips feel pleasantly swollen and every nerve in her body is on fire.  She can feel his burgeoning erection heavy against her thigh; she doesn't think he'll be able to stand and deliver, so to speak, in his current state.  She hopes that she hasn't made his insomnia worse.

He seems content to simply look at her, holding her gaze before his eyes drop to her mouth.  He smiles (one of his real smiles, soft and without teeth) before kissing her again.  It's barely a brush of his lips, but there's a genuine affection behind it.

"Thank you," he says quietly.    

[emetofiend2dand3d]

3C+4A Kyouya and Tamaki! Maybe they're at a fancy cruise or something and Kyouya had the misfortune of eating something bad (half of the passengers are sick) but thank god Tamaki didn't so he can take care of poor Kyouya.

3. Motion sickness C.Seasickness 4. Food poisoning A. Spoiled food .

It had been a lovely vacation. ‘Had’ being in the past tense as their lovely vacation was a thing of the past.

Kyoya’s family had planned a luxurious vacation for them on a cruise around the South Pacific. Without Kyoya’s approval, his father invited Tamaki, to maintain good relations. He was also expected to share a room with Tamaki while his older brothers stayed with his father.

Kyoya, who was expecting a vacation away from Tamaki, was not thrilled.

He spent most of the first day pouting, while Tamaki dragged him around every part of the boat exploring. He had never been on a cruise before and was bewitched by all of its charms.

One of the things he was most impressed with was the all you could eat twenty four hour buffet.

Kyoya however, had been on many cruises before and the novelty of them had long since worn off. He had no desire to get a slice of cream pie at three in the morning just because they could, yet Tamaki made him do it anyway.

Kyoya was not enjoying his vacation much at all, but he was a bit more excited when he saw they had put out the fresh seafood section of the buffet, which was his personal favorite. It was not always accessible because it had to be served fresh. Kyoya always found that sort of ironic considering they were on a boat. He took one or two of everything, knowing he wouldn’t he likely to get seconds, because the line for the seafood seemed to be a mile long.

Kyoya sat down next to Tamaki who was stuffing his face on what appeared to be a burger.

“There’s some of the highest quality seafood just over there and you’re eating peasant food?” Kyoya scorned.

Tamaki shook his head. “This isn’t peasant food, it’s steak tar tar!” He said with his mouth half full. “Besides.” He swallowed before continuing. “In Japan we eat seafood all the time. Don’t you all ever get sick of it?”

Kyoya sighed, shrugging, as he picked up a crab leg and broke it open. “I guess I can’t claim that you have poor taste, seeing as you were raised for the most part in France, a country famous for its lavish and exquisite food.” Kyoya said this a bit half heartedly, as he watched Tamaki devour his food rather distastefully. “Well, to each his own.” He said, before digging into his own meal.

.

It was at about three in the morning that he was awoken. He initially believed it was a noise that had woken him, but he came to think otherwise as he turned over on his side and was struck with a terrible feeling of nausea. The feeling jutted through his entire body, making him break into a sweat and he shot up in his bed. The act of moving did not benefit him in the slightest. He pitched forward, clutching his stomach with both arms and moaning.

He looked over at Tamaki’s bed and saw him still fast asleep. Kyoya let out an internal sigh, just before he heard a noise outside, and Tamaki rolled over in bed.

Kyoya flinched when he heard Tamaki speak. “Kyoya? What are you doing up?” He sounded drowsy and rubbed his eyes as he looked at him with confusion.

Kyoya paused, trying to think of an excuse. “Ano… I heard a noise outside the door that roused my sleep.” He said, trying not to sound like he was straining himself.

“Oh?” Tamaki got out of bed, opened the door and looked outside. He gasped as he saw people sitting in the hallways with blankets. Doctor’s and nurses were wondering around with handouts, checking the passengers.

“What are you ogling at?” Kyoya put on his glasses and irritatedly pushed passed Tamaki. When he witnessed the sight his eyes widened and he swallowed hard. His heart leapt when he saw his eldest brother with his second brother’s, who was being helped with his arm over his shoulder. His brother helped him sit against the wall.

“What’s going on?” He raced up to them.

“They say it’s food poisoning.” His eldest brother sighed.

“An epidemic of food poisoning.” His second brother groaned, shutting his eyes and hugging his waist.

“What about father?” Kyoya found himself feeling worried.

“He’s fine. He’s helping the doctors make rounds.” His eldest brother told him.

Kyoya sighed a breath of relief, just before he was struck with another wave of nausea and the color drained from his face. He felt a bit wobbly on his feet and he swayed dizzily.

“Kyoya, are you feeling alright?” His eldest brother put his hand on his shoulder. “You look decidedly pale. Did you have any of the sea food?”

Kyoya was filled with panic. “S-s-sea food?” He stuttered.

His eldest brother sighed. “You’d better sit down.”

Kyoya was in too much shock to sit down. He looked around at all the sick passengers roaming around the halls like zombies. The boat was ripe with the smell of sickness. The atmosphere was almost too much for him to take.

Tamaki ran out of their room and came up behind him. “Kyoya! What’s going on?”

Before his eldest brother could even feel his forehead for a fever, Kyoya grabbed Tamaki and locked them both in their room.

He leaned against the door and slid down it to the floor, clutching his stomach and panting.

Tamaki seemed to be in as much shock as he was. “Kyoya… you’re s-sick?”

Kyoya glared at Tamaki with flaming eyes. “No! Of course I’m not sick!” He panted. He could feel sweat dripping down his forehead as his stomach tied itself in knots.

“I’ll go tell your brother. You look ill.” Tamaki tried to get passed the door but Kyoya shot him a look that made him appear as though he was about to bite Tamaki’s head off.

“I told you I’m fine!” He insisted.

Tamaki swallowed, and sat down on his bed nervously.

“Go back to bed.” He insisted.

“I’m already awake.” Tamaki told him. “Besides, it’s too noisy outside to go back to sleep.”

Kyoya snarled under his breath. “Fine. Then go out and help.”

“I’d love to help.” Tamaki admitted. “But I won’t leave you if you’re sick.”

Kyoya had just about had enough. “I said get out!” He shouted.

“No!” Tamaki refused, stomping his foot. “You are clearly ill and refusing to admit it. And I cannot in good conscious abandon a friend in need.”

Kyoya probably would have blown his top, if it weren’t for his stomach, which decided to lurch suddenly.

He cupped his hand over his mouth and pushed himself up with his free hand, darting to the restroom in the shared bedroom.

He pulled up the toilet cover gagged harshly into the bowl. Before he could even swallow to stop it from happening again, another sharp gag sent him ducking forward again. His glasses slid down his nose and he took them off. He had no intention of having a quality picture of the event anyhow. His stomach muscles tensed strongly, forcing his stomach contents up. He could feel his lunch and dinner making their way up his esophagus as he coughed painfully.

Tamaki simply stood watching, feeling helpless.

Before long, the contents of his stomach were forced out, and Kyoya found himself spewing vile liquids into the water. He spat into the toilet with disgust, panting heavily. The first bout didn’t seem to do anything to relieve his nausea, and only irritated his throat.

Only just after catching his breath, he felt his stomach convulse again and he was once again reduced to vomiting into the toilet. This went on for almost an hour.

Tamaki stood in their bedroom pacing back and forth anxiously. He couldn’t stand feeling so helpless, but Kyoya wouldn’t let him get close. Until about two hours later when Tamaki had almost drifted back to sleep, he heard Kyoya calling his name dryly. “Tamaki?”

Tamaki jumped up and ran in to see him. He found Kyoya resting his head on his arms which were leaning on the rim of the toilet. His hair was drenched in sweat and he had dark circles around his eyes. His lips were dry and his back was arched uncomfortably.

“Please-” Just trying to speak caused him to gag. “I need my brother.” His voice was raw from vomiting so much in such a short period of time.

“Okay. I’ll be right back.” Tamaki assured him.

Tamaki returned shortly after with his eldest brother, who examined him briefly. Then he guided Kyoya back to his bed and placed a trash bin beside him. He closed his eyes immediately after his head hit the pillow. His brother wet a hand towel and put it over his forehead.

“Will he be okay?” Tamaki asked the moment he seemed to be finished examining him.

“He’s in for a rough night, but he’ll be fine.” He assured Tamaki.

Tamaki was relieved. “I’ll take care of him.” He asserted.

Kyoya’s brother smiled at him. “That might do him some good. I gave him some water supplements to ensure he doesn’t get too dehydrated. I plan to come back in a few hours and give him some more. If you could watch over him until then, that would be most appreciated.”

“Yes sir.” Tamaki smiled.

Chuckling at Tamaki’s response, he left the room. Tamaki pulled up a chair and sat beside Kyoya’s bed. Just as he would find himself drifting off to sleep, Kyoya would roll over with a groan and Tamaki would help him sit up and ensure he vomited into the bin. The night went on like that until his brother returned just as the sun was coming up.

“Kyoya? How are you feeling.” He asked.

Kyoya looked up at his brother with a sharp glare. “Why did you wake me up so early?”

“I came to give you something to rehydrate you.” He explained.

Kyoya scoffed. “The next time you wake me up before sunrise, it better be for something important.”

[shadesmaclean]

Tradewinds 20 CH 18

Aboard the Albatross, Roger Wilco sat in the rearmost modular seat, on the seaward side, power pistol in one hand, and his revolver on the seat next to him. Bandit slumped near the tail between a couple crates, trying to sleep in spite of himself. By the fourth day, he had drained his last flask of liquid courage. Even his stash for celebrating shore leave after particularly lucrative hauls. So for the last two days, he had faced the Woods cold-turkey sober. Found himself occasionally recalling a snatch of some old saying, something about staring into the Void, and the Void staring back at you, an all too apt description of his six spooky days out here. Years ago, he had managed to finally quit smoking, only a matter of months before he wound up in the Sixth Dimension, and he usually thought of it as being for the best, if for no other reason than that cigarettes were hard to come by in most realms anyway. Back then, one of his pilot friends lost his license because of heart problems. It was a tough call, but Roger decided he preferred the pleasure of flying more, so he rode out the worst storms of withdrawal to kick the habit, topping his several years of fundraising to acquire his Albatross as the toughest thing he ever did. Though he would be lying to himself if he didn’t admit he could use a good smoke right about now. That first day, after their argument about the rescue plan, he nearly talked himself into dragging one of the modular seats out onto the beach as a makeshift lawn chair, because he didn’t want to buy into all this talk about Rannigan’s Wharf and the Woods. At the time, he talked himself out of it only because of Erix, figuring that it would amount to making a sitting duck out of himself against a marksman of his caliber. Much to his chagrin, though, it didn’t take long for the Woods themselves started getting to him in earnest. Awakened that first night by a terrifying dream about the logging vehicles Shades mentioned all coming to life and tearing down Camp Stilton, before turning their wrath on his poor Albatross. Shocked at how vividly he could imagine things someone only described to him, yet somehow he knew he was seeing the exact same machines they saw. By the second day, Erix was fast fading to a secondary concern. After all, Erix could enter at will with those energy blades, so if he was still in the neighborhood, he surely would have by now. Mostly, he was just glad that hadn’t happened, that at least the hull and the rest of the airframe were still intact and presumably seaworthy, the damage mostly cosmetic. Based on the others’ accounts, he marveled at how he managed to land on about the only section of the coast in these parts that wasn’t strewn with clumps of jagged rocks. A sweep of mostly sand and gravel in this small inlet. Probably why this site was chosen for setting up the lodge and docks in the first place. The second night, he was awakened by the sounds of scratching outside. Certain it wasn’t anything he cared to meet, he held still and kept his weapons close at hand. Every time he started to doze off in spite of himself, it would start up again. Later that morning, after sunrise, he stepped out to take a look, hoping against hope that it was all just a bad dream. And nearly wept at his poor paintjob. At streaks of long, gouging scrapes that even scratched the metal. He tried to tell himself it was just the local wildlife, not that he’d actually seen any. Unless the trees counted. The third night, he miscalculated, pouring himself a little too much, and passed out. Worse off the next day, knowing that he could ill afford to be hung over out here, he cobbled together what remedy he could from his First Aid supplies, and tried not to deplete too much of his water supply. By noon, he was feeling little better, not sure he even wanted to see the aftermath of whatever he was sure he managed to sleep through, and even the thought of his own good fortune that nothing broke in while he was unconscious was less relief, and more the feeling that something unknown had surely danced a full Broadway musical on his grave, possibly with a side of Thriller, just to spite him for not waking up for any of the show. By the fourth day, he swore the trees were moving behind his back. Seemed to be in slightly different positions every time he turned around. The fact that he had been drinking each night for three straight days did little to resolve the matter. Sometimes he saw movements out in the Woods. Herky-jerky, like old stop-motion film. Stuttering and blurring in ways that hurt his eyes to look at. Things outside, which his eyes refused to dwell on. Tangled tree-shapes that moved like stop-motion in fast-forward. At times they would rush toward the plane at jarring speeds, even as he fumbled for his weapons, only to stop just short of the water’s edge and vanish. By late afternoon, he took to drawing the window shades, even during the daytime. Of course, he still had to let Bandit out periodically to do his biz. Noted the big cat never stayed out for long, nor moved very far from the cargo door. Anymore, he was just glad there was so much sand out there for his feline charge to bury it in. A game of cat-and-mouse, where he timed their moves by Bandit’s instincts, as there was clearly something out there he didn’t like the smell of, and which he did his best to cover the big cat against while he was vulnerable out there. The fourth night, he no longer had enough booze to knock himself out like he had the night before. All he got out of it was a dream conversation with Erix on the radio. Talking about things he never wanted to talk about, and he considered it a mercy he couldn’t remember anything coherent about it after he woke up. His radio could pick up a wide range of bands and frequencies, but he only tuned in intermittently, as he found he could not bear to listen for long to all the creepy noises it made. The ones that stuck with him most being the one where he heard only heavy breathing, hard footsteps, and the occasional snapping of twigs, or hearing the distorted croaking of frogs. At least that’s what it started off sounding like, before it started to sound like some form of bestial speech. At which point, he turned it off, fearing he might start to understand it if he kept listening… By the fifth day, he found those .38 Specials seeming to beckon to him in an unhealthy way, introducing thoughts he’d rather not finish. Didn’t want to believe Erix was encouraging him to do it last night, but one of the few things he at least thought he could remember was him saying, It did wonders for me! And then hysterical laughter. Made a point of keeping both Erix’s power pistol, and his old revolver on his person at all times. While ammo for the latter was scarce, energy weapons tended to be back-engineered from the same handful of mostly bootleg schematics, which meant that most power clips would be compatible with most energy weapons. All the same, he still felt the revolver was more reliable. It had seen him through some troublesome situations back on Earth, even before he had to deal with any troublesome situations in this world. Back then, he would sometimes be approached by some rather shady clients, most likely drug smugglers. Only occasionally threatened for his refusal to do business with them, once by some folks who claimed ties to one of the nastier cartels. Though nothing came of it, he still had every intention of defending himself if corned, in that world or this one. Told himself that for most things that prescribed cold iron, hot lead would do the trick just as well, and now he hoped that would hold true. That fifth night, he woke up from more nightmares. Of crashing noises, and huge, hoary, angry trees smashing Camp Stilton to splinters. Then turning to the Albatross… He never really made it back to sleep after that, just sort of hovered on the edge of dozing, slipping back up toward consciousness at every little sound out there. By the sixth day, his leg was doing somewhat better, and he struggled with the temptation to just hop out and hoof it over to Rannigan’s Wharf. Still he could tell, just from how much trouble he still had getting around the cabin, that even with a crutch he would make piss-poor time on that gravelly, sandy shore. Would be all but guaranteed to get caught out there after dark. Not to mention that Bandit was still having trouble, and he had no clue how he would ever face Max, in this life or the next, if he just abandoned him. That, and after each successive day out here, Shades’ dire warnings seemed more and more to have the right of it. The fact that he had neither seen nor heard from Roxy, and Erix’s only appearance was in a bad dream, was just another nail in that coffin. Though he had no way of knowing if either of them actually made it over there at any point, the things going on over here inspire little confidence about anyplace else around the peninsula. Now, when he let Bandit out, he kept expecting to find one or the other of them— occasionally Max or the others— nailed-up or dangling from the porch beams of the lodge, and feared he would lose what little sanity he had left if he saw any such thing out there. Over the intervening days, he had also kept an eye to the sea for any passing ships, having seen nothing of the sort, though sometimes he thought he caught glimpses of other things drifting out on the tide, but always too brief to confirm. His original food rations were still holding, though his appetite was lacking, so at least he didn’t have to worry about resorting to the dubious canned goods the others retrieved from the lodge for at least another two or three days. Knew he wasn’t up to crabbing or fishing, even if he thought for one moment that it was safe out there, though he feared he might have to risk it if the food was no good. Unless his leg was healed enough to try hiking the peninsula coast by then, but he doubted it. Rubbing his face, he noted for the thousandth time that his usual five o’clock shadow was getting downright furry. Not that he didn’t want to shave, but he needed to conserve water. Though he knew from the map that there was a river on the far side of Camp Stilton, he was loathe to set foot outside the plane anymore, despite the certainty that he was going stir-crazy in here. After five nights with so little sleep, he was starting to fear he was losing his mind in this remote outpost. When he first heard the drone of a motor in the distance, he was half afraid he was hearing things. At least until he noticed that Bandit heard it, too, snapping the big cat out of his own fitful napping. Slipping open the nearest window shade, he watched an unfamiliar ship anchor just offshore in front of him, and several people board a smaller craft to come ashore. But as they approached, they angled toward the rear of the plane, so he lost sight of them before they drew close enough to get a good look at any of them. A few minutes later, he could hear a boat being dragged ashore, and some muffled conversation just before things went silent. For a long, horrible moment, Roger feared that potential rescuers might have just decided the wreck was a lost cause and turned back, so he snatched up the flare gun and limped over to the cargo door, certain that this would be his last chance to survive this mess. As he reached for the door latch, though, someone knocked, and he nearly fumbled the flare gun as a familiar voice announced, “Take it to the Maximum.” Unable to believe his ears, he slid the cargo door shade up a crack, just to be sure.

[heartbreakweathervinyl]

What’s Left Of The Ones We Love

Prompt: After Niall's death the four remaining members of One Direction have a hard time moving on.

Trigger Warnings: Death, Cancer

Words: about 3900

A/N: This is my work. Please don’t repost.

Read on Wattpad

Raindrops were falling from the sky. It was not the kind of rain where the raindrops were big and left big circles in the water. No, they were small and it was almost like they weren't falling but sinking down to earth. Calming almost. Safe.

Liam hated the weather. How could the sky dare bless them with such a wonderful sight when all he wanted was the biggest storm to ever exist? It certainly wasn't the time for the peaceful pitter-patter against or the smell of beautiful fresh air that came through the openend window.

He used to love this house and everything that came with it. The cozy interior design, the always green garden with the apple trees and, of course, the people who lived there.

They were here with him as well. All three. Liam held his head high even though he felt like crying in the nearest corner. He was the strong one, the one who was supposed to be there for the others and to protect them.

His eyes landed on his most important people: Harry, who was sitting at the table with his arms on the surface and his head burried into it. Without seeing his face, Liam knew Harry was crying but the long, curly locks helped shielding him from the beautiful, cruel world. Louis, who was just standing in the hallway and starring at nothing in particular. His face was an emotionless mask but Liam knew what was going on inside of his head. Zayn, who was just outside, that's why Liam couldn't look at him right now. He was, just like Louis, just sitting on one of the steps in their garden and starring into the rain like it had any answers. Answers for questions they didn't have.

Liam closed his eyes. There was one person missing and even though he knew it wasn't his fault, he felt like it was. He was supposed to protect all of them and let nothing bad happen to them and yet he failed because they were only four when they used to be five.

Liam couldn't protect Niall.

He tried, oh how hard he tried to care for him but in the end nobody was able to help him and this gruesome disease took their boy away from them. That's why the rain shouldn't be this calm! Because his family, his friends were sad and Niall wasn't here anymore and it was supposed to be storming because that's what Liam felt like inside.

Why couldn't he save Niall?! Why? Wasn't he strong enough? Didn't he try hard enough?

The doctors told them all that there was nothing left to do and Liam knew that but that didn't mean that he understood why he, the strong one, couldn't heal his best friend. It broke him.

If someone would look at him right now, they would see a person like Zayn or Louis or even Harry. Liam didn't know how the time could go forward. Time wasn't allowed to continue without their young boy. Time didn't seem to exist to Liam anymore while he was just standing there with his eyes closed while remembering the last exhausting, hurting months.

---

"But I have to sing. We are supposed to be on stage for the next few months. You can heal me, right? I can't miss our concerts and I won't let them sing without me", Niall said. His voice was calm but Liam saw the tears in Niall's eyes. They were in his as well.

"Like I said, Mr Horan, there is little to nothing we can do as we only discovered it in this late stadium. You said yourself that it hurts to breath and if you decide to continue singing, without listening to your doctors, I'm afraid it will go downhill sooner than later." The doctor, a man in his late 50s, sat in the chair behind his desk. Niall and Liam were seated on the other side.

It was a few days after Niall was at the doctor's to get tested because he was complaining about his hurting chest all the time and Liam, the protective one he was, insisted on going to the doctor. Niall only obliged because Liam promised he would come with him as he knew how scared Niall was.

The diagnosis wasn't anything they dared to think about. Liam just wanted to cover Niall with a thick blanket to protect him and cuddle him until they were asleep.

He just couldn't believe that Niall had lung cancer.

---

The tour was cancelled after that devastating conversation at the doctor's office and just like that everything seemed to get worse.

It wasn't long after we got the diagnosis that Niall felt worse every day and so much changed.

He used to be a morning person, waking up at 7am to be able to enjoy the whole day but now there wasn't a day he would wake up before 10am  or even later. It varied. But neither of us boys would dare wake him. He needed the rest, we knew that and when he woke up, one of us would help him get down the stairs to the living room, where he spent his days mostly. Sometimes he could go down the stairs by himself, somtimes he needed a helping hand to support him and occasionally we had to carry him because he had no energy to lift his limbs. Those occasion soon became a daily thing and eventually came the first day, he would stay in his room the whole day.

He wasn't sleeping all of the time but dozing or doing something different. His energy levels were really low.

He used to sing a lot, even though he knew it hurt like hell but singing was his life and when the day came, where he couldn't sing anymore, he cried and sobbed but we were by his side and since that day we sang to him. It calmed him and he told us the pain wasn't as bad in those moments.

The fans asked of course and Niall would have loved to tell them that everything would be fine but- he couldn't. His doctor told him there was no chance for him to survive this and Niall understood. That didn't mean he was juts giving up. No, he fought.

Every day, instead of doing nothing he tried to do things he loved. Those things got less with every day that passed though.

Niall wanted to do a small press conference for people to ask him about his condition and to clear some things but the day came and Niall felt worse than ever before, which resulted in him going to the hospitalt. Liam was by his side on that day and together they watched the press conference which was now held by Louis, Harry and Zayn. Liam never loosened his grip on Niall's hand. He was too afraid that the young boy would fade away if he did.

The doctor's were concerned and didn't know if Niall would live to see the next sunrise.

He was even more dependant on his oxygen tank.

---

"Liam, are you awake?", a small, shivering voice asked next to Liam.

Liam woke up instantly, he couldn't sleep really deep anymore. He turned aroung in the bed and faced the young boy who was laying under two blankets and was still shivering.

Niall's condition was now so bad that the boys didn't dare leave him alone for only a second. Liam was now sleeping in Niall's room all of the time in case the ill boy needed something or he- well.

Truth be said, Liam knew there wasn't much time left. Niall was only skin and bones anymore. The food he ate, he through up instantly which was why he was light as a feather. He was always sleepy like he didn't sleep in three days but the naps he did (he couldn't sleep anymore) were even more exhausting. He didn't have any energy left and was completely dependend on his four best friends. Even though the four guys told him that they wanted to help and did this because they cared, Niall still felt like the biggest burden.

He needed to be washed and to be fed. He was carried to the toilet when he needed to and one of them held him because if they didn't, Niall would crumble down and wouldn't be able to get up again. The oxygen tank was heavier than Niall. The oxygen tank was definitely the bigger burden.

Niall wasn't a burden. The boys tried to convince Niall of that but it never really worked.

"Yes Niall, I am awake", Liam finally answered just as softly. Slowly and carefully he raised his hand to lay it down on Niall's forehead. The fever was still there but that was nothing new. There was nothing they could do against it. After that he let his hand slip down a bit. It was now laying on the pale boy's cheek.

Niall looked him in the eyes with his big, innocent and yet so hurt blue ones. There was nothing Liam wanted more than to make everything better and lift all the pain off his little friend. After a short silence Niall opened his mouth again. "Liam, I'm really cold. And I'm so tired."

It broke Liam's heart because he knew all of the things Niall said. He knew Niall was as cold as ice and yet burning up at the same time and that it was hard for the blond boy to keep his eyes open even though he wouldn't be able to sleep because the pain was to much for his small, broken body.

"It's okay, Niall. I know", he said. Was there anything else he could say?

"Can you sing something?", Niall asked which surprised Liam a bit. The boys almost never sang anymore in this house because the loud noise hurt Niall's ears or the young boy was too sad. He wanted to sing as well. But he couldn't. There was just no way.

Without thinking about it too much, Liam nodded a bit and tried to think of a song.

He couldn't really think of a suitable song but decided on singing a slow version of 'Little Things' because he knew how much Niall loved the song. Whenever they sang it on stage and Niall had his solo he would cry because the fans reminded him of how much he was loved.

Liam sang.

And while he was singing, Niall's eyes slowly closed and for the first time in so long, his face didn't show any sign of pain.

Liam not only sang but moved closer to his friend, laid his arms around his small frame and cried, the tears slowly falling down his cheeks.

---

The worst day in Liam's life will probably be Niall's funeral. Never in his life has he felt like something was this wrong. There shouldn't be a funeral and especially not their Niall's.

Everyone was crying. Niall's family, his friends, the fans.

Liam volunteered to give a small speech, like a little goodbye for the blond boy. While he was standing in front of all those people Liam knew oh so well, he felt lost. Next to him was this damned coffin and in it his little friend. He had to look away.

Instead he trained his eyes on the crying and devastated people in front of him who waited for him to start speaking, hoping for comforting words. Liam knew his words would never be comforting. The only comforting thing would be if Niall was here.

But he wasn't and Liam didn't want to stand here.

He closed his eyes for a few seconds, breathing in and out and repeating this a few times. Of course he knew that the people were waiting for him to speak but they wouldn't push him because they knew how he felt.

As soon as Liam opened his eyes he was blinded. The sun shone right through the big window Liam was facing and Liam knew that Niall was here. He was listening.

Liam smiled.

"To be honest, I don't really know what to say. What do you say on the funeral of your best friend?", he began. His voice was firm, not shaking even the tiniest bit but the tears were still on his cheeks.

"For the ones who don't know me, which I honestly doubt but whatever (everyone laughed a bit): I'm Liam, Niall's band- and flatmate. Niall and I had a really strong bond, we were like brothers and best friends at once." He cringed. "You can't imagine how hard it is to talk about him in the past. It's so hard." He needed a second to recompose himself.

"I'm sorry." Some people were nodding understandingly. "When Niall started to complain about his annoying chest pain I thought he just had a harmless cold but eventually I started to realise that it didn't get any better and Niall was coughing more and more. I decided to take him to a doctor because better save than sorry.

You all probably know how much Niall hatet doctors and being sick, so it was really hard to get him convinced that he was ill enough to go to the doctor, which we eventually did. We had to tell the doctor all of Niall's symptoms, which I can't all remember to be honest, but I remember the concerned look on the doctor's face after we finished. There were so many tests Niall had to go through just to get this damn diagnosis.

It was awful, I'm not gonna lie, I'm sorry. That day in the doctor's office when the doctor told me and Niall he had lung cancer? I don't know everything that happened anymore. Only that Niall couldn't believe it and tried to convince the doctor into telling him he was lying. When that didn't change anything he was crying and begging the doctor to heal him because he wanted to continue on singing and going on tours with Louis, Harry, Zayn and me. A crying Niall. You all know that isn't anything someone wants to see. And the worst part was that I couldn't console him. I felt useless."

Everyone was quiet. Not everyone has seen the young boy crying but listening to Liam's words was enough to make them believe that it was, indeed, awful to see.

"The following months were the worst thing I've ever lived through. Seeing someone you love deteriorate as quickly as Niall did is nothing I wish my worst nightmare. At first it was kind of okay. There wasn't much of a change in his behaviour or his self but we knew it wouldn't stay like that.

He got weaker every day and eventually couldn't do anything without me or the lads carrying him or taking care of him."

Liam stopped talking and remembered the last night. Was he ready to talk about it? There was nobody but the two of them in Niall's last night and nobody has heard what happened. But with one look to Niall's coffin and another warm ray of sunshine he decided he wanted to talk about it.

"Like I said, I was there when he got the diagnosis and- and I was there when he took his last breath. It was-", he tried to remember when it was, "two weeks ago, I think?", he asked aloud because he had no concept of time left. Some people were nodding almost unnoticeable.

"Yeah, it was two weeks ago and Niall had a high fever for some days already. He was too weak to do anything and we knew he hadn't had a lot of time left, that's why we never left him alone again and I moved into his room. That's why I was there.

He woke me up and asked me if I could sing him a song, which I did. He was so cold and shivering like he was laying in a bath full of ice and he told me how exhausted he was. It broke my heart for the thousandth time but nonetheless I started to sing. While I sang he-", his voice broke.

"He closed his eyes and looked the most calm I have seen him in a long, long time. There was no trace of pain on his features."

His voice got quieter with every word he said and finally he finished. The silence in the room was deafening. Nobody dared to say something.

Liam stood there, thinking. Then he began to talk again.

"Niall may be dead but we won't forget him because he will be with us forever. In our hearts, in our minds, on CDs and even DVDs. He will always be our Nialler and nothing will change that."

---

Sadly, after the funeral nothing was better and even though everybody remembered Liam's words, grieving wasn't to be forgotten easily.

That's why Zayn. Louis, Harry and Liam were now standing devastated in their home, the house where Niall lived his last months of life and the house the four boys avoided for days. The memories were too fresh but somehow they were here again.

The plan was to get Niall's belongings together and throw them away but they all knew, they could never do that. They wanted to pile them up at least and put them away until they were ready to face them again. The didn't start yet though.

Knowing none of the other three lads would start, Liam focussed on the real world and decided to start what they wanted to do. Not only that but he wanted to begin in Niall's room where the memories would hit him the most but he kind of needed to be around Niall's things and where better to go than Niall's room.

He slowly moved forwards until he reached the stairs. The stairs. He had to carry Niall down these stairs a lot of time which wasn't really a bother as Niall didn't weight much at all. Liam cringed at the thought. Niall's bones were poking his sides and they almost hurt.

Closing his eyes he climbed the steps. He knew them well enough to remember how many steps there were and managed not to trip and fall down. He just couldn't face the stairs.

And then he wanted to go into Niall's room? Good luck.

Speaking of which, Liam now stood in front of the wooden door behind which there would be Niall's whereabout for the last whatever months. He hesitated but with another deep breath he gripped the door handle and slowly opened the door.

He immediately wanted to close it again and run away. The room smelled like Niall, there were his belongings everywhere and his bed wasn't even made yet. It was the bed Niall died in, Liam realised and began to cry again.

He took a few steps into the room and when he stood in the centre he slowly turned around himself. There was Niall's bed, his cupboard and his desk, where he wrote his songs.

There was a notebook on the top of it and Liam wasn't sure since when it was laying there because he never noticed it. He wondered if he wanted to take a look into it. His decision was yes. He had to begin somewhere.

He took the notebook into his hand and opened it to the first side.

'Hello, this is my first time writing something in here and I've never had a diary before, so I don't really know what to write. My mom gave it to me as a present because I won't be home for a few weeks.

You may ask where I will be. Well, I finally auditioned at x-Factor and I've come through! Can you believe that?! Greg laughed when I told him I got through but that's okay because I will show him what I can do and I will win!

Well, we will win. We? Yes! I wasn't good enough to get through as an solo artist, that's why Simon Cowell (I've actually met him!!!) put me into a band with FOUR!!! other boys. Their names are Harry Styles, Zayn Malik, Louis Tomlinson and Liam Payne. They are great and actually a lot better than I am but I am really greatful to have them in the band. Harry also said it would be cool to call us One Direction because we all want the same thing.

So, this diary will document my days in One Direction! I'm really exited to see what will happen with us and where we will end up. Maybe some time in the far future we may be going on tour? Who knows?

I already love them so much and I can't believe they are my friends. Firstly, we have to win the x-Factor though and then we can spend the rest of our lives together!

Maybe this diary will some day be my memoir and it gets published because I'm a big Rockstar. That would be amazing! If it will get published then my best friends will read this. I'm probably hiding somewhere when someone reads this because it is sooooo emberassing. I mean, isn't a diary a girl thing? Well, I don't care. Boys can do girls things, right?

If this gets published and One Direction reads this: This book is for you because you are the best people in the world.

Harry, I really love your hair and I hope I'm allowed to touch it some day when we are best friends. Also, I've tasted the cake you made yesterday without telling you and I'm sorry but it was the best cake I've ever eaten. Hopefully I can eat it again.

Hey Zayn. I think you are the cooles person to exist. I think you are a good dancer, even though you didn't want to dance in front of the judges. You are so much better than me. Also, I'm really jealous about how high you can sing!

Louis, I've learned that some people call you Tommo. That's amazing and I'm going to call you that for the rest of my life... If I don't forget. I think you are really funny and you make the best jokes. I hope we can play football together soon because I know you are a good player.

I'm sorry I've called you dad yesterday, Liam. It's just that you act exactly like my dad and you even talk like him! Your voice is really smooth and I love it so much. I hope you will sing a song some day and I am allowed to fall asleep because your voice calms me so much.

Now my hand is hurting. I think I'm going to mention you other people on another page.

Bye bye Niall'

Liam cried so much.

He didn't know that Niall had a diary and wrote such beautiful texts into it. His heart was melting. He realised that he had to show this to his other three bandmates.

After closing the notebook again and leaving the room, he made his way to his grieving friends and telling them about the diary Niall left.

This was what Liam was talking about. Niall may be dead but he is still here! Well, Liams words did stay in the people's minds but it was something different to get a reminder of Niall himself.

Niall was still here and they just had to remember him. Then he would never die. It may take some time for them to be able to smile and laugh again but sitting on the veranda of their home while the notebook was in front of them and seeing the single ray of sunshine that shone right on the book, it didn't seem to be impossible anymore.