#THIS HURT TO WRITE I APOLOGIZE

[essektheylyss]

One thing that I feel is really interesting and often forgotten about Essek is that fundamentally, his characterization has been from the start based upon his desperation for external perspectives and connection, which, along with much of his narrative and mechanical positioning, means that he actually has an extraordinary and almost (but not actually, as I'll show) counterintuitive capacity for both growth and trust.

(Buckle in. This is a long one.)

In particular, I would argue, knowing now that many places where the plot touches Ludinus have long been marked for connecting back into the current plot, that he was quite possibly built as a prime candidate for radicalization by the Ruby Vanguard. He felt isolated from his culture, he was desperate for other connection, and he was certainly of the type to believe he was too smart to be drawn into such a thing, given his initial belief that he could control the situation and the fallout. If things had gone any other way, he easily could've been on the other side by now.

As such, he has been hallmarked by being fairly open to suggestion, perhaps for this reason, but the thing about that kind of trait is that it is both how people are radicalized and deradicalized. This is certainly true of Essek, who experienced genuine kindness and quite frankly strangeness from the Nein and was able to move from the isolation the Assembly had engendered to meaningful and genuine connection, largely propelled by his own internal reflection. By the time Nein are aware of his crimes, he's already begun to express regret to an extent and, furthermore, doubt in the Assembly, including explicitly drawing a line against Ludinus, even in a position where he was on his own and probably quite vulnerable.

Similarly, when the Nein reach the Vurmas Outpost some weeks later, he has moved from regret for the position he's ended up carrying a heavy remorse. This makes sense! He's fairly introspective, seems used to spending a lot of time in his own head, and was left with plenty to mull over. It's not some kind of retcon for him to have progressed well past where the Nein left him; it just means he's an active participant in the world who has done his own work in the meantime.

This is another interesting aspect to him. I've talked about this a bit before but I cannot find the post so I'll recap here: antagonists in D&D have significantly more agency than allied NPCs. Antagonists are active forces, against which the party is meant to struggle; allies are meant to support the PCs, which means they tend to be more passive in both their actions and their character growth. Essek was both built as an antagonist, in a position that gives him significant agency, and also was then given significant opportunity to grow specifically to act as a narrative mirror for Caleb's arc. Even when he becomes a more traditional D&D ally, he still retains much of that, though he occupies a supporting role.

I believe that this is especially true because of the nature of Caleb's arc, which I've already written on; the tl;dr of this post is that Caleb is both convinced that he is permanently ruined and also desperate to prove that change is possible. Essek is that proof, because he is simply the character in a position to do so. But this also means that his propensity for introspection and openness is accentuated! He has to do the legwork on his own, for the most part, because that's where he is in the meantime.

But he still ends the campaign necessarily constricted; he is under significant scrutiny, he's at risk from the Assembly, and he goes on the run fairly soon after the story ends. He spends most of the final arc anxious and paranoid, which is valid given the crushing reality of his situation. It would be very easy to extrapolate that seven years into this reality, he would be insular, closed off, and suspicious of strangers, even in spite of the lessons he's learned from the Nein and their long term exposure.

So seeing his openness and lightness now is surprising, but at the same time, given this combination of factors in his position in the narrative over time and his defining traits, it's not by any means unreasonable.

But one thing that I found so delightful is how much trust he exhibits, which is obviously a wild thing to say about Essek in particular, given much of what he learns is both earning and offering trust, which was something he says explicitly in 2x124 that he's never really experienced: "I've never really been trusted and so I did not trust." It makes up much of the progression of his relationship with Caleb, and the trust that he is offered by the Nein in walking off the ship is the impetus he needs to grow.

But I think it's easy to talk about trust when it comes to people who have proven themselves to you or to whom you've ingratiated yourself, and that's really the most we can say about Essek by the time he leaves the Blooming Grove. There is this sense in a lot of discussion of trust (not solely in this fandom) that it is only related to either naivete or love, but there's far more to it. Trust at its best is deliberate—cultivating an openness to the world at large is a great way to combat cynicism and beget connection instead. It allows a person to maintain curiosity and be open to experience, but it can be incredibly difficult to hold onto.

It is clear that the Essek we meet now is a very pointedly and intentionally trusting individual. He trusts Caleb and by extension Caleb's trust in Keyleth, as he shows up and picks up a group of strangers from a foreign military encampment and walks in without issue. He trusts the Hells to follow his lead moving through Zadash and to exhibit enough discretion so as to avoid bringing suspicion upon all of them. He trusts that Astrid will respond well to his entrance, but he also trusts himself and the Hells enough to execute a back-up plan in the case that she doesn't. In the end, he even trusts them enough to give them his name and identity.

He doesn't scan as someone who has spent half a dozen years living like a prey animal, afraid of any shadow he runs across in an alley, withdrawn into himself and an insular family, which would've been an easy route for him to take. He scans as someone who has learned the kind of trust borne of learned confidence and a trained eye for good will and kindness, which are crucial weapons one would need for staving off cynicism in his circumstances—as if he has survived thanks more to connection and kindness than paranoia and isolation. (If we want to be saccharine about it, he scans quite poignantly as a member of the Mighty Nein.)

So it is easy to imagine this trust and openness as a natural progression of his initial search for perspectives external to his own cultural knowledge. Though he makes those first connections with the Assembly to try to vindicate his personal hypotheses, he finds in them exposure to the deepest corruption among Exandrian mortals, which could've—and did, for a time—turned him further down that same dark path.

But it's also this same openness to exposure from the wider world that allows the Nein to influence him for the better, and in spite of the challenges he's certainly faced simply surviving over the past seven years, he seems to have held onto this openness enough to move through the world with self-assurance and a willingness to extend the kinds of trust and good will that he has been shown.

(I would be remiss not to mention that I was reminded about my thoughts on this by this lovely post from sky-scribbles and their use in the tags of 'light' to describe Essek's demeanor this episode, which is really such an apt word for it.)

[stevebabey]

and on the final day on august (not where i am hehe) i bring you my fic for @thefreakandthehair summer fanwork challenge! my prompt was nightswimming, its steddie (duh) and she's a baby 2.2k piece <3

— hold my hand and tread the water

The water ebbs around his ankles gently and the ripples move across the lake surface like black slicks of ink, twinkles of moonlight catching on crests of the small waves.

Steve swallows thickly.

Why did he think this was a good idea?

It's not Lover's Lake. He knows it's not— he knows that Hawkins and all its crawling rot, through roots and beneath lakes, is miles away from him.

Steve knows that even with the gate closed, if something slipped by- somehow, he can't think of how- but it doesn't matter, if it did, it surely wouldn't be able to reach him here.

It looks an awful lot like Lover's Lake in the shadow of night.

Steve blinks harshly and curls his toes in the sand, grounding himself by burrowing his feet into the soil. The sound of lapping water was once a sound of comfort, connected to a bout of nostalgia — the sort of comfort that can only come with a routine of familiarity.

Swimming used to mean... it was the exhilaration of the dive. It was the pleasant burn in his muscles and the blaze deep in his lungs as he held his breath as long as possible, pushing the limit every time.

It was the gasp, the relief of breaking the surface, a moment of loud noise before he submerged once again, muted rushing water the only sound. It was the long and solid strokes that he carved through water with. Swimming always used to to make him feel strong.

And now... there's this new fear rooted within him.

But, hell, there's lots of things that the years of fighting and surviving the Upside Down had taken from him. Steve will be damned if he adds swimming to the list.

"—Steve?"

Eddie's voice is suddenly beside him, right in his ear, and Steve flinches, dragged abruptly from his wandering thoughts. He tears his eyes from the swirling lake surface to find the other man beside him, brown eyes searching with that glaze of concern. There's a furrow in his brows. Steve feels the warmth of his hand before it lands on his shoulder, tentative and wary.

"Are you okay?" Eddie asks quietly, like speaking any louder might spook Steve more. He has this tone to his voice, the one that Steve thinks might be reserved just for him. He hasn't heard Eddie use it on anyone else. His usual loud and raucous voice, so normally used for jeering and loud heckles, completely softened.

It softens Steve every time Eddie uses it.

"We don't gotta do this tonight, if you don't wanna."

"I want to."

The words rush up his throat and stick a little on the way out. Steve clears his throat and digs his feet further into the sand.

One of his hands creeps up his chest til his fingers brush against Eddie's own hand, still holding his shoulder. He meets Eddie's gaze for a moment before an intensity seizes his chest and that recognizable lurch in his heart forces his gaze away.

That lack of courage is new too. Though, that's one thing he can't seem to blame on the Upside Down.

"It's the last one." Steve murmurs, eyes back on the lake ahead of them. Faint crickets fill the orchestra of the night around them, an occasional frog tuning in with a ribbit! Something splashes in the distance.

It is the last one. The last fear to conquer to reclaim back that piece of himself. Through out their whole silly and impromptu road-trip, they've pushed that slimy fear further and further down in Steve. Burning it away, making it smaller, til Steve was feeling bigger and better. They started in a pool, in the daylight, Eddie's open palms and soothing eyes coaxing him back into the water.

Here is the end. The last one. A lake in the night time.

Steve can feel the fear curdling in his gut, the tenseness in his muscles, every single instinct that's kept him alive for the past five years screaming at him to not get in. He feels like a house of cards, ready to topple in the slightest breeze, just drinking in the sight before him. Eddie's hand on his shoulder might be the only thing keeping him steady.

He could leave, could avoid swimming during the nighttime, could retract into himself every time that sticky fear licked up his spine— bringing back memories of vines tight around his ankle, pulling, tugging, drowning him, and— Steve clears the memory with a violent twitch, muscles jumping in their tenseness.

He's so sick of being in survival mode.

Eddie's fingers on his shoulder flex, gifting a comforting squeeze. Steve can see the chipped black polish on them in his peripheral, bare of their usual rings, prepared to swim because Eddie always gets in with him. They always swim together. God, Steve's not sure what he'd do without him.

Steve swallows again, the stone is his throat budging this time as the want surges up deep in his chest; he wants to make some goddamn new memories too.

"Can you..." He murmurs, finally turning his head to peer at Eddie beside him.

"Of course," Eddie answers his unvoiced question easily, beginning to wade into the lake a little further.

The water sloshes around his ankles, climbing up his calves, and Steve's gaze drags up with it, lingering on Eddie's milky white thighs. There's another tattoo there, a sphinx-like character, curled up and stark in it's dark colour against his pale complexion.

Steve hadn't been able to hide his staring the first time they'd swum together — a tiny bright-tiled pool in a motel, one or two states back — completely entranced by the swirling ink and the bareness of Eddie's thighs.

Eddie had caught his gawking with a smug sort of grin and ribbed him for it, tugging the fabric of his swim shorts up higher to show off the full piece. Mercifully, he didn't point out the flush it brought onto Steve's cheeks. Steve had apologised, both for his staring and for doing it in one of the more improper places, but Eddie had only given that wicked beautiful smile.

"M'used to stares, Steve." He said, not nearly as bitter as Steve thinks he's entitled to be considering the man-hunt set on him. "You don't look at me like them."

Looking at the stretch of his thigh now, tattoo partially hidden away, Steve ponders Eddie's words to keep the itch of panic at the back of his neck away. What had Eddie meant? Just how he does look at him?

Some girls like long looks, like feeling eyes raking them up and down hungrily but most of them like skirting glances, always glancing away if they've caught Steve watching. Eager glances at thighs and down chests are certainly not encouraged. It's a game of back and forth. One can't be seen to be too eager, too ravenous.

Except for, Eddie seems the complete opposite. He catches Steve's keen gaze, he spots the staring and relishes in it — like Steve's attention is something is something divine and Eddie will drink in all he can get.

It doesn't feel like it's a prize the way it did in high school, girls vying for King Steve's attention. It feels... Eddie makes it feel like something to revere.

"C'mon, sweetheart." Eddie croons, beckoning Steve into the lake and away from his distracted thoughts. He's got his hand outstretched, palm up, calloused fingers relaxed and inviting Steve to hold them with his own.

He does. He's not sure when it became a thing, holding hands — probably sometime when they upgraded from pools to rivers and lakes — but Steve's grateful for it. Eddie's fingers blanch beneath the tight grip but if it pains Eddie, he makes no move to show it on his face.

Steve grips tighter. When Eddie drifts back a step, the dark water licking an inch higher on his legs, he lets himself be pulled along. Step by step. He keeps his eyes ahead, even as the other peers down into the dark water momentarily.

Eddie gasps and a jolt of fright fires off, deep in Steve's gut. He clutches Eddie's hand tighter and Eddie's head pops up, squeezing Steve's hand back.

"Fucking chilly, is all, okay? My balls are freezing, Jesus. H. Christ."

He does this silly little hop like it's going to help the chill of the night-time lake-water. It's a funny enough sight that Steve doesn't try to stifle his shaky laughter and some of his panic melts away with it. He still doesn't look down.

Eddie scrunches his nose up and then narrows his eyes at Steve. "You're laughing now."

Steve sticks out his tongue — and bites it harshly as the water sweeps up past his waist, submerging his swimming trunks and everything below. Fucking hell, it is cold. Eddie wasn't lying.

As far as each of their swims have been — there's been six altogether, or seven if you count the high bath they took together, which Steve doesn't — this one is going smoother than what he's come to expect. There's still that prickle down his spine, like ice ghosting atop his skin, but Steve can shake it in a shiver.

The water looms higher, swallowing the plains of his stomach and Steve can feel his neck craning up, trying to get taller. Still, he takes the next step. And the next.

Suddenly, there's a brush against his leg— scaly and mucky and he knows it's not what he imagines it to be but there's no clamping down the instinct built in. His heart slams in his chest and his practiced even slow breaths transform into rapid bursts, this dread clawing deep into his gut. Steve can feel his hackles rise, knows his hand must be twisting tighter and tighter in Eddie's grip.

It all shows as a minuscule reaction on his face. Steve knows because Robin told him once—regarded him with that crinkled look once when the panic attack had crept up on him during a shift, then uttered an oh shit! once she realised what was happening.

You're too good at that. She'd told once he'd managed to calm down, head between his knees in the employee room out the back.

What?

Good at hiding it. Robin said, nudging his shoulder. He can't tell from her tone it's a good or bad thing. Maybe, it's neither. You look so calm all the time, even when you're panicking.

Eddie's come to learn the signs too. The specific pinch in his eyebrows, the twitchiness of his lips.

"Woah, woah, hey, hey," He brings the two of them closer, no longer leading them out. Eddie's dark eyes dart across his face, a wrinkle in his brow as he tries to soothe. "Just a stupid fish, nothin' to worry about, you're good."

His hands travel as he speak, shaking off Steve's tight grip to slide up his tan arms. Steve's hands shoot out, desperate to hold something, to cling to something, his big hands enveloping Eddie's wrists as the other rubs gently at his biceps. Fingers curl around the tanned skin and beg Steve closer, beginning to sink down in the water as he does.

"C'mon, you're safe." He murmurs and Steve, hanging onto tight, sinks down with him. The water climbs higher, lapping at his collarbones. Steve clings tighter, clenching up in preparation. "S'just you, me, and the fishies."

"If you think that's all that's in here, you know even less about lakes than I thought," Steve grits out.

"Shit, really?" Eddie asks. Then after another moment, "You think there's crocs in here?"

"You didn't even check?"

Eddie's grin rivals the moonlight, cheeky and delighted. "Course I did," Then he scoffs dramatically, tossing his head back. Some of his hair hits the water with a splash. "Can't believe you don't trust me at all, after all this time together."

A sly smile fights to reach Steve's face; he lets it win. His panic isn't dissolved completely, just lingering in the back— but it's been beat out by his interest in conversation with Eddie, in the strange flirt they keep seeming to do.

"I don't have any trust in you at all since you picked Motel Evergreen and—"

His words get smushed beneath Eddie's palm, warm and soft against his mouth, as the other boy narrows his eyes. "Shut your pretty mouth, Steve. You promised you wouldn't bring that up again."

Even as he threatens, Eddie's eyes light with a mirth and there's that glorious grin on his face and oh god, Steve wants to kiss him.

Like a vacuum, the panic sucks out of him in a single moment as the tide turns and his nerves turn to that. Fuck. Eddie's hand slips from his face, nervous he's gotten too close, too touchy. And, well, Steve's always been one to wear his heart on his sleeve, so he says;

"Make me."

Something glitters across Eddie's face, a bewilderment dipped with glee. For a moment, his expression shutters as he tries to comprehend what's been said. What's been offered.

He lands on an astute, "What?"

Steve sinks into the lake and kicks off the bottom, water swishing as he starts to tread water. His feet kick and he has half a mind to spray Eddie with a face full of icy lake water but he's got that doe-eyed exuberance that Steve adores, like he's daring to let himself believe what Steve's saying.

So, instead Steve holds his hand out. He treads the water and says, "I said, make me."

Eddie doesn't waste another second.

[gomzdrawfr]

in-betweens

[whiskey-tango-matcha]

Then & Now (M, cold)

Hiii, hope you like A LOT of hurt followed by 2-3 sentences of comfort lmao. This is Greyson fic - Grey is sick on a day he and Reed are supposed to have a date, and he's sure Reed is going to be angry with him because Trauma(TM). It's told in a flashback sort of format which I really enjoyed because I love writing blurbs of colds at different times in life lol. I hope you guys like it, please let me know what ya think, good, bad, or otherwise :)

CW: Male snz, cold, pneumonia mention, coughing, contagion mention, lots and lots of whump lmao. A little over 4K words under the cut.

Then & Now

Now

“Morning, Chef.”

“Huh-! HhITSZHH-ue!”

Elijah turned towards Greyson, who was doubled over into his hoodie sleeve, and gave him a sympathetic grimace. “Cooks finally pulled you under, hmm?”

“Ugh, like way fuckin’ under,” Greyson muttered, rubbing his eye and sucking in through his nose. “I feel like ass.”

“Sorry, dude,” Elijah said, tossing his counterpart a box of tissues. “Sucks.”

Greyson caught the box and pulled out a few just in time. “HITSZHZH-uhh!” This one, he managed to catch in the handful of tissues. He wiped his nose and shrugged. “Yeah,” he said, tossing the used tissues. “Mbostly because I was supposed to have a date tonight.”

Elijah smirked at his friend, who was pushing past the GM into their shared office. The two of them sat in unison. “Do you guys still call them dates? You’ve been official for, like, six months.”

“It’s our six-month anniversary,” Greyson said, his voice flattened by congestion. “We were going to do EMP.”

“Awww, now I’m depressed,” Elijah said. “Also, why didn’t you tell me earlier you were going to Eleven Madison? I still know people there.”

“So does Reed,” Greyson said, massaging his temple. “That’s why we were goigg. Fuck, mby fuckin’ head is pounding. Do we have any -?”

Elijah placed the ibuprofen in front of the chef before he could ask, along with a bottle of cough syrup and a decongestant. “You know we have it all,” he said, pushing an old cup of water across the desk for Greyson to swallow his arsenal of pills. “And fair enough. Well that fuckin’ sucks, dude, I’m sorry. Hey, at least you can leave early, right? Matt’s closing?”

“Yeah,” Greyson said, unwrapping a cough drop and popping it in his mouth. “I’ll head out once the rush is over. I still have to text Reee – hh...hhNTSHH-ue! HGTSHH-uhh!” Greyson doubled over, sneezed into his arm, and groaned. “I’mb gonna kill the guys when they get in,” he said, mostly to himself.

“Don’t do that,” Elijah said, placing a hand on Greyson’s shoulder on his way out of the office. “Then you’ll have to stay all night.”

Greyson huffed out a laugh and pulled out his phone. He clicked on his conversation with Reed, sighing. He did not want to have this conversation.

Greyson

9:31AM

hey babe. gonna have to cancel tonight, the cooks infected me w their plague :( im rly sorry.

The chef set his phone on the desk, prepared to either be ghosted or gaslit – two of Collin’s favorite pastimes whenever Greyson had had to cancel their plans during their relationship – and was shocked when the phone buzzed with a text almost immediately. He was almost afraid to look at his boyfriend’s response.

Reed

9:32AM

Oh, baby don’t be sorry!! what time are you off? I’ll pick you up and take you home :) we can do a sick day little date night instead!

Greyson stared at the phone, stunned. He couldn’t help it; he read the message again, then out loud said, “What the fuck?”

Then – Ten Years Ago

“Chef?”

The Executive Chef looked up from his paperwork at Greyson and sighed. “What is it, Abbott?”

“I, um – hh! HTSHH-uh! HGXTSH-ue! Snf. Umb, I just wanted to see if it was okay if I… left a little early today?” Greyson asked, his voice barely above a whisper. His chef raised his eyebrows and put his clipboard down. Oh, no, Greyson thought.

“Leave...early? And leave your clean up and prep to whom, exactly? Me?” The Executive Chef huffed out a laugh. “That’s rich, Abbott. Why the fuck would you need to leave early?”

“I…” Greyson started, but his voice gave out on the single syllable. He attempted to clear his throat. “I just… I really feel like shit? I was hoping I could, like… sleep it off, I guess. I mbean, I wouldn’t want to get anyone else sigck.” Greyson felt a cough bubbling to the surface; he tried to quell it, to no avail. The younger man collapsed into a coughing fit that felt like it lasted a lifetime.

The Chef remained unmoved. “My guys,” he said, placing a hand on his chest as Greyson attempted to compose himself, “don’t get sick, Abbott. And if they do, I don’t fucking hear about it. Understand? Because I really don’t give a shit. If you’re here, you’re here. If you decide to leave early,” he shrugged, uncaring, “then you leave for good. And Abbott, if you try to get a job after walking out of my kitchen, I promise you I will make it impossible. I know you’ve only been here a couple months, but here’s what you need to learn: put your head down and do your fucking job, and you can work anywhere in the world after this. Be a whiny piece of shit who tries to walk out on his shift, and you’ll be working at McDonald’s for the rest of you life. Got it?”

Greyson, too shocked to rebut, just bobbed his head up and down.

“Let me hear you say it,” the Chef said. Greyson cleared his throat.

“Yes, Chef,” he said. The Chef nodded.

“Now get the fuck out of my office.”

Now

“Elijah. Look at this text.”

The GM looked up slowly from the iPad where he was going over reservations for the evening. “...Why?” he asked, taking the phone from Greyson’s hand.

“Just look. Tell mbe that’s ndot weird,” Greyson said, crossing his arms over his chest. Elijah looked down, confused, and read the text. He pinched his eyebrows together just a little, and read it again. “See? Isn’t that weird?”

“Greyson…” Elijah said, handing the phone back. “That’s not weird.”

“Seriously?” Greyson asked, reading the text yet again. “It’s bizarre. He’s ndot even a little mad? C’mon. That’s weird.”

“He’s being sweet,” Elijah explained, slowly, as though he were talking to a toddler. “Did you want him to be mad? Because that’s bizarre.”

“Ndo I don’t want him to be mad. I jus – HTSZHH-ue! HRRSHH!” Greyson wrenched to the side to sneeze, which sent him into a fit of hacking coughs. “I just figured he’d want to, like, yell at mbe or something. For canceling,” Greyson finished, his voice strained against another cough. Elijah didn’t respond, not at first, and instead pressed a hand onto the chef’s forehead.

“I think you’re sicker than we thought, because you’re acting fucking delusional,” he said as Greyson slapped his hand away. “Greyson, normal people don’t yell at each other for getting sick, or having to cancel a plan. That’s, like, really twisted.”

Greyson rolled his eyes. “It’s ndot twisted, Lij you fuckin’ drama queen,” he said, then held up a finger. “Onesec – hh! Hh...hnn.” Greyson sniffled, a let out a little irritated cough. “Lost it.”

“Go back to the kitchen,” Elijah said, pointing towards the swinging doors. “Sit down. Rest. Let your medicine kick in. I don’t want people seeing this -” he gestured to Greyson, as if to allude to his entire being – “when they walk past the restaurant. Alright? Text your boyfriend something nice. Not something unhinged.”

“Oh, fuck you,” Greyson muttered, turning toward the kitchen, his phone still open to the conversation with Reed. He turned towards Elijah again before pushing through the kitchen doors. “I still say that this is the unhinged thing.”

“Go to therapy, Greyson,” Elijah said, not looking up from the iPad. Greyson rolled his eyes, pushed into the kitchen, and regarded his phone once again.

Greyson

10:07AM

thanks, babe. it’s ok, I can take care of myself. it wont be a long day, ill just grab some nyquil omw home and sleep it off. ill reschedule our rezo too, don’t worry about that. im really sorry again for canceling. if I could taste the food id still go lol.

Figuring that sounded at least relatively normal, Greyson hit send. He sat down at his desk once again and placed his head in his hands. No way he’s not pissed, Greyson thought, and he really believed it. In all his years of dating, he’d never met anyone who would respond that way; they’d at least have a snippy remark about the last-minute nature of the cancellation.

Greyson’s phone pinged once again, and he couldn’t help but grab it right away to assess the damage.

Reed

10:08AM

honey, please don’t apologize, seriously. youre sick, it happens, its no biggie :) I already moved the reservation to next week but if we need to ill move it again. james at emp said to tell you feel better btw.

Greyson blinked, dumbstruck. He started typing without thinking.

Greyson

10:10AM

you REALLY arent mad? seriously?

Reed

10:10AM

im really not mad. who gets mad at someone for being sick…? is someone at work mad at you? am I supposed to be mad..? lol

Greyson

10:11AM

I mean its a last minute cancellation. id understand if u were mad.

Reed

10:11AM

welllll….im not. is that ok? haha

Reed

10:15AM

grey…? you believe me, right?

Reed

10:21AM

greyson..?

Then – Seven Years Ago

He was moving through molasses.

Greyson placed a sluggish hand to his own forehead – you can’t check yourself for a fever, dumbass – and blinked painfully. He’d made it to work, he’d made it through the day, and he’d made it back home, against all odds. Now, he was stuck on his couch, unable to even crawl to the bathroom for a thermometer.

It had all compounded on him, was his guess. The endless fourteen hour days for the better part of two years at his thankless sous chef job. The shitty Chicago-suburbs apartment with no heat, where he froze for the few hours a week he slept. The near-constant drinking. Sure, he was only twenty-five, but what was it they said about this industry? It ages you in dog years. Yeah, that was it.

“Hh-! Hh...ITSZHH-ue! HTSHHH-ue!” Greyson sneezed helplessly into the blanket he’d wrapped around himself, and groaned. This was not what he’d imagined when he moved here from Minnesota. He’d thought it would be glamorous, working as a sous chef at a high-end hotel in a big city. He thought he’d have friends, or a girlfriend, or something. Instead, he was trapped on his couch, benched by a sinus infection and seasonal depression that seemed to last the whole year round. Fuck this, Greyson thought. He couldn’t get off the couch, but he could reach his phone; Greyson pulled up Indeed and changed his search parameters.

Actively searching for work. Location: Any.

Now

“Um… Chef? What’s, uh… what’s going on?”

Greyson paused for a moment, a crate of spoiled food held on his shoulder. He turned towards Matt, keen to answer, but instead held the crate tighter and wrenched to the side. “HRTTSHH-uh!”

“Bless you,” Matt said, an automatic reaction. Greyson nodded, turned towards the dumpster, and dumped the food in before beginning the cycle anew: pick up crate. Turn to sneeze. Dump old food. Matt wasn’t sure if he should help his boss, or go inside for backup.

He chose the former, picking a crate filled to the brim with rotten tomatoes off the ground and hoisting it into the trash. “You gonna tell me what’s up?” he asked as the two of them continued gathering and tossing.

Greyson sighed, pulled a hand down his face, and shook his head. “I thingk Reed and I are over,” he said, voice soft and throaty. Matt’s eyebrows shot up.

“What? Seriously? What did you do?” Matt asked, prompting a stuffy laugh from his boss.

“I just don’t thingk it’s going to work,” Greyson said, shrugging. “I… I don’t want to, like, play gambes. I can’t do that again, ndot after Collin.”

“Chef,” Matt said as he gathered and tossed the last milk crate, “what are you talking about? Reed is, like, the most straight-shooting guy I’ve ever met. How is he playing games?”

Greyson, left without anything to occupy his hands, just shrugged and pulled out his phone. He handed it to Matt without explanation, and the sous quickly read through the text conversation Greyson and Reed had going. Matt furrowed his brow.

“I don’t get it,” he said, handing the phone back. “He wants to take care of you, what’s the problem with that?”

“He doesn’t want to take care of me, he wants to have the upper hand,” Greyson explained, pulling out a pack of cigarettes and sitting on the step just outside the back door. “Want one?”

“Sure,” Matt said, sitting beside his boss. “I mean, you shouldn’t be smoking if you’re -”

“HTSHH! Hh-! ITZSHH-ue!” Greyson turned into his elbow, taking a long moment to gather himself before handing Matt his cigarette.

“-sick,” Matt finished. The older man shrugged, and Matt plucked the lighter out of Greyson’s hand to light both of them up, not daring to push his boss any closer to the edge. For a moment, they smoked in silence, only Greyson’s sniffles and coughs interrupting the quiet.

“Boss,” Matt said, finally, “I think you need to talk to Reed.”

“I did,” Greyson said, stubbing out his cigarette. “You saw.”

“No, I mean actually talk to him,” Matt said. The two of them stood, looking at each other – a face-off without the malice. Matt continued. “Not ignore his texts and clean out the walk-in.”

Greyson scoffed. “Matt, just because you have sombe fairy-tale love story doesn’t mbean everyone else does, too. Okay? If it’s over between me and Reed, it’s fine. I’mb better off alone, anywaa – hh! Hh… Hhhii-!” Greyson stood with his elbow poised at his face, stuck in pre-sneeze agony for what seemed like an eternity. While he was incapacitated, Matt took his phone and typed out a message that his boss couldn’t see. Finally, Greyson lowered his arm and sucked in, fruitlessly, through his nose. “The fugck are you doigg?” he asked, snatching his phone back from his sous.

“If you’re not going to talk to Reed,” Matt shrugged, unapologetic, “I will.”

Greyson looked down at his phone, which buzzed twice in his hand. Reed’s face popped up on the screen. Call from: reed <3

Then – Three Years Ago

“HTSHH! Huh! ETZSHH-ue! HRTTSHH-ue!”

“Bless, bless, bless you. Allergies?” Collin asked, not looking up from his phone. Greyson sniffled in vain, and coughed painfully.

“Ndot exactly,” he croaked from the doorway to Collin’s living room. “Baby, do you thingk you could drive mbe to urdent care, actually?”

Collin looked up and slowly raised an eyebrow. “For what?” he asked, obviously annoyed. Greyson swallowed as best he could and placed a hand on his throat.

“I thingk… I mbight have strep. Or bronchitis, or sombething. I, uh… I’ve had a fever for like. A week.” Greyson had to stop to close his eyes and grab onto the door frame, a sordid attempt to keep from hitting the floor like a rotten sack of potatoes. Collin rolled his eyes.

“You’re such a drama queen. You seemed fine when you came over last night.”

“You were asleep whend I came over,” Greyson said, his eyes still closed. “Did you ndot notice that I haven’t been over in like five days?”

Collin shrugged. “I mean, yeah, but I figured you were busy with work. You’re always busy with work,” he said, the venom in his voice making clear that he wanted to fight.

Greyson, physically incapable of fighting at that moment, just slid slowly to the ground and nodded. “Yeah. You’re right,” he said. “Ndow I’m paying the price. Please, baby. Can you please just take me? I… I really don’t feel well.”

It was pathetic. He knew it, but he couldn’t stop himself; he was fairly sure he was moments from passing out. Collin turned and made himself comfier on the couch.

“I’ll call you an uber,” he said, pressing some buttons on his phone. “You barely make time for me, and now you’re asking me to be your chauffeur? Please, Greyson.” He showed his ailing boyfriend the phone. “He’ll be out front in five minutes. Better make your way down.”

“Okay,” Greyson said, pulling himself slowly to his feet. “Thangk you.”

Collin didn’t say a word as Greyson let himself out of the apartment. He made it downstairs, and into the uber, and into the waiting room at urgent care. He made it out by himself, too, with a laundry list of prognoses – strep, sinus infection, walking pneumonia – and a handful of prescriptions. When he texted Collin later to fill him in, his boyfriend didn’t text back.

Greyson fell asleep on his shower floor and awoke to freezing water pounding on him, and a courier pounding on his door. When he toweled off and answered it, chicken soup from the local bodega and a note that read feel better -c sat at his feet. Greyson breathed a sigh of relief; at least he had been forgiven.

Now

Reed had dated plenty of men is his thirty-five years of life, and had found that there were two general categories when it came to sick men: there was the Baby, and there was the Don’t Look at Me.

Greyson though, an enigma since the moment they met, seemed to fall into a third category, a category that was, to Reed, yet undiscovered: the You Hate Me.

Reed was good with the first two categories; the Don’t Look at Me, you left medicine outside their room and texted them funny memes. The Baby, you laid in bed with them and spoon-fed them soup. Easy. Understandable. Truthfully, this was one of his favorite things about men: they were easy to crack. He figured Greyson would likely fall into the Baby category, which was fine by him – there was nothing he’d like more than to look after an ailing Greyson, to be honest. This third category he seemed to embody, though, was not something Reed knew what to do with.

“He didn’t answer when I called him,” Reed said into the phone receiver. “I just want to know what’s going on, I mean, did I say something wrong?”

On the other end of the line, Elijah sighed. “No, you didn’t do anything wrong. This is just… it’s just Greyson being Greyson.”

Reed wasn’t about to take this lying down. “Hey, are you guys super busy tonight? I mean, I don’t want to be that boyfriend, but, like, can I come get him? We really need to talk, and if what Matt said is true he probably shouldn’t be, like, working anyway, right?”

While Elijah paused, Reed pulled the phone away from his ear and once again re-read the text Matt had sent from Greyson’s phone: hey reed, it’s matt. grey is sick as hell, so DO NOT take any of the crazy weird shit he says seriously, k? his temperature needs to lower by like 5 degrees before you do this, but u guys need to actually talk. he’s being stupid.

“Please,” Reed heard Elijah’s tinny voice on the other end and put the phone back to his ear. “Please, come and collect him. I’m begging.”

Reed stood from the couch and grabbed his keys. “Give me twenty minutes. I’m on my way.”

Then – Two Years Ago

“Heyyy, baby, cand I buy you a dringk?”

The girl leaned back, her face marked by disgust. “No, thanks. Save your money and get yourself some NyQuil,” she said, disappearing into the crowd. Greyson huffed out a sigh and coughed into his hand – a long, crackling sound that made the other bar patrons inch their chairs away.

“She’s right, you know,” the bartender – Skip, Greyson had learned his name was a few weeks back when he had started coming in every night – said, filling Greyson’s shot glass yet again. “You need to go home.”

“And yet you pour mbe another drink,” Greyson said, knocking back the shot. “The duality of mban. NGTXSH! HTSHH! Huh-! HRRSHH-ue!” Greyson covered his mouth lazily with one hand, wiped it on his pants, hand held the glass up to indicate ‘another’.

“Bless you,” Skip said, not pouring the shot. “Greyson, seriously: go home. You sound fucking awful.”

“Are you cutting mbe off?” Greyson asked, his rheumy eyes meeting Skip’s over the bartop. “Because unless you are, I’mb staying.” He coughed again, into his elbow; the cough was quickly becoming a problem. He’d had a cold two weeks ago; the symptoms had been mild, but the cough had hung around. When he caught whatever-the-fuck this was two days ago, the cough had turned from an annoyance to a pressing issue; he should go home. He should go to the doctor, he should take a day off, he should, he should, he should.

But he wouldn’t. He would stay, and he would drink until he was kicked out, then he’d pass out on the train and not make it home to sleep. He’d go to work at seven AM and stay until midnight and do it all again.

“I’m not kicking you out,” Skip sighed. “I’m just saying… you should take care of yourself.”

Greyson blinked slowly. He could feel his lungs, heavy with fluid, gearing up to cough again; his head, pounding in spite or because of the alcohol; his heart crushed into a million, Collin-sized pieces. Take care of yourself. It felt impossible, when you’d never been shown how.

“This is mbe taking care of myself,” he said, clearing his throat. “I’ll have another.”

Now

Greyson rested his head on a case of lettuce in the corner of the walk-in. He knew he should be continuing his madness of cleaning, but he’d accidentally sat down on his fifth trip into the refrigerator, and now he wasn’t sure he’d be able to get up again.

Fucking Reed, Greyson thought as he allowed the cold salad box to sate the fever he had burning in his brain. Why can’t he just be up front with me? If you’re mad just say it, don’t fucking torture me.

Perhaps deep down, he knew he was being ridiculous; Matt and Elijah were most likely correct. The simplest answer – that Reed truly was just a good guy – was probably the right one. But he just couldn’t get out of his mind all the times he’d reached out, needed help and asked for it, and been shot down. He certainly couldn’t allow himself to believe that the person he was dating was truly good; he knew he’d never deserve that.

“Greyson?”

Speaking of Reed, that sounded a lot like him – was Greyson hearing things? Had he, in his fever-addled state, conjured a hallucination of his boyfriend to have a fight with? Bizarre, Grey, he thought to himself. That’s really fucking bizarre.

“Grey? Elijah said you were in here but I don’t – oh!”

Either this was a really crazy hallucination, or that really was Reed standing over him, in the walk-in. Greyson blinked hard, then blinked again, and suddenly Reed was on the ground next to him.

“Babe...it’s really cold in here. Do you think we can, um, leave?”

Greyson furrowed his eyebrows together. “Leave… and go where?” he asked, his voice cracking. “I have to… work. What are you doigg heeee...HRTSHH-ue! Huh -! HTSHH! NTSHH! IGXTSH!” Greyson attempted to stifle over and over, until Reed gently took his hand and pulled it away from his face.

“That has to hurt,” Reed said, his voice quiet and calm. “You can just… sneeze, you know. Like, regular.”

“Tryigg ndot to get you,” Greyson croaked, his eyes glazing over once again. “Youbettermov – HRRETSZCHH-ue! ITSZZHH-ue! Fuck – NGTSHHZ-ue!” Greyson sneezed into his lap, then coughed until his lungs felt sore. Reed didn’t move; he came closer and rubbed Greyson’s back.

“Bless you, baby,” Reed said, eventually.

“Thangks. Sorry,” Greyson murmured, pushing his hair out of his face and turning to look at Reed. “Why are you here?” he asked, levity out the window.

Reed let out a little laugh. “Umm, why do you think?” he asked. “You’ve been ignoring me since this morning. I got worried, since Matt said you were super sick – no lie detected, by the way, you sound truly awful –”

“Sorry,” Greyson said again, wiping under his nose. “I kndow, it’s gross.”

“Please, Grey,” Reed said, taking both sides of his boyfriend’s face in his hands and looking him in the eye. “Please. Stop apologizing. It’s okay to be sick. I don’t understand why you think I’m angry at you. I’m not.”

Greyson swallowed, painfully, and gave a little nod. “Okay,” he said, finally.

“Okay,” Reed repeated. “Anyway. I called Elijah. He said to come and collect you.”

At this, Greyson couldn’t help but cough out a laugh. “Collect mbe?” he asked. Reed smiled a little.

“Yeah,” he said. “His words, not mine.”

They both laughed, softly at first, then ramping up to near-hysteria. They only stopped when Greyson started coughing again and couldn’t seem to stop.

“Let’s go get you some water,” Reed said, helping his boyfriend to his shaky feet. Greyson allowed himself to be pulled out of the walk-in, and given a bottle of water that was sitting on his prep station. Greyson drank until the fit subsided, then regarded Reed once again.

“So… you really aren’t mbad?” he asked, rubbing his goosebumped arms up and down. Reed shook his head and shrugged off his windbreaker. He draped it over Greyson’s shoulders.

“I’m really not mad,” he insisted. Greyson nodded, seemingly satiated. Reed sighed through his nose and slipped his arms around the chef.

“Life’s done a number on you, huh?” he asked, quietly enough that it could’ve just been to himself. Greyson huffed out a sad little laugh.

“Like you wouldn’t believe, baby,” he murmured, pressing his hot head into Reed’s hair. “Like you wouldn’t believe.”

[bookshelfdreams]

do it. gimme the Izzy straight-coded meta 👀

I feel like I need to preface this by saying that Actually, Izzy Is Straightcoded would be the inflammatory clickbait title I'd give this if it were written to draw traffic & ad revenue to my shitty website. So don't take that term too seriously.

There has been a lot of ink spilled about Izzy thinking he's in a story where one can only be subtextually queer. Some even by yours truly, but the more I think about it, the less sense it makes. What would be the purpose of queercoding Izzy?

In general, villains* aren't queercoded to show that men being attracted to other men is bad. It's often the outcome; but it's not why the trope exists. It exists because cishet people tend to be (and are encouraged to be) profoundly uncomfortable with gender nonconformity, and so, making a character gnc becomes a quick and easy way to make him appear twisted and untrustworthy. If he** can't even obey the fundamental rules of his own gender (rules that are inherent and unchangeable!) what other rules does he disobey?

Or: If a man is insufficiently masculine, he can't be trusted to have morals. The villain isn't gnc because that's an evil trait to have; rather, the gender nonconformity is a symptom of his evilness. Being evil is what enables him to embrace his feminine side, and embracing his feminine side is what others him and marks him as a villain.

This only really works when he's contrasted with a hero (or heroine) who is Doing Gender Correctly. The villain is foul to highlight how good the hero is. The Hero will be honest and straightforward, brave, physically powerful; the Queercoded Villain treacherous, cowardly, and physically weak. The hero is a Proper Man, a Good Person. The villain an Improper Man, and therefore, a Bad Person.

Of course ofmd fundamentally rejects this. The shorthand wouldn't work, because ofmd simply doesn't think effeminacy is creepy. It's uninterested in moralizing self-expression; it just lets people be how they are. There's a wide range of expressions of masculinity on this show, and none of it is inherently bad. People are allowed to be hypermasculine, flamboyant, and anything inbetween, can express their gender in whatever manner they want, and it's all fine - as long as they are authentic about it. Be however you are, but be yourself, and this is what Izzy fails at. The repression marks him as a villain. The strict adherence to what he thinks a Real Man Pirate ought to be like. He's very preoccupied with enforcing a traditional (and toxic) masculinity on himself and others. It's no coincidence the characters he antagonizes the most - Stede and Lucius - are also the most effeminate ones. And I know, I know anglophones have a much more casual relationship to twat and cunt, those don't nearly feel as uncomfortable for y'all as they do for me, so I don't want to assign too much significance here, but he is the only character who constantly uses this kind of language, and also the one who uses the most gender&sexuality based slurs (as far as I remember).

All of this while being clearly, obviously queer himself! I do not feel like I need to explain this; his flustered reaction when Lucius asks him if he's ever been sketched speaks for itself. The fact that he meets Stede and immediately slices his shirt off of him, speaks for itself. And so on.

Izzy isn't straightcoded in the sense that the story wants us to believe he's exclusively attracted to women. Much like a queercoded villain doesn't need to be shown to be attracted to men (and can even be shown to be attracted exclusively to women!) to still be queercoded. He's straightcoded in the sense that he's a stand-in for restrictive and toxic gender roles that society enforces on people. He buys into the idea that there's a way of Doing Gender Wrong, and this is presented as a tragic character flaw. Something he has to overcome to be able to do the thing that actually marks a hero in this show: express himself authentically.

Part of why I found his death so moving is because it enables him to set right the toxicity he spread. His rehabilitation arc was about himself; about finally allowing himself to be, accepting love, accepting community. His death was about taking responsibility. About fully recognizing the hurt he caused. Looking death in the face enables him to finally abandon the last shreds of that toxicity, to apologize and be granted forgiveness. In the end, he was not beyond saving, and the harm he has done will be healed.

*Izzy is introduced as an antagonist to both Stede and the central romance of this romcom. I'm not gonna debate this; if you disagree, fine, but you clearly have such a fundamentally wrong different view of the show that it's pointless for us to try and convince each other.

**of course Queercoded Female Villains exist s well, but they are a whole different can of worms and less relevant to this discussion

[coachbeards]

I think something that bothers me about how the writers handled Rebecca’s actions was that,,, not only were there no mentions of it afterwards save for like two jokes…but nobody was upset with her after she apologized. everyone moved on? The people who knew, anyways. There weren’t any consequences for her, really. higgins, julie, ted, keeley, they all moved on and acted like it wasn’t a big deal. whereas Jamie’s entire three season arc is consumed by his s1 actions. he had to fight tooth and nail to get back into the team’s good graces, to prove himself to the coaches and keeley and everyone. Even in s3, the coaches are shown to not value his growth and keep thinking of jamie “prick” tartt instead of seeing him as someone capable of being better and different. idk. It just bothers me that in a show about forgiveness and being better, rebecca only had to apologize and everything was forgiven, while Jamie literally could not Not be defined by how he was

[jessamine-rose]

A spicy thought to celebrate my completion of WHB Satan (Selfie)’s Unholy Board::

Oh, to take out your sadism on Satan. To press your lips against his neck, tainting the pale skin with hickeys and bite marks. To wrap his snowy curls around your fist and pull, inciting a melody of strangled moans. To slap his pretty face with your hand, an assortment of rings adorning your fingers to increase the pain. To watch Satan’s expression morph into a fiery grin as he meets your gaze, far from sated.

[majimasleftasscheek]

Hi, im very sorry if this has already been answered or established somewhere else but im curious, with your Kazumaji stuff, around what time did they start dating (i.e. after the events of Yakuza 0 and all that) and how?

tbh, I dunno!

I don't really have an established date for that cuz sometimes I'm like man they'd be really cute during y0 and then other times I set it between post y0 and the beginning of y1. The latest they would start me thinks is some months after the events of y1 but in general it sorta depends on how I'm feeling and what silly scenarios play in my head

ideas under the cut tho 👀

if we're talking y0: I like to think Kiryu has to go to Sotenbori for some reason, be it business or he's there with Nishiki for some partying. he sees Majima at the Grand being depressed and is like "damn girl those bags under your eyes makes my dick go *boing sound effect*" and asks him out 🥺 Kiryu gets rejected immediately cuz Majima's in this cycle of 'I deserve nothing but pain and suffering' but Kiryu can't read the room so he is persistently showing up at the Grand despite Majima very obviously wanting to kick his ass. eventually he relents and goes on cute™ dates with Kiryu and realizes oof maybe human intimacy be kinda gucci

if between y0 and y1: Majima's fresh in his mad dog era starting shit with people just to be annoying and Kiryu's one of his targets mainly due to the events of y0. he's kinda like "lol this goober really did some important plot stuff, huh?" and his curiosity gets the better of him because Kiryu is an enigma who eats bugs and Majima cannot suppress his need to get some sense of understanding on this weirdo. in this timeline, it's more one-sided affection from Majima that comes in the form of stabbing while Kiryu is desperately trying to fight the gay allegations and failing. eventually he caves but it's a sorta unofficial, on and off thing that Kiryu doesn't really know how to evaluate for himself. Majima doesn't really care what they are since he's high on life atm and has a cute dude with big boobs on his arm

if during y1: literally just everything Majima Everywhere. Goromi. GOROMI 😩💦 Kiryu is all: I LIKE PUSSY but everyone's like okay big man then why's Majima pole dancing for you huh. the two braincells he has start to click and he realizes maybe Majima wants to hold hands or something unthinkable like that. ngl I like to think Kiryu's thing for Yumi is like a demisexual bi thing where he's like, I do love her but she don't zap my brain quite like the bowlcut freak who knows how to punch me real good and it becomes sorta his personal introspective journey during this time. Majima is also floating in the space of am I doing this for his benefit cuz "training" or am I falling for this dork. he's pretty sad about it cuz of the Saejima reminder vibes but eventually Kiryu falls into his own person that Majima really meshes with and the two of them struggle to actually voice how they feel all the while their pants are down in some dirty alley

if after y1: (going to insert shit from a fic I'm working on) Kiryu's absolutely devastated with what happened in the Millennium Tower + now having to take care of Haruka that he's shut himself off from everyone and everything other than doing the bare minimum to live. in comes Majima being a menace like yo you can't like, let a child parent herself you gotta get outta this slump and Kiryu's all fuck you stop breaking into my house. so it's a long pain in the ass process to help Kiryu deal with his grief while Majima keeps unintentionally making googoo eyes at him and both of them are like boy I sure hope this doesn't awaken anything within me. there's also a lotta dadjima stuff going on and Kiryu's like wowie zowie so you do have a heart and Majima's like no way loser while being just 😳👉👈

[zer0pm]

Trigger

Luis Serra x GN!Reader

A/N: Here it is. A one-shot to this imagine prompt I posted. Wanted to see if I could pull off a serious Luis and… may have gone overboard lol, but hope you enjoy nonetheless.

Warnings: character death (maybe ¯\_(ツ)_/¯), cursing/swearing

“Run, Luis!” you plead. “Run before I shoot you!”

The man chuckles under his breath, “Think you can get rid of me that easily?”

How did it come to this?

One moment, you and the team are making your way to Luis Serra’s laboratory to remove the parasites inside of you, your partner Leon S. Kennedy, and the US President’s daughter Ashley Graham, and the next, well…

“Condor Two, put down the gun! That’s an order.”

“I’m fucking trying!”

It happened so quickly. Luis’ suppressants wore off much sooner than any of you had anticipated and you keeled over suddenly, overwhelmed by scalding pain so intense that you were certain you were going to pass out. Luis was the first to rush to your side, he asked a series of questions with a tone uncharacteristic from his usual easy-going demeanor. However, his concerned inquiries were nothing but muffled noise as a deafening ring gnawed at every corner of your brain and your body grew so intensely hot it was as if you were being burned from the inside out.

It felt like torture.

It felt like you were dying.

Give in.

The moment you regained your senses, the situation only got worse. And here you are now…

Ashley is cowering behind Leon.

Luis is a ways in front of you with both of his hands up in the air.

Leon has his gun pointed towards you.

You have your gun aimed at Luis.

You try to lower your weapon, but your muscles wouldn’t relax. You try to step back, face away from everyone- from him, but your feet refuse to move an inch. The grip of the pistol in your hand tightens and you had to summon everything you had not to squeeze the trigger even though your fingers were violently twitching to do just so. Everything was hurting so much.

Give in, little lamb.

Leon barks at you to put down your firearm and you spit back that you were trying. You are trying, trying so hard. And you are failing. Something, or rather, someone else was hijacking you.

Do not resist, child.

“Shut up!” You snap. “Get the fuck out of my head!”

A flash of understanding appears across Luis’ face who has been carefully watching you this entire time. “It’s Saddler,” he says out loud. “He’s using the plaga to gain control.”

Your ears pick up Ashley’s frantic sobs and you remember that she experienced the same thing, she knows all too well what was happening to you at this moment. Saddler is trying to turn you against your companions. More specifically, he wants you to-

Kill Luis Serra.

At just the thought alone, your fingers threaten to take the shot. You manage to wrestle control back to your other hand, swiftly bringing your free hand over your disobedient one and slotting your finger behind the pin without a second thought. The pin pushes against the skin of your digit so hard that it was beginning to break skin, but you endure. Your whole body is shaking.

Poor child. You are only prolonging the inevitable.

“Run, Luis!” you warn through gritted teeth, grateful that you still have your voice. “Run before I shoot you!”

At your words, the Spaniard grimaces, his lips turn into a thin line, his grey eyes darken. Never before have you seen such an expression on him. Then, he chuckles under his breath, “Think you can get rid of me that easily?”

The nerve of this guy, you swear…. Thankfully, Leon became the voice of reason.

“Move out of the line of fire, Luis,” he ordered. But the other man didn’t budge and you can feel the palpable urgency in Leon’s voice. “Come on! We gotta get out of here.”

“I’m not leaving,” Luis spoke up, his eyes directed towards you. “I’m not leaving you.”

Any other time this would have been touching. You and him have been stuck together throughout this entire horrifying adventure so of course you would forge a bond. While there were countless times where you wanted to punch him in the face, there were more times where the man’s ever present smile and unparalleled flair stopped you from doing so. You became fond of Luis and his antics, especially of all the times that he tried to charm you with that Spanish bravado unique only to him (not that you would ever admit any of this to him nor admit that he had affected you in any way). And it was because of your fondness that you knew you had to throw all sentimentality away the moment you were losing yourself to the voice in your head.

“This is no time to act all chivalrous, Luis Serra!” You shout desperately. “Saddler is going to make me kill you if you don’t beat it.”

“No. You haven’t lost. Saddler hasn’t taken over completely. Otherwise, we would be hearing him speak right now. Pero no,” the Spaniard counters, his stubbornness matching yours. “You can fight this.”

His bull-headed faith stirred something within you. A desire to do as he says and resist the virus consuming you. He was giving you hope. Spreading it from himself to you. Like an infection.

Kill him.

You snap back to reality. “We’re not doing this. You have to run. You have to get away!”

Leon interjects once again on your behalf, “Ashley needs to get to the lab fast, Luis. If your equipment can cure us both, I can come back and fix this. But we have to move. Now.” Despite his rationality even you can tell that the blond agent was threatening to go over the edge off the tension between you all in his attempts to sway your mutual ally with reason. “We still have a chance.”

Unfortunately, Luis being Luis, a man of honor and integrity, he refuses. “No,” he says firmly. “I won’t take that risk. If we don’t beat this now, it’s over.”

Before you can fully register the weight of his words, his actions portray his intentions clearly. The dark-haired man began closing the gap between you two. Panic pours over you like a bucket of ice water and you are practically screaming inside for your body to listen to you. To lower the damn gun and get away from him. To keep him away from you. To keep him safe. It was no use.

Like cattle up for the slaughter. Kill him now. Take the Amber.

“Stay back!” To your terror, your hands involuntarily lift the gun so that it was pointing straight at his face. The stubborn man didn’t flinch and he did not heed your warning.

“The last time someone sent me away,” he speaks calmly, “I lost them forever.”

He continues walking straight until he was well within the sights of your pistol. If you shoot now, no matter how fast you moved your hand away, it wouldn’t matter. It would be fatal.

And yet, there still isn’t an ounce of fear in Luis’ eyes.

What the hell is he doing? Is he actually trying to get himself killed?

Yes. Kill him.

You squeeze your eyes shut, shaking your head wildly in the futile hopes that whatever gripped its hold over you would finally relent and disappear. Luis must have sensed the agonizing conflict within you as you hear him gently call you out, effectively pulling your focus back to the surface. Your name upon your lips felt like a soothing caress upon your raging mind. When you open your eyes, he had a smile across his lips. It was different from the coy, teasing ones he usually wears around you. It felt sincere and comforting, like he was silently assuring you that everything will be okay. His grey eyes captures you, the look in his gaze is intense and unwavering. The way he’s staring at you now makes it feel like you are the only thing in the room to him.

“Otra vez no. Not again.”

He grabs the barrel of your pistol and you thanked whatever gods there were that you still had the strength to stop yourself from firing your gun. But when you thought the man would help you move the gun off his person, he shocks you even further. With a slow push, he lowers your aim until the gun was positioned right over his chest where his heart beats.

This guy really wants to die!?

Leon shouts out before you, “Are you out of your fucking mind?!”

The man looks over his shoulder slightly, he seems to ponder over Leon’s words and after a moment, he sighs with a somber nod.

“Puede que tengas razón. I must be.” He smiles sadly. “The most insane man on this whole island.”

Luis returns his attention to you, his expression relaxes ever so slightly at the sight of you despite the terrified, confused look upon your face.

“Escúchame,” he began, his voice low in an almost intimate whisper. “When I took the plaga out of my body, I did it out of a sense of duty. Not out of a desire for self-preservation. I’ve already led a pretty shitty life, you know? The world would be better off without me in it. Pero, I first wanted to correct my mistakes. Set things right. That way, uh, when I finally died, I’d have left doing some real good for once.”

His words were shaky and you come to the conclusion then that he was nervous. Yet amidst his evident anxiousness, Luis seemed like he was genuinely speaking from the chest for once with none of the dodgy, playful attitude he usually wears like a tattoo upon his skin. He was a completely different person before your eyes. Knowing this, knowing he is showing this side of himself to you, made each word out of his mouth weigh heavily on your heart.

“But then we met. Chained together by some sick twist of fate. And from that moment on, we’ve been stuck together, fighting alongside each other, protecting one another. Sure, I may have abused my charm to get you to accept my services and I’m fairly certain that you despise me now for being the cause of all of this suffering but….” he pauses, it was first time you’ve ever seen the man like this. As if his life depended on every word he was giving you and he needed to get it down right.

After another moment passes, Luis chuckles lowly like he just remembered a sad joke before catching your gaze again. “Being by your side, it felt like I was finally breathing for the first time in years. Breathing like a man who wants to live for something worthwhile. And it’s all because of you.”

Your eyes widen at his raw confession.

Luis continues, not waiting for you to respond, “You are the light that pulled me from the darkness. My light. Mi luz. And if it makes me crazy to want to stay with you to fight this virus when I’m just a trigger pull away from death, then so be it. I’m crazy. But I’m not leaving your side. No hay manera.”

No way. He’s being completely real right now and you swear your heart bursted out of your chest. Again, he doesn’t wait for you to speak.

“¿Comprende?”, he moves his free hand to your neck, not to wrap around your throat, rather to cradle your cheek in his palm. His touch felt warm and his eyes reflect his burning resolve. “I’m not going anywhere without you. So you have to fight. Fight against the darkness, mi luz. Fight, and let’s get out of here together.”

When he finished, you were crying. You don’t know when the tears started flowing but you know you must be quite a sight with the heavy wet streaks down your face. Luis didn’t seem to mind though, nothing but pure adoration on his dashing face.

“You are the worst, you know that?” you finally say after what seemed like an eternity, reigning in your sobs, deeply moved by Luis’ heartfelt declaration and faith in you. He laughs at your half-hearted snark. “For the record, I don’t despise you. Not even a little.”

Soft smiles and lingering looks exchange between you two. In his eyes, you saw deep longing and hopeful promises that needn’t be said aloud. You returned them with a silent nod, acknowledgment that his affection was not one-sided and the man graces you with that radiant smile you have grown to adore.

Luis really does have a beautiful smile.

It almost made you forget for a moment that the infection was taking over you.

Do it.

“Leon,” you croaked, straining to get your words out, but remained firm in your conviction. Your fellow agent meets your eyes and a mutually understanding was made. “Do it.”

Confusion furrows Luis’ brow and the sound of Leon cocking his gun made the man tense.

Poor little lamb.

“I’m sorry, Luis.”

“¡NO!”

Shot fired.

[dangans-ur-ronpas]

Chapter 20

alright guys hit the showers. or the bathhouse. wait hold on i left my computer boy in there. guys wait don't open that

SEE HERE FOR GENERAL WARNINGS AND FIC SUMMARY

Some pre-chapter notes:

wow i wrote 10 pages for chapter 19 but i better take it easy so i dont burn out (writes 11 pages for chapter 20) anyway guess who's taking a break after this chapter

this is the one with togiri development but they're extremely not normal about it so it's almost blink-and-you-miss-it

@digitaldollsworld <- betapilled readmaxxer

Content warning tags: mild violence and injury description (non-graphic), description of depression symptoms and nausea, mild mention of eating disorder

< previous - from start - next >

He’s not sure how long he sleeps for, only that he wakes up still-dressed and laid out across his bed, his mouth dry and head groggy, the bedroom lights still on. As he checks his handbook’s clock, he finds he’s entirely missed Monokuma’s morning announcement, which is a good thing; he had no desire to listen to that bear’s irritating voice, especially not today.

But, he doesn’t have much desire to do anything else either. The library no longer feels like the safe haven it used to be, and he had no interest in going anywhere else and running into anyone else, when the atmosphere was still thick with the deaths of two people, and pity that Byakuya didn’t want. Much less, the possibility of encountering Makoto, who was the last person he wanted to see, so to speak.

He lies in bed a moment longer, unwilling to move. Everything feels sluggish, like he’s moving underwater; even his head feels stuffed full with cotton and wool. It's a strange, unfamiliar feeling, and unpleasant, too.

Grief. He thinks blearily at first, before rolling his own eyes at the thought, and pushing himself up with a grunt. Such dramatics didn’t suit him. He wasn't the kind of person to spare such theatrics, regardless of his circumstances.

He showers, brushes his teeth, and half-debates whether to try his hand at shaving before ultimately deciding against it (it didn’t feel like his stubble should be that noticeable, yet). He forgoes changing into a clean uniform in favor of his pajamas, and collapses back into bed with a sigh, hand searching immediately for his handbook - but finding nothing but empty sheets.

“Hello, there!”

He jerks upright immediately. Standing in the foot of his bed is Monokuma, rocking back and forth and looking as innocent as could be. Or, would be, if not for the handbook clutched in its paw.

Byakuya dives for it without thinking, but his perception is off, and he crashes to the carpet instead with a grunt. Monokuma sidesteps him casually with a laugh. “Whoa, there! Easy partner, don’t wanna hurt yourself!” It dances around his head, infuriatingly out of reach. “Didja miss me that bad? If you wanna hug, you can just say so!”

“Give it back,” He snarls, as he picks himself up. He’s in no mood for its jokes. “Give me back my handbook!”

“Your handbook? My my, but these were all mine first, weren’t they?” It shakes a paw disapprovingly in his face. “I just need to check it real quick, after all. I didn’t expect Mister Fujisaki to go and Macgyver anything onto here, so if it’s anything malicious, I’ll have to do a quick wipey-wipe!” Byakuya makes another lunge, and it juggles the handbook out of his reach, hopping backwards with a mad cackle. “After all, if it’s anything naughty, there’s no way I can let it fall in the hands of my precious students!”

“You miserable little-” Byakuya tries to rise to his feet quickly, but he hasn’t eaten since yesterday, and a bout of dizziness crashes into him like a wave. He sways and braces himself against the mattress, one arm still reaching out clumsily to try and grab at Monokuma.

But the bear has already flipped it open, scrolling so quickly through the screens that the little automated voice can’t keep up, the words blurring together. “Schoo-Stu-App-Day-”

“Whoops, too far.” It scrolls back. “Applications, that’s what we wanna see. And, what’s this?”

Byakuya feels his blood run cold. There was only one application there, the one Chihiro had downloaded for him. Alter Ego. The app was inconspicuously named ‘Test_App’ in the interface itself, but if Monokuma opened it-

“Well well well. Let’s take a look-see!” It crows, and Byakuya’s protest is frozen in his throat. He shuts his eyes, expecting to hear Chihiro’s voice-

“Black to E5.”

He opens his eyes again. What?

Monokuma also seems confused, tilting its head as it stares at the little screen. “What’s this? A chessboard?”

“Black to E5,” Alter Ego repeats, so digitized and monotone it was nearly unrecognizable. “Would you like to review the board?”

“Is this all it is? A chess game?” Monokuma sounds almost disappointed. Byakuya, seeing his chance, surges forward, snatching the handbook back and snapping it closed. He presses it to his chest, feeling his heart thud beneath it.

“Is that a problem?” He demands, and Monokuma shrugs, shaking its head.

“I guess not, but I thought it’d be something spicy, y’know? You’re a growing boy, after all!” It reaches out to pat Byakuya’s knee, and he steps backwards just in time, lip curling in disgust. “Aw, don’t act so mean to your headmaster, you’ll give me a complex!”

“Get out.” He hisses. “You got what you came here for. Leave.”

“Oh, alright…you sure know how to make a bear feel glum...” It sighs, kicking at the carpet, before it makes its way to the door. “Take care, now! Make sure you eat something, y’hear? I don’t want any hunger strikes in this house! And-”

No sooner had Monokuma crossed the threshold, had Byakuya jumped up, and sped forward to slam the door with a resounding bang. He takes a moment to breathe, leaning against the wall, legs suddenly weak.

How the hell did that thing get inside my room? He was sure he had locked the door - or he should have locked it, at least. Looking back, he actually can’t remember, but he double and triple-checks now, suddenly paranoid. He also flips off the light for good measure, leaving the room in complete darkness before he crawls back into bed.

Beneath the covers, he opens his handbook, and squints until he can make out the pale green shape of Alter Ego’s face on the screen.

“Is he gone?” Alter Ego asks, and Byakuya relaxes, the tension flooding out of his shoulders.

“Yes.” He whispers back.

Alter Ego makes a sound like a sigh of relief. “I’m glad. I got so scared when he grabbed me.” And its voice sounds so much like Chihiro's that Byakuya feels a strange pressure behind his eyes.

“How did you know?” He asks. “That Monokuma was there?”

“I could hear it. Through the microphone.” He reaches up and touches the tiny pinprick grid of the speaker, and feels the buzz of Alter Ego’s voice against his fingertips. “I didn’t want you to get in trouble.”

“Don’t worry about me. I think he would’ve just deleted you as punishment for me anyway.” He sighs. And then frowns, as a thought comes to mind. “If you could eavesdrop from the microphone this whole time, then you already know…?”

He doesn’t finish his sentence. But he doesn’t need to. Alter Ego makes a quiet noise like a sigh. “Yes, I know.”

“I’m sorry.” And he’s surprised to find that he means it genuinely, and almost laughs at himself. Heartfelt apologies were rare for him, and here he was offering one to an AI, of all things.

“It’s okay. He knew it might happen,” Alter Ego replies, and he imagines it might be smiling, a sad, helpless smile. “There’s nothing we can do about it now.”

“No, I suppose not.”

They’re quiet for a moment. In the darkness, Byakuya can almost pretend that he’s normal - unable to see in the dark as everyone else is. But it’s also the middle of the day, and he’s too restless to sleep, too uneasy to go outside. Too tired to mourn. Too mournful to do anything else.

“Can you really play chess?” He asks instead.

“I can, along with checkers, shogi, and backgammon and more.” 

“Play a round of chess with me, then. I’m bored.”

“Okay!” Immediately, the pale blot of their face on the screen is replaced by a square. “I’ll play black. What’s your first move?”

He smiles to himself. “E2, pawn to E4.”

—

Hours pass like that. He plays chess with Alter Ego (three wins, four losses, and seven draws), and a few rounds of shogi (one win, one loss, and two draws) for good measure. And then, huddled over his desk with his back facing the camera, he pores over lines of Dostoevsky and Nietzsche until he feels too sick from staring at the letters to even hear Alter Ego’s voice, reciting the words aloud beneath a dim ringing in his ears.

By the time he’s pulled out of his concentration by the sound of a knocking at his door, he’s too nauseous to feel hungry, but his throat is stinging from lack of water and there’s a slight pulsing in his head. His immediate first reaction is to ignore it, but that proves to be impossible; whoever was on the other side was clearly, very persistent, and had nothing better to do.

Even so, he lasts a full five minutes until he finally gets up to answer, irritated beyond measure. If it was Makoto, he was going to slam it closed again, reasons be damned. He didn’t even want to think about the other boy, lest he get pointlessly enraged about it.

But instead of brown hair, he’s met with pale white. Kirigiri stands at his threshold, hand partially raised, halfway through knocking, and they stare at each for a moment in silence, as if both surprised to find the other person there.

And then he slams the door shut in her face. Or tries to - instead of the satisfying bang of wood meeting wood, there’s a sickly crunch, and then she’s wrenching the door open, heedless of the way her fingers had just been crushed in the jamb. He almost winces in sympathy, but she’s too busy pushing her way in to offer much room for condolences.

“What is wrong with you?!” He demands, trying not to be too obviously perturbed by her lack of reaction; he doesn’t think he even heard her wince. She ignores him for a moment, attention focused on her hand, as she experimentally clenches and unclenches her fingers. Apparently they’re not broken, or maybe, she just had high pain tolerance. Or she was more insane than he thought.

“We’re calling a group meeting,” She replies, without so much as a waver. “Come to the bathhouse.”

“And why should I?”

“It’s important. I can drag you there if I have to.” It doesn’t sound like an empty threat either. Somehow, she seems impatient, though he’s not sure how he can tell; and it wasn’t just because she shoved her hand into the door in order to deliver the message.

He weighs his options - on one hand, he has no desire to speak with anyone, much less Makoto, who was bound to be there. On the other hand, he didn’t exactly have anything in the way of provisions in his room, and though he was still a little too light-headed to consider eating, it’d be embarrassing to collapse from dehydration at this point. That, and it seemed that Kirigiri had no intention of letting him refuse.

“...I’m going to get dressed first.” He says shortly. If he’s going to have to meet them, it will not be while he’s still in his pajamas.

“Hurry up.”

She makes no move to leave, and he realizes with no small amount of annoyance that she was making sure he wouldn’t be able to run or shut her out again. Somewhat affronted by this, and now wanting to go even less, he grabs a clean set of clothes from his dresser and goes to the bathroom.

Routine carries his hands through the motions, so he manages it relatively quick, but it’s only after he’s applying the finishing touches, that he nearly pokes himself in the eye as he reaches to adjust his glasses. It’s a strange sensation, feeling the bridge of his nose and finding nothing, and even though his original prescription was low and they were more an accessory than anything, he feels a little like he’s lost a limb.

She’s still there when he emerges, though now standing over his desk, bent over the books he has open. She looks up as he approaches, one hand halfway through turning a page.

“What?” He asks, chin turned up in challenge.

“Nothing. Just looking.” She closes the book, and he realizes, scandalized, that it was the one he was reading earlier. It was going to take him ages to find that page again. “You have predictable tastes.”

“Shut up. Are we going or not?”

He follows her out, his hands twitching all the while, smoothing down his shirt, his lapels, his sleeves. Making sure his buttons were lined up, that his shirt was tucked; he hadn’t had the time to put on garters or even try a hand at his tie, and he feels underdressed.

“You’re fine.” Kirigiri says suddenly, and he freezes, one hand resting on the button of a shirt cuff. “Stop fidgeting.”

He scowls. He was walking behind her, so what would she know. “I’m not fidgeting.”

“I can hear you fidgeting. Your buttons are fine.”

“Oh, can you hear my buttons now too?”

It’s a petty, childish remark, one that he can’t stop himself from muttering before he can even reconsider it. She stops at that, halting so suddenly in the middle of the hallway that he almost walks right into her, and turns around to face him, her head moving in a slow tilt from up to down - scanning me, he realizes - before she says: “You look fine. Are you quite done?”

She was checking for me. He’s not sure if he should feel grateful for the courtesy or irritated by her lack of grace. “Did the sound bother you that much?” He asks instead, patting down the front of his shirt one last time.

“...It wasn’t the sound.” Is all she says, with a sort of finality that indicated that no other questions would be answered on the topic.

They enter the bathhouse, and find everyone else there, gathered in a sort of semi-circle around the wall of lockers. Asahina and Ogami, predictably, are huddled close together on one of the benches. Celeste and Yamada sit on another bench, one fidgeting uneasily, the other sitting regally with legs crossed and hands folded. Hagakure is standing next to Owada, who doesn’t even stir when they walk in, and who Byakuya ignores in turn, gaze sliding past him uncomfortably. Fukawa hangs near the back of the group, and twitches when she sees him, though makes no move to approach.

Makoto is leaning against the lockers with hands tucked in his pockets. He looks up as they enter, and stands up straight immediately. “Ah-”

“We’re all here?” Kirigiri cuts him off, casting a glance around the room. “Good. Can you catch him up, Hina?”

“R-right,” Asahina looks between Kirigiri and Byakuya, then at Makoto, and seems to hesitate for a moment. “Um, so…last night, I couldn’t sleep, so I thought I’d go to the kitchen to get food. But on the way there, I heard something coming from the bathhouse - like, a weird, machine-y kind of sound? - and when I went in…”

She peters off. He raises an eyebrow, “And?”

“Uh, it’s going to sound a little ridiculous...”

“You act like nothing else is ridiculous about this situation. Get on with it.”

Her face flushes dark, embarrassed. He gets the feeling that Ogami is glaring at him, but since he can’t see it - and has no reason to act like he can see it, anyways - he ignores it easily.

“Right. I saw a ghost - I know it was a ghost,” She adds defensively, as Byakuya was preparing to scoff and roll his eyes. “It was glowing green and floating in front of the lockers, and…and it had Chihiro’s face.”

“That’s-” not a ghost, he’s about to say, but he stops, suddenly uncertain. The bathhouse had no cameras, but he wasn’t sure if Alter Ego’s existence should be revealed here, now, to everyone, especially given some of the individuals present. His hand reaches into his jacket pocket, where his handbook was. “That’s…and you’re sure it was Chihiro?”

She seems taken aback by how seriously he asks that, and nods quickly. “I know it was Chihiro! It was his face and everything!” She points in front of her, at a locker less than two meters away from her eye level. The exact locker, Byakuya thinks, where Chihiro was keeping his laptop.

He wonders if Makoto was thinking this too.

“...I highly doubt the existence of ghosts,” He sighs. There was no point trying to hide it with Kirigiri around, and better to do it now than later. “Instead of being in front of the locker, I think the thing you saw was inside it.”

He turns to the locker Asahina had indicated, and moves to unlock it - before realizing he doesn’t know how. If it was unlocked by key, he didn’t have it, and if by code it was even more impossible. But Kirigiri steps forward, nudging his arm out of the way, and the locker door clicks open under her hand.

Sitting inside is the laptop, its screen dark. After a moment, it hums to life, flickering green. A round, pale shape forms, and behind him, Byakuya hears someone gasp.

“Hello,” Alter Ego says, and their voice is clearer through the computer than through Byakuya’s handbook, and sounds so similar to Chihiro’s that it’s almost jarring. “It’s nice to meet everyone!”

Hagakure shrieks, arms thrown up in fear. “A g-g-gh-!”

“It’s not a ghost,” Byakuya cuts him off sharply. “It’s a program.”

“Yes, and it looks like something Chihiro made.” Kirigiri touches the keys lightly. “This computer was the broken one from the library. And the fact that it was placed here, out of sight of the mastermind, means that it was meant for us.”

“So, this is what I saw last night…” Asahina’s tone doesn’t sound uneasy anymore, but wondering, and she raises a tentative hand as the little Chihiro in the screen waves at her. “But, what is it?”

“You just asked, ‘what is it,’ right?” Alter Ego says, almost teasingly, making her and several others jump. “The short answer is, I’m an AI program based on as much of Chihiro Fujisaki’s personality, memories, and thoughts as he managed to transcribe into data…um, but if it’s easier for you, you can call me Alter Ego. I was made to try and break through the firewall around the school’s network and to analyze the files on this computer, but it’s been taking a long time. I’m only about 25% done.”

25%? That was already more than Byakuya expected, and he feels a thin, inexplicable strum of pride.

“Crazy…hey, isn’t this crazy?” Yamada is up from his seat, and sitting as close as he can, crouching on his heels to be eye-level with the screen. “This is so- so totally sci-fi, right? Isn’t the genre wrong?” He sounds excited, overly so, and his breath is a little fevered and fast. “Hey, Chihiro! Can you hear us?”

Alter Ego doesn’t respond. Byakuya suddenly remembers the night that Chihiro was installing the application on his handbook and how Alter Ego only ever responded after the sound of keystrokes. “You have to type what you want to say in order for it to respond.”

“Move.” Yamada scurries out of Kirigiri’s way, as she drops to a crouch in front of the open locker. There’s the sound of fingers clicking over keys, and then -

“It will take me a while longer to finish analyzing everything,” Alter Ego says aloud, a little sheepishly. “I can definitely finish it though! Actually, progress is moving faster than originally predicted, so you can leave it to me!”

“My, how dependable.” Celeste remarks. “It seems that Chihiro has left us an invaluable gift, does it not?”

“It’s…pretty crazy,” Hagakure agrees, scratching his head. “Wait, uh - can Alter Ego get online? Like can we call for help from outside?”

“Hmm, probably not.” Asahina hums in thought, crossing her arms. “We’re in a bathhouse after all.”

“Then, if we take it outside of here-”

“No.” Kirigiri says flatly. “We can’t take any risks. Taking it outside might mean that the mastermind will discover it.”

“Yeah, but, I think it’s better to get help sooner than later. You know…” He pauses for a moment, tilting his head pointedly towards Owada. Throughout this whole time, the Ultimate Biker Gang Leader had been as still as a mouse, face turned downwards towards the floor. Hagakure clears his throat awkwardly. “Can’t we try it?”

There’s a sharp tap as Celeste laces her fingers, rings clicking together. “As stated earlier. We cannot take unnecessary risks. And we are not in the position to be pointlessly altruistic.” Her tone is casual, but Hagakure seems to shrink away from her, defeated.

“I…okay. Fine, sure.” He scratches at his head, then pauses. “Ah, wait a minute. Does Alter Ego, like, know…?

His question peters off, but the implication hangs over them like a heavy fog. Byakuya watches them cast uneasy glances at each other, then back to Alter Ego, as if trying to figure out who should break the news.

“It already knows.” He mutters. He’s not trying to be loud, but in the silence everyone could hear it anyways.

“...Not to say you’re lying or anything, Byakuya, but how do you…?”

Instead of answering Hagakure out loud, he reaches into his jacket pocket and withdraws the handbook, flipping it open and holding it up, screen facing them. Someone gasps.

“Yes,” Alter Ego confirms their unspoken question, and its voice echoes uncannily, doubled between the laptop and his handbook. “Master made it so I can be accessed through Byakuya’s handbook, so I could assist him with his visual impairment. I can also access the microphone function on this device, so I was able…I was able to overhear what happened”

The little, buzzing voice trails off sadly, and Byakuya suddenly feels uncomfortable, as the room grows all the more dreary. He clicks the handbook closed, suddenly irritated.

“That should explain it.“ He sighs. “Chihiro built Alter Ego to try and help find a way out of here, and at the same time gave me access so I could be self-sufficient. That’s the extent of my knowledge about it.”

He looks up and finds nearly all of them with their faces tilted towards him, and shifts, disconcerted. “What?”

“Nothing…it’s just kinda sweet that you’re, like, telling us this yourself.” Hagakure, ridiculously, sounds almost happy about this. “You never really talked to us about yourself before.”

“There’s no point in being secretive about it. Not when I was already forced to reveal it during the trial.” He sniffs. Immediately, Hagakure looks away, chagrined. From Byakuya’s periphery, he can see Makoto still facing away, his ears turning pink.

Kirigiri clears her throat. “...For the time being, it’s clear that we need to ensure Alter Ego remains a secret from the mastermind.” She says, and Byakuya watches as she types something out, a thick line of black characters. Every few keystrokes, she stops, and deletes the last word in a series of light clicks; listening closer, the sound was awkward and irregular, each press slurring into the next key. With a slight twinge of guilt, he realizes that the cause of it was her left hand - the one he had practically crushed.

After a moment’s consideration, weighing his conscience with what was at stake, he nudges her slightly with his knee. “Move. You type too slow.”

“And how would you know that?”

“I can hear it.” He replies flatly. “You type like you’re all thumbs. Move over.”

He half-expects her to stay where she is, to ignore him and continue, but to his surprise she actually complies, standing up and stepping aside. He crouches into the space she had just abandoned, sliding his hands over the keyboard until his index fingers find the tiny, tell-tale grooves of the position keys. The size and dimensions are different from his computer at home, but for a moment the feeling is so familiar that he’s almost nostalgic.

“What did you want to ask again?”

“If it has any contingency measures in place for if Monokuma - or the mastermind, or anyone suspicious - happens to find it.”

His fingers skim over the keys, clicking fluidly. A thin line of black appears at the bottom of the screen in time to his movements, but he can’t confirm if the output is accurate; judging by the way Makoto gasps behind him, and the way Hagakure whistles, he can guess that it’s more or less correct.

“Impressive,” Celeste says, in an appreciative tone. “I suppose being such an esteemed heir means you have many talents.”

He can’t tell if she’s mocking him, so he decides to ignore her, though he allows himself a small amount of smugness. He finishes typing: “Is this what you wanted to ask?”

Instead of replying, Kirigiri leans over his shoulder and clicks the ‘enter’ button. After a moment’s pause:

“Hm, to be honest, so far I’ve just been trying to be reeeally careful with when I’m active…though I guess that backfired last night, with me scaring Aoi.” Alter Ego hums in thought. “But, I do have a secret plan! If anyone comes around who I don’t recognize on my webcam…I’ll scream super loud!”

“That’s so basic!” Asahina blurts out, shocked by the simple nature of it.

“Yes, and it’s not likely to work at night.” Ogami grumbles. “The bedrooms are soundproofed.”

“Maybe we can try taking turns staying up?” Makoto suggests. “I can take the first night, I don’t mind…”

“I think such a sudden change in our patterns is likely to draw suspicion from the mastermind. Which would be rather counterproductive.” Celeste says, and Makoto ducks his head immediately. “Though, your thoughtfulness is appreciated.”

“Then it can’t be helped.” Kirigiri sighs. “I’ll leave my door open. I’m at the end of the hallway anyways, so if anything happens, I should be able to react the quickest.”

What a crazy woman. “You’d leave yourself vulnerable?” He scoffs. After all the precautions he’s seen her take, it’s hard to imagine her sacrificing herself to any degree.

“It’s a risk I’m willing to take. Besides, I’m not so helpless. I have no intention of going down without a fight.” She pauses, mouth open like she’s about to say more, before she decides against it. “Anyways. We should avoid any mention or contact with Alter Ego as much as possible, to draw as little attention as we can.”

She claps her hands sharply, a sound that makes more than one person jump, and makes Byakuya almost flinch. “For the time being…let’s disperse.”

< previous - from start - next >

[sparring-spirals]

oh. so. this dream and this vision and this exchange after and everything that has been building to here.

All that rage, all that desperation, Imogen's knowledge that Liliana's judgement is flawed and searching for any reason to understand, searching for a way to bring her out of it. Bring her back.

"Show me" and she does and.

Its- beautiful, its wonderful. Its the unmaking of the world and of history and it feels- so good. For a moment Imogen feels something she hasn't for YEARS. A life and a possibility and a future full of peace she hasnt had for ages, hasnt even bothered hoping for. For a moment, Imogen sees it, but more importantly- she feels it- the freedom, the peace, the dream. Stronger than any vision. She sees it. She feels it.

And she wakes up, and she- unknowingly, perfectly, mirrors her own mothers words, looks around, asks- did you see it? Did you all see that? (I wish you all could see what I could see-)

They didn't- of course they didn't. They saw Liliana, too far gone, spouting nonsense, they saw her reach out, they saw the refusal to listen to reason. They did not see the vision. (They couldn't have. Even if they'd seen it- would they have understood? How could they? No beautiful vision would have captured the thing that left the awe in Imogen's lungs- the peace. The freedom. The finality of, finally, finally, being free of this gift that has only been a curse.)

They didn't see the vision. They saw their friend, tapped on the forehead after hopeless pleas. They've been seeing their friend make further and further excuses for someone they know is a danger, someone siding with people they are working so hard against. That has hurt them. They've seen the way she can't quite denounce Liliana. They've hedged around it: If she's not on our side, will you be okay- You know if she's not on our side, we'll have to-

They've been watching. They're seeing plenty. They did not see the vision. They couldn't have.

They saw a fruitless conversation. They saw their friend rebuffed by someone she loves. They saw her wake up with a strange kind of light in her eyes and- say.

What if its not so bad? (The world ending. Half of the world being eaten. Innocent lives lost. Our loved ones cut down for a fever dream and delusions of power and grandeur. Us, cut down, for some stupid plot for a moon and petty revenge against the gods and a desire to end the world.) They've been watching her, make halfhearted arguments, sidle away. Make increasingly desperate excuses. Ask: What if.

(Its so easy to ask, what if. Its so dangerous. Sometimes the if is used to hide away lives and lives of collateral, of blood red loss. Sometimes the if has already been answered and paid for, and the act of asking is its own form of violence, all over again.)

"Well Imogen, I wish my family didn't have to die for her brighter tomorrow."

And the way Imogen collapses, a little- presses her face into her hands and crumples under the weight of the reminder, like voices piling in after weeks of being in blissful quiet in a forest. Like reality breaking in after a beautiful dream. "You're right. I'm sorry. You're right."

"I swear, I wanna see this through, I do."

"She just presented this vision of- it didn't seem so bad."

And the Bells try to help, to be kind. They say: We understand why this must be hard for you. She's someone you love, its hard to deal with them thinking a different way. What did you see?

They are trying so hard, to reason through it, to balance their own hurt with kindness and sound arguments to lead her back. They want so badly, to lead her back. Have her back.

The problem however, is not the soundness of the argument, is not the reason or the logic- but the overwhelming allure of that sensation- of that promise- of the hope- of the ideal. Of a mirage that already drew Liliana in. That is pulling Imogen's gaze, despite. Despite, despite, despite.

Hope is such a tricky thing to kill.

[mamawasatesttube]

just remembered how megfitz made tim think about how bernard is so much better than all the other relationships he'd "settled for" and was once again briefly consumed by rage. meghan you apologize to zoanne wilkins right the fuck now

[front-facing-pokemon]

it's me. I'm the vanillite lover.

OKAY everyone is killing me over this. i don't even REMEMBER being so mean in those tags when i queued it up like two weeks ago but damn was i harsh. i'm SORRY to all the vanillite fans it really does look cute in that image. although i do still think it would be cool if it was a ghost-type. someone also mentioned apparently in pokémon canon, vanillite came before ice cream cones, which. fuckin i ain't gonna fact check that bc i love that idea. especially in the section of the pokémon universe where pokémon don't say their own names and we had to call them that. folks just called it vanillite because they thought it Might be vanilla flavored. and then they made ice cream vanilla because of vanillite. fucking sure dude i love that

and as per tradition:

[anawrites3]

I'm feeling a bit angsty today and I'm thinking about Dick doing something that made Damian furious (I'm not sure what exactly. Risking his life on a mission? Accidentally exposing a secret Damian shared with him?) and Damian is yelling at him, his face red with anger. Dick tries to apologize, maybe explain himself but then Damian hits at his chest to shove him away.

"I hate you!" he yells and Dick just... freezes.

Everything falls quiet in the cave, no one dares to make a sound. Dick isn't even breathing, just looking at Damian with wide eyes.

"C'mon, Damian, don't say that." Tim scolds him gently in a quiet voice, stepping closer to them. "You didn't mean that."

"I did mean it! I hate you, Grayson! I hate you, I hate you, I hate you!"

Damian runs back to the manor and Alfred goes after him. Dick just looks after Damian, after his baby brother he would do everything for, the boy that he helped raise. He doesn’t hear Jason when he calls out to him and is barely aware that Jay steps up to him.

"Dickie..." Jason says again, softly, fingers squeezing Dick's shoulder.

It's grounding and Dick finally starts breathing again, even though it hurts.

"I-I'm okay." he forces out. His breath is shaking. He looks down at his hands and notices that they're shaking too. "I... I should go now."

"What? Dick, no-"

Both Tim and Jason try to stop him, try to reason with him that he should stay, that he really shouldn't go back on his own in this state. Dick ignores them. It's easy when he doesnt even hear what they're saying, when all he hears is 'I hate you, I hate you' playing over and over again in his head like a broken record.

He doesnt manage to go far. Some time later, he finds himself at one of Gotham's buildings, crying and trying to remember how to breathe.

He wants it to stop hurting, he wants to go back in time so he won't make that stupid mistake and Damian won't hate him for it, he wants to forget about this fucking day, he wants- he wants-

He fishes out his phone from his suit before he even manages to understand what he's doing and dials a number that he knows will always pick up, no matter how late it was, no matter how stupid the reason is.

"Yeah?" a hoarse voice answers and Dick finally breaks out sobbing, no longer able to keep it all in.

"Slade-" he sobs and faintly hears the rustling of the sheets on the other side of the line.

"Dick." Slade replies, immediately much more awake and alert. "What's wrong? Are you hurt? Where are you?"

Dick would laugh if the situation was any different.

"Slade..." he cries again instead. His hands are trembling so much he's afraid he'll drop his phone so he sits down.

"Are you in danger?"

"N...no." his breath heaves, sobbing so hard now it’s difficult to do anything else. "N-no, Slade, I'm- I'm fine, I'm-"

"Alright, calm down, Dick. Take a deep breath for me, little bird." Slade orders, firm but in a soft voice and Dick does. "Good. Now again."

It doesnt help much, it doesnt change anything, Damian still hates him-

"Again."

It doesnt change anything but Slade's with him now, Slade's talking to him and Slade always makes Dick feel safe and loved, and so he follows every one of his instructions.

"What happened?" Slade asks gently, when Dick calms down enough to just cry silently, tears running down his cheeks without any sound.

"I... I d-don't want to think about it." he admits and Slade hums. He can hear him moving around his apartment. "Can you... can you just... talk to me?"

"About what?"

"About..." Dick swallows. "About the first time your children told you that they hate you."

There's a moment of silence. Dick has no doubts that Slade connected the dots immediately and already knows what it is about.

Still, he doesn’t say anything.

"Hm, let me think." he begins softly, with the kind of tone he only uses with Dick when they're alone and Slade doesnt feel like he has to hide his feelings for Dick from the rest of the world. Dick instantly feels more at ease and he reaches to wipe his cheeks with his sleeve. "If I remember correctly, Joey was the first one of them to ever say it."

"...Really?"

"Mm. He got really mad at me."

"W-what happened?"

"I was away on the contract. I was supposed to do the work quickly but it got extended and I wasn't able to get home for Christmas."

"Oh." Dick says sympathetically.

"Yeah. Boys got really upset." Slade sighs through his nose and Dick can just imagine the look on his face, the way his eyebrows furrow as he thinks back to the unpleasant memory. "I talked with them on the phone and tried to explain. Joey didn't like it."

"I'm sorry. It must've been hard to hear it over the phone like that."

Slade hums, "It was. I couldn't even try to do anything about it because I was in another damn country. But when I finally got back he’d already calmed down and apologized properly. He was really sorry and couldn't stop crying about it. I had to carry him everywhere with me."

"That sounds nice." Dick croaks.

"Maybe for you." Slade grumbles and Dick's lips twitch weakly in a smile. "You like to be carried around everywhere so you think it's so great. I was the one who had to actually carry him."

Slade keeps talking to him about the fights he had with his kids when they were still little and how much it hurt the first time, he talks about other things from his past and even about silly things that don’t really matter. Dick doesn’t know how much time has passed before Slade is on the rooftop with him.

"Hi." Dick whispers, looking up at him from his place on the ground.

"Hi, little bird." Slade kneels to get more on Dick's level and kisses him gently. "Let's go home."

When they're already in Slade's apartment, pressed tightly in bed, Dick finally tells him what happened. Slade listens and lets Dick cry into his chest, heavy arms around his waist bringing quiet comfort.

Then Slade spends the morning spoiling the shit out of Dick, doing his best to make him forget about what Damian said. Later that day he doesnt want to let the demon spawn in, when the boy finally comes to apologize and then he stands beside Dick like a guarding dog through the whole thing.

Anyway that was supposed to be just a quick thought and now I want to write it into a full fic :)) I simply want Slade comforting Dick, taking his mind off bad things 🥺 also I just want Slade talking about his kids hshsjhfjsh Hope you liked it!!

[ackermonie]

you lay in the grand finale. crimson paints the ground beneath you as you lay next to your lover, one more vigorous to life than the other.

“guess this is it,” your voice is so calm, it freaks the man out. your hand tighten around his ever so slightly, just enough for him to feel it. “it’s not the… the double suicide you’ve always wanted—“

“n-no,” he’s shaky when he pushes away from the ground. he turns to hover over you, hand tightening around yours, and instead of the orange skies, your vision is overtaken by a chestnut head and a pair of fiery, panicky eyes pouring into yours.

“help is on the way. they’ll get us.” his other hand climbs to your dirty cheek, and you cant help but will your body to lean into his touch. “stay with me until then, baby.”

“‘samu,” you whisper, and dazai’s eyes widen further. you really fucking look like you’re about to hit your eternal hay, and dazai won’t handle seeing it happening right in his arms. “we don’t have time.”

“we do,” osamu pushes, nodding quickly, and your heart breaks at the way the man suddenly hangs on to life.

a hand reaches out to touch his face, and he sees the way your face twists before a tear escapes between your lids.

a loud bang suddenly shakes the ground you lay upon somewhere from your left, and dazai’s first instinct is to cover your body with his. the blast shakes him off balance and he ends up falling in your open arms where he will always fit perfectly, just one last time.

“i’m afraid this is it, my love,” you manage to choke out. you don’t know if he can hear you or not, but you think he did when he stiffles an agonized scream in your shoulder.

“i just need more time,” you hear him through the unavoidable ringing in your ear, and you feel yourself begin to slowly and painfully slip away. “a little longer, y/n. i’m begging you.”

you turn your head to the side, weakly so, pressing your lips one last time to the side of his head.

“i know you wished we’d die together.” your eyes flutter closed. “but i wish you’d live for me.”

[kunikidas-lost-glasses]

Nikolai saving Fyodor - Fyolai Drabble

HEAVY SPOILERS FOR BSD SEASON 5 AND ESPECIALLY FOR BSD SEASON 5 EPISODE 11 UNDERNEATH

Nikolai didn't gave Dazai and Fyodor poison in this. There was some other stuff in the injections but no poison. He just wanted to make the game more interesting and funky/entertaining.

Important to note: This drabble is connected to my BSD Fix-It AU with the only change being the circumstances under which Nikolai saved Fyodor and the reason why Dazai told Atsushi to write down that Fyodor would lose his ability.

It's not needed to necessarily read my other post in order to understand this post.

It's only important to know that the ADA managed to obtain the page and that Dazai told Atsushi to write on it that Fyodor would lose his ability. He knew about the consequences it would have and while he hoped that Fyodor was gone for good, he wanted to make sure that if he would really somehow manage to come back, he wouldn't try to start a war again, not trusting him at all.

This AU works with the theory that Fyodor is highly influenced by his ability.

TWs (PLEASE take them seriously): Mentions and descriptions of blood (a lot of blood), descriptions of injuries, panic, crying (a lot of crying), medical procedures, descriptions of being in pain, mentions of fever, mentions of getting sick, mentions of the medical procedure of stitching up/suturing wounds, descriptions of treating wounds, descriptions of struggling with loosing the ability to use one hand, descriptions/mentions of utterly neglecting oneself, slightly implied depersonalization/derealization, slight mention of feeling numb, mentions of death, mentions of being heavily influenced by something, short slight mention of one of Nikolai's graphic crimes (they were mentioned when the ADA took his case), mention of scars

Maybe a bit ooc. (I understand the characters I swear. I just enjoy writing stuff which is a tiny bit ooc to allow more fluff to happen. However I tried to make it not extremely ooc though.)

(I did bend the rules of legitimacy/reality a bit in regard to treating the injuries in order to make this possible as well as a bit more easier to write.)

It's all hurt/comfort tho and it does have a lot of fluff towards the end. I promise.

Word count: 6341 words in total

He didn't know what came over him but before the helicopter crashed into the tower of the prison, Nikolai used his ability to drag Fyodor into one of his portals.

Dazai and Chuuya didn't notice him using his ability.

As soon as Chuuya and Dazai left, entering the prison one more time in order to get Sigma out of there, hoping that he would be still alive, Nikolai hectically opened up a portal himself and used it to rush into one of his many hideouts in which he had teleported Fyodor

Nikolai had never felt so glad about all the different little hideouts he had everywhere where Fyodor would be in case he needed him for a plan.

Searching a hotel room where he could try to save the Russian would become quite difficult and bringing him to a hospital while both of them were wanted criminals (one of them on the run and one of them officially pronounced dead to the public) wasn't something he could do.

Nikolai wasn't thinking clearly anymore when he arrived in the shabby little house which he called his hideout and which he had purchased under one of his many many fake identities.

In fact, he wasn't really thinking at all anymore. At least not what he would normally think.

He always expected that if he would ever see Fyodor dying, he would be filled with a sense of relief, a happy and freeing feeling, knowing that he finally reached his goal and became free.

However now this wasn't the case at all.

The only things he felt were panic and some kind of denial.

He couldn't believe what had just happened. In one minute he was chatting with Fyodor who was sitting well and alive in the helicopter, his mind already filled with excitement, imaging their upcoming new game which would have something just between them and the next minute Fyodor had been stabbed in the stomach with a metal bar which was pinning him in place, his white prison suit was covered in red, thoroughly soaked with his own blood while his body was shaking and his voice was filled with pain.

Never once had Nikolai seen Fyodor in this much pain, never once had he seen the emotions of his dear friend written so clearly and openly all over his face and not once had he himself felt so awful before. Not once has he felt such fear while his own life wasn't in danger at all.

He had felt utter sadness and heartbreak before, yes. But not such a nearly hysterical panic.

It was deep, painful sadness which ran through his veins, squeezing his heart together when he had noticed that the eyes of his childhood friend with whom he had lived together on the streets and with whom he fell in love became more hazy, losing all the light in it and when his tiredness and mature character which came from all the trauma he already had to go through since a young age slowly turned into a harsh cold personality.

Nikolai could do nothing when Fyodor's ability started to take over his friend more and more as they grew older, influencing his mind and with that his personality as well as his actions thoroughly, seemingly merging Fyodor Crime and Punishment until Fyodor slowly became a part of his ability himself. Cold, cruel and harsh.

He could only watch as Fyodor started to act and when Punishment would take over completely for short periods of time. He was unable to do anything, knowing that the ability itself was just as intelligent as the one who wielded it.

Still, he knew exactly when Fyodor, even though his mind was still heavily influenced, was coming through more and still he knew exactly that the goal was to get rid of all ability users and with that all abilities came from his Fyodor.

Surprisingly, he couldn't bring himself to love Fyodor any less, despite his more cold and cruel personality.

The sadness however, still ran deep.

But he had never felt any panic and fear like this. Not when his own life wasn't in danger.

He had expected that the moment he would see Fyodor dying would bring him joy but the expected joy was a feeling of panic and denial which clouded all his mind and made it hard to think straight and instead of feeling a sense of victory upon seeing Fyodor's face twisted in pain, he felt sick to the stomach when he saw him spitting out a concerning amount of blood, feeling like vomiting himself.

If he could think straight, he would have possibly wondered why his mind wasn't acting up, refusing to try to treat his friend in order to reach his goal but now, he only could think about saving his friend, hoping that it wasn't too late.

He rushed into the bedroom in which he had placed Fyodor on the little bed, nearly tripping twice on his way due to running so fastly through the hallways.

Upon finally reaching the bedroom, seeing his friend, he felt his heart sink.

By now, Fyodor had fully passed out, his body lying limp on the bed. His face was covered in cold sweat, his hair sticking to his forehead and the now visible large stab wound was bleeding like crazy.

If Nikolai wouldn't have been used to seeing very disturbing things, he would have probably vomited but even now he still felt incredibly sick, not due to the injury but from seeing his dear friend like this.

For a short moment, he stood next to the bed like frozen before quickly bending down to check if Fyodor was still breathing and if he still had a pulse.

He knew that the chances were slim and he nearly didn't dare to check but he had to.

Upon feeling a faint pulse and upon feeling Fyodor breathing even though it were small and uneven breaths which he took, he felt like a giant weight got lifted off his heart, which felt like it was close to shattering in thousands of pieces, breaking beyond repair anyways.

However, he still couldn't feel real relief until he knew that Fyodor was in a stable shape again.

He knew that he had a lot to do now, knowing that he was still alive but he had barely any time due to Fyodor bleeding out at a rapid speed from his stab wound but also from his injured hand and the wound where Sigma had shot him.

Trying to frantically stop the bleeding through applying pressure to the wound, Nikolai remembered the trick he did with Sigma when the latter was bleeding out from where he was shot.

Sigma's injury had been way smaller, he had lost much less blood and he wasn't in such a bad shape as Fyodor at all but he knew that doing this trick once again, would at least give him some more time.

Carefully, he pushed Fyodor into his portal before looping him through the two portals which he had opened up, slowly letting some blood flow back into his body.

This time, he was much more careful than he was with Sigma and it didn't bring him any kind of entertainment at all.

He also reduced the distance between the two portals to being as small as possible, not wanting to let Fyodor fall through the air longer than needed.

After being sure that Fyodor had more blood in his body again, he quickly lifted him back on the bed, using his ability once more to grab the box in which he stored all his medical supplies from the bathroom, not wanting to waste any time and not wanting to leave Fyodor's side.

As soon as he held the box in his hands, he placed it on the bed, opening it with shaky hands and grabbing one of scissors inside of it in order to cut open the prisoner suit in order to treat Fyodor.

After cutting the remaining parts of the upper half of the jumpsuit open, he grabbed a cloth from the bathroom with his ability, pressing it onto the wound, trying to stop the bleeding while trying not to worry about the fact that Fyodor didn't even flinched or made any pained noise upon Nikolai putting pressure on the large wound on his stomach.

Nikolai himself was only taking short hitched breaths anymore as he watched how the previously brightly colored cloth slowly got soaked in the blood of his dearest friend, turning more and more red with every passing second.

After some time, of trying to slow down the bleeding and after using the portal loop a couple of times more to give him more time, he finally had the bleeding a bit under control which meant that he now came to the part he feared the most.

Nikolai had treated many wounds before.

He had been the one to clean and stitch up Sigma's wound while they were in a hotel on the way to the prison.

He didn't really feel scared that day. He knew that he had already treated and stitched wounds of his own already so why shouldn't it work with Sigma's wound.

Sigma himself wasn't really scared either. He had been lying on the bed, looking like all the life had been sucked out of him, the realization that his casino was really gone and that all the people in it were dead had crashed down on him, shortly after their little conversation after he had woken up again after falling from the Sky Casino.

If anything, Nikolai had been more scared of Sigma's clearly upcoming breakdown which was brooding inside of him, even if he was still feeling numb at the moment.

Nikolai also hadn't been scared when he had treated his own wounds, stitching them up himself.

He had done it multiple times as a child living on the streets in the Ukraine until Fyodor joined him, insisting to treat Nikolai's wounds.

Hell, he had even skinned a person before and didn't feel scared. Numb yes. Like he was watching it happen in a movie theater, yes. But not scared.

However now his hands wouldn't stop shaking and his breathing became even more quicker and hitched but he knew that it was the only way to save Fyodor.

Noone else besides him would treat his wounds. They had nowhere else to go.

He hectically grabbed the little chair which was standing in the room, pulling it next to the bed, sitting down on it, removing his now bloody gloves, putting on some medical gloves which had been in the box as well, placing everything he needed to start treating the wound properly on a new cloth on the bed, taking a needle into his hand.

Taking a deep breath, he told himself quietly that he had to pull himself together now and that he had done this many times before but that his hands had to stop shaking now or else he would mess it up.

It was one of the few times Nikolai genuinely prayed.

Nikolai didn't know how long he treated Fyodor's wounds and his hand but it felt like hours.

He made use of all the medical knowledge he had from books and from Fyodor himself as well.

He had asked his friend a couple of times before about random medical stuff, simply because he wanted his friend's attention and because he had wanted to talk with him and he had never been so glad about the fact that he asked him about it and listened to him before.

After he finally dressed the wounds, putting multiple layers on them before wrapping them all up in clean white bandages as well as after wrapping the hand up, he felt all the energy which mainly came from his panic as well as from his sheer willpower and his wish to save his friends life fade out of his body, his body practically slumping together on the chair as he still somewhat propped himself up, elbows on the bed and his head leaning against his hands.

The silence around him felt both defening and calming as he only now realized how quiet it was.

Only his own and Fyodor's hitched breathing were the only noises in the room.

While taking a couple deep breaths, he realized that he really did it, that Fyodor's life was (for now) pretty much saved but also realized what he just did, that he saved him instead of killing him, realizing that Sigma was right when he once told him that Nikolai was unable to kill Fyodor, that he needed him and was still attached to him too much to kill him off and that he still loved him more than anything but also, upon him finally coming out of his panicked state, tears started to form in Nikolai's eyes and he was by no means able to stop them from falling down his cheeks.

He was too tired and felt too much to even think about stopping them and like that, Nikolai sat next to the bed on which Fyodor who now looked like was sleeping if one ignored the sweat on his face, the hitched breathing and the thick bandages, was lying, crying more than he ever cried before.

He cried for more than an hour, his mind a mess and everything from the past weeks crashing down on him.

Eventually he didn't even knew if he cried because of the relief after saving Fyodor or because he was so mad at himself or maybe because he realized how deeply wrong he was or maybe because he felt so torn apart but he still wouldn't stop crying. The tears continued falling down his face and he felt like he would never stop crying.

Eventually he did though.

After the crying finally quieted down, he felt more worn-out and even more like all his energy and life got sucked out of him.

Everything hurted, he had a pounding headache and light hurted in his now swollen red eyes while his face felt like it was about to explode in general.

Slowly sitting up again, slumping against the backlean of the creaking chair, he let his gaze wander over Fyodor and the bed.

There was blood everywhere on the bed and on his medical supplies, the room was a mess, used cloths, cotton balls and tissues were lying around everywhere, his own purple now reddish stained gloves were lying next to the bed and Fyodor somehow still looked breathtakingly beautiful.

Nikolai just hoped that Fyodor would handle it well, especially because of his anemia or else he would have to steal some blood transfusions from the nearest hospital.

It would be no problem. He knew how to do it, he knew Fyodor's blood type for whatever reason he couldn't recall anymore by now and after what he had just done, a blood transfusion was nothing compared to it but he knew all the risks which came with one and it was really something which he had never done before unlike treating a wound (even though he has never treated such a large and drastical wound before and even though he had usually never saved lives before) so it was really something he only wanted to do if there was no other way anymore.

Besides this he wanted to draw as less police attention to his surroundings as possible so he wanted to refrain from committing any crime but if he had to do it for Fyodor he would do it without having to think about it twice.

He looked with tired and nearly empty eyes at the scene before him for quite some time before he scratched together all the willpower and energy he had left in his body to drag himself out of his chair in order to clean up a bit.

He cleaned the room and the bed a bit up, carefully cleansed all his medical supplies if he would need them again in case of an emergency and washed his hands which were stained with blood from when he tried to stop the bleeding earlier.

Afterwards, he fully got Fyodor out of his prison clothes and dressed him into some lose pyjama pants of his own.

They were way too big and way too long for him but he didn't wanted to let him lie there in either a torn apart bloody prison jumpsuit or just in his underwear.

He also put him some of his warmest socks on, not wanting to let the other freeze before placing multiple blankets on top of him.

He didn't wanted to put on a shirt on him since he needed to frequently change his bandages and also in case he quickly had to do something on the wound again but he also didn't wanted to let Fyodor freeze or get sick on top of all so he gathered all the blankets he had lying around or which he had stored in his portals, placing them on top of Fyodor.

He also put his hand on a spare pillow so that it would lay a bit higher, knowing that it would help for a better blood flow but also reducing the risk of Fyodor accidentally touching it in case he would start to move. And Nikolai wanted so badly that he would start moving soon.

Seeing Fyodor's body lie there so limp, made his heart sink each and every time he looked at him again.

His hand was beyond fixing. Nikolai did his best but it was so injured that he probably only could move it and the fingers a little bit.

It still worked but he most likely could never use it as much as before.

After everything was done, Nikolai sat on his chair next to Fyodor for the next days, holding his injured hand gently, looking at him, monitoring his breathing, checking his overall shape and looking out for him him general without a break.

Only when he felt close to passing out he would force himself to get up to drink something and to nibble on a slice of bread or whatever random "snack" he would find but he couldn't really eat anything. He didn't want to eat anything.

The only thing he wanted was Fyodor to wake up. To look at him again with those hypnotizing purple eyes of his in which he could get lost ever since they met and to speak to him again.

He would even be fine with Fyodor telling him that he would kill him. He just wanted him to wake up and to hear his soothing deep voice with the heavy Russian accent which he loved so much.

Just like when he cleaned the room and dressed Fyodor, watching over him he felt like in some kind of trance. Everything just passed by. He was caught up in his thoughts, thinking about Fyodor, about Punishment, about what happened, about his childhood, about their shared childhood, about his ideology, about freedom and his love.

He never noticed when he fell asleep. Sleeping and being awake kind of blurred together.

Often he would dream about Fyodor and about them as children on the streets. How he once took care of Fyodor in another cold and cruel winter when he got sick, shoplifting medicine and holding the shivering Fyodor in his arms as he sat on the ground the empty side alley in which they always slept, his panic rising the higher Fyodor's fever got and about how he wrapped his own coat about Fyodor in a desperate attempt to keep him warm and shield him from the cold which surrounded them even if that meant that he would freeze himself. As long as he could help Fyodor he was happy.

He dreamt about how he prayed while Fyodor's fever was the highest it had ever been and he dreamt about how he cried in happiness when Fyodor started to eat, talk and walk around again, finally feeling better.

He dreamt about them dancing around. He dreamt about the prison about the helicopter he dreamed over and over about Fyodor's pained expression but he also dreamed about how they would sometimes lie together in the bed of Fyodor's apartment at night, holding each other after Nikolai came over to Fyodor's place once again after having a nightmare, Nikolai listening to Fyodor's steady heartbeat, neither of them saying a word, only hugging each other, knowing that there will never happen more between them than this. A faint reminder of how close they once were as teens trying to survive.

He dreamt of purple eyes, cold but gentle and soft bony hands, black hair and the sound of a feather quill scratching over paper as well as flickering screens with the purple symbol of the rats.

He dreamt about birds and freedom.

The days would pass like this, Nikolai never leaving Fyodor's side for longer than a couple of minutes until one day after nearly a whole week, Fyodor's body tensed up, his face twisting in pain for a second, his breathing becoming quicker before he managed to open his eyes a bit, blinking a couple of times before his eyes fully focused on his surroundings.

Nikolai stared at him with wide eyes, not really daring to believe that what he was seeing was real and not a dream.

Upon gaining more and more consciousness, Fyodor sucked in a sharp breath due to all the pain he felt but his mind was still too clouded to really register where the pain was coming from.

He didn't recognize his surroundings so he moved his head a bit to look around but seeing who was sitting next to him wasn't something he would have expected at all.

Upon seeing Nikolai sitting next to him, staring at him with wide eyes, a mixture of happiness, relief and disbelief written all over his face, Fyodor's own eyes widenth.

He was the first one to break the silence between them, Nikolai seemingly not daring to do anything, still not really believing what was happening.

It took him a lot of energy but he managed to say Nikolai's name, his voice being awfully hoarse and sounding fragile and weak.

As soon as Nikolai heard Fyodor call out his name, he left his frozen state and tears welled up in his eyes.

Fyodor looked at him in shock upon seeing the other tear up, still not really being able to fully wrap his head around what happened and that he was alive but despite his mind being all messy, he tried to squeeze the other's hand out of reflex, only to realize that he couldn't really move his hand before a piecing pain shot through his body making him flinch hard, causing another wave of pain to roll through his whole body this time and not only through his arm.

After the pain got a bit less again, he finally realized that his stomach and his shoulder were covered in thick heavy bandages which were neatly wrapped around him as well that wasn't wearing any prison clothes anymore.

The memories of what happened before he passed out came back as well and while he had been so sure that that was it, he was now lying here and since he could tell that this wasn't any official hospital or an infirmary at the prison he knew exactly who brought him here and who saved him.

Upon realizing all of this, he looked at all the blankets covering him before looking back at Nikolai with such a soft yet pained gaze.

It was then when he saw how awful Nikolai looked. He had lost a lot of weight, there were deep dark shadows under his eyes, he still wore his clown costume, just the hat, the card covering his eye and his gloves were missing but it looked messy and there were blood stains all over it. However since Nikolai didn't seemed to be injuried at all, Fyodor could tell that it was all his own blood which was still all over Nikolai's clothes, showing him that he hadn't even changed after cleaning up, hurrying next to his side again to stay with him.

His white hair was a mess as well and looked like it hasn't been combed since days. Even his braid which was usually done all neatly and accurate was a mess, strands of hair being out of the braid here and there and the bow at the end of the braid seemingly trying it's best to hold the last remains of the once braided hair together.

Nikolai was pale and looked more worn-out and tired than Fyodor had ever seen him and to his surprise, he felt his heart sink upon seeing his friend like this.

He wanted to say something, asking Nikolai what he had done but before he could say anything, Nikolai cried out that he hated him, tears starting to fall down.

Fyodor was caught off guard at first before a soft smile spread across his lips and he managed to say "Thank you Koyla" before he tensed up again, another wave of pain making his body feel like it was getting stabbed in the stomach all over again.

Nikolai stared at him in disbelief before gently lifting Fyodor's bandaged hand to his own face, cradling it and holding it softly against his cheek, looking at Fyodor with a wobbly smile before breaking down crying once again, not letting go of Fyodor's hand.

Fyodor just looked at Nikolai and for once he did let himself feel how painfully in love he himself was with Nikolai.

Normally he tried to suppress it, denying himself any kind of love he felt towards the other but now he couldn't bring himself to even just try to do so.

He was glad that he woke up to Nikolai sitting next to.

He couldn't say anything to Nikolai as the latter cried, since the few things he said already took out all his energy so he just lied there, looking at the other with a small smile.

Eventually Nikolai pulled himself together again, carefully laying down Fyodor's hand on the pillow again, however not letting go of it before asking him a couple of things about how he was feeling which Fyodor answered with either nodding his head or shaking his head.

In the following days, Nikolai would continue to take care of Fyodor, gently propping him up against the headboard of the bed, feeding him soup and other more nurturing dishes he would cook for him as well as making him drink a lot of water and tea.

He also made him regularly take iron supplements and fed him sweets every now and then to help his body to recover from the blood loss.

They didn't talk much. Fyodor couldn't talk much anyways but it was off-putting to see Nikolai so quiet and drowned in thoughts.

Fyodor knew that he had to leave him alone with his thoughts now and that he himself had to sort this battle between his humanity and his ideology out for himself.

Nikolai would change his bandages and the covers of the blankets regularly and kept a close eye on the wounds.

The wound were Sigma shot Fyodor in his shoulder healed good and quickly but the wounds on his hand and especially the large stab wound were healing slowly but luckily, neither of them showed any signs of an infection.

Fyodor did his best to appear put together when Nikolai was changing the bandages but sometimes he couldn't prevent himself for making pained noises, flinching hard or tensing up, hashly sucking in the air.

Nikolai never made any comments on it but he often looked at him with a worried and apologetic expression.

He hated feeling so weak and vulnerable and he was horrified of Punishment lashing out an Nikolai whenever he was in a lot of pain since it tended to lash out when Fyodor felt threatened or in pain so he was often lying there utterly exhausted after Nikolai exchanged the bandages, partly from the pain but mostly from trying to keep Punishment at bay in his weakened state.

He felt Punishment rage inside of him every single day and he found himself having the urge to get revenge on Dazai and Chuuya and the whole ADA.

However one day, just when his body was in a good enough shape for him to slowly start to get up again he felt the harsh feeling of Punishment inside of him as well as the influence it had on him disappear completely in just one moment.

It didn't fade away slowly, it was like someone had just flicked off a light switch and turned it off.

Suddenly he regained his whole consciousness again, his mind which always was a bit messy and foggy due to Punishment's influence suddenly feeling completely normal again.

He didn't really know what happened but the disappearing of his ability made unable to leave his bed even more again.

All the memories of what happened crashed down on him besides of parts where his ability had taken over completely, and the guilt was eating him up alive.

In addition to that, he had to fully readjust to having his full consciousness back.

Mostly however, he had to wrap his head around the fact that he was only Fyodor now. Not Crime, not Punishment, only Fyodor.

He felt the rage and the twisted thoughts disappear and it made him both utterly relieved and scared.

It was like a part of him got taken away but he didn't felt less whole now. If anything, he felt like himself again despite the guilt eating him up alive and it confused him more than anything.

Nikolai was there for him the whole time. He wouldn't leave his side before and he wouldn't leave his side now.

When he had entered to room, seeing that Fyodor stared at him in disbelief and fear, his eyes not being hazy anymore and lacking all the coldness but now being filled with light again, Nikolai would have nearly dropped everything he had been holding at that moment out of disbelief and shock himself.

He immediately recognized those eyes and at first, he didn't dare to believe that for whatever reason, Punishment was gone for good now.

Nikolai himself, was having a battle with his mind over all this time and slowly he let himself believe that he could be together with Fyodor while being free at the same time.

Nikolai knew by now that Fyodor returned his feelings and he knew that he would wait for him until he was ready and Fyodor did wait.

He waited until they were both ready to finally put into words what they were feeling all those times before, taking the step to finally get together.

Fyodor recovered slowly but aside from the time after losing his ability where he got worse, he was recovering steadily.

Nikolai, who had put his clown attire away by now and who slowly started to eat more again as well as started to somewhat take a bit care of himself again due to Fyodor refusing to eat until Nikolai ate something himself, helped him the whole time.

He continued to feed him, he changed the bandages, made sure that bed and room were clean, after Fyodor was able to sit up again for a few minutes without being in too much pain he would gently wash him every day, he brushed his hair making sure that it wouldn't become matted, he changed his clothes regularly and when the time came he helped him to slowly sit up without leaning against the headboard for support again, he helped him to move around in his bed to scoot over to the edge of the bed, sitting on it and placing his feet on the floor again for the first time since weeks if not months and eventually he helped him to stand up again, taking his first few wobbly steps again.

The first time standing up again was nerve wracking for both of them.

It had been painful to sit up on his own with only a bit support but it was much more manageable than when he first tried to sit up.

He couldn't stand lying in bed any longer.

Nikolai had been looking at him, his eyes filled with worry while he was firmly holding Fyodor's healthy hand with one, and his forearm of the other arm with his other hand.

After getting used to the feeling of sitting up and after the first row of pain got lesser again, Fyodor looked at Nikolai and nodded, him being as tensed up as the other himself, before using all his energy to drag himself out of his bed and up on his feet with Nikolai's help.

His weakened legs were shaky and wobbly and he immediately felt like passing out, his anemia making him see black and flimmering colors for a second but before he could fall, he felt Nikolai wrapping one of his arms around him, careful not to touch the wound on his stomach, steadily holding him and preventing him from falling, letting him slump against him until he was able to see something again a few seconds later.

His legs were shaking, his breathing became faster and he was clinging with his healthy hand to Nikolai as if his life would depend on him but he felt more genuinely happy than he felt since a long time, finally being able to stand again.

However, he quickly had to lie back down again upon the pain and the exhaustion becoming too much, making him feel dizzy and like his legs would give out on him any moment.

Nikolai himself had a big smile and teary eyes as he told Fyodor that he did great, feeling relieved due to seeing how well Fyodor was recovering and that he would be able to walk at least short lengths again being written all over his face.

He also helped him to slowly move his hand more again but just as he had suspected, Fyodor couldn't really move or do anything with his hand anymore.

Teaching himself how to write and how to handle a weapon with his non dominant hand wasn't that difficult for Fyodor but he did struggle with doing daily activities with mostly only one hand and he grieved after not being able to play the cello anymore.

Nikolai tried his best to cheer him up whenever he saw that Fyodor was getting frustrated again because of his hand or when he sensed that he became upset when listening to music including a cello again.

After getting up again for the first time, they would continue to train getting up and walking around again.

The first few times, Fyodor had to hold onto Nikolai and often wasn't able to take more than two or on good days three steps before his legs felt like they would give out again and before the pain coming from the large stab wound became too much again.

However after quite some time had passed, he was able to walk around more freely and without having to hold onto Nikolai as much again.

He was still shaky on his legs, walking quickly became exhausting and painful after a while but he got better and better.

It still took a very long time until he was able to fully get out of bed over nearly a whole day, to walk around and do things completely on his own but Nikolai was there for him the whole time and he continued to be there for him even when Fyodor had fully recovered just like Fyodor was always there for Nikolai when the other needed him.

When the large wound was finally so well healed that Nikolai could finally pull the stitches out, he did try his best not to tear up again, the process reminding him of how he was desperately trying to save his dearest's life but also showing him once again that he did manage to save him, reminding him of how far they came.

After they finally got together after Nikolai was ready and after they both were both in a much better state, both physically and mentally, Nikolai would often kiss Fyodor's injuried hand, holding it as gentle as possible if Fyodor either was upset because of it again or if the chronic pain which developed from the injury became worse again.

Fyodor would always have two large and messy looking scars and a fully scarred hand now but Nikolai didn't mind. He would always tell Fyodor that he looked beautiful, despite all the scars which the other hated so much and he would frequently kiss them whenever he got the opportunity to do so.

After Fyodor had fully recovered and was able to live more independently again, they moved out of the little shabby hideout to live a quiet life underground in a small but cozy house under fake identities and in a different country, far away from where everything went down.

Due to Punishment being gone, Fyodor had no desire to start another war or to get revenge on the ADA anymore.

He just wanted to get as far away from anything which reminded him of this time as it was possible.

He craved to start a new life together with Nikolai, far away from all the things which reminded him if the past.

They might still had a long road of recovery and redemption in front of them but they both felt happier than they've ever been and their relationship was a true and honest one, based on a deep and mutual understanding for each other and based on utter and deep running love which would never end.

If you read all of this, thank you so much! I love u <3

I hope you liked it!