#.fic: If We Have Eachother

[krokaxe]

In light of recent events, this video on plagiarism by hbomberguy has some really good points.

"Filip didn't know how to build an identity of his own, so he just borrowed the style and content of successful videos in an extremely cynical way. He didn't make these videos for the fun of it, or because he cared about making them, it was always just about chasing success by any means necessary— And when that didn't work out, he just borrowed even more directly, and got into this mess."

"If you respect someone, or want their respect, you generally don't risk a fight with them by jacking their shit. But if you don't like someone, stealing is almost like getting one over on them, isn't it?"

"'I felt like I had imposter syndrome [ ... ] Something like imposter syndrome if not imposter syndrome itself.' Felip Miucin. But that's wishful thinking, isn't it? There's a difference between having imposter syndrome and being an imposter. Objectively speaking, Filip pretended to be a reviewer and critic, while actually just being a thief and a liar.

So, for those of you I've spoken to about theft of your work— art, writing and otherwise— remember that plagiarism says a lot about the person (or people) making the choice to do as such.

And if you are somebody that makes the decision to rip off other people's work to claim it as your own, maybe ask yourself why you are compelled to do so— and stop.

[puhpandas]

Decennial

(2,396 words)

Evan and Gregory, now age twenty-two, celebrate the tenth anniversary of their meeting in the comfort of their shared apartment.

Its already the afternoon when Evan meets Gregory at the couch in their shared apartment, smartphone in hand. Gregory glances up from whatever he was watching on TV, quickly grabbing the remote to pause the channel.

He doesn't even have a chance to greet him before he notices Evan's face. Worry quickly creases his brows, and he moves to get off of the couch. "Evan? Hey, what's wron--"

Evan tries to convey that everything's fine with no words. Because it's true. He just can't muster any up right now. When Gregory seems to understand enough, that's when Evan thrusts his phone into Gregory's line of sight.

Gregory shifts on the couch, taking the phone and studying the screen to no avail. Hes pulled up the calendar on his phone, the date reading March 4th, 2045. Gregorys brows furrow, then, "Uh. I dont understand."

Evan would have rolled his eyes if he weren't so emotional right now. He scoffs, tapping the screen and mumbling "The date. Look at the date."

It only takes another moment for Gregory to understand. Evan can almost see the gears turning in his friends head in the moments before he gasps sharply. "Oh!"

Gregory doesn't look away immediately, just taking it in as if it surpises him. "Its ten years since we met today."

Evan nods at that. A small smile stretching on his face when Gregory finally turns to look at him.

But he should know by now -really, it's been ten years after all- that Gregory knows him. Probably better than Evan himself.

"What's with that look?" Gregory questions, seemingly noticing how Evans smile doesnt quite reach his eyes. "You look sad."

Evan shakes his head immediately. "No-- that's not it." He replies, feeling a bit more fit to speak. "Its just..."

"Ten years?" Gregory prompts, and Evan nods. Gregory seems to get it. He sighs a bit, and Evan can tell hes not alone in reminiscing. "Jeez. Thats..."

"...A long time ago." "A big number." They say at the same time.

Evan joins Gregory on the couch, taking his phone back. Ten years. Ten years since he met Gregory. Ten years since Evan had been that little ball of anxiety. Ten years since the best thing that ever happened to him.

Nine years since their first holidays together. Eight years since they started high school. Four since they graduated. Three since they started college.

One year since they got their first apartment together.

Evan chuckles all of the sudden, loud as a jet engine in the seemingly silent room. "Do you remember what we always wanted to do as kids?"

Gregory only has to think for a moment. "You mean what we made a reality?"

"Yeah." Evan replies. "We got that apartment. Not exactly the college dorm we imagined, though."

"Psh. Are you kidding? Our apartment is way better than any dorm we could have gotten." Gregory scoffs. "We would have like. One room to our name, and we would have to share."

Its Evan's turn to scoff, this time. He smiles, the memories coming back easily. "You're acting like we didnt basically share your room when we were thirteen."

"You were always there." Gregory agrees, but Evan knows by now that Gregory doesn't mean it in a bad way. Never. That's one of the things that have changed since they met. Evan doesnt assume the worst first, and ask questions later anymore. "You got that right."

"Thank god we had Vanessa to tell us what to do." Evan says. "We would be lost without her."

Gregory snorts, shuffling on the couch. Evan glances over, and strangely, being here, in this moment, even though its nothing differnet from what he and Gregory do every day, reminds him so much of when he and Gregory would just hang out together on his bed. Drawing, watching videos, talking and laughing... all of it.

"Its a good thing she told us to get an apartment while we still could." Gregory says. "We would have burned down the entire dorm."

Evan giggles at the thought. It wouldn't be the first time he and Gregory would make a mess in the kitchen. He still remembers how scared he was as a fourteen year old, when he had burned some of the food meant for Vanessa's 'Welcome Home' dinner Gregory insisted they make. The Fazbears house had stunk of char and smoke for days afterwards.

He was terrified at the time. If he had ever done anything like that at his old house...

He shakes that thought away. He does that often. Thinking back to his time alone with his father and brother. His biological ones. It's been a challenge, shutting down his brain when it tries to recall the memories.

Its another thing that's changed. As a kid, he knew nothing about helping himself and his anxiety. He didnt want to. He never saw himself as worthy of deserving relief, and it was so subconscious, little Evan never even realized it.

Now, it couldn't be more different. Hes never been healthier.

Who knew all it took was a best friend for life?

He looks over at Gregory. Who's still recounting some of their old childhood memories. Evan doesnt talk to Michael anymore. The damage he caused is too much to ignore. Evan... Evan doesnt want to see him anymore. Despite Michaels wake up call, it had been all too late. The damage had been done.

Michael missed his chance. Evan had decided that a long time ago. Maybe he should have had his change if heart earlier if he didnt want Evan to find the brother he always wanted in someone else.

Because that's what Gregory is. Its nothing new, they were having these revelations when they were only teenagers. Probably even earlier for Evan. But Evan never stops thinking about how much Gregory truly is his family.

That suprise and shock of the kindness hed received from Gregory from little Evan ten years ago is hard to shake when all hed been taught his whole life is how to hate himself. How he deserved to be treated badly, because if he hadn't been the way he was, he could have made himself worthy. A respectable man. Tough. An immovable rock. Real men dont show their emotions, or even experience them. Real men can defend themselves. Real men start to toughen up at the ripe age of twelve.

Evan is twenty two, now. So is Gregory. This life they'd built for themselves, with such a bright future... little Evan never would have even dreamed of. Little Evan had thought there was nothing there for him. Little Evan had thought there was no light at the end of the tunnel. That he had been doomed from the start. That his nature nipped his figure at the bud before it could begin.

This life theyve built for themselves. When Evan had ran to the Fazbears as soon as he'd turned eighteen with only a bag of clothes, a binder full of drawings, and yellow bear to his name. When he'd shared the room that felt like his own as well growing up with Gregory. When they'd spent those few months together until getting into the same college and choosing an apartment.

This life theyve built for themselves. That Evan would have only seen as a fantasy when he was eleven.

Theyve changed so much. It always shocks Evan every time he sees an old photo, or really remembers what it had been like pre-Gregory. Evan is growing out his hair, now. Before, all hed ever had was a months overgrown generic slickback. But he gets to choose now. Like how he paints his nails. Gregory has never really cared about his appearance, but he saw a photo of his Dad as a college student and immediately went to go replicate the blue streaks in his hair when it was time for himself to go off to college.

Evan almost laughs sometimes when he thinks about how much Gregory really is just an older version of who he was when he was twelve. He's different, like Evan is, but he's the same as well. A constant.

He knows hes the same, as well. Just with longer hair, bolder clothes, and the power of experimentation. Gregory has never been one to care much about his clothes, but to Evan, its everything. To be able to wear what he always wanted as a kid. To not be confined to whatever annual clothes his Father would buy him from the back to school section. Its freeing.

It's in that moment that he thinks back, really thinks back to his life pre-Gregory, and the contrast of the before and after.

It's all too much, in that moment. The memories and the sentiments and the nostalgia. In true Evan fashion, he cries about it.

Gregory has long since learned how to differentiate Evan's tears between his emotionality and a genuine issue. So when Evan begins wiping silent tears away, he just smiles one of those smiles he does, and pats him on the shoulder, pulling him in for a side hug.

Its digging a hole in Evan's chest, this feeling. It's not bad. But it's not exactly good either. It's some kind of a loss, but a hope as well. Remembering how much he loved back then. As much as he loves right now.

"I--" Evan stutters, sniffling. Gregory hands him one of the many boxes of tissues they always have on hand in their apartment. "It... It feels like we need to celebrate, somehow. I mean... ten years is big."

Evans mind floats to a cake. Or a two person party. Or a collaborated drawing. Evan's mind floats to many things. Many options. Ten years is big, right? Something that big needs a big party. Something big to commemorate it.

But Gregory just hums, and lays eyes on the thick shelf of DVDs they have tucked by the wall right by their TV. "How about a movie night?"

Evan's about to interrupt, say something about the milestone, but Gregory continues. "Do you remember all our favorites as a kid?"

Evan stops himself short, almost scoffing, because of couse he does. How could he not, when he and Gregory had stayed up so many times to watch them together, alongside stifled giggles and ice cream straight out of the carton? "Of course I do."

Gregory gets off the couch, crouching by the bookshelf and picking out a select few movies. Evan catches the titles on the packaging from all the way were hes sitting. Every single one of them is special to him.

Gregory deposits the movies on their coffee table, three DVDs spilling out onto the glass surface. "Then I can't think of a better way to spend the night."

Despite Evan's attempts, he cant either. Despite watching these movies almost regularly with Gregory even now, opening the casing feels different in this moment. It feels special. Evan feels like hes thirteen again.

Before starting their marathon, they make a huge bowl of popcorn, pouring caramel on it just how they liked it as kids. As they continue to now. Evan gets the carton of ice cream out of the fridge, handing Gregory his spoon and taking his own.

All they need is a throw blanket and they're ready. It's the exact setup they've done for years. Starting ten years ago today. This tradition has lasted this long, and it will outlive the milestone.

It feels so familiar, Evan cant stop thinking. His emotions are dialed up to eleven tonight. It only increases when the sky darkens outside their windows. He remembers coming home from school with Gregory and just. Immediately piling onto his bed with snacks and pillows and turning the lights off before they'd dive into another movie. Only going to bed when Freddy forced them to.

Because that's what it was. Thats what it still is. Home. All Evan feels right now is home.

They laugh at all the same parts. They cry as well. They cheer. They point out the same things. Nothing has changed.

Sure, ten years is big. But Evan can't think of a better way of spending the anniversary than continuing to do what hes loved to do with Gregory throughout the years. This doesnt mark the end of an era, or a big change. It marks how long hes had the gift of his brother. His family. His real family. The fifteenth mark will, as well. So will the twentieth.

All the tenth mark says is hes had ten years worth of joy and growth. and He'll continue to do just that.

After the third movie, Evan takes a quick look at his phone. The numbers 12:03 look back at him from his lockscreen, a picture of him and Gregory. The date has switched to the 5th.

"You're my brother." Evan says suddenly to Gregory at the beginning of the fourth movie. Gregory pauses in stuffing his face with popcorn to look over at Evan's earnest face. "You know that?"

Gregory chuckles wetly. It seems Evan isn't alone in the sentimentality tonight. "Only since we were preteens."

Gregory pulls him into that same side hug he always does. "You're my family." Gregory tells him sincerely. "You always will be, too. Hell would freeze over before our family would ever say you aren't one of theirs."

Evan chuckles, eyes misty, because he knows its true. He can imagine his family's reactions so vividly. "I know."

They only sink further into the hug after that, the movie continuing on. Theyve long since stopped with the thank yous. Not since they got it through Evan's thick skull that they arent doing him a favor. They just love him.

It's in that moment that Evan realizes that tomorrow is another day. And there are more after that and after that. Theres more milestones to reach, more years to spend with his brother and their family, and he cant wait to experience them.

But right now, he's content continuing a ten year long tradition as a mundane celebration for a non-mundane achievement.

It's not mundane to him at all, anyway. It means the world to him.

Besides, he can't imagine a world where his family doesn't throw a suprise party for him when he and Gregory visit them tomorrow.

ao3 link

[cupiidzbow]

that one post asking what ring they would propose to you with….. i actually have a whole thing of how it would play out ( im normal )

[probably-iron-deficiency]

Victim

📌ao3 link

summary: More treasures than could fill a cave, more leisure than an oasis, more willing and able bodies than could fill a ravine, and Kalim would give it all up in a heartbeat to keep Jamil by his side. or, After Jamil's overblot, Kalim finds himself isolated in his home, reevaluating the only true friendship he's ever had. He should probably stay away from Jamil. He doesn't, and it's for the better.

✦pairing✦ JamiKali

✦CW✦ suicidal ideation, Kalim kills a guy but its for Jamil so-

✦tags✦ Introspection, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Post Book 4, Pre-Slash

✦word count✦ 4k+

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄✧⋄⋆ fic below⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄

Jamil was right. Kalim was undeniably, in mind and soul, selfish. 

His knife-sharp words had dug an open wound into Kalim which hadn’t stopped bleeding since his overblot. It had been two weeks since the event, and Kalim found himself back in his own home. After hearing reports of “magical abnormalities” at Scarabia, his parents had requested that Kalim and Jamil return home until the term started again. No one knew what had happened during winter break, and in perhaps the last unspoken bond between Jamil and Kalim, they would never find out. It had been five days since they had returned home, and he hadn’t seen Jamil once. The palace was big enough to never interact without arousing any suspicion. Kalim’s room was essentially its own luxury suite- he didn’t have to leave it, so he didn’t. The space felt large and empty without another’s presence, and Kalim was left to fill the void with the things Jamil had said. 

With nearly a week of isolated thinking on it, Kalim knew that he was selfish. Maybe not in worldly things- he had enough of those to satisfy the greediest man a hundred lifetimes over. A verifiable army of people willing to flip themselves inside out just to get on the heir’s good side, allowing him to bypass any and all struggles that an average mortal might face. Of course, none of this was necessary: Kalim was nothing if not charitable, and despite the displeasure of the Asim treasurers, he was more than willing to give back where he could. 

And Kalim didn’t want any of it. 

More treasures than could fill a cave, more leisure than an oasis, more willing and able bodies than could fill a ravine, and Kalim would give it all up in a heartbeat to keep Jamil by his side. Maybe not physically- Kalim would never force Jamil to stay somewhere he hated (not that Kalim knew Jamil hated him until recently). His heart would be enough, wherever Jamil’s body was, his love would placate Kalim. Kalim wanted the one thing that wasn’t- couldn’t- be handed over to him, and despite his riches, he couldn’t let it go. 

Kalim was selfish. 

In all honesty, Kalim knew that somewhere, deep down, he knew what Jamil was doing to him before his overblot. He could’ve- should’ve- said something to Jamil, no matter how badly the conversation would’ve gone. But the idea of losing the only person that had ever only helped Kalim and never harmed, the only person that had ever stayed. Kalim, tactless, cemented excuses to his lash-line and greedily continued his blissful naivety. 

He wished for a moment more of peace, and it had nearly cost him everything.

(It had nearly cost him Jamil.)

Kalim remembered a conversation he had with Azul when they were cast into the desert. 

“He betrayed you, Kalim. Don’t you understand that? Aren’t you angry?”

Even now, weeks later, he wouldn’t call it a betrayal. It wasn’t fair to Jamil.

It would break Kalim.

Ah, perhaps he was being selfish even now. Perhaps Jamil had wanted to betray Kalim, wanted Kalim to actually boil into rage, give Jamil a decent opponent to pit his years of oppression against. Even this Kalim could not give him. 

Kalim vouching for Jamil did nothing to nullify the brutal whisperings of the Scarabia students. Some lamented Kalim’s inefficiency, his spinelessness in being controlled by Jamil in the first place and his continued failure to remove Jamil from his post. Others, less scared of the potential recoil from the vice-housewarden, spoke of Jamil as a ruthless dark magician. An insignificant, ungrateful moon that stole its light from the ever generous sun. 

Kalim had heard worse rumors about himself, and figured the students were entitled to their opinions. (He knew Jamil had heard worse about himself, too, and that he probably didn’t care about the ramblings of some third-rate underclassmen).

(No one but Jamil’s opinion mattered, anyways.)

It had been a… vaguely mutual decision to cut contact as much as possible after Jamil’s overblot. No longer bound by his facade of complacency, Jamil had made it very clear very quickly that he had no intention of looking after Kalim for the time being. Kalim didn’t mind that, really. He wanted Jamil to do what made him happy, and if seeing Kalim as little as possible made up for years of Kalim’s blindness to his feelings, then Kalim would gladly oblige. 

(Secretly, Kalim felt as though he had been ripped in two- his only lifeline to real, truthful connection severed. He barely slept, barely spoke, barely moved. Sometimes, when the moon shone clearly overhead, Kalim would sit on the balcony, legs dangling 14 stories over the Asim gardens, and wonder if it would’ve been better for Jamil if Kalim had just gone along with his plan and died. Jamil wouldn’t do anything for Kalim that he wasn’t obliged to do by familial pressure- Kalim knew that now. But Kalim would do anything for Jamil. Right now, if Jamil were to knock on his door and ask him to slit his own throat, Kalim would be dead before he hit the floor. If only Jamil would ask something of him.

Dizzily, he wondered if the scented candles Jamil used to light for his baths looked forward to being used.) 

Despite their lack of contact, Kalim still heard a knock on his door twice a day. Outside would be freshly cooked food, sealed in containers with a tamper-proof charm in place. Kalim clung to these moments like no other, even though Jamil was always gone by the time he got to the door.

Jamil wanted to be left alone; it was obvious. After spending almost 17 years of your life with someone you despised, of course you wouldn’t want to see them. When school started up again, it would be harder for Jamil to avoid Kalim- as Housewarden and Vice of Scarabia, there would be no end to the amount of time they would be forced to be together. Especially since Kalim was, admittedly, useless at his leadership duties without Jamil as his loyal advisor.

But Kalim was selfish.

5 days was the longest he had ever gone without seeing Jamil. Not a single soul had come to check on him in his near week of being home, not that Kalim blamed them for that. It was Jamil’s job to check on him, supposedly. (On the second day, Kalim realized it never should have been his job. He never should have been forced to be Kalim’s servant in body and friend in words- it was only time before he became Kalim’s enemy in mind.) 

Fleetingly, he wondered how many days it would take someone to stumble upon his body if he died here. He wondered if, in the end, it would be Jamil who found him. 

Kalim, alone in his room, was unraveling at the seams. 

He wanted to see Jamil. He needed to see Jamil, make sure he was still ok. Make sure, even if childishly, that he still existed outside of Kalim’s view. Just a glimpse of him would be enough- it was late, if Jamil’s ironclad routine still held true, he would be asleep. It would be quick.

Kalim was so, truly, selfish. 

Smooth, cool stone chilled Kalim’s bare feet as he padded lightly through the hall. The estate was built to ward off heat, and a brisk night breeze came through the paneless windows, palm leaves swaying in the wind. He shivered, pulling his arms closer to his chest. Jamil would chide him for walking around in pajamas in the middle of the night. He would have, anyway.

Luckily for him, Jamil’s room was not too far from Kalim's own. When they were around 10 years old, it was decided that Jamil would stay in suites designated for higher ranking members of the Asim family rather than the servant residences where his own family lived. Officially, the reasoning was that Jamil had been such a loyal retainer to his young master Asim that he was being rewarded with lavish living conditions. At the time, Kalim was just thrilled to be closer to his best friend- they could have sleepovers practically every night! Now though, Kalim wondered if Jamil was moved closer to his room just so he could serve him better, protect him more easily if someone were to stage an attack. Did Jamil even want to move out of his family’s home, back then? Did he cry when his parents told him he had to leave, or did he just accept it apathetically, resigned to his life sentence? Kalim wasn’t sure which was worse. 

At the expense of a 10 year old Jamil, a 17 year old Kalim easily traced the dark path between their rooms, expertly dodging open windows and lights shining from the rooms of those who had not yet gone to sleep or had just woken up. It would be better for everyone if he wasn’t seen. 

Kalim slowed as he approached the door, muscle memory guiding him directly in front of it. He paused, breathing deeply. Jamil’s senses were needle sharp after years of guarding Kalim, he would have to be exceedingly careful if he didn’t want Jamil to wake up and notice him. Somewhat ironically, Kalim’s own senses were sharp, if not sharper, than Jamil’s; attuned to hearing even the slightest changes in footsteps or the faintest smell in a freshly prepared dish. 17 years of protecting someone, no matter how you felt about them, would hone your abilities to react, defend, fight. 17 years of expecting to be murdered, even if you were known as an unbearably loud person, would allow you to nearly disappear.      

Kalim’s nose twitched, a peculiar scent drifting from the room. Sharp, almost as if someone had made sparks from sanding down metal, but capped with something more heavy. Magic. 

It would be near imperceptible to the average mage, but Kalim was on par with beastmen when it came to his uncanny ability to identify things by scent. Normally, he would expect this smell to be close to other practicing magic users, especially if they were back at Night Raven, with students laboriously practicing spells over and over until they had worn themselves out. 

But didn’t overblotting stop you from using magic normally for a few weeks? Kalim remembered Leona using his own overblot as an excuse to get out of Housewarden duties, citing his unpredictable magic as “too dangerous” to do work. Even Riddle had taken some time off after his overblot, much to the surprise of Kalim. When he asked Riddle about it a few days after he returned, Riddle explained that overblotting would leave the victim, no matter how strong they were, in a very weakened state afterwards, before he had quickly changed the subject. 

Kalim squinted. Something wasn’t adding up.

Silently, he took another step forward. The uncomfortably familiar smell of molten copper burned Kalim’s nostrils, and he clutched his hand to his face to stop himself from coughing.

No. Jamil must have cut himself on something, or maybe his wounds from the battle reopened. But then, why the thick scent of magic that clogged his sinuses the closer he moved to the door? Jamil shouldn’t be able to do magic like that right now, not without risking himself. It was 3 in the morning, what would he even be doing?

Something moved sharply in Kalim’s peripheral, and his eyes quickly followed the movement. From under Jamil’s door, lit by the moon, shadows danced mockingly at Kalim.     

Nauseous, he recalled a conversation overheard a few years prior. Kalim, looking for Jamil, had overheard him talking to someone. Not wanting to intrude, Kalim had waited behind a large stone pillar until an “appropriate” time made itself available. Accidentally, he began to eavesdrop.

“I’m lucky they only go after Kalim.”

“Jamil! Don’t say things like that.”

“Why not? It’s true, Najma. It’s a good thing most of his kidnappers are as stupid as they are shortsighted.”

“What do you mean?”

“If they take Kalim, someone will just go and save him, taking them out in the process. Me? I’m not worth the manpower. The Asims would pay the ransom and wouldn’t send anyone to investigate… I’m curious to see what I’d be worth, though.”

Kalim had soundlessly fled the scene, imploring himself to forget what he had just heard. When Jamil found him in his room hours later, he either didn’t notice or didn’t care to ask about Kalim’s red-rimmed eyes and blotchy face.

Surely not. Kalim crept forward. Surely the world would not be as cruel as to force Jamil to suffer further, not after he had nearly perished for simply wanting to be free. He held his breath, hand reaching for the cool brass of the doorknob. Surely he was simply over-tired- anxious from days of solitude away from Jamil’s watchful eyes. Slowly, he turned the knob. The door was unlocked.

The world had never been particularly kind to them, had it.

A horrible portrait invaded his sight, lit like a silhouette. Jamil, looking smaller than Kalim had ever seen him, struggled fruitlessly in the grasp of a horrifically muscled man. His hair had been ripped out of its careful braids, arms bent at an unnatural angle. Blood trickled like satin down the side of him, and the smirking man held a silver, red-stained dagger at his throat. 

Time seemed to slow as two pairs of eyes locked on Kalim’s intrusion. Quickly, he realized a few things. 1) The man was unmasked, meaning his plan was to grab Jamil and leave as quickly as possible without being seen. 2) His towering physique confirmed this- assassins tended to be slimmer, more agile, needing only to slip through a window and take out their prey. This was a bruiser more commonly seen in the market’s alleyways than infiltrating the estate, Kalim was more than familiar with his type. Their goal was simply to take, not kill, by any violent means necessary. 3) Even in Jamil’s weakened, magicless state, the intruder hadn’t bothered to use any spells himself to make the job easier. He wasn’t a mage.

Kalim’s heart beat loudly in his ears, drowning out the surrounding sound. No one moved, the struggle frozen in a fragile state of shock. Kalim’s eyes flitted to Jamil’s face, taking in the sight of him. His mouth was hidden behind one of the large hands of his attacker, but his eyes met with Kalim’s. 

For the first time in 17 years, Jamil’s gaze stared back at him with fear.

“Don’t move, little rich boy, and your servant will be just fine.” The man smirked. “What’s one of these, anyways? You have hundreds, I’m sure you’ll be fine until we get our money’s worth.”

Kalim used to vomit after Jamil saved him, hands still bloody from whatever sad battle had played out. He stopped getting nauseous after the 5th time it happened. After a year, he only found himself worried about the state of Jamil, carefully checking him over for any cuts or scrapes. 

Jamil had killed for Kalim countless times, under instruction. Kalim wasn’t sure if Jamil would kill for him under different circumstances. But Kalim would do anything for Jamil.

A tidal wave of emotion battered the rocky cliffs of his mind. The ever-present naivety that had been hairline fracturing for a lifetime, held together only by the fear of nihilism was chipping, cracking. Slabs of his principles and boulders of his morals crashed into the white-capped water of his soul, forming a whirlpool that churned and pulled.

Freezing cold something pulsed through his body.

Terror. Rage. Love.

In a flash, magic poured out of him, glinting like razor blades under the light of the moon. Deadly fast, it crashed into its target. 

The man holding Jamil froze, the muscles in his arms tensing violently. Kalim cricked his neck, and the intruder fell sideways, staring at the young heir in shock. Suddenly, he coughed. And coughed, and kept coughing, hands grasping futilely at his own throat as he began to choke up water, fresh and clear. His writhing gave way to desperate pleads.

“Plea-ugh. Mer- mercy.” He gasped in between breaths. 

The tempest of Kalim’s soul sneered. Mercy? What mercy had they ever given him? What mercy had they given Jamil? There was no answer, and the ocean rose again. 

Vessels burst in the man’s face, quickly overtaken by the mounting pressure within his body. His tears flowed equal parts blood and water and his eyes bulged from his skull like an unfortunate fish drawn too quickly from the depths. 

In hindsight, it was almost too quick. 

The man let out a final wheeze, perhaps a scream if his lungs hadn’t already burst, and his bloated corpse fell uselessly to the floor.

His life, like poetry, spilled into cool stone. 

Kalim stood, fists clenched hard enough to draw blood, body thrumming with the aftershocks of his magic. It seemed fitting that the most powerful storm he ever summoned was one for Jamil alone.

Jamil.

Kalim rushed forward, gathering Jamil in his arms. The latter breathed harshly, wincing as his injured arm was moved. Kalim shut his eyes, willing the reserves of his magic to come to the surface. He muttered enchantments as he skimmed his fingers across Jamil’s skin, wounds knitting themselves slowly back together. He would still need to be tended to by a proper physician, but healing magic was instinctual, and known to grow stronger with intent… Jamil would be safely in the clear, if not a little uncomfortable.

A hush fell over them as Kalim finished his work. Normally, after Jamil had protected him from someone (killed someone for Kalim), Kalim would try to fill the silence by chatting about some inane thing. Whether or not Jamil responded was besides the point- he just wanted to let Jamil know he felt safe, even if the words he spoke fell on deaf ears.

This felt different, somehow, and Kalim for once found himself with nothing to say. Instead, he allowed himself to focus on the sound of Jamil’s steady breathing- clear airways, no major injuries, no lingering scent of poison. Kalim had learned to appreciate this single comfort: the calm after a storm, and the two of them safe on the beach. 

“Kalim.” Jamil’s voice was somewhat gravely, most likely from being choked. Kalim gripped Jamil’s shoulder tighter.

“Jamil, are you feeling alright?” 

“You made sure of that.” He huffed, and Kalim felt the contents of his stomach churn anxiously. He couldn’t think of something to say, so he didn’t.

“Kalim. That man…”

“He’s dead.”

“Ah…” Jamil coughed weakly, body shuddering against Kalim’s. Kalim watched silently as the last of Jamil’s cuts sealed themselves up. 

“Your braids came undone.”

Jamil shifted against him, and Kalim paused to see if he would turn to face him. He didn’t.

“It takes a long time to do them, right?” He nodded without responding. 

Gently, Kalim allowed his fingers to brush through the ends of Jamil’s long hair. How long had it been since he’d touched it? Since they were kids, maybe. Since Jamil was forced to lower himself to Kalim, and stopped allowing Kalim to do anything for him. 

Brushing back a section over Jamil’s shoulder, Kalim began to weave patterns into his hair, the night breeze working against his progress. 

Kalim’s hands were not shaking, and Jamil’s breath didn’t hitch, breaking the silence as he cried.

~~~~~

“Kalim, your food is getting cold.” Jamil sighed, folding up some of Kalim’s school shirts. 

“Sorry, Jamil. I’m not that hungry.” Kalim gazed out the window, halfheartedly stirring his cup of tea.

“It’ll be a waste if it goes off.”

Kalim was lost in thought, the familiarity of the situation somehow off putting. It had been one full day since Jamil’s attempted kidnapping, and one hour since Jamil had knocked on Kalim’s door, waking him up for the morning with breakfast in hand. Kalim wouldn’t lie, a part of him was absolutely thrilled to have Jamil back taking care of him. The longest week of Kalim’s life had come to a close, in theory it would be easy to simply return to their normal routine. After all, they would return to Night Raven in 2 days time- it would be better to go back to how they were. 

In the past, Kalim would gladly take this opportunity without a second glance. But now, knowing what he knew about how Jamil felt… Did he want to? Was a facade of subservience and friendship truly better than the truth? 

Kalim knew now that he didn’t have to work for most of the things in his life- they’d all been handed to him without his knowledge. He knew now that those achievements were frail and paper thin, and the happiness he had paraded was one of the fingers that had strangled Jamil’s freedom. Maybe if Kalim worked for the things he cared about just a little more, they wouldn’t disappear like an illusion in his grasp.

“Jamil?”

“What is it?” He didn’t look over, continuing to pack away Kalim’s clothes. Kalim took a breath, letting the spoon rest in his now cold tea.

“We need to talk.” Jamil halted his work.

“About?” 

Kalim stood, walking over to stand behind Jamil.

“All of…” Kalim gestured around, “This. Everything.” Us.

Jamil resumed, walking to Kalim’s closet and pulling out more of his uniforms, expertly avoiding eye contact.

“I suppose it was only a matter of time.” Kalim blinked.

“For what?”

“You know for what. Look, I’m not gonna tell you I’m sorry about what I did to you, because I’m not. School’s starting in a couple days anyways, and you’ll have forgotten all about my overblot-”

“Your overblot?”

Finally, Jamil turned to face him. 

“Obviously. Don’t worry, once we’re back at school we’ll go back to normal anyways, I’ll take care of everything.” Jamil rolled his eyes, but Kalim could tell he was hiding something. Kalim clenched his fists.

“No.”

“What?” He raised his eyebrow, looking incredulously at Kalim.

“No, I,” Kalim was overtaken by a resounding urge. Jamil, in all his genius, didn’t even know what Kalim was talking about. He had to make it clear now, no matter the consequences. 

“I don’t care about your overblot, Jamil! I mean- I care, I care about you, I care about how you were feeling so bad so quietly that you had no choice but to self destruct- but not in the way that maybe I should. I’m not- I haven’t been angry at you. I’m scared.” Kalim’s eyes welled up with tears, and he steadfastly ignored them.  

“It was bad enough to lose you as my closest friend. But the other night I almost lost you for real. All for what, because you have to protect me? Because I’m stupid and naive and all that other stuff you said? Because I’m an Asim?” Kalim’s chest heaved, and he brought his arm up to hide his face and avoid looking at Jamil’s. 

Jamil was silent, and Kalim didn’t want to imagine what sort of expression he was making. 

“What happened the other night wasn’t your fault. You know how those guys are, they could’ve gone after anyone. It’s all money to them.” Jamil’s voice was slow and steady, and Kalim tried to cling to it. 

“It was my fault, though! If people weren’t always coming after me, you would’ve been safe!” 

“You can’t help who you were born to, Kalim.” He chuckled humorlessly, “And neither can I.”

Maybe, at some point earlier in his life, Kalim would have accepted that. They were both simply filling their roles, an heir and a servant, both seemingly content with their positions. Kalim would eventually take over the family business with Jamil at his side, and maybe they could live in some sort of amicable facade with a want for nothing. But Kalim, given everything, wanted none of it.

“I would give up my name for you, Jamil. I would give up everything.” He took a step closer, forcing Jamil to look at him.

“I would give you everything.”

For once, Jamil looked at a loss for words. Silver eyes filled with an emotion that Kalim couldn’t quite read, and his lips parted as if he were going to speak. No sound came out, and Kalim looked away.

“I’m sorry.” Kalim spoke unnaturally quietly. “For everything.”

A moment passed, and Kalim began to turn away. Suddenly, Kalim felt himself pulled into a hug. Jamil brought him close, arms wound tightly around his back and waist. Kalim gasped softly, immediately relaxing with Jamil’s touch. He brought his arms around Jamil, and took the chance to listen to his heartbeat. When was the last time Jamil had hugged him, and not the other way around? Had it ever happened? Kalim didn’t know. 

“We’re not friends.” 

Kalim smiled weakly into Jamil’s chest in spite of himself.

“Ok.”

“I won't baby you anymore- you need to learn how to do things for yourself.”

“That’s fine.”

“But if what you said about us being rivals or equals or whatever is true, then you have a long way to go.”

Oh.

“You have a lot to learn if you want to even get close to catching up. I won’t hold back.” Then, quieter. “Guess I have to stick around to see if you can do it.”

Kalim smiled, and he felt more alive than he had in almost a week.

“I won’t let you down, Jamil.”

[opens-up-4-nobody]

...

[dangerous-advantage]

(Image description below 'read more' line.)

[Image ID: A four-by-four alignment chart on a white background with text descriptions to the left and to the top of the squares.

The top left description reads, "seems like they'd be good at parenting." The top right description reads, "seems like they'd be bad at parenting."

Then, from the top down, to the left of the squares, the other set of descriptions reads: "excellent child rearing instincts," and "never trust them with a child in your life."

Each of the four squares contains an image of a different character. At the top left is an image of Lan Wangji of the Mo Dao Zu Shi donghua. He sits between the descriptors "seems like they'd be good at parenting," and "excellent child rearing instincts."

In the top right square sits an image of Wei Wuxian, also of the Mo Dao Zu Shi donghua. He sits between the junction of "seems like they'd be bad at parenting" and "excellent child rearing instincts."

In the bottom left square is an image of Xie Lian from the Tian Guan Ci Fu manhua. He occupies the square with the captions, "seems like they'd be good at parenting" and "never trust them with a child in your life."

Finally, in the bottom left square, sits an image of Hua Cheng from the Tian Guan Ci Fu manhua. He occupies the junction between "seems like they'd be bad at parenting" and "never trust them with a child in your life". /End ID]

[aestheticallynotdeerlightful]

Being one of very few people hyperfixated on something that’s underrated SUCKSSS

[humlors]

preaching forgiveness as he went

a thing about karlach and astarion talking about trees and heartless dead bastards. AO3. 5,3k words.

When Karlach next spoke up, it was with an abnormally small voice Astarion couldn't really associate with the barbarian next to him. "How..." she began, almost as a whisper. "How did you feel. You know, after Cazador died?" He wouldn't admit how the question knocked some air out of his lungs. Thankfully, he recovered quickly, as was one of his previously mentioned talents. "Oh, it felt wonderful!" came his answer before he could even reflect on it. "Two hundred years of servitude felt like nothing in comparison." She glanced at him, just barely. "Really?" Her voice was hoarse now. Almost... disappointed. "It was just... that easy?" Of course it wasn't. Of course he was lying. It came as naturally as breathing to him by now. - Gortash is dead. Karlach isn’t taking it well. Of all people, Astarion would have thought himself the last person to go for comfort. He deals with it.

Astarion couldn’t whistle. The last two days, this had been the most mortifying factoid in his more than two hundred year long existence. ‘But Astarion, oh, you almighty and exceptionally good-looking vampire,’ a normal person capable of basic empathy would probably say, ‘your incapability of whistling sure couldn’t measure up to so many years of humiliating mindless servitude to one of the most despicable beings on this realm and possibly many more?’

Yes, it could, actually. Especially after he hadn’t been able to get Scratch in one of his play time moods to let go of his shirt without any holes in it - which in their journeys been narrowed into a minuscule number - after finally finding time to actually wash it, because their fearless leader had been to wise as to train him to respond to one sound, and only that one. 

He’d groused to anyone who would listen about the - now unfashionably sleeveless - shirt up and down, and Shadowheart of all people had been the one to have the nerve to point out “Wait- Astarion, you can’t whistle?”

She’d had a good laugh about it. Wyll too, but he’d at least been polite enough to try to hide it, no matter how poorly. 

Scratch had gotten his tug-of-war, his so called “friends” had gone to sleep with a mirthful smile on their lips, and Astarion had adamantly refused to admit how he started to suspect it felt being bullied at the playground as a small child.

All in all, that’s how he found himself now, out in the woods with the excuse of finding something to snack on. Jackal had - with some remorse, sweetly enough - declined to let Astarion feed on him last night, something to do with a coming fight he wanted to wake up not feeling drained for. Oh well, his loss. Still, hunger was itching in the pit of his stomach, so maybe the excuse was not that founded in dishonesty.

When he was sure he was far enough away from camp - looking over his shoulder once or twice just to be sure - he reluctantly tried pursing his lips like he’d seen the others do, blowing to make some sort of sound.

Nothing. Just air and spittle. 

He grimaced to himself. Why was he even entertaining this provocation? To be able to figure it out in one go, since it obviously came so naturally to everyone else? To walk into camp, whistling a beautiful tune, to turn on his companions awed and astonished faces with a “A-hah! I successfully fooled the lot of you! I actually asked for the mutt’s help, you see, sleeveless is the new hot fad!”

Ridiculous. 

He tried again, despite it all. A few more times, ambling between the trees, trying to reposition his tongue, use his fingers, like Jackal did. Not a single even tone came.

Just about to give up, find a squirrel and call it a day, a sharp sound - a deep thud - echoed his way. 

Immediately, he crouched down, making himself as quiet as possible. If he was to be jumped by some poor soul out in the woods, well. He was already in a sour mood and feeling snackish, he could absolutely not be held responsible for his actions, if it came to it. 

The thud came again, followed by something like a grunt. Well, now he started to get curious. Silently, treading the shadows and leaves, he moved towards it. Curiosity may kill cats, but he was not of the feline inclination, thankfully.

The thuds came more rhythmically the closer he got, intermingled with groans of - labor? After a minute, the unmistakable creak of a tree falling and landing made birds scatter and flee the area. Was there a rogue woodcutter excavating the depths of Cloak Wood? Their merry band had run into stranger beings, but still.

Eventually, a clearing opened up. A broad figure clad in all red, holding and swinging an impressive looking axe over their head had felled three trees and was well on their way in their fourth. They had a strange technique, seemingly mauling the trees before chopping them down as an act of mercy before continuing on the next one. Splinters lay everywhere, bark and branches littering the massacred ground.

This was strange, even for the strange people they always had the displeasure of running into. Astarion furrowed an eyebrow, took another step forward, and-

Snap. He winced, removing his foot from an errant twig. So much for the stealthiest person in their party.

The figure turned immediately. "Who's there?" They spoke loudly. "I heard that. Just come out, alright?"

Wait. He knew that voice. 

Taking another step closer, lo and behold, Karlach was the now identified woodchopper. Her chest was heaving, out of her usual loose armor, her usual camp clothes on. She looked - well, exhausted. Sweat beading her forehead and lighting up the pulsing glow of her chest. Blood had dried in on her skin, probably a few hours old. Astarion guessed that couldn't come from her valiant fight with the local greenery.

She seemed to catch sight of his movement, shielding her eyes from the sun. "Astarion?" She said, confusion clear. "What're you doing out here?"

Well, the jig was obviously up. "Oh, me?" He put a hand to his chest to feign as much ignorance he could muster, moving out of the bushes. "Just out on a calming stroll in the woods! Heard it does wonders for the complexion."

Usually, she would had laughed at that sort of joke. At least a small chuckle would escape. Instead, she just rolled her fire-yellow eyes, gesturing to the other side of the clearing. "Well, if you could do that on, I dunno, the other side of it, I'd be real chuffed." 

As he slowly sauntered closer, he could now see it wasn't just sweat running down her cheeks. The whites of her eyes seemed to bled more with her skin than usual, a little puffy and... Oh hells, he thought. She's been crying.

Every alarm bell in his head started going off. He could deal with a out-of-her-mind annoyingly cheerful Karlach, even a rage-filled pissed off Karlach. He particularly thought dealing with drunk-off-her-ass-and-won't-stop-talking-about-how-pretty-Shadowhearts-eyes-were Karlach was fun, but a crying Karlach? No. No, no, no, this was nothing he was either equipped with or had the urge to handle.

He should leave. She seemed to be getting through her emotions well by herself, at the cost of some poor bird families having the relocate, perhaps. 

Still, that part of him that - despite his best efforts - had been slowly and begrudgingly over time made him... Godsdamnit, care for the others in their party, made it so much harder to turn his heels and walk off. 

He sighed, closing his eyes briefly in irritation - mostly at himself. "Is-" he sighed, forcing himself not to swallow his next words. "Is something the matter?"

Karlach had already turned her back to him, both hands gripping the axe like a vice. She huffed, readying herself for another chop. "Gortash's dead." She said shortly, before her weapon came down with another loud thud.

His pale eyebrows did raise at that. "Oh! Well, well, suppose the bastard finally got what was coming for him then! Joyous news!" He tried. No response, just another thud. "R-right?"

"Right, yeah." She grunted, more as an afterthought. 

"Another stone gathered, another soul avenged!" He continued, mostly to fill the silence that was getting more awkward by the second. "I'd half expect you to be down at the Mermaid, toasting to a battle well fought by now!" Oh, he was rambling now. This was embarrassing.

"Uh, sure. Maybe later." She responded without any sort of indication on following up on that promise. She seized her work temporarily, leaning on her axe, pinching the bridge of her nose. 

Astarion was beginning to suspect that whatever she wanted to hear, it wasn't anything he could possibly provide. A mercy in itself. 

Just about to breathe out and excuse himself, the broad woman spoke again. "I just-" she cut herself off, searching for words. "I dunno- I dunno what the fuck I'm supposed to do now."

Her last words broke, just slightly. Infuriatingly, it tugged at his heartstrings somewhat awfully. 

Before he had the chance to the respond, Karlach kept talking. "I mean- Yeah, I know, I got the whole revenge thing- I should be happy, right? I should be fucking high in the clouds right now. Sitting at the 'Maid and getting drunk off my tits, happy the bastards' finally dead and gone where he can't fucking hurt anyone else- but I'm just-" she broke off, pain evident she was trying to keep close to her chest slipping through the cracks. "Instead I just- can't stop thinking that my best friend is dead."

Oh shit. What in the hells had he stumbled into?

She kept going though, as if having started and not knowing how to stop. "A-and, yeah, no, he's *obviously* not my friend anymore, hasn't for a long time. I hate him. I hate him so *unbelievably*fucking much, he's the worst thing that could've ever happen to someone, *he's* the reason I've got this stupid fucking rustbucket in my chest, *he's* the reason I'll go blow up in a hot minute, and he's-"

Her voice was breaking more and more, fresh tears forming in her eyes. (Somewhere, Astarion wondered if it was some hellish miracle her tears didn't evaporate into mist the second they got on her skin.) She wiped them without any sort of tenderness, hissed and - as if a scale tipped over - screamed something that tore his own throat just from hearing it, and with an impressive feat of strength, imbedded her axe halfway through the trunk of the tree in front of her. All before collapsing to the ground, hunched over in stuttering breath.

Well. It wasn't as if he could leave now. 

From what he'd overheard and what Karlach had let the group know, her and Gortash didn't have the… best past, as one says. He'd been sold as a child to Raphael, gathered some ungodly contact in his time with him, become a smuggler-turned-minor-lord in his adult life, took Karlach as a bodyguard, then sold her off to Zariel as if a way of continuing the cycle of horrid, life-destroying deals. She'd trusted him wholly, and he'd spat in her face in response. She had every right to want to grund him into paste on the precious stone halls of Wyrm's Rock.

And now he was dead. From the mere fact that Karlach seemed to be the only person having come back from the mission, Astarion guessed she'd left in a hurry. Could probably not bear the sight of what had transpired for too long. 

But what the fuck was he supposed to say to all of that? 

"Maybe- maybe we should head back to camp, yes?" he said, trying to gesture to the direction he'd emerged from a bit haplessly. "I'm sure the other's will be back any minute-"

"Honestly, Astarion, thanks for the concern or- whatever." She spoke up, an edge in her voice now. "But- why don't you just leave, let me cool off and I'll- I'll be back soon, okay?"

Well. That wouldn't do. Not at all.

"Well, Karlach." He empathized, crossing his arms, now striding up enough so he could look down at her crumpled position more closely. "I know a thing or two about sulking around in the woods alone, and I've also seen you trying to navigate a map. You couldn't tell north from west, last time I checked, and we all there when you led us to 'that one place with fire whiskey on tap', and we ended up in a fey smuggler's den instead."

She sniffed, still not looking up at him. "I mean. They did have it. Just not on tap."

Astarion threw his palms up in exasperation, as if looking towards the sky would evoke some kind god that could remove him from this situation. "Not the point, and you know it." he tutted, shuffling from foot to foot. "Now, you can either follow me in friendly silence back to camp, or we can stay here and-" he sighed for what felt like the nth time in the last five minutes. "-We can, you know. Talk about it."

Now that made her look up with an unmistakable doubt written across her face. "Talk about it? Really?" 

"I have many hidden talents." And just because this was not one of them, well. He'd already dug himself into this hole, might as well dig deeper. "So. Gortash is dead."

She closed her eyes, brows furrowing. "Yup."

"And you're feeling... conflicted about it?"

"That could- yeah, that could sum it up, sure."

"But... you hated him, yes?"

"Yes." was the short and firm answer.

"As well as- somewhere in your mind, you couldn't help but remember that you'd been close. Before."

"Uh, yeah." she huffed. "But like- I was seventeen when I started working for him. Then I spent ten fucking years in the arse-end of another plane of existence, so-"

"Alright." He put an end to what sounded like the beginning another long rant before nudging her hip with the side of his boot. "Now be a dear and scoot over. If I get splinters in these pants, that's all on you."

After a second or two, Karlach wiped her nose and moved over just an inch enough for him to sit down on the sun-scorched grass around them. A silence fell over them, Astarion searching his mind to say anything to put an end to this conversation that wouldn't end awkwardly for either of them.

Around them, faint birdsong could be heard over the carapace, along with the soft murmur of leaves crashing against eachother with the wind. It was almost peaceful.

When Karlach next spoke up, it was with an abnormally small voice Astarion couldn't really associate with the barbarian next to him. "How..." she began, almost as a whisper. "How did you feel. You know, after Cazador died?"

He wouldn't admit how the question knocked some air out of his lungs. Thankfully, he recovered quickly, as was one of his previously mentioned talents. "Oh, it felt wonderful!" came his answer before he could even reflect on it. "Two hundred years of servitude felt like nothing in comparison."

She glanced at him, just barely. "Really?" Her voice was hoarse now. Almost... disappointed. "It was just... that easy?"

Of course it wasn't. Of course he was lying. It came as naturally as breathing to him by now. 

But this was Karlach for hell's sake. Of all people, he couldn't admit to her that being there, on his knees in the cold sanctum beneath what had been his home for so long, he hadn't been able to breathe. Not being able to speak or hear or see anything than the cold, unmoving body of the man who had starved, tortured and physically owned him for the past two centuries, and feel no joy, no sadness, no hate or love or anything in response. How his own throat had closed in on itself when all he's wanted to do was scream. 

A bit like what he'd stumbled in on, here in this clearing.

Astarion had thought himself incapable of crying since about 150 years back. Seemingly, he'd been wrong. Of course, he hadn't noticed until Jackal had kneeled before him and oh, so tenderly wiped his cheek, an unsurmountable amount of empathy and sadness in his eyes.  

At his side, the dagger he'd used to plunge into Cazador's chest was in it's sheath. The tar-black blood still left in it's crevices served more as a memento of the occasion than the weapon itself.

"No. No, that's not right." he said, despite himself. "I felt... not much at all, in honesty. It was something I'd dreamed of for hundreds of years, and yet-"

"You felt kinda empty?"

He turned his head. The tiefling woman had also turned, looking at him with a hint of curiosity, as well as that overwhelming empathy that always seemed to shine bright through her eyes. It made his skin crawl.

"I suppose so, yes." he muttered shortly, hoping that was the end of her line of questioning. 

She seemed to mull that over for a minute. Then, "Listen- you can cuss me out all you like over this but I just wanna-" she breathed out quickly, as it wanting to push the next words out forcibly. "You weren't, like... In love with him, or something?"

Something like bile rose in his throat. "What?" he spat. "No! Absolutely not! Why you'd even suggest it-"

"Okay, okay, fine!" she showed her palms in defeat, as if trying to calm a particularly stingy horse. "I just- I mean, I really wasn't into Enver like that at all either, but, you know." She bit the inside of her cheek. "Bad shit can come from people in every direction. You never know."

Astarion let out a shuddering breath, feeling a headache coming on quickly. "No, I wasn't in love or anything of the sort. And I should leave you here to get acquainted to the wildlife for a few weeks just for suggesting it." He shook his head. "Cazador... he saw himself more as a... a father to us spawn. Chiding us as if we were children and how he had 'raised us better than this' for every minor mistake we made." He was aware of how disgust coated his every syllable. Good.

"Shit." Karlach breathed, almost astonished. "I guess that's whole 'nother level of fucked up."

"It is." he said. Then, "Was." Closing his eyes tightly for a second, not wanting to face the answer of his next question, he persevering nonetheless. "Why do you ask?"

"I... Uh." She pondered, toying with one of the gold rings in her left ear. "Honestly, dunno. The way you talk about him- It's hard, I know. Hating someone so much you think you can just burst from it. But still not really getting away from the fact they've been the center of your entire life for too damn long. Wanting nothing but to settle some sort of non-existing score and ending up with just- a whole buncha nothing."

Astarion didn't answer. Since that day, the image of Cazador’s still, cold body had replaced the reoccurring nightmare of the same man reciting the set of rules he’d set for his spawn so long ago. Thou shalt not taste the blood of thinking creatures, thou shalt obey me in all things, thou shalt not leave my side unless directed, thou shalt know that thou art mine.

He’d worked hard on breaking every single one of those rules. Of course, that didn’t stop from the words to echo in his head whenever he gathered enough strength to rebel against them.

"Do you... ever regret not doing the whole ascension thing?" She inquired gently, sort of. As gently as one could ask something he'd had many sleepless nights over since it happened.

"No," he said firmly, after a beat, surprising even himself with the truth.

She eyed him. "But you still think about it, don't you? What would've happened?"

"Of course," The truth, again. 

Jackal had pressed him about the very same questions often - or as often he could without being callous. Said that it was fine if he regretted it, that he'd rather Astarion was honest than keeping resentment over the fact that he'd been the one steering him on this path to begin with. 

"It would've fixed anything," he spoke softly, a harsh truth he'd had to face the hard way. (which sadly had been, well, talking about it.)"I wanted the power that had been wielded against me. I wanted it so he couldn't have it. No heroics, mind you. I'd have wielded that power in the same way he would have. Wouldn't be able to help myself."

"Now that's a pretty fantasy." Karlach said. He'd expected some sort of flinch, a reaction at his admission. Nothing of the sort, just a humoring, an understanding of sorts. "Taking all he'd worked for all for yourself as a last big 'fuck you' for all those years." She smiled, just a small one, her black hairs tangling around her horns in the breeze. "Honestly, I would've blamed you. But- I'm glad you didn't. Not that it matters."

It probably didn't. He still couldn't help but feeling just a little bit more justified about the whole thing. 

Silence fell once more. Karlach drew her knees to rest her chin on them, hugging herself to make her look so much smaller than what anyone who knew her was used to. It didn’t suit her, he decided.

Looking up at the tree in front of them, Astarion studied the marks left by the woman beside him. No real finesse, just a product of mindless rage and- well, grief. He supposed that was what it boiled down to. Criss-cross hatchings, bark barely clinging to the trunk to show the fresh wood underneath. Cut down and marred before it could ever grow as tall as it's ancestors. It would continue to grow, of course. But the scars would be there for the rest of it's long life.

Which was all too much heavy handed of a metaphor for Astarion's tastes. And he could even admit to enjoying the books of poetry Gale had gathered over their journey, on occasion. That man's love of purple prose was frankly disconcerting. 

"Look," he began, already regretting speaking up. "We can talk up and down how similar or not Gortash and Cazador were, but it's not going to change the simple fact that we're alive and they're not. Fine, there's the looming threat of an elder brain about to fuck over the whole Sword Coast any minute now, but they're not here to even see the end of it." He huffed a short laugh. "If anything, they should be thanking us for taking them out before they could see the world in ruin. Do you think Jackal still has one of those Speak With Dead scrolls? I'd be very happy to rub it in their faces."

Karlach laughed weakly at that, which surprised the elf. "You seem pretty pessimistic over the future, huh?"

"Just being realistic, darling."

She paused then, reaching to toy with the dry grass at their feet, digging a sharp nail into the ground. "I guess you're right." she mumbled without much conviction. "Guess I'm mostly just, I dunno, pissed off still. My whole damn life, I've tried to make at least some good life choices. And even with all that revenge stuff sorted out, no one's gonna be here to say they're sorry for making me go through it all. I had this- this fantasy. I'd walk into Enver's office, I'd say my whole little speech about how he's a dickfuck asshole and that I'd fuck his whole shit up, and he'd just- fall to his knees, explain that it was all a mistake, how he never meant to send me away, that he'd been forced by Zariel or whatever. Beg for forgiveness." She sniffed. "I'd still kill him, mind you. But, still. Guess that's dumb."

Astarion swallowed, something hurting in his chest. "It's not dumb, Karlach. A little... improbable, that's all." he said softly. The words seemed to fall more effortlessly off his tongue now. Maybe there were something to this whole 'comforting a friend in need' thing. "I'd be lying if I'd say I'd never entertained the same line of thought myself."

"Going around waiting for apologies that'll never come." She was smiling now, even if her eyes started to get glossy once more. "Two peas in a pod, us two."

"Oh, don't start." He said, getting some bravado once more. "You know my hair is much better than yours."

Now there came a real laugh, finally. Once again, she looked at him with such utter- affection. He didn't know what to do about that.

To distract from it, he spoke up again. "All I'm saying is- looking back at the people who hurt you gives them too much credit. We could all die tomorrow and just hope that Shadowheart has enough in her to bring us back at the end of the day. And if you're planning on spending that time- felling more trees and sulking, then be my guest." He paused, decidedly not looking her in the eye. "But there's so many more fun things you could do instead. Pleasurable things, even."

She shook her head, despite her lips curving up in a hesitant smile. "I'm still gonna die, y'know. Pretty soon."

Astarion didn't want to think about that. He really, really didn't. In their short time together, he could always feel her lack of presence around the camp when she was off doing gods knew what. Just the other week, she'd run into a friend from childhood, and ended up spending the evening at her and her husbands place for dinner and probably joyously familiar conversation. Things had ran as smoothly as usual. Gale had cooked dinner, Halsin had volunteered to take care of the dishes, comfortable silence intermingled with quiet chatter had continued as normal until Karlach came back late in the evening, a little tipsy but with a shining smile on her face. 

He was sure he wasn't the only one who noted her absence like a blank space something was supposed to fit into. He hadn't felt much remorse for it in the moment, but something like relief settled in him when hearing her stumbling into camp again in the small hours. Karlach was a part of their whole, now. Maybe that could be said for everyone in their strange lot. Not knowing what was out of place until it was glaringly obvious and in your face. 

He didn't want to imagine those quiet nights without her. The very thought sent something painful roiling through his sternum.

"Well, you seem pretty lively as of now." he concluded, burying whatever fears he himself held for the future somewhere in the recesses of his mind. "And we've all still got work to do. Don't you dare lag behind thinking of 'what-if's and whatever horrid future is ahead of us, you'd never hear the end if it."

She chortled, impressive shoulders bouncing slightly. "What, from you? Thought you liked slacking behind."

He bristled. "Just because our fearless leader insists on running literally everywhere we go, doesn't mean I have to like it. Or approve of it."

She inclined her head, eyebrows raised in agreement. "Hey, I'll cheers to that." She wiped her eyes once more, then stretched her legs out in front of her with a small groan, reclining back on her palms. Giving him a curious look, she pressed. "He's been pretty good to you, yeah?"

That vampires couldn't blush, he was eternally grateful for in this particular moment. "I-" he started, stumbling enough to make Karlach giggle in response. He sighed, straightening himself. "It's- it hasn't been just his influence, I'll have you know."

Horribly enough, that just seemed to make her even happier, a real smile as sharp as her teeth emerging victorious. "Aww, fangs! You're getting all soppy on me now!"

Before he knew it, a strong red arm was around his shoulder's and neck, drawing her in to her frankly piping hot chest, her other hand having gone on a mission to completely mess up his impeccable white curls. Giving him a noogie, for all the hells' sakes, were they teens again? It wasn't easy to forget just how strong she was in comparison as he protested wildly with "No, you're messing it up- Karlach- how old are you actually-?" while she just laughed loudly in response. 

"Never thought I'd see the day, Astarion the almighty vampire spawn admitting he actually cares about people other than himself." She chuckled, finally releasing him, leaving him to immediately card fingers through his hair so assess the damage. The palm of her hand stayed on his shoulder though, it's unnatural warmth seeping through his shirt. Comfortingly. 

He hissed, though without any malice. "Will the miracles ever cease?" he huffed, straightening his clothes. 

In response, she just smiled brightly. No more signs of tears, apart from a bit of a sniffle as she rose from her spot, extending her hand to him. "C'mon. Bet the other's are back at camp by now."

Astarion took it, getting lifted from his spot effortlessly. Dusting himself off, telling the tiefling he'd be royally pissed if he were to discover any grass stains on these pants while watching her wedge her greataxe out of the young tree. 

While walking away, Astarion took one last glance at it over his shoulder. Damaged, yes. But would still continue growing, in his own mind in spite of the previous damaged caused. Heavy handed metaphors be damned, something about it all sat right in him, nestled in the small but warm part of his chest that, despite his best efforts, had grown quite a bit over the past few months.

Slinging a well-muscled arm over his shoulder, the pair started making their way back to camp, talking about all sorts of nonsense. How Karlach had apparently had a bet fall through, now her and Wyll were going to find the Gate's famous tiefling-oriented jeweler to get their horns all decked out. How Astarion had been secretly been drawing various phallic illustrations in the margins of Gale's spellbook when he was sleeping and was just waiting for the day he finally noticed. How they might be able to convince Shadowheart to dye some streaks of now stark white hair pink, or purple even, to 'liven up her broody look' so to speak.

Once they could see the approaching tents and the steady hum of the city approaching, Karlach turned to him, suddenly something a bit shy about her. "Hey, look." She began, drumming her fingers against the shaft of her weapon. "Thanks. For like- not just walking off and stuff. Can't imagine you do this sort of stuff very willingly in most cases."

"Oh, enough with the flattery." he scoffed. "But, just so we're clear, this never happened. And if it looks like I'm about to go talk to someone about their warm and fuzzy feelings again, stop me. I've had enough for a lifetime after today."

Karlach grinned, setting two fingers to her forehead as a salute. "You got it, boss." Before bounding off, seeing that Jackal, Wyll and Gale was, as predicted, seated at the campfire to take her place beside them.

To himself, Astarion couldn't help smiling. While he rightfully thought he could count this up as his 'one good deed a month' checked off, he was, in a way, also glad he'd stayed. That he could count Karlach - or anyone for that matter - as one of his friends was- strange. But a weird, good kind of strange.

Jackal looked up to see Karlach jogging his way, his face immediately lit up with equal amounts concern and surprise at her good mood. As if knowing he'd be there, he caught Astarion's eye right behind her, a questioning look in his dark eyes. 

Astarion just folded his arms in a shrug and a soft smile, feigning innocence. Like he'd said, this stayed between Karlach and him. Nothing like a few innocuous secrets to spice up a relationship, right?

The other tiefling seemed to narrow his eyes just slightly, but just quirked his lips in a slight smile before turning to Karlach, his focus shifted. 

With a mental pat on the back, Astarion strode back into camp, looking at everyone in their strange gang accounted for. As it should be. 

Though, at the sight of seeing Scratch snoozing happily in his tent, not before coming to the horrifying realization that he still couldn't fucking whistle.

-

go ahead and leave a kudos or even a comment on my ao3 if you liked it <3

[bloopitynoot]

Weirdly Specific Fanfic Tropes that Have My Heart and Soul:

Mutual pining while playing gay chicken

Fake dating, but one family hates the other SO (and then begrudgingly comes to love their charm)

Baby trapping via accidental child acquisition or "what do you mean where did it come from I have had this child the entire time"

Warprize or dramatic arranged marriage but they are already dating and have to fake that they are not

Oh dang I didn't realize we were dating - everyone else definitely does

One bed but not because there is one bed but because the characters continuously create the one bed scenario intentionally

Whatever it is when they are eachothers wing person and end up together

Enemies to lovers with the "enemy" situation being scholarly/career/sports rivals. bonus if it ends up an office romance from different departments

[p2iimon]

drawing more furry fnaf art. yknow just to keep you posted. i love posting in the tags sorry these ones got away from me

[cowboy-robooty]

now that wiener has changed me i can show my true colors to you all. this is the equivalent of me posting my little prince on the internet okay because i genuinely think this is cringe and stupid but i cant help it i have autistic rage and everyday i fight against it. anyways the reason why its so big i like wieners itapan is bc this is how i actually feel about itapan

its okay though because everyday i fight to cure myself of these aids (once i opened my social media app and saw itapan and my day genuinely felt significantly worse. ruined even. i am fighting so hard).

[noelledeltarune]

emmet going to hisui is always very hit or miss for me. but sometimes you do get a swing and a hit

[drivemysoul]

i just wanna stop crying at some point

[hallucxnating]

(yatoma anon! 💕) GOD YEAH THAT PAGE– it ruins me everytime i see it ❤️

listen i have soooo many yatoma thoughts i probably can't even properly fit in this message (i don't even know where to begin lol) ASDBJK the brainrot is real

Yato 100% had a crush on Kazuma in the olden days you're so right like there's no doubt about it

there's something so like. intimate about a lot of their interactions and it makes me so crazy bc!! there's also this a dash of tragedy with it and i go through every stage of grief

I start zooming around like an excited dog whenever i see the (yatoma anon) hiiiiiiii

My ask box has plenty of space for all your yatoma thoughts I PROMISE I WILL INHALE ALL OF THEM

Feel-good with a dash of tragedy really is their ultimate appeal. You have them being fun and comfortable around eachother, you can tell there's been trust building up between them for years and years and years, and then. When you try to look a little closer you can start seeing the more delicate aspects of their friendship/relationship/whatever it is they got going on, all the ups and lows they've both been through all this time until now. And god it makes your chest ache but GOD does it feel good.

[kaidabakugou]

this next period im gonna get soon is going to wreck me bc i’ve never cried so much over random things like i have this past week lol

[appreciatingtokrev]

two of my fav character dynamics rn are "hurt x hurt, they neither make eachother worse nor better and nothing happens bc they don’t put the effort into it" and "hurt x hurt, they neither make eachother worse nor better but they both heal alongside eachother bc they do put the effort into it"