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howimproper · 3 years

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Ask Me No Questions (And I'll Tell You No Lies)

Fandom: The Yin-Yang Master: Dream of Eternity

Pairing: Qing Ming x Boya

Tags: Eventual Slash, Qing Ming Is A Little Shit, Naughty Language, Truth Magic, Except It's More Like Compulsion Magic, Compelled To Speak, #GayPanic, In This House Honey Bug We Stan, Admission Of FEELINGS, Unbeta’d We Die Like Boya’s Pride.

Summary: Boya gets hit with a truth spell. It goes about as well as you'd expect.

"I'm so sorry Master, I had no idea what it was when I picked it up!" Honey Bug wails from behind her hands, eyes wide and full of tears as she looks pleadingly at Qing Ming, who has found himself on the floor and somewhat entirely distracted by the dazed man in his arms.

"It's alright, Honey Bug, I don't think whatever it was is malicious." He assures his spirit guardian with a calming smile, who sniffles wetly and delicately dabs at her cheeks with the flowing length of her pink sleeve.

"I didn't sense anything from it, it was just a normal pin!" She explains in a rush, gesturing at the simple silver hair pin abandoned on the floor. Qing Ming sighs fondly and shakes his head.

"There's no real harm done, I think Boya is just fine." He says, while surreptitiously using the trailing length of his white sleeve to sweep the seemingly innocuous hair pin away, the length of metal skittering across the wooden floor before bouncing to a stop by the wall. Honey Bug watches it, lips wobbling.

"Speak for yourself, asshole." Both Spirit and Master jump at the unexpected announcement, and Qing Ming quickly returns his attention to the man stirring in his arms.

"Boya! How do you feel?" He asks concernedly, and is not wholly surprised when he is presented with one of the most delightfully unimpressed looks for his trouble. He quickly squashes the reflexive grin at the familiar expression on his companions face.

"Like I just got kicked in the head." Boya spits in response, before blinking in bewilderment. Qing Ming sighs and shakes his head good naturedly as he carefully shifts Boya in his arms, helping him to sit up from where they are both sprawled on the floor. He might have reacted a touch... strongly when Boya had collapsed suddenly and without warning.

"That's to be expected, I think. I'm not sure what kind of talisman it is but it's not harmful." Qing Ming replies easily, and it's the truth. When the talisman had activated in Honey Bug's hands he had not sensed anything untoward- Boya however, had reacted quick as a snake and struck the pin from his Spirits hands regardless, likely acting instinctively at the brief flare of foreign energy. In doing so however he had been the last one in contact with the pin before the spell went off.

"If I start turning unnatural colours or grow extra limbs I'll be blaming you." Boya huffs as he quickly disengages from Qing Ming's arms, to his utter disappointment.

Boya climbs to feet, waving off Honey Bug's steadying hands when he teeters. Qing Ming pouts as he too, rises.

"Come now, Boya, I hardly see how these theoretic outcomes would be my fault." He complains even as he smiles. Boya fixes him with a mildly deadpan look even as he swipes non-existent dust from his leathers, and Qing Ming barely resists cooing. Such expressions his companion can make, it's truly a delight.

He pointedly ignores Honey Bug hastily raising her sleeve to hide her mouth to the side of them.

"Don't be cute, it confuses me." Boya mutters, before snapping his mouth shut with a brief, mortified look on his face. Qing Ming blinks at him in surprise even as perplexed amusement bubbles up inside him.

"Boya, I wasn't aware you found me so confusing." He just barely manages not to titter, and Boya must see right through him, because he levels him with a dirty look before scoffing.

"As if you aren't completely aware of what you do to me." The words have barely left Boya's lips before he jerks as if struck, and swiftly slaps a hand over his own mouth. Honey Bug makes a choked, wheezing sound behind her sleeve, but Qing Ming is too startled to notice.

“And what do you mean by that?” Qing Ming enquires somewhat uncertainly. He has always been certain that Boya took his teasing in stride, knew that his often improper remarks were said in jest (usually, he can’t help himself sometimes, the flirting just happens), but if he had said or done something recently to make his companion truly uncomfortable he cannot think of it.

“Have I offended you in some way, Boya?” He asks, because if he has he wants to know so he can correct it post haste. He does not want the object of his much lamented affections upset with him for something he could have prevented. He doesn’t think he could handle Boya being honestly upset with him.

Boya’s hand abruptly tightens over his mouth, his brows drawing together in a strained frown that has Qing Ming instantly concerned. He opens his mouth to ask what is wrong only to be interrupted by Boya’s other hand snapping up and pointing a single finger in his face. He pauses, mouth working silently for a moment and goes to ask- only for Boya to scowl at him. He closes his mouth, correctly if confusedly interpreting a request for his silence. They stand there awkwardly for a moment as Boya visibly struggles with something, Qing Ming maintaining his perplexed silence as he looks between his straining companion and Honey Bug, who is still hiding behind her sleeve. He narrows his eyes at her. Honey Bug’s eyes curve up at the edges over the curtain of her sleeve. Oh dear.

Finally, Boya lowers his still rudely pointing finger before tentatively removing his hand from his face, the action so cautious he might as well have been going finger by finger. He pauses like that for a moment, hand still hovering near his mouth, before seemingly deciding the danger has passed.

“This is a gods be damned truth spell.” He says, sounding so greatly put upon that Qing Ming can’t help but laugh in such fond delight as his concerns evaporate.

“Oh Boya, you had me so worried for a moment.” He chuckles, and Boya rolls his eyes before turning on his heel, gaze downcast and scanning the floor. He spots the pin by the wall and strides over to it before stooping to snatch it up, uncaring of potentially activating it a second time as he is already under its effects. He turns the innocent looking accessory between his fingers, examining it with a keen eye for any markings or script that might shed some light on its purpose or perhaps how to reverse the spell.

Honey Bug shifts in place for a moment before finally emerging from behind her sleeve and, as if nothing had occurred, gracefully glides for the doors.

“I’ll fetch some tea.” She declares, and Boya grunts as he continues to scour every inch of the hair pin, fingers carefully feeling over the dips and swirls in the silver.

“I’d rather something stronger.” He says absently, and Qing Ming bites his lips to suppress the snicker that tries to escape him.

“Boya, it’s hardly noon.” He teases, trying for scandalized but only managing blatant amusement. Boya looks up from the pin-come-talisman in his hands and glares at him.

“I don’t give a fuck.” He says, with feeling, before his eyes drift to the ceiling and slide closed in mortification. Qing Ming’s lips wobble, and he knows he probably shouldn’t but he can’t pass up the opportunity-

“How improper.” Boya’s eyes pop open and drop to level him with a look, and Qing Ming thinks smittenly that if looks could kill he might be laughing himself sick in the afterlife right now.

“You’d be surprised.” Is the entirely unexpected retort. Qing Ming gapes, and Boya thumps himself solidly in the chest once as if beating out a cough. “Ignore that.” He snaps, clearing his throat. But no, he will not, because now Qing Ming is intrigued.

“Oh?” He prompts before he can think better of it, and Boya brandishes the hair pin threateningly. Qing Ming steps back with a smile, raising his hands in surrender as he retreats to his desk, lowering himself to the cushion behind it with a soft laugh. Oh, but Boya makes it too easy sometimes, Qing Ming thinks as absently rests an elbow on his knee, honestly he can’t help but poke at him when he presents Qing Ming with so many opportunities like this, truth spell or no. Though it’s another thing altogether with its effects, Qing Ming notes as he leans his head on his knuckles to watch as Boya quietly runs qi coated fingers over the pin.

Boya is usually so reserved with his responses that suddenly being privy to his true thoughts is… he hesitates to say nice because it’s not something his companion can actually help right now but it… is definitely eye opening. He knows of course that there is much more to Boya than he allows others to see, that there do in fact exist normal, mundane thoughts in his head just as any other man despite how sometimes Boya himself seems to forget that he is in fact just that. But Qing Ming has witnessed with his own eyes how others fall into the easy mindset of believing him some aloof, untouchable figure that exists solely for duty.

It saddens him greatly that Boya feels that kind of need to distance himself from others in such a way, but he can’t say that he doesn’t understand. Qing Ming has his own ways of distancing himself, after all. He doesn’t here though, and never with Boya. He isn’t normally so free with his words around others, Boya might even be horrified to realize that Qing Ming is actually unfailingly polite in most other company, but he has never felt the need with Boya even from the first day they had met and fought over a pippa. There had just always been something about him that dropped Qing Ming’s guard which, he thinks somewhat sardonically, should have been the first red flag of his budding infatuation, now long since watered and grown into something he sometimes struggles with keeping contained.

“What’s with the face?” Boya enquires out of the blue, and Qing Ming blinks out of his thoughts with a questioning sound. Boya has apparently come to the conclusion that he won’t find any answers from the pin itself and has since pocketed it and returned his attention to him. Having been so thoroughly absorbed in his thoughts Qing Ming hadn’t noticed any of it, or that he has since spent the last several moments staring. He hopes his face hadn’t given his thoughts away too much, but since when has he ever been that lucky.

“What face?” He deflects easily and watches, entertained beyond belief as Boya’s face goes through a myriad of fascinating micro expressions as he evidently tries his absolute best not to just blurt out his true thoughts without first filtering them.

“Here’s the tea, Master.” Honey Bug announces with positively diabolical timing as she abruptly breezes back into the room with a tray in her hands. Qing Ming is not waylaid enough by her arrival to miss the look of profound relief that briefly crosses Boya’s face at the distraction, and dimly wonders what possible thought he might have been trying to keep behind his teeth to warrant such a reaction. Curious, very curious.

Honey Bug sets the tray down on his desk and sets about pouring the faintly floral smelling brew into the cups before carefully distributing them, one set delicately in front of Qing Ming and one opposite him for Boya. He thanks her with a smile and cheerfully ignores the glint in her eye as she returns it and rises to leave them alone once more.

Grasping his cup, Qing Ming allows the heat to seep into his fingers for a moment before taking a careful sip, humming constantly at the flavour as Boya lowers himself to sit opposite him.

“We need to figure out how to break this spell.” Boya grumbles as he reaches for his own cup, eying it in faint displeasure for a moment before drinking. Clearly, he had truly wanted something stronger. Qing Ming contemplates retrieving the wine he may or may not have stashed in the cupboard behind him.

“It might very well be a simple matter of time, Boya.” He replies honestly. It might very well be so, the spell itself is a harmless one, if inconvenient, and tethered to such an innocuous item that he truly does not believe it was one made with any ill intent behind it. Likely a talisman made in jest, or to perhaps prove a point. Either way he doesn’t think they need to be hitting the scrolls for counterspells or worrying too much about it just yet. Boya, clearly, disagrees.

“I don’t want to wait it out, Qing Ming.” He almost whines, and Qing Ming raises his eyebrows.

“Something to hide, my friend?” He asks cheekily, and is instantly intrigued by the sudden blush that tinges Boya’s ears.

“Yes.” Boya chokes out, before delving into his tea, as if burning his mouth out will ward off any further ill restrained words. Qing Ming’s eyebrows have yet to descend from his hairline, and he watches his companion drain his cup with curiosity. He thinks he should perhaps tone it down a bit for Boya’s sake, but the man hasn’t actually expressed any real ire at his prodding yet, and Qing Ming trusts that if he oversteps Boya will say so or simply remove himself from the situation. He thinks that, if he were truly making his friend uncomfortable, the spell would ensure he is made aware by prompting Boya to tell him off, as he would clearly wish to.

And to be frank, it would take a better man than Qing Ming to resist.

Deciding to take some mercy on his companion, Qing Ming drops his hand from his temple and straightens to refill their cups, and idly comments-

“You’re taking all this with more grace than I might have expected, Boya.” Only because if it had been Qing Ming struck with the spell, he might have sent Boya fleeing for the hills to escape whatever inane prattle he might fail to suppress- or, heavens forbid, announce his affections. Ah. Probably for the best it wasn’t him. He takes a hasty sip of his refilled cup to hide the sudden heat in his face.

“Barely,” Boya mumbles into his cup, “Just when I think I’ve got a handle on it, words happen.” He hisses as he lowers his tea to glare off to the side. Qing Ming hums.

“Ah, the woes of the mortal man.” He replies with amusement, and is charmed by the scowl and quiet fuck off he gets in reply. “It’s not too terrible, is it?” He asks lightly, and gestures to his companion. “We’ve known each other long enough to not be offended by some trivial truths between us.” It’s actually quite refreshing. Boya is not one to lie, this he knows very well, but he is guilty of habitually omitting certain things or simply keeping his own counsel on matters. To hear his honest thoughts for a change is quite the treat.

“You don’t offend me.” Boya says, and by the lack of any reaction to his own words Qing Ming takes it as a willing admission that warms him. He smiles.

“I’m glad. I do worry sometimes that I may take my teasing too far,” He admits in return, “I don’t want to bother you or make you uncomfortable.” And he really doesn’t, despite literally everything he says to the man sometimes. He values Boya far too much to ever risk driving him away, and Qing Ming doesn’t think he would be able to bear it if he ever did.

“I don’t mind.” Boya mutters as he fiddles with his cup, before taking a sip. But not before adding, “I love you too much for you to ever bother me.” Qing Ming freezes, startled at the almost absent words, and Boya apparently registers what he had just said, because he promptly chokes on his tea. Stunned, Qing Ming can only stare as Boya coughs loudly into his arm, reflexive tears wetting his lashes as he tries to clear the tea from his lungs.

Boya hastily slams his cup down on the desk, and the sharp sound startles Qing Ming out of his daze.

“Boya-” He tries, but for once, words fail him. He replays the last few seconds over in his head, and then does it again and again until the words are chasing themselves in circles within his mind.

“I love you too much for you to ever bother me.”

Qing Ming thinks he might have played the remark off as a jest or perhaps an exaggeration if Boya had uttered these words any day before today, but his still spluttering companion is currently under the influence of a truth spell. However unwittingly he had said it, Boya had meant it.

Boya loves him.

The realization is almost enough for him to drop his cup, but Qing Ming quickly fumbles it to the safety of his desk before he can do so. Opposite him, Boya is climbing to his feet, coughing fit subsiding as he hastily turns away from him and makes for the door, and Qing Ming jolts, because Boya is fleeing.

After admitting that he loves him.

Qing Ming’s knee catches the edge of his desk as he scrambles to his feet, but he hardly notices the brief flare of pain as he all but jumps over it in his haste to catch his fleeing companion.

“Boya, wait-” He calls, and reaches out to quickly snag Boya’s arm before he can clear the doors, tugging him to a stop and urging him to turn around. Boya stops, but he doesn’t turn, and Qing Ming decides he’ll take it.

“I didn’t mean to say that.” Boya grits out, panicked, and Qing Ming could snort because that much is obvious.

“Boya-” He starts, only to be interrupted.

“I did mean it that way.” Boya blurts, before attempting to snatch his arm from Qing Ming’s grip to no avail, and growling. “Didn’t. Fuck.” He curses, and Qing Ming laughs softly, shaking his head fondly and decidedly not letting go of his arm. “Don’t laugh, this isn’t funny!” Boya snaps, still refusing to turn and face him, but Qing Ming isn’t laughing at him, he’s laughing at himself. How blind he has been.

“Boya-” Qing Ming tries again, gently-

“I told you I didn’t want to wait out this stupid spell.” Boya spits. Qing Ming sighs and tries to tug him around, but his panicking companion stubbornly holds his ground. And he is, panicking, that is, either abjectly mortified at his own honesty or spooked by whatever reaction he thinks will be forthcoming, or a mixture of both. Either way Qing Ming will need to calm him down before there can be any further discussion that doesn’t end with him bolting.

“Yes, because you were afraid you’d do exactly as you just did.” Qing Ming replies reasonably, and Boya makes a vaguely embarrassed noise and tries to pull his arm free again. Qing Ming does not allow it.

“Forget I said anything, it’s the spell.” He tries, and Qing Ming snorts because it’s a poor deflection and they both know it. Fed up, Qing Ming yanks Boya around, the man apparently unprepared for the force he puts behind the pull because he turns with it in surprise, and Qing Ming releases his arm and grabs him by the lapels of his leathers to hold him still.

“You love me.” He states, catching Boya’s eyes with his tone carefully blank despite the tide of emotion currently trying to drown him. Boya swallows, and almost looks away before apparently deciding against it, clenching his teeth so tight Qing Ming can see the flex of muscle in his jaw. He remains stubbornly silent. Qing Ming tries a different approach. He tightens his grip and leans in, close enough to feel the warmth of Boya’s breath as he exhales in surprise.

“You love me?” He asks.

“Yes.” Boya breathes, eyes fixed unerringly on his face, and Qing Ming makes some sort of noise in his chest (he honestly can’t say what, but it’s embarrassing) and kisses him. Boya jerks, startled, before he just...melts into him, and kisses back.

The kiss is languid, and Qing Ming quickly decides that kissing Boya is his new favorite pastime. He clings to the lapels of Boya’s leathers, almost afraid to let go, and Boya responds by sliding his hands over Qing Ming’s hips, wrapping his arms around his waist and tugging him against him. Qing Ming hums contentedly against his lips.

Suddenly, Boya winces, and Qing Ming pulls back to frown at him in concern.

“What is it?” He asks, and Boya blinks rapidly for a moment before shaking his head slowly.

“Nothing.” Boya replies, somehow very pointedly, and then sighs in relief. “Oh thank the gods.” He mutters, and Qing Ming blinks.

“Ah,” He says, “The spell?” He guesses. Boya nods, looking entirely too relieved, and Qing Ming’s lips twitch up. “A bit late for that.” He teases, and Boya rolls his eyes, before tugging him back in for another kiss. Yes. Yes he thinks he’s definitely found a new pastime.

Out in the hall, Honey Bug dusts her hands of imaginary dirt, and smiles.

Fin

#qing ming x boya #the yin-yang master: dream of eternity #qing ming #boya #honey bug #my dumb writing #wrote this instead of sleeping #oh no its cute #aaahhh #Honey bug you sneaky little shit #i love you

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juliettalfacharlie · 3 years

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Day 4, alt: Visiting a Grave

CW graphic death, gun violence, suicide, acceptance of death, and drugs.

The previous two years, she'd shaken with emotion. First with anger, then grief. Anniversaries weren't necessarily special dates; they weren't anything she looked forward to or dreaded, but it was still jarring to realize how much time had passed. She'd experienced a minute of disbelief when she first recognized it'd been a year since her wife was with her.

It was customary in the Earth Kingdom to show respect only towards elders. When parents lost their children, no vigils were held, for it wasn't acceptable to honour those your junior.

It was a practice that thankfully hadn't taken roots in Republic City. Kya wouldn't have cared, regardless. She was hurting, damnit, and that wasn't lessoned because Lin was three years younger than she.

Now, 1,095 days past her lover's death, Kya was finally in a place of peace. Not with Lin's killer, or the circumstances surrounding it. She didn't believe she'd ever accept that.

The two had been walking out to their car after an evening dinner, and Lin sensed an altercation a block away. Kya sat in the Satomobile while Lin cautiously neared, concerned over a potential mugging or assault. It hadn't felt like anything serious, especially compared to what both women had already seen.

Lin used her seismic sense when she'd crossed half the distance, seeing two figures. One was pressed against the wall, the target, while the other stood in front of them, the instigator.

She treaded as quietly as possible, peeking around the corner to assess the situation.

There were two men, both tall and muscular. The assailant held something Lin originally believed to be a small baton, but as it caught light from the streetlamps, Lin saw it was a handgun. They weren't exceedingly common, due to being new inventions that were quite costly, but the amount of nonbenders in Republic City meant they were more concentrated here compared to other nations.

Lin desperately wished for her old spool of cables, but she'd retired them fifteen years prior, and they'd been gifted to the top metalbending prospect at the time of her departure.

The weapon was pointed at the victim, so any surprise attack risked him firing. She instead went for a civil approach, calling from behind the corner, "Step away and put your weapon down." she instructed, hearing his loud gasp.

"Who's there? Don't come close or I'll shoot!" the attacker yelled. His voice was strained, likely from fear.

"You haven't done anything yet, kid. Just set the gun on the floor, and we can talk about it." she replied, using a tone of placating authority. She displayed power without intimidation; the other man was acting on pure emotions, he needed to feel like he had an ally.

"I don't want to talk. That's not going to do shit to bring back my brother." he said, and Lin heard a head hit the concrete wall.

"Killing someone else won't either. It's also not going to make you feel the pain any less. The only thing it'll accomplish is ending your own life as well." she told him, voice softening just slightly. One constant in life would always be violence, and there would always be people hurt by it. Lin stepped around the corner, hands up in submission.

The gunman yelped, swinging the weapon towards her. "Hey, I know you! You're a cop!" he said, and Lin had a full view of his face. He was young; not boyishly so, but somewhere in his early 20's.

"I'm not an officer anymore, but the experience I have means I know exactly how this can end up. I don't want to see that happen to you; there's so much left to experience." she told him, calm under his pressure.

His hands trembled just so, eyes full of pain. "There would have been if it weren't for him!" he yelled, turning his head to the other man.

His face was bloody but he looked otherwise unharmed. "It's not my fault the idiot overdosed, I just gave him the shit." he argued, and the young man clenched more firmly around the gun.

Lin intervened quickly, taking attention off of the loudmouthed dealer, "I know what it's like to lose a sibling. My younger sister. My mom took her side, so it felt like I was entirely alone, but I found joy in my job. In my hobbies and friends. It made that pain feel much more manageable, and I couldn't be happier right now." she explained, eyes not straying from his face.

"I don't have any of that. I just had him." he said, shaking his head.

"For a long time I didn't either. I held onto my anger for decades, and it prevented me from fully enjoying myself. I don't want that to happen to someone else," she told him, "It wasn't until I was 52, actually, until I let that go. I didn't get closure, and the people who hurt me never apologized, but I saw how much harm it had done to me. Shortly after, I started talking to the woman I came to marry. She's the best person I know; beautiful, kind, insightful, she brought out the best parts in me, and I found myself wanting to be happy for her.

"If it's too difficult to feel joy with yourself, would you pity an old woman and feel it for me? I promise you, this hopelessness isn't permanent." Lin said, watching as the man slowly relaxed his grip and lowered the weapon.

"How about you start by telling me about him, hm?" she encouraged. He kept the weapon up, pointed at her knee, but his shoulders had dropped.

"His name was Mingyu. I was eight when he was born, and I was so excited. We didn't have a lot of money, and mom and dad were always working, so I had to look after him instead of going to school.

"I taught him what I had learned, and he was so smart. I got a job to make sure he could go to school when he turned 6. He was so good at kuai ball.

"We lost our dad this year, and Yu took it so hard. I was too busy with my job to see it, but he at school he started- why didn't I just-" the man finally lowered the gun, eyes welling up.

"Kids make mistakes. It's not your fault that Mingyu slipped." Lin told him, taking a cautious step forward.

The man didn't respond, so she continued to close the distance.

Lin straightened, feeling the distinct thud of metal-soled boots. The police had been called before she showed up.

"Hey, give me the gun and we can keep talking." She urged, and he looked up at her, startled by her change in tone.

"RCPD, hands where I can see them!" an officer behind her bellowed. Lin felt a pit open in her stomach, watching the emotions flash across the man's face.

In a moment the gun was back up, four feet away and aimed right between her eyes. "You lied to me!" he shouted, and pulled the trigger.

Kya had heard the shot, and immediately she knew what had happened. She felt a tug in her soul, similar to the feeling when her mother passed, and she sat in the passengers seat for hours, unable to move.

The man who murdered Lin was only 22. His name was Han. He ended up receiving life in prison for killing the former police chief, compared to the 30 he would have gotten if he killed the drug dealer, but he instead hanged himself in his holding cell. He was survived solely by his mother, and Kya deeply pitied her, but it was because of her son that she was now a widow.

It was unbelievable to imagine Lin losing her life there, in the alleyway fifteen years retired from the police force, instead of the dozen times she'd been severely injured, or the hundreds where she'd faced worse danger. Kya forgot, sometimes, in the beginning. She'd return to the empty house and think Lin must be in the backyard, or wake up in a cold bed expecting the smell of Lin's favoured morning tea, tieguanyin, to have permeated upstairs.

Kya had been so achingly raw with pain. She'd felt nothing like it before, where the jagged edges of her grief made her lash out instead, but for months she hated Lin for having left her. Spirits damn her noble nature.

After five months the wounds finally soothed, but she'd been terribly surprised to feel its return when she visited Lin's grave a year past her demise.

She then felt guilt over her reaction; Lin had told her countless times how Kya had "saved" her. Shown her love, and helped her realize to be cared for wasn't negative. Kya wished so desperately just to speak to her once more. To thank her for all that she gave, and ensure Lin knew how deeply she'd been loved.

The second anniversary was when she felt sorrow, but in the past year she'd received news that wasn't altogether bad. It made the third occurrence pass with far less grief.

Kya had been experiencing chest pains and severe shortness of breath. From her own diagnosis, she surmised her heart was giving out, but a healer in the city confirmed it with ease. There wasn't too much surprise given her age, approaching 84, her lifestyle, not always the healthiest, and the compounding emotional experiences she'd weathered. While she'd never looked forward to death, she found that she was ready for it whenever the time came.

It was almost freeing, sitting in front of Lin's grave without the cloud of overwhelming emotion. She didn't visit her final resting place except for this anniversary, as she'd been buried in the Beifong family's tomb all the way in the Earth Kingdom. Lin had been rigid on tradition that way, even if Toph insisted against it and Su planned to start her own in Zaofu. Kya had only wanted to honour her wishes; being with her mortal body didn't give her a particular sense of closeness. She sensed Lin at random moments regardless of her location, which had been one hint she hadn't yet chosen reincarnation. Her spirit had remained hidden despite thorough searching in the Spirit World, but Kya knew she was only waiting for Kya's time.

And with it nearing, for the first time she faced the gilded headstone with a glimmer of hope.

#kyalin #lin beifong #kya lok #cw mental health #in honour of the Qingming Festival #why did i write so much these were supposed to be like 300 words each #angstpril

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the-melting-world · 3 years

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The Empress | Side A: “Everything”

Art by @markmefistov

~ In which a cheerful mage seeks the counsel of a fluffy magician…

The Trio Appearances: Kipling | Khleo | Ozy

Arcana LI appearances: Asra | Nadia | Muriel

Track Origins: “Everything” by Ben Howard

Not sure if this is the right track? The full album can be found here: The Empress

cw: none

~ 1.7k words

Ozy hoped that time spent with Nadia would clear his head, but even after they had dinner and later, their fill of each other, the grey mage still hadn’t been able to get his afternoon with Kipling out of his mind.

Ozy stared up at a ceiling quilted in sheer panels of fabric. The overlapping panels created a majestic framework, all shimmering in varying shades of fuchsia and indigo. Nadia drew the curtains closed on her circular bed before snuggling up next to Ozy.

As she settled against the pillow, the Countess noticed something somber in Ozy’s profile even in the dim light.

“Oz? Is everything all right?”

He blinked once and turned his head, his expression growing concerned. “I was distant again, wasn’t I? During… when we were…”

Nadia leaned over and gave him a reassuring kiss. “I’m not reprimanding you. I know you enjoyed yourself.”

Ozy grinned rather bashfully. “I did. Thank you for making sure of that.”

Nadia chuckled in the back of her throat. She kissed him again. “You’re welcome…” Then she drew back and said, “But there is something hanging over your head that’s making me worry. Do you want to talk about it?”

Ozy knitted his eyebrows together before exhaling defeatedly. “I keep trying to convince myself that Kip is the one holding onto too much of the past and that’s what is keeping her from progressing, but Nadia, what if it’s me?”

The Countess reached over and moved some hair out of his eyes. “Oh, Oz... look at everything you and Kipling have accomplished in such a short period. What makes you think that you’re holding either of you back?”

Ozy turned toward the ceiling again and closed his eyes. “I figured out early on how to contact the Major Arcana. They tend to give pretty good advice and sometimes I just like to sit in their realms for a change of scenery. But…”

“But what?”

Ozy opened his eyes. “I haven’t been able to locate the Sun. I know that they’re my patron. I’ve tried so many times to find them.”

Nadia was silent for a moment. And then, “What does that have to do with Kipling and Khleo?”

Ozy’s hands came to life as he wondered aloud, “What if there’s information the Sun has that I’m supposed to know? What if I haven’t done my part in locating them and it’s affecting my ability to train Kip? What if–”

Nadia gently pressed Ozy’s hands against his chest with her own. “I don’t think this is about you, Oz. At least not right now. I think it’s about Kipling.”

Ozy’s hands twitched slightly against Nadia’s. “I don’t know what to do or who to go to in order to ask for help.”

“Have you spoken to Asra?”

His hands stilled. Ozy chewed the corner of his lip. “No.”

Nadia patted his chest. “He’s very connected to the Arcana, especially his own, The Magician. Perhaps you should start with him.”

It wasn’t the answer to all of his questions, but Nadia’s suggestion made Ozy’s brain settle. The grey mage took that as a positive sign. He chose not to dwell on it anymore, lest his thoughts take him off into another cycling of what-ifs.

He thanked Nadia and got more comfortable next to her. Then he closed his eyes and waited for sleep.

The next day when Oz’mandias showed up at Asra and Kipling’s shop, it almost seemed as if Asra had been expecting him this whole time. Ozy made sure to arrive when he knew Kip would be busy with making her deliveries around the city.

After Asra let Ozy inside and the grey mage explained his concerns, the magician sighed and said, “I agree with you. The memory of Khleo is still holding Kip back. I think that Kip’s patron is the only one who can help her now.”

Ozy nodded. “Something tells me that the journey will be rough, but we have to get there. I don’t think she can do it on her own.”

“Come with me.” Asra came out from behind the front desk and started closing down the shop. When he and Ozy were outside and he was locking the door, he said, “To be honest, Ozy, I’ve been trying to get Kip an audience with the Empress for a while, but even with the help of my own patron, nothing has come from it. However, Muriel might know where we should start looking. He was the last one to give Kipling a reading.”

Asra and Ozy spent most of the walk to Muriel’s hut in silence. When they entered the woods and the sounds of the city were replaced by a deeper blanket of silence, Asra asked Ozy, “Can you tell me what Khleo was like?”

Ozy didn’t expect the magician to ask that question, but he was happy to give a little insight.

“They were quite friendly! But they would brood a lot. And from what I can tell, they haven’t changed much in that regard.”

Asra slowed down. “What do you mean, from what you can tell? You found them?”

“I did.” Ozy said with a smile.

Asra blinked. “Where? In another realm?”

Ozy shook his head, his beads chirping happily. “Nope. Khleo lives and works right here in Vesuvia. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if she and Kipling crossed paths a few times before I showed up. Only, they didn’t know it thanks to their individual experiences with memory loss.”

Asra stopped walking altogether. “Have you told Kipling about this? I feel like she would want to know.”

Ozy stopped as well. He looked over his shoulder at the magician. “Of course she would want to know. And as soon as she learns of Khleo’s whereabouts, she wouldn’t hesitate to abandon her training and instead fixate on seeking them out. Think about what a disaster that would be. Khleo’s not ready for us to intervene on their life. Kipling’s not ready to step away from her training. There are Doors and Rooms that need Kip’s attention before she can go flouncing after Khleo.”

“Ozy,” Asra sighed, “I see what you’re getting at, but I don’t know if that’s fair. Kip’s been hurting this whole time. She needs to reconnect with Khleo at some point.”

“Yes, Asra, I completely agree,” Ozy interjected. “All puzzles deserved to be unscrambled. All equations want to be solved.”

Asra’s eyes darkened. He said coldly, “Kipling is not some damn equation.”

“Timing!” Ozy barked. “It’s about the timing, Asra. That’s the puzzle here. Not my cousin.”

Asra sobered at the serious tone Ozy had taken with him.

After a moment, the grey mage offered a more gentle expression. “You’re going to have to trust me on this one. Bringing Khleo and Kipling face to face right now is not a good idea.”

Asra clenched his jaw, but decided to back off. He gestured ahead of them. “We’re here.”

As soon as Muriel opened the door for them and saw Ozy, he adopted a relatively polite, but a cautious demeanor. Asra honestly had no idea how Muriel would react to Ozy, who was naturally open and genuine, but perpetually excitable.

Asra did his best to make it very clear to Muriel that not only was Ozy Kip’s dear friend, but Nadia considered him very trustworthy. This seemed to help Muriel relax a little more in Ozy’s presence.

After Asra quickly informed Muriel of why they had come to visit, the huntsman flicked his sharp green gaze back and forth between the two magicians before leaning back on his stool and huffing, “I don’t know if there’s much I can do to help. You already know everything about the reading I gave Kip.” Still, Muriel’s gaze became thoughtful as he probed his mind for things that might be useful to Asra and Ozy.

Finally, after several minutes of silence, he said, “I don’t know if this is something that could help, but ever since Kip’s nightmares have gotten worse, her plant magic has been acting on its own accord.”

Ozy leaned forward, his hazel irises sparking with interest. “Explain. What do you mean?”

Muriel bristled slightly at his directness, but after an encouraging nod from Asra, the green-eye mage elaborated. “Wherever Kip goes on this property, she leaves behind a trail of daisies. They usually don’t sprout until a few hours later. At first I thought it was a coincidence, but I couldn’t deny it when I noticed the pattern of the flowers blooming only in the places that Kipling had visited.”

Ozy gave Muriel a little space, his gaze wandering as he processed this new information. This wasn’t news to Asra, but he hadn’t been sure if it was important enough to share with Ozy earlier.

“The daisies. Are they still there, Muriel?”

This time Muriel was not caught off guard by the directness of Ozy’s question.

He nodded. “They are.”

Once again, Ozy’s gaze locked onto his. “Show me, please.”

Soon Asra and Ozy were following Muriel out onto his garden and the forest that surrounded his hut. Ozy dropped into a crouch at the first cluster of daisies they came across.

Ozy grazed the petals with the tips of his fingers, picking up on the magical traces of permanence. The flowers were so white, they looked bleached even under the shade of the surrounding oaks.

“These look just like the daisies that sprouted when Kipling took us to Strength’s realm,” Asra noted.

Ozy heard Asra’s comment, but he didn’t speak on it. He was busy arriving at his own conclusions.

Everything, it seemed, came back around to the same point.

Khleo.

All this time, Ozy had given Kipling space when it came to the subject of their long lost friend. He was afraid to push. Afraid to take it too far.

But what if I need to take it there? Ozy wondered as he continued to brush the surface of the daisies and feel Kip’s magic buzzing under his fingertips.

As a long time scholar of grey magic, Ozy had developed his own instinct when it came to the pursuit of certain pieces of knowledge. He could acknowledge that there was time to give himself space and learn something in natural degrees.

But there were times when the information he needed would not come quietly, and Ozy would have to really push himself in order to get results.

Kipling found and opened Strength’s Door on her own. Twice.

Khleo had been the motivation behind both instances.

Based on this information, Ozy’s instincts told him that if he expected anything more from Kip going forward, he was going to have to push her in the right direction.

#arcana albums: the empress #arcana albums #the arcana #kipling the apprentice #ozy the grey mage #asra #asra alnazar #asra the arcana #nadia #nadia satrinava #nadia the arcana #the arcana fanfic #the arcana fanfiction #the arcana fic #muriel #muriel the arcana

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livingandthriving · 4 years

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My AoS S7 rant

SO. Here’s why I’m having a hard time with the Daisy/Daniel romance they’re trying to sell us. Aside from the fact that I just don’t see a romantic spark between the two of them and that it’s pretty rushed (they’ve only known each other for what, a week at this point? And we’ve only got 4 episodes left), the only way this would even be possible would be for Peggy Carter to be an idiot. A massive, massive idiot. Because only an idiot would break up with someone who is perfect for them.

@eggsaladstain wrote a lovely post on how sweet and caring Daniel is and how he complements Daisy’s intensity and impulsive nature and how it’s important for someone like her to have someone like him to back her up and pick her back up when she needs it. And to an extent I agree; Daisy definitely needs someone like that in her life (which is why I was never a fan of the Deke and Daisy pairing either: Deke’s a good guy but he’s still a walking disaster half the time and Daisy needs somebody more grounded). But here’s the thing: all those things that (on paper at least) make him perfect for Daisy are the very same things that make him perfect for Peggy. And the character of Daniel Sousa was originally created to be Peggy’s future husband, and they were canonically a couple by the end of Agent Carter. Which begs the question: why in the world would they break up, especially after all they had to work through in order to get together in the first place?

Season 1 of Agent Carter shows Peggy slowly coming to terms with Steve’s (apparent) death and by the end of the season she’s gotten to the point where she’s accepted it and is ready to move on, and we get the first hint that Daniel’s massive crush on her might not be so one-sided after all. In season 2, a misunderstanding and some lingering insecurities have caused Daniel to pull away, and between that and having another guy express interest in her, Peggy has to do a bit of soul-searching and determine exactly what (or rather who) she wants (summed up in what is arguably the trippiest sequence in the entire MCU and which also features Enver’s magnificent singing voice *swoon*). And she comes to the conclusion that a) she wants Daniel and b) she is NOT going to let her second chance at love slip through her fingers again. So, once the bad guys have been defeated and the misunderstandings cleared up along the way, she makes her move – after Daniel basically dares her to. Because he knows now how she feels about him and knows that she might need a little encouragement to act on said feelings: she might be recklessly impulsive when it comes to a lot of things, but after what happened with Steve she is understandably more cautious with her heart these days. And hoo boy, is it satisfying. The epic kiss she plants on him is one of my all-time favorites (I rank it right up there with the Philinda kiss from season 5). It’s been a long time coming, but they are finally on the same page.

So, after all that, I’m expected to believe that Peggy just dropped Daniel like a hot potato because Steve happened to show up (or possibly an unrelated reason)? Nope, I’m not buying it. It would mean her forgetting 2 years’ worth of character development and suddenly being unable to appreciate the exquisite specimen of humanity that is Daniel Sousa, and I just don’t see that happening. Not with competent writers, anyway. Which begs the question of why the AoS writers, who are some of the very best I’ve ever seen, would go along with such blatant character assassination. I can only assume they felt obligated to tie in the show with the movies somehow and figured that the best they could do was to put Daniel with somebody who appreciates him. A fix-it of sorts. It’s a nice idea, and certainly better than leaving him to be alone for the rest of his life and/or assassinated by Hydra (because he definitely would have noticed the infiltration; good job on that one, AoS). But honestly, I think they would have done better to just ignore Endgame altogether, which they could easily have done, seeing as they already changed the timeline at the end of season 5. All they had to do was show that in this timeline, the Snap never happened (which they inadvertently implied with season 6), therefore Endgame never happened, therefore neither Steve nor Peggy were idiots, and when the team shows up in 1955, Peggy and Daniel are happily married. And maybe Daisy sees them together (or at the very least sees how much Daniel adores and respects his wife) and decides that she wants that too. It would still be tricky to realistically have her find love again in just 10 episodes, especially with the time jumps, but they could at least show her resolving to keep an eye out for a man who complements her the way Daniel complements Peggy.

All that to say, a romantic relationship between Daisy and Daniel could only happen at the expense of Peggy Carter’s character development, and I am 1000000% Not Okay with that.

#aos s7 #agent carter #peggysous #rant

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katnissmellarkkk · 4 years

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AN: Hiiiii, alright I’ve been working on this story since I posted my first chapter and, as it turns out, no surprise, this is gonna be longer than I originally expected. Probably like five-ish chapters? I’m not re-writing every chapter or part of Mockingjay if Peeta wasn’t hijacked, just snippets of the essential plotline and events if Peeta hadn’t been hijacked.... did that make sense?

Alright, anyways, I wanna also take this time to say I definitely did not expect the amount of love I received on the first part of this and omg I’m so honored and touched. I really wasn't expecting you guys to be so supportive in this fandom. Thank you all so much, for liking, commenting and reblogging. It really made me so happy <3.

Also if you didn’t read part one and you want to, here’s the link.

I hope everything’s going well for all you reading this!

Also I need a title for this so any suggestions are more than welcome alright buh-bye.

Shattered Pearl

| Part One |

I know I've been shot. I felt it hit me, right underneath my chest. If I didn't vaguely remember standing in the tunnels, appealing to and pleading with the District Two men, trapped inside the Nut, the gunshot of a man standing behind us in the crowd, too cowardly to come closer and confront me to my face, if I didn't retain the image of seeing myself shot on television, I'd swear I'd been hit by one of the Capitol trains that once took me and Peeta district to district.

The thought of the train brought back memories I'd long held close to my heart. I had never spoken of nights shared between me and Peeta on the Victory Tour and prior to the Quarter Quell. Not to anyone. Not even Prim. It felt too personal and too vulnerable a memory to let anyone else claim it. For so long it was all I had to cling to, with him presumed dead and then only seen on Caesar's talkshow, tormented and a shell of the boy with the bread.

I miss him now, as I lay despondently, wherever I am. I feel a jabbing pain right where I predict I was shot, the injury feeling closer to a brutal beating than a penetration.

My mind whirls and flies and wracks itself up and down, backwards and forwards and side to side and somehow I can't remember even a split second where I felt the bullet enter into my body.

I feel my consciousness, my awareness, growing stronger now, slowly crawling in an upwards motion, like I was lying on the bottom of a lake and I'm only now floating to the top.

When my head breaks the surface, there's a bright, ugly, glaring light stinging my eyes and my first thought is one of comparison. Does Peeta experience this too, when he wakes up in his recovery room? Do they actually think that'll help anyone recover here, blasting unsettling yellow colors into their eyes as soon as they crack open? Is it their idea of a luxury, since everything and everyone else is so void of color here in Thirteen, like one of Peeta's drawings that have yet to be painted.

"Disorienting, huh?" I hear a familiar—so familar—voice laugh quietly. "I think Thirteen believes the more the lights hurt your eyes, the less we'll use them and the more energy they'll save in the end."

"Peeta?" I mean to murmur but instead my voice comes out in a whimper.

"Shh," he whispers, his voice all gentleness and sweetness now. The teasing, conversational edge is gone. He runs his fingers through my hair, pushing it back from my sweat covered forehead, hoping the ministration will soothe me.

It takes me longer than it should to place, but it strikes me after a moment that his voice now reminds me of a different foreign place and a different wound and an altogether different time.

The confusion. The comforting, appeasing voice. The soft, tender gesture. It eerily reminds me of waking up in the cave, after having bled out from my head, only to find my body weak and Peeta's shockingly strong and the tables turning and him taking care of me.

My hands act to their own accord and cannot be stilled, no matter how comforting Peeta's fingers feel, sifting through my hair.

I fumble roughly with the bandages covering my left side, where the bullet must have hit, and I force my eyes wide open now, in spite of the still disturbing light overhead.

"What am I still doing here?" I ask before I can really register what I'm saying. At his confused and—now I can see his features better, with my eyes adjusting to the brightness—exhausted face, I clarify. "The bullet didn't kill me?" I look to him for confirmation.

"No," he promises smoothly, understanding my puzzlement now. "No, I promise you, the bullet didn't kill you."

"What happened?" I ask, my voice and body both still far weaker than I'm in any way comfortable with. "I think I blacked out after I was shot."

Peeta forces himself to give me a faint ghost of a smile. "Yeah, I imagine that happens when a bullet hits you in the side." He takes my hand in his and begins to softly kiss it, repeatedly. Finally he replies, "you were shot on live TV and everyone in the country saw you go down. Coin and Plutarch decided immediately to spin this and fake your death. But Cinna made your Mockingjay outfit bulletproof. The bullet never touched you," he assures before adverting his eyes as they grew watery with his words.

"Peeta," I start, my voice raspy as it's ever been.

"I don't think I was that scared in the Capitol," he blurts out as if I didn't speak. "Snow knew, he always knew, that you getting hurt would have been worse torture than anything else he could have ever done to me."

"How do you think I felt when Snow and his guards had you prisoner?" I shoot back before I can stop myself. His torture was harrowing enough without me making it all about myself. He flinches slightly at my words but tries to mask it, for my sake, no doubt. I reach out and squeeze his hand, my body's grip embarrassingly lame and in no way soothing. "I'm so sorry you had to see that."

"No," he automatically refutes. "Don't apologize to me. You have enough people putting their burdens on your shoulders without adding me to that list."

I swallow hard now, my memory starting to piece everything together and I remember suddenly that this is the first time I've seen Peeta since Coin's men had essentially interrogated him into hysteria.

I hadn't told him I was even going to Two. I didn't even tell him how long I'd be gone.

And then I got shot on camera. And—as I should have predicted—the rebels used this opportunity to their advantage.

I can imagine what that felt like for him. I remember on the hovercraft to and for the first few weeks in Thirteen. Refusing to eat. Refusing to speak. Hiding in closets and sleeping only sporadically. Picturing every single time I closed my eyes Peeta being beaten to death, Peeta being abused, Peeta crying out helplessly.

I wait for him to blink back his tears again before final speaking. "Can I apologize for not telling you I was going to Two in the first place?"

Something new crosses his features and in place of the fear, the agony, the pain, comes an almost sarcastic, satirical expression. "Please do, Sweetheart."

I roll my eyes instinctively when he calls me sweetheart. He'd only ever called me that in the past to get on my nerves or irritate me. "You sound like Haymitch," I can't help but point out.

"This isn't sounding like an apology for lying."

"I'm getting there."

"I've been waiting for days."

I raise my eyebrow mockingly. "So that's why you're here by my bedside?"

"Only reason. I'm out as soon as I get my reparation."

"Well in that case," I trail off, shrugging—and inwardly cringing at the movement before bringing his hand to my lips now and planting a kiss there. "I'm not apologizing then."

He laughs and I pretend to be put out, which works until I try to cross my arms in false indignation and involuntarily eject a loud gasp of pain from the way the motion upsets whatever is broken inside of me.

Peeta drops the ruse then too and stand from his chair, sitting on the side of my bed to get closer to me. "Hey, it's okay," he murmurs softly, cupping my cheek and turning my distressed face towards him now. "Breathe," he commands genially, leaning his forehesd against mine. "The pain will go away, Katniss, just breathe."

I let out a large breath but it only makes the pain worse and eventually I just grip the hand cupping my face and squeeze with all my might. The lame grip I felt ashamed of minutes before is now replaced with an adrenaline rush of strength and I nearly break Peeta's hand in my much smaller one.

He doesn't complain and begins to rub my back to calm me down. When the searing, paralyzing discomfort subsides, the first thing I utter is, "so if I never got actually shot, what is going on with my body?"

He strokes my face affectionately. "You have a bruised lung. Bruised ribs. And your spleen was ruptured so they removed that."

"So I'm without a spleen?" I realize, my voice raising involuntarily. For some reason, I'm petrified that a whole organ was taken out of my body and I had no say in it whatsoever.

"You don't need it, Katniss," Peeta quickly reassures.

I deflate then, not sure if I feel any better or not. Peeta's words suddenly come back to me.

"Katniss, these people aren't too different from the ones in the Capitol."

Would I trust Snow or his guards to remove my spleen? No. So should I be okay with Thirteen operating on me?

I shake my head, knowing this is redundant and ridiculous. My spleen was ruptured. They'd saved my life. I was being paranoid for nothing and I couldn't afford falsely accusing the very people I needed to survive. Especially not when they likely are what saved my life.

Peeta sees my face contort and the disheartenment etch itself across my features. Still remaining tender and cautious, he leans his own wounded, beaten face down and places kisses against my cheek.

I try to hold off but his lips bring a smile to mine, and even with all the confusion bubbling around my head, all the disbelief and uncertainty, in regards to my feelings towards him, Gale, Coin, this war and the Revolution itself, I still can't help the feeling of hope spreading across my chest, filling my heart up in a way I never let myself consider it could again.

"Peeta?" I whisper then and he pulls back from planting kisses on my face to look at me.

"Hmm?"

"If my lung is bruised, why did you tell me to breathe deeply to stop the pain?"

He freezes for a second, contemplating and considering before a slightly bashful smile crosses his mouth. "You're the healer here, not me," he finally teases. When I smile back at him, he leans in simply, as if it were the most natural thing in the word, and kisses me full on the mouth.

The kiss catches me off-guard but only after the fact. In the moment it feels right and tingly and reassuring and I'm lightheadedly happy and I don't even know what to make of how I feel on the inside.

"I'm not a healer," I remind with very little passion for the correction in my voice.

He laughs again lightly but then bites his lip and brushed my hair back. "You did say that to me in our first games, right? Real or not real?"

I hesitate for a full ten seconds before I respond, my face scrunching up. His words almost seem like an already formed game that no one had explained the rules of. "Real," I finally answer.

He's already elaborating before I can ask. "Finnick came up with it. He said it works for Annie and I should try it. If I'm ever unsure about anything that happened or what the Capitol tried to make me believe, I should ask." He shrugs then, slightly abashed. "It's repetitive-"

"It's actually a really good idea," I encourage, grabbing his hand in mine again and giving him a reassuring squeeze. And he looks at me then and gives me a grateful smile and his eyes are lighter now than they were when I woke up and I don't know where this is even going between us or if it's even going anywhere and I don't know where Gale stands and I really can't focus on my feelings right now because I'm a symbol of an entire revolution, whether I asked to be or not, and it may be selfish or immature, but I push away all my other conflicting thoughts and pull the boy with the pretty blue eyes down towards me.

He goes willingly, wrapping his body to me, only placing pressure on my right side, and I feel his face burrow in my neck. When his lips press to the sensitive skin there, like he's done dozens of times before, I shiver instinctively and close my eyes against him.

For the first time in forever I feel, for a fleeting moment, safe.

Prim and my mom interrupt not too long after that, but for some reason—other than Prim's cheerful smile—they don't comment on the compromising position they found us in.

Peeta promptly moves back to his previous chair and remains there for the duration of the day.

Haymitch joins us not even five minutes after my mom and sister, and he brings boiled cabbage stew from the cafeteria in tow.

"Here you go, Sweetheart," he says with a large smile, looking at the disgusting concoction with excitement now.

I look at the bowl, wishing I had more of an appetite so I could actually feel some desire to eat it. In spite of Haymitch's jokes, the cabbage stew would have been a luxury to me once upon a time, when all I could find to fill my screaming stomach was mint leaves and, if I were lucky, the roots I was named after. "How'd you know I'd be awake?" I inquire, turning the spoon around in the bowl.

"Oh I didn't," my old mentor quickly replies, plopping down in a chair against the wall. "It was for the boy." He gestured towards Peeta, who's running his fingers softly along my spine, inconspicuous enough that not even Prim catches on. "But I figure you deserve it more, since you're the one in the hospital. Speaking of that, why did you two switch places?" He asks, brash and wry.

My mom glares at Haymitch, disapproving of his callous comment, which catches me completely off guard.

My mother usually ignores all chatter between me and Haymitch and Peeta, only chiming in if Haymitch is speaking of something from Twelve that I'd be too young to understand.

I remember then watching Haymitch's tape on the train with Peeta, realizing he and my mom shared a permanent tie labeled Maysilee Donner. I look between them for a hint of familiarity I didn't see before and quickly realize Peeta's doing the exact same thing.

My mom quickly turns back to me, and gingerly but vigoriously, coaxes the stew into my stomach, even when I try to refuse because my ribs ache and using any of my muscles leaves me feeling irritable and shaky and hot inside.

"Just a little bit more, sweet girl," my mom murmurs, forcing me to finish the entire bowl, and it's only when Prim looks at me, the corners of her mouth turning upwards, that I realize my mom had used a long forgotten term of endearment. One that I'd rejected since her bout of deep, delbilitating depression.

I didn't comment on it and I don't think my mother even realized, but I avoid Peeta's eyes because evidently, by the looks of his smirk, even he knew the exchange was rare and hard to come by.

Just as I all but lick the soup bowl clean and my mom's whispering mournfully she has to go back to work and was only allowed to come see me for lunch. I am caught off guard once again though, when she kisses my forehead and whispers, with audible tears, that she loves me so much.

I feel like a monster all of a sudden, for the absolute hell I must have put her through.

I squeeze Prim's hand as tight as I can as she takes our mom's seat and scoots it even closer to my bed. "Hey, little duck," I greet in my most comforting voice. "How're things while I was gone."

Prim, as usual, puts up a-albeit, very weak-pretense in order to make me feel better. "They were okay for the most part." She pauses and bites her lip, contemplating to herself before adding. "It was just hard because we didn't even know you were leaving and then we watched you be shot on live TV."

"I know," I murmur apologetically, because it's all I can do. "I'm so sorry, Prim."

But my sister's shaking her head before I can finish and I swear Peeta and Haymitch roll their eyes at the same moment and if Prim wasn't here, I'd be telling them both off.

"No one's mad at you, Katniss," she promises, like that's my concern. People I love being angry, not people I love going through absolute turmoil. "Just... next time could you let us know?"

I nod automatically, because I want my sister to feel better, even though I'm unsure if I can even fulfill this promise. "Yeah, of course."

Prim just stares at me for a moment. "You're such a bad liar," she finally calls out.

Haymitch noisily laughs from across the room, but Peeta remains completely stoic now, and I want three sets of eyes so I could focus on multiple people at once.

I choose to keep my focus on my little sister. "Prim," I start, my voice still unconvincing. "I just... I never know what's going to happen next, so it's hard to know ahead of time what I'll do. The last thing I want, that I've ever wanted, was to worry you and mom."

"Yeah, but, Katniss," She refutes even and diplomatically. "You not telling us only makes it worse. Finding out from strangers you and Gale disappeared off to District Two on a secret mission with the rebels? Only to watch them fake your death? It was as bad as watching you in the games."

I feel my chest constrict and the breath fly out of my aching lungs as I swallow down the lump formed in my throat. "Prim, I never meant-"

"She knows, Katniss," Peeta chimes in, his hand sifting through my hair once again.

Prim looks at Peeta—with more familiarity than I've ever seen between them before—and then back at me. "He's right. I know you never meant for that to happen but... if you could just let us into the loop a little more, it'd make things a lot more bearable."

I nod, meaning my promise to keep her and our mom more informed now. I squeeze Prim's hand again and ask quietly, "how bad was mom when I was shot?"

Prim's eyes shoot to Peeta almost intractably. But I catch it and I press it before they can pretend it didn't happen.

"What's going on with you two?"

They both look at me in utter shock. Or is that the look of getting caught keeping a secret?

"Nothing," Prim immediately covers. Peeta, on the other hand, doesn't react so quick, and instead chooses to just shut his eyes to avoid looking at me.

There's something more going on that they want to avoid telling me. And instinctively, I don't think it's about my mother. Even without him meeting my glance, I can tell Peeta's embarrassed about something.

"Prim," I say evenly. "You're a worse liar than I am."

"You actually are, kid," Haymitch adds. "Didn't think that was possible."

"What happened when I was shot?" I ask again, my voice closer to a threat than a comfort now.

"Let it go, Katniss. It's not important," Peeta urges, his own voice more worn and irritated than I'd heard it since the last games.

"When has she ever let something go?" Haymitch ponders, unfazed by our whole exchange.

"Katniss," Prim starts but I cut her off. I can tell she was going to placate me, like getting shot turned me into our mother.

"As your older sister, you're not allowed to lie to me."

"C'mon now, Sweetheart. That's not being fair."

"Then you tell me, Haymitch. What happened when I was shot that they don't want me to know?"

Our old mentor sighs deeply but I can tell he's relenting. If I couldn't see the resignation on Haymitch's face, Peeta's whole body tensing up in anticipation would be a dead giveaway.

"The boy had a meltdown when you were shot," Haymitch finally states. He gives Peeta a long, measuring look before continuing. "He basically went ballistic and lost his grip on reality." He moves his eyes to train them on the floor of my hospital room. I know he's trying now to avoid Peeta's furious eyes, full of betrayal.

"What?" I turn and look at the boy beside me, remorse overtaking my entire being. I reach out and touch his face but he won't look at me, even when I try to force him.

"He was frantic for days. Couldn't tell the difference in reality and the lies the Calitol fed him. He was only released probably an hour before you woke up. So I guess you guys have good timing," Haymitch adds, trying too hard to lighten the mood.

"Peeta," I whisper after a beat, pleading with him to just look at me, talk to me, but to no avail.

"Peeta, talk to her," Prim begs on my behalf.

"It wasn't that severe," he finally states, his voice extremely muted now as he speaks in a hushed tone, only to me. "I didn't want to tell you because you don't need anything else on your plate. Especially not about me. And it was barely worth mentioning."

"I think it was worth mentioning," Prim chimes and Haymitch points at her and nods.

"She's got better sense than both of you."

Peeta ignores Haymitch. "Prim," he groans with an air of affinity that still boggled me. "Stop. It was fine."

"You were so upset though. And she should know, since she's the one the Capitol wanted to hurt when they tortured you," she advocates, impressing even me with her reason. "And I think we should all stop lying," my pure-of-heart little sister tacts onto the end.

Haymitch nods affirmatively towards Prim again, and I see something akin to wonder now in his eyes as he looks at her, and it takes no more than common sense to realize he's imagining life with Prim as his victor and how much easier that would have been.

"I just don't think now is the time to be talking about this, Prim," Peeta tersely states.

I can't help but interject now, after having witnessed their exchange this whole time, "I'm sorry, but do you two know each other?"

A look is exchanged between all three of them and I'm so tempted to ask if they'd like me to leave so they can freely converse in private. Finally Prim informs quietly, "me and mom were there with Peeta when he got upset. He actually helped mom because she had somewhere to focus all her own emotions. You know how she is, Katniss. When things get rough, she puts all of herself into her healing."

"Glad of be of service," Peeta mumbles despondently and I can see in his troubled eyes, he's blatantly ashamed of himself.

"Peeta," I murmur softly, taking his hand against his will—he tries to fight me from even picking it up—and bringing it to my lips.

He sighs deeply and offers me a half smile. "My being a lunatic doesn't disturb you?"

"Of course not," I quickly dispute. My mind is still processing all of this though. "So you and my family... bonded after I was shot?"

Peeta outwardly groans, dropping my hand. "Let it go, Katniss."

"I just never considered it a huge connecting technique. You know, I could have gotten shot a long time ago-"

"That's not even funny," Peeta chides and there's nothing humorous in his voice now.

I shut up instantly, feeling the mood of the room drop. Even Haymitch falls silent and adverts his eyes to the floor.

"I'm sorry," I finally whisper and I don't know who I'm apologizing to, Peeta or Prim. I'm know I'm not saying sorry to Haymitch, who is still lolled in his chair across the room. Although maybe I should, since he was undoubtedly as scared as the rest of my family. Not that he'd ever admit that to me.

Peeta shakes his head and his expression softens. Leaning in closer, he gently brushes his lips to my cheek, very lightly and very chaste, considering Prim's proximity.

"Just don't lie to us again," Prim pleads, taking my other hand firmly. "No matter how much you want to protect us."

I nod obligingly, maybe more to relieve my guilt than anything else but I do actually mean my promise. "Okay," I swear.

Peeta pushes back my hair soothingly before running the back of his hand over my cheek. "Okay," he finally repeats, only loud enough for me to hear.

And I know then that he's forgiven me.

///

Within an hour, my mom, Gale, Boggs, Plutarch and my doctor all join the party inside my hospital room.

"Isn't there a limited amount of people allowed in one room?" Haymitch retorts gruffly, unhappy about being squished into the corner and unable to spread out the way he was before.

"Oh there usually is," Plutarch confirms, his tone more joyful than I find appropriate, given my situation. And the state of the rebels now. "But I asked Coin to make an exception for Katniss."

"Can Coin make an exception and give Katniss a bigger room?" Gale mumbles under his breath.

I laugh at his sarcasm and his disgruntled expression. We'd made amends on the way to District Two, not wanting to be in potentially dangerous territories and still on the outs with each other. I expected the issues that made us clash—and whatever feelings that still lied between us—would all come to a head once we returned to Thirteen, but we unexpectedly took longer than anticipated in Two and now I was wounded. And even Gale can't deny he was scared out of his mind when I went down. Even he isn't in the mindset to wrangle with me.

I squeeze Peeta's hand in my own and pretend I don't see Gale's envious eyes staring at our interconnected limbs. I don't feel the same guilt I usually do when it was apparent Gale was upset by me and Peeta, and I wonder, idly, in the back of my mind, if this isn't because of the morphling I'm pumped full of.

My doctor is one of the same people who checked Peeta out after he was rescued and I realize I don't even know his name. It doesn't seem like I'll learn it now either, as he barely speaks. I'm half inclined—though I know it's impossible—to think my own mother is the one who operated on me, from the lack of insight the man provides.

In any case, the doctor doesn't seem concerned in the slightest about me and slips out of the room as soon as Plutarch shifts the conversation in a new direction.

"So, I was wondering," he starts, his face still much too happy to completely sit right with me. "Maybe if you'd be up—once you're out of bed and recovered, of course—to film a propo?"

I just stare at him blankly, wondering how on Earth he expected me to have any desire to film anything right now, while I'm still currently getting pain relievers pumped into my veins.

He misreads my expression and quickly adds, "Of course Peeta would be in it! The Star-Cross Lovers need to be shown reunited. I feel that could help with the cause immensely—"

He keeps talking but I automatically tune out his chirping voice as he prattles on. I can see his vision now. The Mockingjay Lives splayed across the screen, me and Peeta wrapped in an embrace, my voice loud and strong, announcing that we're going to keep fighting to the end.

I'm not the only one looking at Platurch like he's grown a second head. The only person who's not looking at the man with distain or disbelief is Haymitch, who's expression is either mildly entertained or filled with such incredulity that he looks like he's grinning.

Peeta's reaction is much stronger than I expect and it's only after he looks like he's grown nauseous from disgust or is planning on throwing something at Plutarch's joyous face, that I realize Peeta has no real experience with the Gamemaker.

He was in the Capitol the entire time I've really gotten to know Plutarch and the man's antics must seem completely foreign to Peeta.

I squeeze his hand before he can say anything and shake my head in Plutarch's general direction. He isn't harmful and I don't want Peeta to waste the energy he needs to recover.

But he has trouble swallowing down his obvious repulsion and his hands begin to shake and his eyes are far angrier than I would have expected in these circumstances a few months ago.

It's my mom who is murmuring about Peeta needing to check in with his doctors and how she'll walk him down there and she waits expectantly for him to get up and part of me faintly envies him for some reason. And I realize quickly that it's the way she talks to him—it's the way she speaks to all patients of her's, really. It's a firm tone, that's still kind but is very direct. Maybe a little authoritative and unyielding. And I realize at once it's a tone I almost never heard again after my dad's death and I took over caring for the family.

And I miss it. Despite everything. Despite my lack of trust in her and my fear she'll retreat back into her shell one day and leave me and Prim behind all over again. Despite my instincts to never put my faith in my mother again, a big part of me still misses the days when she parented me.

Peeta sighs, seeing through the ruse, and kisses my nose before heading out the door behind my mother.

Plutarch follows too, blatantly unaware of what he set into motion, and saying he was needs to review the film of the other Victors for their propos. I'm still appalled he wanted to parade me out while I'm lying in a hospital bed, but I do feel a bit more at ease knowing it's not just me and Peeta he wants to exploit for the sake of the rebellion.

I wished to myself I could actually go to where the fight was. That I could actually have a shot of getting close enough to really be involved in taking down Snow and his supporters, rather than being filmed as a icon to motivate other people to fight in this war.

I kept this to myself, as my even being in this bed was proof of what happened when I was a more central part of the fighting. And even then, I somehow managed to get shot while they were essentially using me as a talking piece for the other soldiers.

But there was something else on my mind and I turned to focus onto Gale now. Only he, Prim and Haymitch remained in my room and Prim was telling my old mentor about the medical uses of alcohol. I don't know what she planned on accomplishing with that, but it worked as a diversion for me at the moment.

"Okay, so what happened?" I press Gale in a hushed voice when I know Prim isn't listening. He gives me a quizzical look and I quickly clarify. "With Peeta and my mom and Prim?"

Comprehension fills his eyes and he sighs before continuing. "I wasn't there for the beginning. Obviously. I was with you in District Two. But I know that he was watching TV when you were shot, and he completely lost it. Apparently it triggered some kind of flashback to something they used to do to him in the Capitol. He was still yelling when we arrived back. I heard it when I passed his room while you were in surgery. Whatever Snow did to him-"

He's promptly cut off by a new but familiar voice joining the room now. "Ah, yes," Johanna Mason shoves back the curtain separating my cubicle from the one next door. Her's, I guess. "Fond memories you mention, Handsome." She winks at Gale. "One of Snow's favorite methods of torture. The old 'make Peeta watch a thousand fabricated video simulations of Katniss being brutally murdered, on repeat. Don't let him sleep. Beat him. Water him down and beat him some more. Make him watch the Katniss Dying Simmulations again', until he can't even tell you what's real and what's not."

I just stare at her, my heart sinking in my chest rapidly. "What?" Is all I can manage to say, my mouth drying up fast.

"I mean, there were worse forms of torture Snow and his men liked to use on me and your fiancé, but I was told you needed to be kept in the dark about those," she state cheekily, obviously trying to goad me.

"Who told you to keep me in the dark?" I snap, my eyes shooting between Prim, who's now looking right at me, and Gale.

Johanna, much to my surprise, points to Haymitch. The older man is still laid out in a chair in the corner of the room, having made himself comfortable again, but at least now has the decency to look sheepish.

"Listen, Sweetheart," he immediately defends. "You and the boy have your own separate issues, alright? You both don't need to take on the other's all the dang time."

"Haymitch-" I start to growl but am caught off guard by a completely unexpected noise. Johanna's hysterical, dark, morbid laughter.

"I can't believe you were rescued and I was tortured, and I'm expected to protect you from the truth."

I don't blame her. No one could honestly. She was tortured because of me and the rebels. She could say and do whatever she wanted at this point, and no one had the right to tell her differently.

"Johanna," I start but let her cut me off once again, becoming accustomed to the feeling.

"And don't worry about Peeta," she says but the resentful shake of her head doesn't fill me with hope. "Your mom made him her project once they informed her your suit was bulletproof. Her and your sister basically walked him off the ledge."

And because I know she's the only person who will be completely uncensored—something I can't even say about Haymitch these days—I blurt out my next question. "What was Peeta saying? When he lost it?"

Her response is immediate and I get the impression she enjoys telling me, for some sick reason.

"Give me back to the Capitol. They'll find a way to revive her if you give me back. I want to go back. I'll trade my life for her's. Please, let me go back."

As soon as the words sunk into my brain, I wanted to puke.

So I did.

////

Johanna wasn't happy about my vomiting a literal foot away from her and she was downright livid when no one else appeared to be irritated with me but she reached a breaking point when both Peeta—who returned upon hearing my loud gagging—and Gale comforted me.

It was an odd sensation to be in not just conversation with both Peeta and Gale but to have them both be so sweet to me, at the same exact time. Without even so much as looking crossly towards the other one.

Gale held my hand and told me to calm down in a gentle voice he only ordinarily used for one of our sisters or his mom. Peeta was sitting opposite him, on the edge of my bed and telling me softly to just relax as he stroked my hair tenderly. Even Haymitch had gotten out of his seat to call an attendant to clean up my vomit and Prim and my mom were standing at the end of my bed, looking worriedly onto the scene.

Johanna's voice was biting as she took us all in. "How much hand holding does she need? Considering she was apparently strong enough to be the face of our entire cause."

"I shouldn't be," I instantly agree with her. "You should be. No one has to push you or tell you what to say."

"No one likes me, brainless," she says snidely, a leering smile spreading across her face.

"That's because everyone's afraid of you," Prim chimes in timidly, and I drop Gale's hand to reach for my little sister's, almost on instinct upon hearing her scared voice.

But Johanna has the decency to not swipe at Prim and instead gives her a sympathetic look. As if to say you don't have to be scared of me.

Her compassion evidently only extends to the thirteen-year-old, as when Finnick and Annie join the room right on the heels of Prim's words, Johanna barks out a cruel laugh. "Really? More people? Are we having a party to celebrate Katniss?" She gives everyone a mocking look around the room. "Well, I wish someone would have told me. I forgot to bring my streamers."

For some reason her tone suddenly forces back a memory of the last night in the arena. Her cutting my arm open and my red, hot, sticky blood gushing everywhere. My understanding at the time being that this was an attempt to kill me. I know now that this was the rebels' plan and she was really cutting out my tracker but the sense memory can't be so easily rationalized away.

I flinch outwardly and both Gale and Prim's faces silently ask if I'm alright. But I'm quickly distracted elsewhere.

I'm, once again, wholly surprised by Peeta's reaction.

"Don't you have anything else to do, Johanna, besides bug Katniss?" There's a strong irritability in his voice, one I'd only heard from an outsider prospective in the past. On the off occasion I'd witnessed he and his brothers in any sort of conversation. Their relationship was tense at times but they were still siblings and extremely close in age. That made for a lot of squabbling and a lot of fighting and a lot of sparring with each other. And a lot of aggravating each other, causing Peeta to behave in a way I'd never seen him otherwise.

"I don't know?" She shoots back, not even missing a beat. "Didn't I have better things to do than cuddle you after Snow's guards were done for the day? And yet, who's shoulder did you cry on? Who held your hand through our adjoining cells?" She smirks and it's obvious she's speaking for the rest of us to hear.

Annie makes an animalistic squeak and covers her ears. Finnick quickly wraps an arm around her and shoots a glare at Johanna.

"What?" She snaps. "Annie was there in the Capitol, Finnick. She know what went down."

"Doesn't mean you have to remind her of it," I state, my voice grave as I watch the mad girl Finnick loves more than life itself retreat into her own psyche.

And for some odd reason, I relate. To both Finnick, who's doing everything he can now to bring her back from the dark depths of her own mind, and Annie herself, who is buried beneath the ruins of a trauma she'll never be able to escape and is visibly struggling to dig her way back out.

I look to Peeta then, almost imperceptibly, and he just gives me a knowing, almost satirical glance. He was undoubtably thinking the same thing.

Johanna is ready to spit in my face, and she probably would, no doubt, if it were just the two of us. "You have no idea what went down after we were captured," she seethes, growing closer to me, and Peeta places an arm in front of her, blocking me from her reach, but I note the gesture isn't rough or hostile.

Gale and my mom both look like they're going to intervene. Finnick is busy with Annie now. Prim looks shell shocked and Haymitch seems to have lost interest in watching us.

For some reason, maybe it's the morphling, maybe I just feel safe surrounded by so many people who would stop her if she lunged for my throat, but I decide to reply. "Is that why you hate me so much?"

Her violent demeanor dissipates but she still has a spiteful glint in her gaze. "That's part of it. And partially because everyone is so obsessed with you. I've never seen anything about you that's so good or special."

"I agree with you about that," I say quietly, knowing it'll do nothing to mend fences with her.

Haymitch, who out of everyone I thought would agree as well, is the one who speaks up. "There's plenty good in that girl," he retorts sharply, his grey eyes hard as he stares at Johanna.

That caught me—and Peeta, by the look on his face—more off guard than anything Johanna had said thus far.

But it's Johanna's words, which aren't even directed at me, that send a chill to my spine. "Careful, Haymitch. Remember, I'm the one who's always there for the victor you constantly forget about. Or was that you who held his hand while the doctors and Mrs. Everdeen had him strapped down for two days?"

Gale is the one who responds, much to my surprise. "Okay, stop. I know you've been through—"

"Handsome," she cuts off, her voice clipped and snarky but she still bats her lashes in his direction. "You don't know anything."

"Johanna, please," Peeta murmurs now, his tone softer and a lot more understanding. "Please go back to your cubicle. I'll tell the doctors you're complaining of massive pain and need more morphling."

She stares at Peeta, her eyes softening the same way they did for Prim only minutes before. Finally she says, "it's the least you can do. Considering you wouldn't share your fiancé's with me."

And, as soon as she appeared, she had evaporated behind the curtain.

And I feel like somehow, I'm the only person who is left reeling in her absence.

/////

My mom was called back to work once again—and this time, she was made to stay there, my condition apparently too stabilized for them to be letting one of their better healers cut back on her hours—and she took Prim with her. I don't know if it was because Prim would be of use or if she just thought I needed alone time without worrying about my sister overhearing too much.

It occurs to me how much my mom is trying now to wordlessly look out for my needs. I decide to make a point in finding a way to say thank you to her. Even if our relationship will never be what it could have been, had there never been corruption or games or mine explosions. Had there been proper help to those suffering and in need.

Finnick chats with me and Peeta for a moment—and entirely ignores Gale but I suspect that's less about being intentionally rude and more about never knowing what to do with my best friend slash fake cousin—before escorting Annie away. She still looks shaken up and I wonder what happened to her in the Capitol. Or if she was already this unstable. I scarcely remember anything about her or her games, prior to what Peeta reminded me of in the Quell.

"You look tired," Peeta notes, brushing my hair back from my forehead. I smile lightly, about to kiss the palm of his hand before noticing Gale's eyes. They are quite apparently envious of Peeta's affection towards me and my acceptance of it, of how naturally Peeta can touch me, of the innate intimacy between the two of us that I never shared with him. But he tries his best to mask it and for that, I feel even worse.

I look to Haymitch without realizing it and somehow the older man understands without me even consciously thinking of asking.

"Boy," Haymitch grunts, putting on a good show as he stands up. "Let's go get some real food from the cafeteria. I hear if we say we'll participate in Plutarch's Propos, we can get better grub than the rest of Thirteen."

Peeta nods, his eyes gently running over my face, as if memorizing it in his mind. "Will you be okay-"

"Okay, Johanna was right," Haymitch barks now, grabbing Peeta by the back of the shirt, his grip much too docile to pass as normal though. "She'll be fine. Let's all stop hovering. She'll be up and tormenting us in a day."

I roll my eyes at his antics but smile meagerly at him as he guides Peeta out the door.

"Well," Gale breathes out as they leave. "That was subtle."

I laugh loud enough that I hear Johanna hiss from the cubicle next door. "I wanted to talk to you privately."

Gale chuckles. "Gathered that."

I know I have a limited time before Peeta returns and honestly I'm not too mad about that fact either, as I somehow, chessily, long for him now whenever he's gone. I inwardly cringe at myself before shaking it off to hurry this conversation along. "I wanted to apologize for me and Peeta. For how we can act. For..." I trail off, realizing too late I didn't pre-plan my words.

Peeta was right when he'd spat at Haymitch on the Victory Tour, "we all know I'm better on camera than Katniss. No one has to coach me on what to say."

I wished for his ease and talent with words now as I fumble around, trying to convey my message to the person who's been my best friend for years now.

He understands though—thankfully—and needs no more explanation. His tone has become solemn when he speaks. "You're really not faking it anymore, are you? Being in love with him?" His eyes are full of pain and he quickly downcasts them. "You fell in love with him in the Quarter Quell," he says as a fact, not a question.

"I don't know, Gale!" I exclaim, quick to defend myself here, like I'm being accused of something horrific. In truth, I feel like I am. I feel like I am, when I see how much it hurts him when me and Peeta are together. "I don't know how I feel. I just know I feel a lot for both of you."

"That's not good enough, Catnip," Gale whispers, shaking his head. But he uses my old nickname and that gives me hope. Hope that he won't hate me for not being able to give him what he wishes. Hope that I won't lose him entirely by the end of this war. "You really do need him."

I open my mouth to say something, anything, to try and rectify this. But I can't because it's true. Those are my words he's repeating back to me and they completely true. I do need Peeta. Maybe in a way I'll never need Gale. I don't know. I can't know. Not with all that rests on my shoulders already.

"What if I made you choose?" Gale presses now, leaning in closer. "What if I begged and pled and promised I'd find a way to make you happy? Would you pick me then?"

My mouth still hangs open, unsure what to say that get me out of this. I look towards the door, wishing Haymitch would reappear, that Peeta would burst through with his loud footfalls, that Johanna would pop back in and rub some salt in everyone's wounds.

All that would be preferable to this right now and I wonder why I ever wanted Haymitch to take Peeta away.

Gale shakes his head now though, having recieved his answer. "I thought so."

"Gale-" I start, not knowing where I was planning on taking the exchange but before I can even make a redundant attempt to mend whatever broke between me and him a long time ago, he's leaning in and his lips are pressing to mine and after half a second of shock, I'm giving in.

After everything I'd denied him, after all that he'd done for me and for my family, after how much he'd been there for me while Peeta was in the Capitol, I let myself give in and kiss him back.

His lips are different from Peeta's and I can't figure out how I feel about them. He's always been more grown, appearance wise, than Peeta and me, who both still could pass for years younger in the right clothing. But even his kissing is reeks of more experience, more practice, and somehow I find myself learning as his mouth shift under mine, as both his lips suck on my bottom lip expertly.

But it's lacking something and it's only then I realize, what I'm searching for inside Gale's mouth, is the spark that only Peeta's ever ignited in me. I keep waiting in vain for the warmth that started in my stomach and then rose up and exploded in my chest, for the craving that no matter what I couldn't manage to satisfy, for the thrilling, almost hysterical, tingly feeling, to overcome me and leave me lightheaded in a completely foreign way. A way that couldn't be attributed to lack of oxygen.

But it never does. I pull back and wipe my mouth carelessly on my arm and sigh, already sensing Gale's demeanor taking a nose dive at my lackluster reaction.

I'm not disappointed when I look to see his expression. His eyes are frustrated, his mouth is downturned, his eyebrows are pinched together. And I feel as bad as I knew I would. Because no matter what, I'm hurting someone I deeply care for.

But how I feel upon seeing Gale's face isn't even comparable to the amount of remorse that fills me, that overtakes my entire being, when I see Peeta standing in the doorway, having watched our entire exchange.

#everlark #thg #everlark fanfic #everlark fanfiction #the hunger games #Katniss everdeen #peeta mellark #au #mockingjay #mockingjay au #canon divergence #shatteredpearl #my writing #100

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nananaptime · 3 years

Text

Moon Struck

You are all beautiful, inside and out, remember that and never let anyone unworthy of your attention and affections bring you down with unnessecary comments <3

Moon struck: Unable to think or act normally, especially because of being in love

Masterlist Rules

Genre: Fluff all the way through

Word count: 1 980

Summary: When ones feelings are so intense, letting them out through creativity may be one of the most effctive ways of not getting submerged...

Dejun cast one last glance at you before shuffling his books, pencils and papers into his bag as the lecturer dismissed the students for the day. Not that Dejun had paid any attention to the content of the day’s lecture as it was the only class he had with you and not spending it basking in your presence was not an option. He had developed a talent for ignoring the lecturer’s pointy look. As he left the room, he tried pushing the image of you out of his head so he could focus on where he was putting his feet. It didn’t work and he managed to stumble as he glanced over his shoulder to where you were laughing with your friends, captivated by the smile displayed.

Shaking his head, he reminded himself that he was to meet Kun in the library so they both could help Yukhei pass his economics exam. Why he decidedly chose that as his personal elective was something Dejun had asked himself since he started college. Yukhei was normally more into classes that matched his interests but never had he ever spoken a word regarding economics until he had applied for it.

With his feet taking him in the direction of the campus library, his questions regarding Yukhei’s sanity soon turned into admiring images of your form, basked in sunlight as your nose was buried in a book. He hoped he wouldn’t run into you at the library, considering it’s one of your favourite places to spend your time, because helping his friend would be a lost cause with you distracting him at every corner. Not only did you occupy his mind every second of the day, but also his notebook in which he spent his time writing song lyrics. During the time it took for him to apply to literary history, meeting you and managing to fall for you every day anew afterwards, his notebook had increasingly turned into a lyric collection about you. He patted his bag, thankful for having somewhere to put it other than in complete visibility.

The campus library was a building which interior was in Victorian style, with big stairs and an open area in the middle of the whole thing, enabling a view from the first floor all the way up to the seventh. It was bigger vertically rather than horizontally and was, without a doubt, one of the most impressive buildings on campus. Dejun headed for the stairs on the right, glancing over the titles in the bookshelves lining the wall while avoiding the seating areas as to not bump into them. With a polite nod and a smile to the librarian behind the counter, which was located between the two stairs, he ascended to the second floor where he knew Kun and Yukhei would be waiting for him.

The sight of them had him snickering. In a hushed, library voice, Kun was leaning over the table pointing at a page in a book, his patience wearing thin, while Yukhei sat across from him, a confused expression glued to his face. Kun heaved a sigh as Dejun approached, who was unable to contain his laughter, before he slumped down onto his chair, fatigued by the attempt of pushing economical knowledge into Yukhei’s brain.

“Hey! Thank goodness you’re here, maybe you can put this into words that Yukhei actually understands.” Yukhei only laughed at the pointed remark while Dejun sat down beside him, bringing the economics textbook towards him.

Economics was, admittedly, not Dejun’s strongest suit, he was made of more creative components rather than mathematical and logical. Nonetheless, if he could help he would. After a while though, the numbers and strange terms started merging together and soon enough he had to lean back and close his eyes as he felt the days energy drain out of him. He felt Yukhei’s eyes on him throughout the whole ordeal.

“See! Not even Dejun understands this rubbish, how do you expect I should!?” With that, Yukhei closed the book and pushed it down the table. Kun gave him a fiery glare, daring him to continue down his chosen path of communication.

Their bickering fell on deaf ears as Dejun’s head once again filled with images of you, his concentration ability was severely lacking ever since he entered the literary history lecture for the first time. He was truly looking forward to that class and was determined to pay attention, that is until you entered his field of vision and successfully executed your permanent residence in the middle of his frontal lobe. All the interest he had for literary knowledge was thrown out the window and replaced by imaginings of your life, your current activities and active emotions. It was driving him insane.

As he felt his heart rate speed up as the images of your stunning features visualised themselves in his brain, he felt inclined to ease the strain on his heart and transfer the affections he had for you to paper. Hence, with the squabbling of his two friends fading further into the background, he opened his bag and reached in for his notebook, wondering whether or not he even had spare pages to write on or if he had filled it to the brim already.

As he felt around for the familiar spiral binding of his heart’s sanctuary, the panic in his chest increased with every passing second. In a frenzy, he ripped his bag open and shuffled everything around with such vigour he feared something would rip apart, well, except for his state of mind which was already shredded to pieces. Kun and Yukhei flinched away from the table, their discussion long forgotten, as Dejun spilt the contents of his bag onto the table, frantically searching for the distinct yellow colour of his notebook.

“Ok, uhm, Dejun… What is going on?” Kun reached for his friend’s arm but failed in his pursuit as Dejun lifted his hands and pulled his hair while his breathing became more laboured as the realisation that his notebook wasn’t in the bag hit him straight in the gut.

“It’s not here….” Kun gave him a confused look, silently enquiring for the absent object. As Dejun met his eyes, the reality of the situation kickstarted his functional movement. “It’s not here!” The realisation dawned on his two friends as he started throwing his belongings back into his bag. He barely registered when Kun took the bag from him and Yukhei replaced his hands in shuffling the contents together.

“Dude, go!” Yukhei gave him an insisting look. “Go check the lecture hall, check everywhere, that is not the way one should reveal their crush on someone.” He pushed him towards the stairs and without another look back Dejun dashed down the staircase.

The lecture hall seemed to contain every other stationery except for his notebook. He checked under the seats, in the trashcan, inside and under the lecturer’s desk, even out the window just in case some disrespectful student had found it funny to see if it managed to stay airborne.

The panic seemed a permanent state for him at the moment, and it only increased as he ran out of the lecture hall and straight into you. Both your bodies ended up sprawled on the floor, the only difference being you were surrounded by your belongings while he seemed the only resident of his occupied area of the floor. Once Dejun realised the state of your being he scrambled to his feet and offered you his hand, helping you up from the floor, which most likely was dustier than he wanted to admit. Your eyes met for a split second before he leaned down and started gathering your supplies. The fact that you soon joined him in the task caused his heart to pick up its pace once again, a phenomenon which now appeared normal in your presence.

Dejun found himself blinded by your smile once you stood from the floor and it seemed near impossible to look away from your eyes. As he handed you your pile of books and papers he had collected, his eyes caught onto something similar to the yellow shade of the sun, a shade which he gazes upon every evening before turning out his lights.

All he could do was point and stutter as you accepted your belongings. A small giggle left your lips, Dejun thought his heart might soar away, and you fished his notebook out from between the middle of your possessions and gave it to him. He accepted with trembling hands, hoping against all odds that you hadn’t read anything.

“You dropped it on your way from the lecture before, I see you with it all the time and thought it might be important.” He tried finding his voice but seemed unable to do so, hence he only stared at you, cautious worry evident in his eyes. “It was open on the floor when I found it and so I hope you didn’t mind that I caught some glimpses of the content.” He lost his breath as he realised what he had written had now been transferred to your consciousness. You smiled as the guilt shone through your exterior and Dejun found himself falling for you even more as he realised your concern for the potential invasion of his privacy. “They’re really good, you know. You have a certain way with words which, in my opinion, you shouldn’t keep locked away in the privacy of your notebook. At the very least, you should show it to the one it’s about. Anyone would be lucky to be on the receiving end of that kind of affection.”

Dejun realised then and there that you had no idea that the lyrics were about you, all of them. It was beyond him, how someone could be so unaware of their own importance, of their own effect on people, of their own beauty. As you gave a small wave and started your journey back to your dorm, he stopped functioning altogether. Without thinking or realising he had moved, he placed his hand on your shoulder, affectively informing you of his need to say something. Yet, when he gazed upon your features, he found himself tongue-tied once again. You giggled at his current state which seemed to pull him out of his trance and, with much difficulty, he managed to find his voice.

“They’re about you.” You smiled at the shy nature of his being and grabbed his hand, squeezing it as to give him some strength to continue. “All of them, every single one. My concentration level in literary history is non-existent because of your presence. All that is important to me during those hours are to memorise your features so I don’t forget them until I see you next.” He felt some kind of pride as he noticed the blush spreading up your neck and he hoped that maybe, just maybe, you reciprocated these intense emotions which were consuming his everyday life.

As his words faded out, you brought your hand to his cheek before pressing a small kiss to the one which you weren’t touching. The nerves in Dejun’s body seemed to fry away at the connection between his skin and your lips. A smile of adoration was plastered on your face as you once again grabbed his hand in yours.

“And here I thought your stares was caused by annoyance at my loud energy, it’s nice to know my feelings are reciprocated rather than rejected.” The sheer happiness which flowed threw Dejun’s body at your words forced him to look down to the floor as the emotions overtook him.

And if there was something he knew right at that moment, walking down the halls, hand in hand with the love of his life, if he jumped from the roof of the building, he would soar.

#nct #nct scenarios #kpop #kpop scenarios #scenarios #xiaojun #dejun #xiao dejun #nct xiaojun #nct u #wayv #nctzen #music #nananaptime

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youseissi · 4 years

Text

𝚂𝚞𝚒𝚌𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚂𝚚𝚞𝚊𝚍 현실판에

Chapter 4 - Illusion

Word Count: 4882

Chapter 1 ✧ Chapter 2 ✧ Chapter 3 ✧ Chapter 4 ✧ Chapter 5 ✧ Chapter 6 ✧ Chapter 7 ✧ Chapter 8 ✧ TBC ✧ AO3 ✧ Masterlist

Hongjoong clawed desperately at The Cardinal’s hands wrapped around his throat, applying enough pressure to leave bruises and have him breathless, his feet barely touching the floor anymore.

The humid stone wall behind him was cold and uncomfortable against his back, and the little air he tried sucking in was being swiftly stolen by the villain’s own breaths who had his face so close to his, expression dark and hungry like a cat that finally caught the bird.

“Listen here,” His enemy started, moving his mouth close to the hero’s ears, his lips brushing slightly against his temple slowly and unhurriedly, contrasting against the other desperation.

“It’s cute how you think you can stop me, I’m touched at the effort really.” he continued enunciating his words in a husky whisper and pausing to give a taunting lick to the blood flowing out of a cut above Hongjoong’s brow.

“But don’t start getting ahead of yourself. I don’t have time to entertain you every single time, baby boy. Be good and don’t push on my nerves anymore than you did today or I’ll have to seriously punish you. You don’t wanna see me getting mad.”

The hero no longer fought back, no more strength to resist against the villain as the other didn’t let up, not even for a second.

“Do you understand?” He asked slowly, expecting any sign from Hongjoong to accept and promptly submit in his grip.

He never felt so helpless, head light and sight blurred with tears that he refused to let fall. He could only feel his enemy’s warmth, voice caressing his ears and sending puffs of breath against his cheek and it almost didn’t feel like he was there himself, completely lost to the adrenaline and lack of oxygen.

“Hey!” A deep voice rang from the end of the small alleyway, distracting The Cardinal. The hand around his neck loosened slightly, but even so the hero ashamedly couldn’t make a move against it, regardless of the chance of escape presenting itself.

“All done?” The villain called out, slightly distancing himself from him and finally at the response of the far away figure he released his grasp.

Hongjoong fell to his knees on the ground unceremoniously coughing erratically, the air once again filling his lungs painfully, while his opponent left without a second look directed at him.

He never felt more miserable, not even being worthy of a real defeat, just being left there on the street like stray trash.

The hero laid there for a few minutes recovering, mind numb, before picking himself up and limping back into somewhere safer to call Yunho for help. For Yunho to carry him home , how pathetic was that, he thought.

Up until then he had never honestly wondered about what a ‘real defeat’ meant against a supervillain. For him as the hero it meant either shutting his power down or bringing him to the authorities, but for the villain what was he expecting to be done to him? Kill him? Should he be thankful for his mercy? Hongjoong thought he would rather be dead than that.

He had been exchanging kicks and punches with the villain for a while now, a few weeks into his new hero role. He thought he was being cautious enough, every time managing to avoid the big guy altogether and going directly to the big boss, finding ways to make him retreat while Yunho didn’t provide him with the inhibitor he had in the making.

With every success his confidence grew. The Cardinal fought a good fight, but his physical skills weren’t so high above his own and this time he thought maybe he didn’t need to wait, he could capture him right then.

And of course Hongjoong was wrong, oh so very wrong, because he felt like he’d wake the next morning with his whole body covered in colorful marks.The other was never serious about fighting against him before, that much was clear. He wasn’t gonna be able to win by himself, not the way he was then.

☀

Hongjoong had done the whole intensive clubbing, partying and hook ups on his first year and he still accompanied Yunho often, it was fun to destress after weeks working on a project or cramming for finals and at first he was the one that pulled the younger into it, the other still new to the city.

But it was getting old and as much as he enjoyed his roommate’s platonic cuddles that too was not enough lately. That phase he had of being self-sufficient and indifferent to being single was passing.

So Hongjoong was open for something serious, he decided. Willing to catch feelings, as much as that seemed like a bad idea. That was before he became a hero, but this and that had nothing to do with each other. It didn’t cross his mind that the whole hero thing would affect his personal life at all, just a background thought when his real life was his priority.

Not long after he made that silent decision for himself, Seonghwa appeared.

And Hongjoong didn’t quite believe in love at first sign, he really didn’t.

The moment that boy walked through the door though, hair slightly messed up by the wind and a silk blazer hanging from his shoulders like a cape, Hongjoong’s heart fluttered at the sight. As he read the list of his own favourite artists the other handed him it only got him more interested.

Their encounter was short so he tried to act fast, flirting wasn’t his forté when he wasn’t drunk, but he was confident enough to pull off his little trademark devious look and wink at him.

He was feeling proud of himself for his strategy of giving out his number and making the other come to him, not wanting to seem desperate or anything.

However as time continue to pass he regretted it, thinking that maybe he should’ve asked the other out then and there instead of trying to play hard to get, which wasn’t even his intention.

Three days had passed and nothing, Hongjoong wasn’t sure what was the normal waiting time for that kind of stuff but by then he imagined the cute guy must already have forgotten he even tried. Probably threw the paper away as soon as he was out of sight. Maybe he had someone already, he should’ve asked that.

He didn’t enjoy all that anxiety so he didn’t let himself waste more time, he was ready to just push forward and forget about it like it never happened.

And he did it easily because The Cardinal proceeded to give him, and his pride, such a beating that same night that he couldn’t think of anything the next few days.

So as he pestered Yunho to think on some new weapon, one that really hurt this time, or to work harder on his ‘endgame’ project, Hongjoong was caught by surprise at the strange number texting him.

The other introduced himself, throwing the hero off for a second until it dawned on him who he was, an invitation to a concert he conveniently had a spare ticket to following the brief conversation that started between them.

The day of their date, Hongjoong woke up early despite being the his day off to ready himself. It wasn’t too cold even though they were long into the fall already. Yet there he was, forced to put on a turtleneck, his neck still a litany of green and yellow marks from a few days earlier.

The hero spent quite a few minutes staring at them at the mirror, just letting the defeat stir itself in his mind again before he snapped out of it with a sight. He seemed to get caught up in those moments a lot since the day they were pressed into him.

Not fond of the idea of Yunho seeing those he dressed quickly and moved on to take his time doing his makeup flawlessly and trying on accessories. In contrast Yunho wasn’t fond of the idea of being locked out of their shared bathroom all morning when he really needed to pee, but oh well priorities.

The two grabbed lunch before the younger went out and soon enough Seonghwa was tapping at his door.

“Ready to go?” The other asked standing there in all his glory and Hongjoong’s heart was fluttering at the sight all over again. It wasn’t like he had fallen yet. But he saw the cliff before him as he looked at the other’s eyes, the potential for the deep drop it lead to.

They took the bus, on brand with being broke college students neither had a car, and spent the trajectory getting to know each other better. Things like that were always awkward, but Seonghwa held himself with a gentle and warm demeanor, making the hero at ease to open up.

Hongjoong never had any trouble socialising, but talking with the other felt different. Troubling in the best of ways, nervousness settling in the pit of his stomach. The older’s attention on him made him feel floaty and unfiltered.

It was about halfway there when he realised he was the one doing most of the talk, the other being just such a good listener and he was intending to turn it around when they were suddenly interrupted in the worst of ways.

☀ · ✩ · ☀

The bus had stopped quite a few times stuck in traffic, finally it was moving again when it suddenly halted, hitting the breaks with a screech as it crashed hard against something shaking everyone inside the packed vehicle. The panicked screams were deafening as you never expect that to happen to you, but it did and no one was prepared for it.

It all happened very quickly and next thing he knew Hongjoong was on the floor with Seonghwa’s arms steady around him shielding the shorter from above. Even though he didn’t even remember falling he must’ve done it and hit his head at some point because everything was still spinning when he heard the other speak next.

“Stay down, I’ll see if it’s safe to move.” He said, and after a second of looking at each other with Seonghwa waiting for him to show some sign of understanding, the older started moving to get up as the hero’s eyes seemed to comply.

Hongjoong wasn’t the type to wait around and be protected, but as he moved to follow he winced and fell back down, his forearm burning in pain and dizziness dawning on him. Huffing he took his time to slowly sit up, avoiding putting weight on it.

Seonghwa walked cautiously toward the exiting doors that were cracked up and dirty with blood spatters. Approaching it felt like a mistake, because he wasn’t ready to see what he saw next, one of his friends was laying there clearly injured.

“San?” He asked horrified pushing against the door, opening its weakened structure without much resistance.

“Hey” the other mumbled from the floor turning his head slowly to look up at him, his voice weak and eyes straining to focus. “Seonghwa?”

Seonghwa crouched down to check and upon further inspection San was stuck there in between the floor and deformed metal. The only thing that could be done was to wait for an ambulance.

The few people that were inside were getting up around him, the shock finally cooling down and starting to push around him to run out. Looking back he could see Hongjoong lagging behind having difficulty to stand up still.

Seonghwa made his way back against the current of people to help the other worried for him and as he was about to reach him the inside of the bus oddly trembled again with the sound of metal unhinging and bending, the few untouched windows now finally shattering with the feeling of an unexpected new impact, weaker than the last but equally frightening.

They crouched down again waiting for it to pass, a new wave of screaming banging on their eardrums. Seonghwa reached through the remaining distance grabbing Hongjoong hand and helping to pull him up to then hurry outside with everyone else wasting no more time.

The place where San was before now was empty, the rubble that weighed him down crumpled up inwards into the bus and blood being the only indicator he was there before.

The man himself was impossible to have disappeared, much less to be up and running when Seonghwa was sure he saw open fractures a minute ago. Impossible for sure, however as the older scanned the scene he spotted San walking away if nothing had happened to him, already heading into the frightened crowd with his head low before any of them had the time to register his bloody clothes.

Seonghwa left Hongjoong’s side for a second murmuring he’ll be right back, running towards San trying to catch up, still worried about his injuries. Adrenaline certainly didn’t cut it as an explanation for this, but the villain was as shook as everyone else even if he acted fast and seemed steady and processing what was happening was still difficult.

“San, wait up! You need to get checked.” He tried reaching out to hold him back, but the other quickly evaded his touch.

“Ah, Seonghwa-ssi, you were there? What a scary accident, are you okay?” the other answered with a surprised expression turning to look at him, as if they hadn’t met minutes ago.

“What? I’m fine, but you wer-” that took the villain back and San swiftly took the chance to cut him off.

“Me? I’m fine, don’t worry.” The boy answered hurriedly still holding a confused expression, his brow arched trying to seem worried, but badly masking his impatience as he fidgeted nonstop.

“But you were…” Seonghwa lost his words halfway as he checked the other from head to toe. There was nothing at all. His clothes were definitely dirty and ripped up, but every bit of exposed skin was fine, healthy looking if not a bit too pale.

With the wounds the boy had a few minutes ago he shouldn’t even be able to move an inch without crying in excruciating pain much less be standing and walking energetically like that, in fact such injuries should take more than months to heal properly.

“I was what?” San asked with an eyebrow raised almost challenging him to say it out loud, although he couldn’t quite place the emotion his eyes held.

Seonghwa would think he was crazy, specially with the look San was giving him, but he had played that game before and he knew what he saw.

“I’m fine really and I’m in a rush, you take care hyung.” San said finally rushing to get away.

Seonghwa sighed. So his classmate had a power like that. He wondered how he didn’t notice it before. He made a mental note to see to it later. He was sure he could be of help and San would need it sooner or later, specially with a power like that.

☀ · ✩ · ☀

Hongjoong watched as Seonghwa walked back to him, now waiting at the sidewalk away from the commotion.

“Was that someone you know?” Hongjoong asked worrying for the other.

“Yeah, a classmate. I was just checking to see if he was fine, he’s okay.” Seonghwa said dismissively.

“Thank god” Hongjoong replied relieved and then shifted his attention to himself, pushing his sleeve up to see what was causing this pulsing pain in his forearm that he put off looking at until then.

Even before he did, it was easy to guess the situation through the rips formed on it. He mourned the loss of such a nice shirt more than the huge bleeding scratches over his skin knowing those would heal with time. At least he could make use of the remaining cloth later on, hopefully.

“We should wash that up.” Seonghwa said, wincing at the wound. The commotion was huge as people crowded around the scene waiting for first responders. No one seemed to be really hurt besides a couple of old people that seemed overly distressed with everything. Behind them traffic started to form as the conglomerate of people spread through the rest of the street, many curious eyes joining in and closing the path.

Seonghwa lead Hongjoong away by the hand and the hero let him judging that staying was not going to be any good. Walking only a few meters they got into a nearby corner store, quickly asking the cashier for the restroom.

“Only for customers” the girl said chewing her gum loudly.

“Didn’t you see what happened just now? Shouldn’t you be at least a little sympathetic? A bus just crashed in the middle of the Avenue!” Hongjoong started pointing to his arm, clearly impatient and about to give some attitude to the attendant, but Seonghwa was quicker than his sharp tongue dropping a few packs of gum and a candy bar on the counter and pulling his wallet.

Great, this was going just great. Their bus crashed, his shirt was ruined and now his date was wasting money on him just so he wouldn’t cause a scene, the younger wondered what would drive Seonghwa away fastest, fate or Hongjoong himself. Both were clearly conspiring against the hero.

He wallowed in self pity as they made their way to the toilet, Seonghwa now following his lead as he lightly stomped his way through frustratedly.

He was lost in his own mind as he made his way to a sink.

“I’ll help” His date said, looking over Hongjoong’s shoulder at the injury being washed. Hongjoong was quick to rinse the blood off though, not thinking there was much the other could do either way.

“Here” Seonghwa hurried to put his bag on the counter and scavenger through it. “Let me take care of it.”

“What? You have some band-aids to put on it? I think it’s a bit too big for that” Hongjoong said absentmindedly looking around for the drier or some tissues. “Don’t worry about it, it’s fine already.”

“There could be glass shards in it and you’re still bleeding.” He said showing off a small first aid kit he had pulled out. “Come here” The older motioned for him to hand over his arm as he opened the little box and pulled some materials. Hongjoong was out of words for a second before resting his forearm into one of his hands.

“You carry a medkit with you everywhere?” He asked watching the other inspecting his injury.

“Mhm. This is gonna hurt a bit, okay?” Seonghwa hummed in reply while grabbing some tweezers.

“What a mom thing to d- aah! ” Hongjoong was mumbling before Seonghwa went in to pull out at tiny glass crystal.

“Well, it paid off now, didn’t it?” Clearly he was amused by the shorter’s reaction, but his smile reached his eyes warmly as he moved on to bandaging it up.

“I guess so.” The hero muttered gladly accepting defeat and smiling back at the sight.

After all was done and his things were pushed back onto the bag the older leaned against the counter. They shared a moment of comfortable silence, Hongjoong swirling his arm to admire the handy work.

“Do you still feel like going to the concert?” Seonghwa asked.

“Huh?” That caught him off guard, forgetting why they were there for a moment.

“I mean we’ve just been through what could be considered a pretty traumatic experience and I’m sure that hurts, so I understand if you want to end the day here.” Seonghwa said a sympathetic look in his face, if not a bit disappointed.

“Ah, no no I’m all good, this isn’t that serious.” Hongjoong answered quickly swinging his arm around as if to prove his point. “Let’s hurry before we are late.”

Maybe not everything was ruined after all.

☀

“I’m a fashion major.”

“I see, I can’t believe I didn’t ask that sooner but it fits you.” Seonghwa commented and Hongjoong couldn’t look more smug about the compliment. “Then what about my fashion? Am I up to par?” he continued with a raised eyebrow and a playful smile.

They were now back at Hongjoong’s usual coffee shop to unwind from the euphoria of the concert, trying to extend their time together even if by just a couple of hours longer. The coffee shop was always open overnight, being around a few student residencies that demanded for caffeine way into the later hours of dawn and welcomed them with a warm atmosphere.

“Hmm...” Hongjoong half pouted and scrunched his eyebrows, pretending to think and taking the chance to check Seonghwa out yet another time. “You’re decent.” He said finally his pout breaking out into a toothy smile.

The other scoffed mocking dramatic offense at that before his expression formed into a reluctant smile as well and both were laughing. “Then what’s your professional advice for me?”

“Hmmm, maybe you’re a bit too formal?” Hongjoong answered making sure to emphasise the doubt in his words. “I mean I’ve only met you twice, but it shows that you put effort on your appearance. I like that.” He finished with a smirk.

“Is that so?” Seonghwa replied, focusing on sipping on his coffee perhaps a tad bit bashful.

“Mhm” Hongjoong hummed back warmly satisfied with this new reaction he managed to pull off of him.

“Any particular reason of why you got into it?” Seonghwa asked trying to move on from the comment.

“Not really, just doing what I like. It was already a hobby of mine before, guess I’ve always been crafty, I’m just very good with my hands and all.” Hongjoong answered jokingly wiggling his fingers with a mischievous grin, Seonghwa rolling his eyes at the goofery.

“What about you? Did you just wake up one day and decided you wanted to be a doctor?” Hongjoong asked settling down and taking the last few sips of his own drink.

“I wanted to be a paediatrician when I was young like my father and his...” he replied gaze flickering to the window besides them, he didn’t bother to finish his phrase stopping himself midway. ”Now that I’m older I’ve reached the conclusion that doing research is more suitable for someone like me.” The tone of his words were laced with an emotion that Hongjoong couldn’t quite place, not bitter but maybe conformed, a suppressed sigh that the other didn’t let out noticeable in them.

It didn’t seem to be something the other enjoyed talking about so Hongjoong didn’t push it. Instead he relented in the vision before him, the other seemingly filled with thoughts as he gazed at the outside beyond the humid glass. The warm toned lights from the inside clashed slightly with the brightness coming from the lamp post right by their window as both illuminated Seonghwa’s eyes and Hongjoong wished they didn’t look so burdened.

He got caught blatantly staring and before he could avert his eyes in shame the corner of the older’s mouth curled into a smile almost as if to reassure him it was alright. It was warm and genuine and the slightest bit pained and intimate as if he was silently sharing a secret, voicing an emotion he couldn’t put into words. The whole world around them disappeared as Seonghwa sat there in his ethereal glory and Hongjoong found himself lost in it.

One of the waiters came to their table grabbing the older’s attention and startling him. A new face to him, even though Hongjoong was a regular, stood there besides their table asking awkwardly if they wanted a refill or anything else, impatience in his tone as he stood there waiting and pulling at a string coming out of his gloves.

That made the hero look at the clock, quickly declining when he saw the hour. “Do you leave far from here? It got so late, maybe it’s better to just crash at our dorm.”

“Ah no, that’s not necessary. My friend can give me a ride, he works around here.”

☀ ⇀ ✩

It had been hard to keep a front with the hero, as if he didn’t already know most basic details about him and so Seonghwa would forget to ask obvious questions as they ‘got to know each other’ in that first date, but thankfully the other didn’t seem to notice any of it.

Overall it was a success, the villain didn’t remember the last time he had a date much less had that much fun in a while, he almost wished he had meet the other in a different way. Almost, as he still valued the fierce or helpless faces he could pull from the other as a villain, but he still dreaded finishing that mundane night, enjoying how Hongjoong’s chatter took his mind away from all the problems he had to deal with even if only temporarily. Nevertheless as it reached its end he was snapped out of this fantasy and into his priorities again.

He couldn’t go close to Hongjoong’s dorm without the utmost caution yet as it didn’t take a genius to figure out that the one Mingi had forbidden him to approach was Yunho, Hongjoong’s roommate. And Seonghwa would be lying if he said he wasn’t not even a little bit tempted to know more about him.

The villain wasn’t particular scared of Mingi’s unspoken threat.

That being said, he knew better than to just walk up to him like he had done to the hero. Hongjoong didn’t have a power, as much as he had a nasty bite, he was still predictable.

He could be confident around someone like that, but around other powerful people he had to be cautious. His power was fickle and unstable around an opponent of that sort. Either extremely powerful or, more often than not, easy to resist.

Yunho was still a mystery to Seonghwa, and just as much to Mingi, he was sure. He grew up around people with powers, so he knew there was more than what meets the eye.

The off-limit boy’s abilities neutralised others and even though it sounded like the type of skill that’d be passively tied down to him, he still somehow managed to extend that to Hongjoong. Who knew what else he could do or what trick there was to it.

Unless he fully understood every aspect there was to Yunho’s power, Seonghwa planned to avoid him entirely while continuing to play around with his roommate.

He’d take the opportunity his little fling was giving him to carefully investigate and keep himself up to date with them. Stay one step ahead of them, so he could play without worry later.

The villain now waited leaning onto a wall at the dim lit street. He pulled out his phone to text his roommate to hurry up for the tenth time and almost as if on queue he spotted the black ranger turning the corner.

“Get in loser, I wanna go back to sleep.” Mingi called out, not very happy to be there it seemed.

Seonghwa got inside rolling his eyes at the other and taking in his appearance. His roommate looked like he just got out of bed, dressed in pajamas and a headband pushing his messy hair out of his eyes. He guessed if he could become invisible he wouldn’t bother dressing up for something so unimportant either.

“You should’ve told me sooner that I would need to come pick you up, you’re lucky my phone wasn’t on silent.” Mingi started off grumpily. “Wouldn’t you usually hitch a ride from San around here anyway?”

“I would, but he didn’t answer my calls.” Seonghwa answered dismissively.

“Must’ve stayed late at work then, I guess.”

“Or he’s just avoiding me right now.” The villain replied grunting in annoyance at the thought.

“Did you two have a fall out or something?” Mingi asked giving him the side eye.

“Not rea-” Seonghwa tried but got cut off, the other not finished yet.

“I mean sometimes you can be a bit too sensitive, you know. We’ve talked about this, even if you think people are making a mistake it’s really not your place to tell them off like you do, no wonder people snap at tha-” His roommate rambled, already inclined to side with his other friend.

“What? No! We didn’t fight, and y’all should actually thank me for trying to keep you safe or else I doubt any of you would survive without me.” He cut the other as well, now exasperated.

“Thank you.” Mingi replied, not taking his eyes off the road.

“You’re welcome, seriously the stress I go through for you guys, next time both of you call me drunk in the middle of the night crying I...” Seonghwa continued on a rant, not satisfied.

“I didn’t mean it, your power just slipped.” Mingi noted, chuckling at the offended look Seonghwa was shooting at him. “Anyway, why would San be avoiding you?”

“I just happened to stumble upon something rather interesting today involving would dear friend, you wouldn’t believe it...” The villain then had much to explain and plan around his new findings with his partner in crime.

#ateez #ateez fanfiction #ateez fanfic #ateez au #ateez superhero au #superhero au #kpop superhero au #my writing #SleepyFairyAO3 #youseissi #long #long post

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wxnnabe · 5 years

Note

20 with Abbacchio from the prompt list

I hope this is alright!! I tried my hand at some angst this time so we’ll see how it goes! More under the cut~

Leone Abbacchio had changed. Not just in physical appearance, it seemed-the air that he carried was so different to the man you fell in love with. Your Leone was strong-willed, determined, hopeful. His serious gaze would soften only for those he was closest to. This Leone, the one that spotted held you gaze from across the restaurant as you dined with an old friend was empty. Cold. Full of shame, regret. He had looked away from your piercing gaze quickly, and he got up and left shortly after. You will yourself to stay in your seat, and even though you didn’t want to leave your friend…it had been years since you last saw him, since he ran out of your life and left your heart in pieces.

He didn’t even leave a letter, note, nothing. It was you who pieced it together shortly after his family and friends shunned him for his acts, after the scandal got out. By then, your lover was long gone. You took a shaky breath, turning your head from the door to your friend. They look concerned.

“Hey, is something the matter?” You clear your throat.

“No, I just thought I recognized someone. Ah, you were saying something about the chief executor at your work?” They smiled as they rolled their eyes.

“Right. Yeah, she’s a real piece of work…”

Maybe you shouldn’t follow after the past, you thought to yourself as you parted with your friend. You had spent the past six months trying to convince yourself that you were over him, and that he had far from moved on. It sure seemed like that. You weren’t dumb, you knew the man he now followed. You heard the whispers of gossip when you turned your back. You knew Bruno Buccellati to be a double edged blade. He did good for the community…but did he do that you didn’t know about? You shuddered to think of it. Leone was far, far from the person he once was. You sometimes wondered if he knew how much you thought of him, or whether he knew how much you yearned to see his smile. Maybe you had everyone fooled but yourself. You still loved him, and now that you saw him, you would try to talk with him. Help him. Maybe he just needed your support. He was always so awfully stubborn.

But a voice in your head stopped you. Your Leone wouldn’t follow this kind of path. Your Leone was driven by the will to do good and solve the mysteries hiding behind true justice. Your Leone wouldn’t follow a man who swapped good and evil deeds in his hands like a juggling act. This man, whatever had become of Leone, it wasn’t your lover who left you. He was a different man.

Weeks past, and you tried to forget about him. Maybe, this hauntingly familiar image of your lover was a blessing in disguise. Maybe you’d finally be able to move on, knowing he wanted nothing to do with you. It, instead, made you all the more curious, and all the more hopeful.

So when you saw him next, in a small corner bar nearby that restaurant you’d spotted him in a couple of weeks back, you were surprised to see him out. Wouldn’t he be out working on a night like this? You didn’t really understand the entrapment’s of an organised crime syndicate, much less what an individual spent their time doing whilst they were under sworn loyalty of an organisation such as Passione. But you had reason to believe they didn’t spent all their nights off duty.

Besides, it was your anniversary, after all. Perhaps he had already forgotten? He didn’t look to fazed by a new face entering the already crowded bar, and a part of you wished he would just look at you already. Stare at you. Grab you and hold you in his arms and kiss you. You really were looking like the desperate, unrequited lover at this point. He didn’t look fazed in the slightest about the date, apart from the drinking-which sounded like his new routine judging on the rumours you heard. You sat at the bar, opposite his own lonely spot, despite your friends advice. Despite your own advice.

A part of you hadn’t given up on him. You didn’t know if you could point him back in the right direction, back to a way that gave you more hope for both of your futures. You didn’t even know if you wanted… whether it really was right, to do that. But that is what you would do.

The ice was melting your drink, and you downed the last of it as the smooth liquor trailed down and burned your throat. Your eyes glanced up and fell right into his smoldering gaze. What was he going to do? You thought he would at least give you something, a smile, a nod, anything. Something to say that the past year hadn’t gone to shit. That he cared. That he even…remembered.

Instead, he calls the bartender over for another drink. You’re left glaring into your empty glass for a while until you do the same. This continues, for more than you’d like it to frankly. You’re more than a little intoxicated, when you notice him nod to you. Once. Your aware now, that you’ve had butterflies in your stomach this whole time. It could be meant for someone else-but who are you kidding, this is Leone. Your Leone or not, he wouldn’t waste time on those he didn’t care for. Thinking you were something he still cared about made your heart jump in your rib cage. Having Leone care for you was bad if you were planning on getting over him. You could hear your friends voice in the back of your head. You didn’t care. If it meant that he was hurt just as much as you were, it would suffice. It would make the heartbreak a little easier to swallow.

He stood up, left a more than generous tip that he’d never be able to give out in his policing days, and walked in your direction. You couldn’t help but allow your gaze to follow him; he didn’t even make eye contact with you. He did, however, brush against you slightly; you took this as chance to move from your seat and pay a reasonable tip behind and follow him out. You wouldn’t let him leave without getting something out of him.

You open the door, and step out into the empty night. Goosebumps rise on your skin, and you wrap your arms around yourself. You circle him, as he stares you down. At least he’s not brooding on some garbage on the side of the street, or this would feel even more cheap and cliche than it already did. He has that same burning look in his eyes-and, for the first time in what seems like a lifetime, he speaks to you.

“Why the fuck are you following me?” You scoffed, and narrowed your eyes at him.

“That’s…does that really make you sleep better? That I’m the desperate ex?” You’re not good with edgy sad talks with your ex outside a relatively quiet bar on a Thursday night. He blinks, and he looks away for a moment. You take this as a moment to step closer to him.

“What happened to you, Leone? You…seem so. Fuck. It’s like I’m looking at a broken you. Do you really think following Bruno Buccellati will bring you salvation?” So, you fucked up. You paid the ultimate price. But you can grow. You, Leone, you can pick yourself up and keep on walking. I know you can. Just, not like this. His brows scrunched together, and he glared at you with an intensity you’d never seen in him before. You held your breath.

“Don’t try to fix me. I’m not broken,” The words came out slowly, but as he spat each word out they each hit you with enough force to have you reeling. It stung to hear him talk to you like that. You softened your glare, and took another cautious step closer to him; you were almost touching. His breath is ragged, and he seems tense, but you can’t help it. You slowly brought your hand up to caress his cheek, but he grabbed your hand and held it in a firm grip. Not tight enough to hurt, but firm. You let out a breath you didn’t realise you were holding.

“Don’t.” His voice faltered, if only slightly, but he kept his eyes on you this time. There was so much mixed emotion swimming in those eyes, you could see it. Shame, regret, pain, anger…you had wounded his pride, maybe. Or Bruno Buccellati’s? You knew uttering his name would stir something in Leone. It hurt to think that maybe this man, this Bruno Buccellati, had replaced you altogether. Erased you from Leone’s life. You lowered your hand, slowly, and he loosened his grip on your arm.

“I never said…I mean, what do I know? Last time I saw you was on the TV report after you packed your bags and left me,” He gave you a blank look, and dropped your hand completely.

“I’m not broken. But…a part of me…it died that night. With him,” He stood back, and took two more paces away from you. His eyes were cold, and held nothing but a warning.

“Don’t you dare try and find me again,” And with that, he walked off, into the cold autumn night.

You stand there for a few moments, watching his figure fading into the other figures walking through the streets. He was gone. Again. And you had no answers from him, and the pain and hurt he had put you through was crashing into you like a wave. You let your feet dragged you further into the alley way before you slumped on the wall and burst into tears.

#god if this is the wrong prompt #leone abbacchio #please tell me how I went! I'm not sure whether its good or nah but let me know if I should improve on anything #I'm usually...bad at angst #probably bc I'm a big Baby but #writing.meme

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hihowareyawrites · 6 years

Text

Touch Move

Cross Posted from my AO3

(no pairing), FMAB

Summary: Touch Move: The rule that says if you touch a piece you have to move it. If you let go of a piece you have to leave it there, and if you purposely displace an opponent’s piece, you have to take it; Instead of sacrificing Kimblee to Pride to buy more time, Alphonse and friends commit to taking him with them for a conversation.

Heinkel stared down the small boy in the dust cloud-ridden field as he heard the car revving behind him. With Al under one arm and Kimblee under his other, he bared his teeth at the child who made no attempt to stop them; getting the sacrifices back to Father was his intent to begin with, after all. It made no difference to him if Kimblee was with them or not, he'd served his purpose, as far as Pride was concerned.

With that, Heinkel leapt into the car and ushered for Yoki to move, fast. Pride simply watched them leave, smug as ever.

Only after getting away from the battlefield did Heinkel adjust the young men in his arms, setting Al aside and roughly tossing Kimblee against his back, who made a stifled gasp in protest, unable to speak from the damage done to his throat.

“Dr. Marcoh,” Al leaned over the front seat. “I need you to heal Kimblee, please-”

“Are you crazy!?” Yoki instead yelled back to him. “That maniac wont hesitate to kill all of us, and I for one wont-”

“Please. We need to get as much information as we can, and there's no way he could tell us anything in this condition. Besides, if Brother were here, he wouldn't sacrifice his life either. That's something we're working to avoid. One life or one million lives... I'll do my best to save anyone I can.”

Heinkel nodded, unable to argue with Al's feelings. Convinced by Al's resolve, Dr. Marcoh leaned back to examine the injured alchemist. “These wounds are grave,” He began, “it won't be an easy task, and we'll have to act soon. Yoki, as soon as you find a safe place to stop, I'll try to save him.” Yoki made a grumbling noise about their sympathy for a madman, but did stop as soon as he'd found someplace away from the dangers; an abandoned building, a factory of some sort, with holes in the walls large enough for their car to drive right through. The outskirts of Central proved to be rather useful.

Dr. Marcoh produced the very stone that Kimblee had been so attached to, and the Crimson Lotus Alchemist's cold blue eyes immediately focused on it, as if he could sense it whenever it was nearby. Even still, his eyes seemed cloudy and distant, with death creeping on him. Marcoh was cautious and healed him slowly, stopping the bleeding and repairing damage done to the skin, muscles, anything torn by the lion chimera's strong maw. Truly, he was lucky to be alive still. A weaker willed man might have perished sooner, but Solf J. Kimblee was nothing of the sort. Even after being healed he seemed reluctant to move- tired, dizzy, altogether uncomfortable. He would manage however.

“I've healed everything I could, the rest of your recovery is up to you... but I'm confident you'll be back to normal in no time.” Marcoh was impressed by the Crimson Lotus' determination to live, and to look so aloof despite his current position. He could recall the same young man from many years prior, zeal for bloodshed and destruction overwhelming, standing atop many a roof in Ishval with the same focused expression. Although now, his physical state was certainly much different.

“Watch out for those hands of his.” Heinkel spoke up, and pointed to the tattooed palms of the previously dying man in their backseat. “In mere moments, he could blow all of us up.” This announcement seemed to put everyone in the car on edge, and Yoki's hand was firmly on the handle, ready to exit at any time. Kimblee's hand lightly touched his throat, pale fingers grazing just over where his wounds were only minutes ago. He exhaled a breath he hadn't realized he was holding and made an attempt to steady himself better and sit up, but the amount of blood he'd lost was too great, and the difficulty in doing so showed.

“Relax.” The first words he had spoken since Heinkel had torn his throat open. His voice, low and raspy, struggled to stay even as his vocal chords eased into repair. “I don't think I could attack you even if I'd wanted to.” Alchemy of his caliber did take strength and dexterity, something he was clearly lacking at the moment.

“Mr. Kimblee,” Alphonse began, looking over the fellow alchemist “I need you to tell me everything you know about our enemy. I don't want to have to fight you, please just tell us what we need to know.” The earnestness in Al's tone and voice was compelling, and ever the fan of conviction, Kimblee was certainly not going to discount his position, but he contemplated for a moment whether he truly knew anything they didn't- they may even know more than him. He closed his eyes and thought out his next words carefully.

“As much as I would like to, if only in gratitude, I don't think there's anything I can tell you that you don't already know.” He had a reputation for being silver tongued and clever, but at the moment he had nothing to gain from lying to them. Besides, his allegiance was to himself only. If the Homunculi were in trouble, he'd consider switching sides, but that remained to be seen. For now however, he thought it best not to push his luck in his condition and orchestrate anything more when he recuperated. Alphonse was not pleased with his answer though.

“There has to be something, anything they told you that they wouldn't-”

“Tell anyone else? I don't know if you've forgotten, but much like yourself I'm also a 'lowly human',” the quotation obvious in his voice that these were the words spoken to him by the Homunculi, “and as such, it really wasn't necessary for me to know their goals. They don't exist to benefit me, my role is simply to help them achieve their goals.” His strength had returned to him enough for him to readjust himself to a proper upright position, and he crossed one leg over the other, and crossed his arms as well. Heinkel's animal instinct told him that though he was confident in his ability to escape if needed, Kimblee's body language still appeared defensive, aware and calculated.

“If they don't need you to know their plan, then why bother to release you from prison in the first place? How could you help them if you don't even know what you're doing for them?” At this Kimblee's expression returned to his regular fox-like appearance; narrowed eyes and smug expression.

“Because I'm the only one capable of executing this job with enough precision and confidence to do it right.” Kimblee uncrossed his arms to shrug and reveal his upturned palms, alchemic arrays exposed for all to see. “Not many others would have the skill or experience in working within the military, or are quite as merciless.” Ever the modest one, he recrossed his arms.”I also have no connections with anyone. I have no allegiance and no desire to betray them. I'm here to what's asked- to do my job.” His sharp eyes met Dr. Marcoh's, and the doctor felt as though Kimblee's cold hands were pressed against his neck. “The same way we did in Ishval.”

The car grew silent for a bit, as everyone processed Kimblee's words. He really only helped them out of obligation; he had no desire to accomplish their goals, he didn't even know them- or if he did he wasn't going to say. It wasn't unlike him to lie, playfully or otherwise. But he didn't seem to care either way. After some time, it was Kimblee again who broke the silence.

“For what it's worth to you all, I believe my role in their game is done. The last thing I was instructed to do was assist them in getting their 'candidates' to Central, and you're well on your way. Beyond that, I can't exactly tell you what to suspect.” His eyes met Al's with cold certainty. “But I can tell you this, your odds in winning are slim. Lust is gone, and so is Gluttony. But you've still got plenty more to play with, and while I can't vouch for the skills of their leader, I can only imagine he must have something impressive up his sleeve- controlling all those Homunculi must be tough.” Al nodded. He was well aware of Father's power, but it seems Kimblee had never met him. Though not too surprising, since Kimblee was only being used to do their dirty work anyway.

“Thank you.” Al began and Kimblee almost looked taken aback by his gratitude. “I don't know how Brother and I will win but... we have a lot of people depending on us. We will end this.” Kimblee's eyes stayed locked with Al's for a long moment then rapped his knuckles against Al's chest plate once.

“Who knows, maybe you will do something. Conviction is worthless unless turned into conduct.” He allowed Al to digest his words and sighed. “If any of them are left over, I should certainly think to bill them for new clothes...” He gave a loathing glare to his torn sleeves and blood stained chest, and also one to Heinkel who inflicted injury in the first place; the lion Chimera only ignored him.

“So then, you won't try to stop us?” Al asked, ready to fight again if he had to.

“Nope. You're on your own path now, I'm simply here as an observer from this point on.” The sense of relief in the car was almost tangible. Dr. Marcoh, against his better judgement, flashed the Philosopher's stone again and caught Kimblee's attention.

“If it's all the same to you, I'd like to keep this. We may need it. I'm sure you understand, you're a sensible man.” Kimblee smirked at this.

“Flattery will get you everywhere, but might you be interested in a trade?” At Marcoh's confusion,his lips parted slightly and held the marble shaped stone in his teeth, and everyone around him prepared to defend. He dropped the round stone into his palm and Al was thankful to see no alchemical reaction. Yoki made a gagging noise at the act of him regurgitating the stone so easily. “I like to think I drive a reasonable bargain. This stone is much newer, and certainly a great deal more powerful- I think you'd find it very useful.”

“If it's so much better, why would you try to trade for this one...?” Marcoh's grip on the hexagonal stone tightened. What sort of mind games could Kimblee be playing?

“Call me conceited, but I like to think my ability is honed enough I don't necessarily need the stone, it's just a comfort. Still, I have no attachment to this one here. That one you hold is an old friend of sorts... I'd rather like to have it back.” He held out his hand, the marble stone sitting atop the moon shaped rune in his palm, and Marcoh wondered if this was a trap- if his hand would be blown off the moment he touched it, and Kimblee would then have 2 stones, and kill them all in an instant. It wouldn't be unlike him. Alphonse seemed to be thinking the same thing and held his hand out to Kimblee.

“Mr. Kimblee, if you could give me the stone, I can give you the one we have...” Kimblee feigned a hurt expression and Al almost felt guilty for doubting him, but held out his hand regardless. Kimblee complied and placed the marble stone in Al's palm, and happily took the edged one offered back to him.

“Thank you Alphonse, I appreciate your candor.” His tone was a mixture of smug and appreciative and it made Al nervous at the perceived alliance Kimblee might think he had with him, though he did make a much better ally than an enemy. “With that, I'll take my leave.” Without any hesitation he seemed to swallow the stone whole and this time he was sure he heard Yoki wretch over the side of the car, he reached for the handle and found his wrist gripped in Heinkel's strong grasp, he stopped and gave a serious look to the others in the vehicle.

“No funny business. If you so much as try to blow up this car once you get out of it, I wont hesitate to bite your head clean off next time.” Heinkel seemed like he might attack Kimblee then and there, and then let go of his wrist. He rubbed it thoughtfully with his other hand, and opened the car door and stepped out. He found himself too weak to attack, but strong enough to walk confidently and give the illusion he was in a better state. As he started to walk away he heard the engine rev to life again and stopped, and looked over his shoulder.

“Alphonse Elric.” He began, staring intently at the armored boy. “Remember what I said.” And turned briskly to walk away, disappearing rather quickly into the shadows outside the building. Al wondered how someone wearing nothing but stark white could blend into the darkness so easily, but pondered if his disposition aided him in that.

“You think he'll keep good on his word?” Heinkel asked Al, ever the suspicious one of the Crimson Lotus' alchemist.

“I think so.”

And that was the last Alphonse had seen of Solf J. Kimblee. 2 years later, he and Edward had gotten their bodies back like they planned. They did defeat Father, and their lives were peaceful. Sometimes they would reminisce about those times, about what they'd gone through and the people they had met. Once in passing, Alphonse mentioned his last interaction with Kimblee, and Edward was immediately confused how Al had managed a civil conversation with the Crimson Lotus.

“He's not hard to talk to... I just have a hard time understanding him. I wonder what he's doing now.”

Edward said something along the lines of, “Arson, probably.” and left it at that.

#fullmetal alchemist #fma #solf j. kimblee #alphonse elric #heinkel fma #tim marcoh

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shazyloren · 6 years

Text

The Room: Chapter 44 - Whacking the Face

Link: http://archiveofourown.org/works/12710496/chapters/31154157

------------

Jon left Daenerys with Missandei by the food table as he was dragged forcefully into the crowd of people by Sansa. He did not particularly like that some greasy Durmstrang had gotten his hands on his baby sister and so he watched all of them around him like hawks for any sly hands trying to grab her. She was only a third year after all and all these guys were definitely seventh years. How dare they, he found himself thinking angrily.

"You look really intense, what did I say about no brooding!" Sansa warned. Jon rolled his eyes at her intense expression, she looked like Catelyn in these moments with her red hair flowing and her eyes squinting in a piecing stare. Of course she was nothing like Catelyn these days. Where her mother lacked compassion Sansa was full of it and where Catelyn lacked a sense of humour, Sansa could crack jokes better than anyone. Clean jokes though, Sansa still had the sensibilities of a lady after all.

"You literally just told me that some guys were trying to grope you how am I not suppose to looked pissed off?" Jon was right and Sansa gave in. They began to salsa across the floor along with Robb and Talisa who was swooning as if Robb was the greatest dancer she'd ever seen. It was not true of course, but Robb probably was the best dancer of all the boys in the family. Although little Rickon would give them all a run for their money, Jon once caught him spinning on his head.

"Just smile for once" Sansa moaned.

"Yes, boss" Jon pretended to salute, which while mid dance was a difficult thing to do. He nearly tripped over Sansa's feet but managed to regain composure. She scowled at him for being stupid. "Now who's got the sulking face?"

Sansa ignored him and began to lead instead, it was something Jon wasn't used to but he went along with it. Theon and Margaery were just laughing as they lazily span around, giggling and causing a scene. Theon tripped on Margaery's dress and they both tumbled to the floor where they continued to laugh as if they'd taken a laughing elixir and couldn't physically stop. "Merlin on a broom they're an embarrassment!"

"They're just having fun" Jon reasoned. "Is that such a crime?"

Jon turned to look at them as they began to make out on the floor. Jon swore he could see saliva hanging between their mouths. He felt himself have to hold down the food he'd just eaten. "Clearly it's a crime"

"Fair point" Jon nodded in agreement. They waltzed away from the love fest and began dancing over by the band near the front. "Public displays of affection in that capacity should be banned, I mean what is he even think-"

Jon stopped on his words as out of the corner of his eye he saw someone running, that someone had a dark blue dress on and a silver blonde braid flowing down there back. He felt his tongue get twisted in his mouth as his eyes followed her as she shot out the door, her hands covering her face, one of them wiping her eye as if she'd been crying.

Jon felt anger bubble in the tips of his fingers as he clamped down on Sansa's hands a bit too much. He let go off her and looked around for the cause of whatever had happened. he should've gone straight after her, asked her what had happened and comforted her. But as he saw Joffrey Baratheon and that weird Drogo guy laughing together by the food table while Missandei shouted in their faces as Grey tried to pull her back, he headed straight for them.

Sansa shouted at him wondering what on earth he was doing but he wasn't going to listen to hear, she could follow him all he liked but he wanted to know what was said and why. Jon felt the bow-tie around his neck become tight as he tried to not panic. Merlin, I hope she's alright, he thought aggressively. He swore to himself if these arseholes have said anything about her heritage he was going to sock them square in the jaw.

By the time Jon reached the food table, Daenerys plate left there and Jon's that he left before being dragged away by Sansa had been picked clean. He could hear Missandei's conversations, or shouts were more appropriate. Jon being head boy, decided it was time to act and try to be a calming factor in whatever was going on. Or at least that's what he would say to teachers after he's punched someone in the face.

"What's going on here?" He asked authoritatively. Joffrey's face turned to eye him up and with a second pause his face turned into one that he often associated with the young Baratheon. Gloating and satisfaction. He'd seen it so often. The Drogo guy on the other hand, he looked stoic and cautious, as he should. He might be bigger than Jon but Jon would put him in the ground without a second thought.

You need to stop thinking like this, whatever they said to Daenerys is not true and you know she will recover, she always does... Jon found it was a stupid wish, of course she would be affected, she always was. And it was times like these where he regretted having a part of making her life miserable. He'd been such an arse too her, the offhanded comments had been beneath him yet he'd still made them. And now, as he looked at them both, he felt all the pain and regret resurface. "Ah, Jon. Lovely to have some authority here!"

"Cut the shit, Joffrey" Jon warned. He wasn't taking any excuse tonight, he wanted the truth. "What did you say to her?"

"Now now, so easy to blame me. I never said anything that we all didn't already know" He said as he gestured to all of them stood in this group. Missandei made for him again but Greyworm easily held her back. Jon's eyes squinted and as he took a deep breath he walked towards Joffrey with more meaning than he's ever done with anyone before. He stood from him, only a foot apart before he squared up to him.

"I'm going to say this once; tell me what you said to her or I'll bury you three feet deep in the ground" Jon's voice was laced with venom. He could hear Sansa's gasp behind him but he ignored her, he meant every word of it. He was pumping with adrenaline and he was ready to take them both on and win. Joffrey just laughed, it was clear that Jon wasn't getting his message through.

In one fell motion Jon's hand was around Joffrey's throat and holding it so tightly that he was lifting him off of the ground. Joffrey's arms were trying to get Jon's wrist off of his neck, but Jon would not relent. "G-get off m-me!"

"Tell me what you said" Jon asked louder, his anger flowing through him as he expected the worst. There was a slid minute where the gasps and shocked looks of the onlookers fell on Jon's suddenly deaf ears. He was consumed by a rage over something he did not know. It wasn't until Sansa yelled at him that he was brought out of the trance and released Joffrey out of his grip. He fell to the floor gasping for air.

"You can't do that to me! I am t-the grandson of the minister!" He howled as he rubbed his neck where Jon's hand-print was bright red. Jon bent down and grabbed him by the scruff of his shirt and looked him directly in his eyes.

"Tell me what you said or I'll send you to the minister in a coffin with a bow on it" Jon growled.

"Tell him you shit!" Missandei shouted. Jon's eyes swung around to her, she was struggling in Greyworm's arms. He face was red with anger and her eyes darker than the usual honey they were. "Tell him how you told this Drogo guy that Daenerys is a product of incest! Tell him how you said she fucks her brothers! Tell him how you said to her face that she was a disgusting whore who loved it when her brothers fuck her, TELL HIM!"

Jon's face dropped. Disgusting whore... Incest... It was the same things that he'd said all that time ago. Well, not the whore part... but he'd definitely joked about the brother fucking before. He felt horrified, dirty and he couldn't even imagine how it made her feel. Jon's fists balled up around the cloth of Joffrey's dress shirt. He was so angry, he'd never felt this angry before. He understood, he finally understood why she'd been so mad every time a joke was made at her expense.

Feeling everything at once and hating on this piece of garbage between his hands, Jon curled his right fist up and connected with Joffrey's jawline. There was a distinct crack and for a second Jon was worried it was his fingers, but it wasn't. He'd cracked Joffrey's jawline and he knew it. One strike, one angry and riled up strike and that's all it had taken. It didn't stop him from landing a second hit despite the cowering shit that was receiving the blows was begging for him to stop. One hit, two hit. A tooth came flying out and blood splatted across the floor.

Jon felt himself being dragged off of Joffrey as teachers voices could be heard through the crowded scene. He couldn't be carted off to the headmasters office for a warning and a letter home yet, he couldn't. He needed to see how she was, to find her. Even though he was ninety five percent sure he knew where she was. The swarm off people meant he could climb under people's legs.

Joffrey was moaning and mumbling, he couldn't talk properly, clearly Jon broke his jaw. But the moans and the mumbles were still enough to make Jon's skin crawl with hate and vile thoughts. Legs parted and people moved as Jon got to the front door of the entrance hall. Everyone else looking for him was in the distance as he stood up and legged it out of the Hall and on his way to Daenerys.

The halls were empty, the music was slowly becoming quieter behind him as he tried to run in his dress shoes up the grand staircase. He kept slipping on certain stones and some disappeared that he'd usually miss altogether. He had to spend ages waiting for the third floor staircase to turn back towards the Gryffindor common room way so he could get to the seventh floor and when it finally did he cursed for minutes after.

He heard the clock chime outside, it was closer to Christmas day than he's realised. The portraits were giggling merrily and drinking mead together. On the sixth floor, not a signal portrait had anyone in, they'd all gone to the fifth floor to terrorise the portrait of Bertie Bott who was the world worst party pooper. Jon flew between corridors and finally reached the seventh floor. he had not seen a soul but he knew straight away she'd been by here.

"Head boy, do something!" One of the portraits called out to him. Jon turned to face him. "That wretched crying girl has ruin our festivities with her wailing!"

"Have you perhaps thought she was crying because she was upset?" Jon snapped.

"Boy that's the only time you do cry of course I thought of it!" The portrait sniffed. Jon just stuck his middle finger up to him causing an audible gasp before he marched to the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy. He could see scuff marks on the floor where she'd ran. Why are you searching for clues like a detective, Jon? Get in the fucking room and make sure she's okay you idiot! Jon stood to the wall, and closed his eyes.

I need to make sure she's okay...

I need to know she's safe...

I need her to know she's loved...

It was a minute or so before the door came into view, creaking as it bolted itself into place. It seemed bigger than ever as the door creaked open and he heard cries coming from the other side. He rushed in, the same room familiar to him. The fireplace was burning brightly and heat enveloped him as he entered. She was lying face first into the bean bag, her shoulders moving as she cried.

Jon rushed over too her, nearly tripping on the rug by the fireplace. he was by her side in a second and he was putting his arms around her. She struggled away from him at first, crying becoming louder as her tears streamed from her face. "Hey, hey, it's okay. It's just me"

"They s-said you didn't c-care for me" She sobs into him eventually, he hoped his embrace felt safe and secure. Jon cooed her, off course he cared for her. He'd just punched Joffrey Baratheon in the face and broke his Jaw! How could he not care for her? He was hopelessly in love with her and he wanted to show it. But how could he do such a thing? Listen, that's all he could do now. "Say you do, say you care for me"

"Daenerys I'm past the caring stage, I'm head over heels for you and would do anything to protect you, to defend you" He said honestly.

"You would?" She sobs, his dress robes becoming wet with tears.

"I would" He confirmed. It was the truth. In the tournament he'd helped save her and she him, in school he protected her from other people's harsh words and now, as she cried, he held her close in love and devotion. How could it not be the truth. "I would do anything for you"

"Jon?" She said in a tone of voice that was a question more than an simple mumbling of his name.

"Yes?" He replied, the heat warming them both as they embraced on the bean bags.

"I need to tell you something"

#jon snow #daenerys targaryen #jon x daenerys #jon x dany #jon x dany fanfic #jonerys #jonerys fanfic #got #au #game of thrones #Hogwarts AU #fanfiction #fanfic

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imyourliquor-youremypoison · 7 years

Text

Hjem(løs) - Ivar x OC - Modern AU

*Hjem(løs) = Home(less)

Synopsis: It's Juleaften and Silje walks home from a late Christmas shopping spree. On her way back to her apartment, she makes an unexpected encounter.

A/N: Call me crazy but I'm writing a one-shot based on THIS commercial. It is neither set in the Vikings universe, nor based on Alex Hogh Andersen's real life, so I had to make a decision as to the name - I chose Ivar though he has nothing to do with the character of the show. Use your imagination, folks, it's a modern AU. I know it's only September but when is it not the time for a cute lil Christmas one-shot?

Word count: 10.5k

MASTERLIST

>>> Part 2

Silje mindlessly strutted down the streets of Vesterbro1, feeling the snow on her face. Why did Juleaften2 feel so magical compared to every other day of the year? Was it due to the Christmas lights and decorations ornamenting every shop and house? Did it have something to do with the sound of bells and soft Christmas tunes you could hear every time you walked past a store? Or maybe the emptiness of the streets in such a busy evening during which everyone was with their loved ones around a table full of delicacies?

Either way, tonight a little something made the air vibrate and Silje could feel it prickle her skin. Is that what they call the Christmas spirit? A few merry drunk young people celebrated with their friends rather than their family and happily stumbled from on bar to another, but it was a rather quiet night altogether. The wind blew hard enough to freeze the tip of her nose and make it go numb, but Silje liked winter and the cold sure as hell wasn't going to stop her from getting her Christmas gift. She had been submerged with work, assignments and exams during the past weeks and didn't get a minute to do her shopping. This year she would spend Juleaften alone since her parents decided to spend it in the Australian summer. Never would she trade her Danish winter for two weeks in the burning sun of Melbourne, not for anything in the world.

On the other hand, she could understand that some people sought out warmer weather; everybody didn't love the cold like she did. Most people, in fact, hurried from one store to the next to enjoy the heating system and not stay out too long. Silje sighed in content when she stepped out of her favourite tea shop and felt the wind blow against her cheeks red from how hot it was inside. There, she was done. It was almost closing time anyway so there was no time left to go anywhere else.

Her apartment was located on the other side of Vestre Kirkegård3 – she loved to stroll through it; her light, easy steps leading her astray and never letting her take the shortest way home. Despite it being a cemetery, it was a beautiful and serene place. Nature was ever present with the tall trees, leafy bushes and the pond – though everything was now more white than green and the pond was frozen.

Her mind was taking her elsewhere, as the quiescence and gentle caress of the wind on her face made her close her eyes. There was nobody here, which made a great difference to her, Silje felt as though she appreciated things better when there was no one around to see her. However, no sooner had this thought crossed her mind that an uneasy feeling overwhelmed her. Like she wasn't alone after all, even if she couldn't see anyone.

It wasn't weird for someone to feel watched when their walked through rows and rows of tombstones, but Silje's guts told her that it wasn't the dead but a living breathing person that was here with her. She sucked in a breath and looked around her, frantically searching for the other presence.

She let out a sigh of relief when she finally found it and immediately felt guilty for it. A young man was laying on a bench mere meters away from her, and it didn't take more than a look for her to understand that he wasn't just resting his legs after a day of sightseeing in Copenhagen. The way he hugged his backpack to his chest like it was his lifeline, his slightly dirty clothes and his lips turning blue raised all sorts of red flags in Silje's head. His total stillness made him look like he was part of the scenery. He was homeless, she concluded.

Snowflakes kept falling lightly from the sky, slowly covering him in a thin layer of white, no doubt soaking through his jeans and coat – it did not look rainproof to her, and suddenly she wondered if he was still alive at all. Surely no one could endure a temperature like this with wet clothes and no thermal blanket or roof over their head. During the short moment Silje stood there and stared at the man, a number of contradictory thoughts battled in her mind until finally she decided to act. She cleared her throat but he didn't react so she stepped closer.

Now she could see how much he trembled under the cold – at least he was still alive. As she approached carefully – she was a young girl walking through an empty park at night, she could never be too cautious around a stranger that slept on a bench, now could she? - she looked at his face. He was definitely young, too young to be out there on his own.

“Hello?” She said in a voice made croaky from lack of use and the cold.

He didn't seem to hear her and the snow kept falling faster and the wind to blow harder. Silje took out her umbrella to shield her face from the weather's vagaries. Her feet brought her right next to the bench and she held the umbrella above the young man, momentarily preventing the snow from hitting his face. She studied him for a minute, detailing his features. He had a slight beard and his hair needed a wash though it was mostly hidden under his beanie. His eyelids fluttered or maybe he was just shaking from the cold – anyway it was time to speak up again.

“Hello? Excuse me?” She called, louder this time.

A yelp escaped her lips when his eyes shot open and he abruptly sat straight, hugging his backpack even closer to his chest as he threw frantic glances around him, until finally settling on the young girl with the umbrella. Silje had stumbled back a couple steps but managed not to slip in the snow; her heart hammered loud and fast in her chest. He had scared her.

“W-who are you? What do you want?” The young man asked, obviously wary of the girl.

“Calm down,” she said, raising her hands to show that she didn't want him any harm. “I just wanted to check if you're all right.”

“If I'm- all right?” He asked, his brows knitting together in utter confusion. Why would she want to know if he was all right? “I'm freezing if that's what you want to know,” he almost spat at her. “And now I have to try and fall asleep again in this weather.”

“No, that's not- that's not what I meant,” Silje tried to explain, her cheeks reddening a bit. “I mean, why are you out there on your own during Juleaften? Don't you have some place to go? A shelter?”

“They are full,” he grumbled as she laid back down, breaking their awkward eye contact. “Why do you care anyway?”

“It's Jul, nobody should be alone in the cold!”

“So if we were any other day of the year you would've walked right past me?” He asked with a scoff and turned on his side so he would face away from her. “I don't need your pity, go away.”

“Have you always been this rude and grumpy or is it the weather that makes you forget your manners?” Silje snapped, her foot now impatiently tapping on the ground, messing with the immaculate blanket of snow. “I'm being a good person here and offering you a place to stay for the night, so you might consider showing a little politeness.”

“A place to stay? What, you live in a mansion and once a year you let a homeless dude sleep in one of your fifty guest rooms to make you feel better?” The man snapped at her. Silje's jaw dropped in indignation and she huffed, not knowing what else to say. She might have come across as a little condescending.

“Listen, I'm sorry if I gave you the wrong impression. I just want to be nice. I don't have much to offer but I can at least provide you with a place to sleep, dinner, and a warm shower,” she said after taking a few seconds to calm herself down. After his little attack she needed a moment to make sure her voice would stay quiet and even and that she wouldn't raise it in annoyance.

He looked over his shoulder to meet her eyes while she waited for an answer but he stayed quiet. Obviously he wasn't going to say anything, he was waiting for her to add something.

“C'mon, the weather is getting really bad and they predict it'll be the coldest night of the year. How long are you going to pretend that you haven't already decided to come with me?” Silje teased him, earning a little smirk in return. When he finally abandoned his horizontal position and sat on the bench, Silje held out her hand and said, “I think we got off on the wrong foot. Why don't we start again?”

It wasn't the most easy task to hold up her umbrella and her shopping bags with one hand while shaking the young man's freezing hand with the other. But at least he did shake it and not simply stare at it before dismissing her again.

“I'm Silje,” she introduced herself, shooting him a smile.

“Ivar,” the young man said in return, nodding his head to show that he agreed to wipe the board and start over.

“Nice to meet you, Ivar. Now come, follow me or we'll both turn into ice statues,” the girl told him, tightening her scarf around her neck and diving her nose in it.

Ivar grabbed his backpack and carried it on one shoulder, rubbing his hands together in hopes to warm them with some friction, but the lack of fingers to his gloves wasn't helping. Silje suddenly stopped in her tracks after a couple minutes of walking in silence.

“Wait a second- you're not a drug addict, are you?” She asked, showing signs of panic.

“No- what? No,” Ivar said in a laugh. “You're only thinking about this now? After inviting me?”

“Well we're not there yet, I've still got time to change my mind,” she pointed out. “But if you're clean then I guess you're still welcome.”

They resumed their walking in a relative awkwardness, neither of them knowing what to say to the other. It felt like a first date while also being worlds away from anything akin to a date.

“So, no mansion?” Ivar asked hesitantly after another five minutes of quietness.

“Sadly no,” Silje sighed. “I live in a small apartment on the last floor of a five story building that doesn't have an elevator,” she added. “All those stairs spare me a gym membership and the climb will warm us up.”

The left corner of his lips twitched slightly upwards but it was a rather weak smile altogether. She merely wanted to ease the atmosphere with a joke but it seemed that she was not very good at it.

“It's not so far anymore, just two streets from here,” she informed him. “I'm a bit rambly and awkward, sorry.”

She made a funny face and shrugged her shoulders to show him that it was unintentional and that she would shut up from now on.

“It's all good, talk all you want, I haven't had a conversation in so long,” Ivar told her, somewhat embarrassed to admit that if the blush on his face was any indication. “People aren't exactly too friendly with you once they realize you sleep on the street.”

“It's terrible. It's not like it's your fault! I mean- you're not homeless by choice, right? You're not a runaway who could go back to mommy's basement any time?”

She would never forget the look on his face when he answered her.

“Believe me, nobody would do this if they had another option, no matter how shitty.”

Silje nodded in understanding and before she could find another dumb thing to ask him, they reached her building. Ivar was forced to admit that she did not lie about the stairs – they were steep and high and when they finally arrived to her front door, they were a little breathless and their cheeks were red from the effort. As soon as the door was open, Silje let out a victorious sigh and let her bag fall to the floor. She shrugged off her coat, stuffed her gloves in its pockets and then proceeded to take off her beanie, scarf and shoes.

“Go ahead,” she told him, gesturing him to walk in and not stay before the door. “You can leave your bag over there and take off your jacket, it doesn't look like it's keeping you warm anyway. I'll go get you clean towels so you can take a shower.”

She threw instructions here and there while Ivar looked around her snug little apartment in envy and admiration. Only girls could achieve this kind of cosiness. She didn't exaggerate when she said it was small – there was enough space for one person, two at most, and no spot was left empty. A bunch of books, plants, and picture frames decorated every horizontal surface; plaids and blankets hung over the back of the couch; several empty mugs stood on the coffee table, probably from the last few rushed breakfasts before going to class. It felt like a home – Silje had made this place her own despite the narrowness of the flat itself. To the left was a kitchenette and the most impressive display of cereal boxes and tea that Ivar had ever seen.

He had almost forgotten that he wasn't alone until Silje started speaking again from another room.

“I think I still have a razor too so you can shave – I didn't throw it away after my last breakup,” she said happily. When she found the packed object she waved it in victory, a smile on her face. “Here, you should be good,” she declared, her hands firm on her hips as she looked around. “And you have to take a shower, there's a problem with the bath plug, the water won't stay in the tub.”

Ivar gulped down and awkwardly stood there, not knowing what to say. The whole situation was new and unexpected, he wouldn't have dreamt of ending up here today – or any other day for that matter. It felt surreal, too good to be true – yet there was no denying the realness of the girl standing in front of him, looking up in expectation.

“Thank you,” he managed to croak out, a bit more emotional than he would have liked. “You don't have to do all this, so... thank you.”

In the most natural way ever, Silje placed a hand on his shoulder as she walked out of the bathroom and squeezed lightly.

“Don't thank me before seeing if there's still some hot water left,” she giggled. “I'll dig out some clothes for you, you can leave yours by the door and I'll wash them for you, okay?”

“Thank you,” he repeated, as if struck dumb. He couldn't find anything else, anything better, to say.

“Take all the time you need, I'll be in the kitchen.”

He didn't know what to add so he simply stepped into the small bathroom and closed the door. When he looked up before closing it completely she was already gone. There were no words in his vocabulary to tell her how grateful he was to simply not be outside anymore. The sheer fact of being inside, shielded from the wind, the snow, and the curious glances was priceless.

The moment he closed the door he did not want to take a shower, he wanted to sit on the floor and cry – except that he was scared that she would hear him. Overwhelmed and thrown out of his comfort zone, Ivar was at loss. Eventually he collected himself and stripped down, letting his clothes made heavy by all the soaked up humidity hit the floor and piling them up by the door. He let the water run for a minute to let it warm up and this time the tears almost spilled over when he felt the hot water run between his fingers. He stepped into the shower and let them flow freely for a solid minute before washing himself. He didn't even know what product to use among the several bottles of fruity smelling bath gels and shampoos and hair masks.

He washed himself a couple times to make sure he got rid of all the filth accumulated over the past weeks. It felt so good – he didn't even mind smelling like a bouquet of flowers because for the first time in fucking forever he was clean and warm. The bite of the cold was wiped away by what felt like the best shower he ever had. It probably was.

When he pulled back the shower curtain his old clothes had disappeared, replaced by new, neatly folded ones that no doubt smelled as clean and fresh as he did now. Wrapping himself in a towel, Ivar stood in front of the mirror and wipe away the steam. He winced – he did not look as fresh as he thought. That shave wouldn't be a luxury. He grabbed the razor and shaving cream and started his work. Once his beard was taken care of he felt like a new person. He had taken long enough already; Ivar grabbed the clothes and quickly put them on – the underwear, the socks, the sweatpants and the hoodie with fleece lining. Their were a little bit too large for he had lost weight since he lost his home.

“Hey!” Silje called in appreciation when he walked out of the bathroom with a shy smile on his face. “You clean up good!” She told him and waved him, gesturing him to come closer. “Do they fit? I didn't know what size you needed but I figured too large was better than too small.”

“It's perfect,” he said with a grateful smile. “What are you cooking?”

“Mmh-” she hummed, licking her fingers before grabbing a kitchen towel and wiping her hands. “I didn't plan on having a guest tonight so I was going to eat leftovers,” she explained. “But I can't invite you over and serve you leftovers now, can I? No, my mum would probably sense it and come all the way back from Australia just to kick my ass.”

“Australia, huh?” Ivar's eyebrows shot up in surprise. He did not think she was Australian.

“Oh they don't live there,” she told him when she saw his expression. “Something about spending Christmas in the sun.” She rolled her eyes at that, obviously not understanding the logic behind this. “I mean, who wants to sit on a beach at Christmas? If there's no snow where's the fun?”

“Well, I don't know, I kind of get the appeal,” Ivar replied with a little smirk. He was only teasing her but the way her eyes widened made him realise that she had forgotten about his condition for a second.

“Oh- sorry, I didn't mean-”

“I know, I was joking,” he reassured her. “I still don't know what you're cooking though.”

“Right!” She said, pointing at him. “So I improvised a meal with what I had in the fridge, which is not much if I'm being honest. But I found some chicken breasts so we'll have meat, so that's good. And I'm making a corn and parmesan cheese risotto to accompany the chicken. I'm usually a pretty good cook and if I had more ingredients I could do better but my food stocks are a bit low lately. Going grocery shopping wasn't my top priority during the last week, I had exams,” Silje hastily explained while expertly chopping shallots with a very sharp looking knife.

“You're a bit on the chatty end of the talking spectrum, huh?” Ivar asked in a low chuckle, watching a faint blush creeping up her cheeks and the apologetic smile she shot him. “Don't stop, I like it when people don't tiptoe around me or feel shy.”

“Like they are walking on eggshells?” She asked, putting the shallots in the pan with some oil. “It's annoying I know. Must be worst for you I guess.”

“Exactly. It makes everything a hundred times more awkward than they need to be. It widens the gap between me and- well people who are not homeless,” he said the last part a bit distraughtly.

“If we're not walking on eggshells does this mean I can ask nosy questions?” Silje said with a little smirk, looking over her shoulder to see Ivar's reaction.

A breathy laugh fell from his lips as he sat on the stool on the other side of the counter that separated the kitchen from the living space.

“Do your worst!” Ivar told her, ready to answer anything.

“Let's make this fair to you, you can ask me anything in return,” Silje proposed him as she put another set of ingredients in a pan along with a glass of water before putting the lid on. “So tell me, how long have you been sleeping in a cemetery? Which, by the way, is a terrible place to sleep on a bench; I thought you were dead at first.”

“Hey, don't bury me so quickly!” The young man laughed. “I've been in Vestre Kirkegård for a week now, before that I slept in various other parks all over Copenhagen. But I officially became homeless in October if that's what you're asking. Before you told me that we were Juleaften I had no idea what day it was.”

“And you were ready to face your first Danish winter out there on a bench without gloves or a right coat?” She wondered out loud, a bit shocked.

It was so recent, he must still be in transition – missing his former life, getting used to the new one.

“I told you, no pitying me.”

“I'm not. I'm saying it's reckless, you wouldn't have made it. Actually you might not even have made it through tonight.” The careless way she spoke was refreshing but still surprising. “Face the facts, I just saved your ass.”

Ivar frowned, not knowing on what foot to dance after hearing her say that, but the smirk that slowly stretched her lips told him she was only pulling his leg.

“God, don't look so serious I'm joking!” Silje laughed and opened the fridge. “Want a beer? A glass of wine? Orange juice?”

“Actually-” Ivar trailed off, his eyes scanning the row of tea bags on top of the kitchen shelf. Silje followed his gaze and smiled.

“Or maybe a cup of tea?” She asked, already reaching for a mug – Ivar thought it was a miracle she still had some in her cupboard since so many of them decorated her flat. He nodded. “Sugar? Milk? Lemon?” She asked as she grabbed a selection of teas to let Ivar choose from.

He picked the caramel black tea and Silje stored away the others.

“Honey,” he said. She hadn't offered him honey - but he knew that - and they both smiled at each other. “Other questions?”

“Yes, what happened? You don't have to answer if I'm overstepping some boundary,”Silje quickly added when his face fell.

“I would have been surprised if you hadn't asked that,” he groaned. The girl grabbed the electric kettle and poured the boiling water in Ivar's mug, then she placed the half empty pot of honey on the counter. “Remember-”

“No pitying you,” she cut him off. “I know.”

“Ready for the pathetic telling of my life story?” He asked, leaning on the counter with his hands around the mug.

Silje nodded without hesitation but she had to turn around again to watch the food.

“Okay then- I eh, I was in debt, that's the short version. My parents died two years ago. We've never been well-off, but it's only when I inherited our apartment and the car – which was all we had really – along with their debts that I found out just how deep in shit we were,” he sighed, still feeling the weight of his parents' mistakes on his shoulders. “I tried to pay off the debts but I couldn't balance out a decent paying job with my studies. They seized the car and the apartment after months of eviction warnings, thus wiping away my debts but making me homeless. ”

“Our parents' problems should never affect us like that,” Silje sighed. “You don't have any other family alive?” She asked, a little more shy this time.

“I have a grandmother but she's institutionalized because she has alzheimer. And my only other relative is a long lost aunt that I met once when I was five.”

“You've got to be the unluckiest person I ever met.” Silje winced and stirred the content of the pan. “No offence but it really makes me re-evaluate my own condition of broke student.”

“At least one of us finds solace in my situation,” Ivar snickered bitterly. “It's just so fucking unfair!”

“Of course it isn't. I'm sure you deserve a thousand times better. My dad always tells me that life's only tough with the people who can handle it.”

“So what? You're going feed me some bullshit like 'you're strong, you can overcome this'? Maybe I don't want to, maybe I'm tired of taking life's beatings!” Ivar began to raise his voice in anger but he settled down when he saw Silje's gaze on him soften. She set the stove on low heat and let the food cook slowly.

“I- euhm,” Silje began, turning around to face Ivar and leaning on the counter to be at eye-level. “I was not going to say that. I was going to change the subject because I honestly don't know what else to say. I can't pretend to know more about life than you- how old are you? Twenty-five?”

“Twenty-three.”

“Twenty-three, okay. I'm one year younger than you and I never went through a rough patch nearly as bad as you, I have no life experience to share or advice to give you. But if you want to vent, go ahead. If you want to curse life, I'm listening.”

But Ivar only leaned away from her and shook his head, rubbing his eyes with his fingers.

“You don't understand.”

“I know. I'm sorry,” Silje apologized. “I guess it's not something you can explain either.”

“No, I don't think I can,” he said. “Why don't we talk about something else? Where do these clothes come from? Do you have a box full of your exes' clothes in your room?” Ivar asked, completely dismissing her worries and trading his gloomy expression for a more joyful one.

“No!” Silje smiled and rolled her eyes. “I volunteer at the local charity organization and I'm in charge of collecting clothes. Some of the stuff my friends donated is still in my room, I haven't had the time to drop them off yet.”

“What do you say, I've been taken in by an actual do-gooder,” Ivar huffed jokingly.

“If you say it like that it sounds lame of course,” Silje pouted and went back to her pans. She brought the wooden spoon to her lips to taste it. “Five more minutes and it's ready.”

“How would you say it? You volunteer at charities and take in hobos like some people do with stray cats,” Ivar laughed, pointing at himself when he said 'stray cat'.

It was by far the best description of his condition that he could come up with. As for the smiling girl standing in front of him with a kitchen towel hanging over her shoulder, the only word that came to mind when he looked at her was angel. He was so cold only a couple hours ago, he truly did think he was going to die on that bench tonight. Therefore when he saw a beautiful girl leaning over his frozen figure, her long blond hair framing her face like a halo, the first thing that popped in his head was “That's it. I'm dead and this is an angel.”

“Yeah, well, I'm not a Saint,” she snickered in self-derision. “It's fair to say that I do this mostly to feel good about myself. I mean, the charity work, not you.” A blush coloured her cheeks a bright shade of red. “Seriously, don't take it wrong. You're not a charity case to me, okay?”

“What am I?”

“You were a stranger in bad shape, and now you're a new friend,” she stated plainly. “Anything else?”

Ivar remain quiet as she sat there, stunned into silence and staring wide eyed at his saviour. She didn't sound like the kind of person who would welcome someone into her home out of pity or charity anyway, but he was still confused about her reasons. Now he probably looked ridiculous sitting there with his cup of tea..

“Let me set the table, yeah? I feel useless sitting there,” Ivar told her when she turned off the stove.

“Look around you genius,” Silje chuckled. “There's no table to set, I have no silverware either, in fact, my plates don't even match because I'm a huge fan of flea markets and I don't want to encourage capitalism.”

“I expected more when you offered me dinner,” Ivar teased her. “What can I do then?”

“Sorry to disappoint Your Highness,” Silje laughed. “Grab the cutlery and a couple glasses, will you? I'll bring the plates and the wine.”

“No wine for me, thanks,” Ivar declined politely.

Silje almost made a joke about his sudden politeness compared to the way he greeted her when she woke him up from his bench nap. The severe expression on his face dissuaded her though – she figured he must avoid alcohol to prevent any kind of addiction. A great many homeless people found solace at the bottom of a whisky bottle.

She wanted to laugh really – not an amused laugh, a bitter one – because in the last hour and a half Ivar had made a better impression on her than any guy she met in a bar ever did, even though he started off with the serious disadvantage of living in the street. Which wasn't exactly what a girl looked for in a significant other. When she walked to her couch with a plate in each hand, Silje took the opportunity to look at Ivar - really look at him – and all of a sudden she wondered how the hell she was supposed to simply let him go back to his life, knowing how much he dreaded it.

“Well I can't drink alone, that's sad,” she told him as she put the plates on the coffee table. “Bon appétit,” she said in a somewhat rudimentary French.

The first few minutes they ate in silence – to be honest Ivar had to put a conscious effort into not devouring the entire plate, but Silje saw how hungry he was and served him some more before he even asked – which he probably wouldn't have done because he already felt indebted to her for letting him come here.

“I don't need to ask if it's good I guess,” she chuckled after seeing Ivar eat the second plate. “I'd give you a refill but there's no more, I'm sorry I never thought you'd be this hungry,” Silje apologized profusely and then proceeded to list every kind of dessert she could offer him but Ivar declined.

“It's okay, it was perfect,” he assured her a hundred times before she stopped asking him if he was absolutely sure he didn't want cookie dough ice cream.

“You said you were studying before losing your home, what did you study?” Silje changed the subject. “How far in your studies were you?”

“I was half-way through my master's degree in History and Nordic Languages-” he scoffed and rubbed his face with his opened hands. “My dad always told me I should have chosen a subject with more job opportunities but I was too stubborn to listen to him back then. When I have my mind set on something it's difficult to make me stray from it,” he admitted. “I wish I'd listened now, but it's a little late for regrets, huh?”

“If you had abandoned your passion in favour of something more practical you would've regretted it too,” Silje pointed out. “You just said that you have a double degree, that hardly qualifies as wasted studies.”

“What does someone do with a simple degree nowadays though?” Ivar asked rhetorically. “I got nothing from it. And I never finished my thesis, so...” He raised his hands in defeat and smiled with no trace of humour. “But no more talking about my miserable life. What are you studying?”

“Cognition and Communication,” she said. “ Still working a bit on the communication part. I just finished my degree, and now I'm in the process of getting my master's degree too. Nothing fascinating about it, I chose my subject out of curiosity and lack of other interest.”

“Lack of other interest?” Ivar repeated with a look of disbelief painted on his face. “There are art, history, and culinary books scattered everywhere here, and you say you have no personal interest?”

“These are hobbies and I have lots of them,” Silje replied in a defensive tone. “Why do adults expect us to choose what we want to do with our life so early? I never understood that.”

“We are adults,” the young man pointed out.

“On the paper yes,” Silje laughed. “But I found out that I'm not very good at being one.”

“Too bad we don't have a choice.”

Ivar's resigned statement was followed was silence until he stood up and grabbed the plates from under Silje's puzzled eyes.

“What a-”

“I'm washing the dishes, it's the least I can do,” he said, his declaration leaving no room for protest.

The girl tried to give him a hand but Ivar blocked the access to the small kitchen with his body, constantly moving around so Silje wouldn't get to the sink. They laughed together and not even ten minutes later everything was immaculate.

“It's late already,” Silje said and nodded towards the digital clock of the microwave. It would be midnight in less than twenty minutes. “I wouldn't mind spending the whole night talking with you but you must want to sleep now that you have a warm place to rest. We can discuss again in the morning. Over pancakes, if you want.”

Before Ivar had a chance to protest and argue that she had already done enough and there was no need to make him pancakes, that she was spoiling him, Silje led him to her room and shoved a pillow and blankets in his arms.

“I don't have another duvet but there should be enough blankets lying around the flat to keep you warm,” she told him, still not letting him say a thing. “You're very tall, I hope you fit in the couch but if not you just tell me and we'll figure something out. If you're up before me you can watch TV or eat something, make yourself a cup of coffee, you just- you make yourself home. For the next few hours at least me casa es tu casa.”

While Silje rambled on and on, Ivar dumped the pillow and blankets on his bed of the night, then placed a hand on her shoulder. It effectively startled her into silence and she smiled awkwardly.

“I talk too much,” she muttered in embarrassment. “It's not so often that I have company I never know when I go too far. But anyway, I hope you enjoyed yourself tonight. I definitely did.” Suddenly, her phone chimed in her pocket, signalling them it was now midnight, and thus Christmas day. “And merry Christmas to you, Ivar.”

Silje had not thought this through. She didn't expect Ivar to be up before noon on a day he could sleep as long as he wished without fearing for his health or to be stolen from during his sleep. Except that she woke up to the smell of coffee brewing and pancakes burning.

“Ivar-” she said his name in bedazzlement, her eyes asking the question her lips couldn't.

“Yeah, I know I made a mess,” he laughed, gesturing to the war zone that was her kitchenette. “But I was hungry and you showed no sign of being awake, so...”

“And you made pancakes,” she said in admiration of the pile of small crepes on the plate next to him. “I thought you'd be the one sleeping in, otherwise I would have gotten up earlier.”

“Certainly not, woman!” He gently scolded her, waving the spatula around. “You literally picked me out of the gutter, if you do one more thing for me I will be indebted to you for life. I cannot have that.”

He handed her a cup of coffee that she immediately cradled in her hands and brought up to her chest.

“I kind of like the idea,” she admitted, a teasing smile already making its way on her face.

“Well, I do not, you already now I have a past with unpaid debts,” he reminded her.

“You have paid them now,” Silje told him. “Far too high a price. I wouldn't kick you out because you owe me a dinner and a night on a couch, I would... ask you to do the dishes, or help me change my bed linens.”

“Or have me make pancakes for breakfast?” Ivar suggested.

“I think I'm starting to pick up on your logic,” Silje giggled against her cup of coffee, revelling in the familiar smell. “Can you hand me the sugar?” She gestured to a red ceramic pot with sugar written on it in cursive.

When it sat on the counter before her, Silje reached out for a spoon and them sprinkled some powdered sugar on her coffee, watching it sink in the dark beverage. She offered her help but Ivar shooed her out of her own kitchen and demanded she sat on the couch and just waited for the food to come to her.

She laughed but did not complain, for one because she wasn't fully awake yet and also because it was very, very pleasant to have someone prepare breakfast for her – even more so when it was an eye-candy like Ivar. There sure were many things that went wrong in his life but his looks were not one of them – those definitely worked in his favour. She hadn't noticed before he took a shower and shaved but he was very handsome. He had a little something, a mischievous glimmer in his blue eyes that made her melt. Not that she would admit it.

“Here you go,” he said proudly, setting the plate of pancakes on the coffee table. It was followed by jam, chunks of fruit, and whipped cream that she didn't know she had in her fridge. Her mouth watered at the sight of this royalty breakfast. “I wish I could do more than just monopolize your kitchen and use all your ingredients to say thank you but I don't know how.”

Something in his voice made it sound like an apology and Silje did not like that. Her hand flew out before she could think about it and rested on his arm. Thank Gods she still had enough sense to stay still and not get further down this slippery road. She had to remind herself that he had other, more urgent things on his mind than girls, and that he felt like he owed her so if she decided to be bold and hit on him he might feel obliged to respond to her advances – which was the last thing she wanted. Had she not been sitting right in front of him, Silje would have smacked herself for her inappropriate thoughts. She removed her hand when Ivar's eyes fell on it.

“I invited you over without expecting any kind of retribution Ivar, I don't want anything in return,” she finally said, her mouth feeling dry. “The pancakes are nice though, thank you. I could definitely get used to this,” Silje added quickly, to finish on a happy note.

“Yeah...” Ivar whispered to himself though she heard it. “Me too.”

“To what?” Silje inquired, putting a generous serving of jam on her pancake before taking a bite.

“Mmh?” He hummed, sounding distracted.

“What could you get used to?” She precised, tilting her head slightly towards him.

Her hair was up in a bun that moved along with her every movement and Ivar found it quite endearing. Yesterday's make-up and well put together outfit had disappeared and Silje was only wearing lousy sweatpants and a long sleeved shirt with a reindeer pattern.

“This,” he simply answered with a shrug. He knew that it would automatically trigger the question of 'this what?' and she would ask it with her mouth full of pancakes, not even looking up from her plate as she devoured her breakfast. But he spared her the trouble. “Living like this. It's like I haven't forgotten a thing, like I just woke up from a really long and unpleasant dream.”

“What do you mean?” Silje asked lowly, slightly putting away her plate.

“Being homeless is quite literally a nightmare but it rarely ever feels like one. Because when you're out there by yourself, you know your mind can't come up with the harsh bite of the cold on your skin, or the soreness in every last one of your limbs, or even the loneliness.”

Silje put the plate back on the table in a loud clatter and shifted closer to Ivar. This time when her hand touched his arm it was deliberate.

“You'll make me cry,” she said in mock-compassion, giving him an unimpressed face. “Clearly you've rehearsed this in your head,” Silje continued. “Which is fine - we all do this. But at least let me finish my coffee before trying to elicit any kind of human reaction from me. Before my coffee I have only two emotions: exhaustion and sarcasm.”

“Sarcasm is not an emotion,” Ivar laughed out loud when she finished talking. He threw his head against the back of the couch and rubbed his face with both hands, all the while laughing wholeheartedly.

“Then why am I feeling it?” Silje asked rhetorically. This was flawless logic, he had to give her that.

“You're quite a number in the morning,” Ivar sighed when he fit of laughter calmed down. “But what I said is still true.”

“I know,” Silje replied in a serious voice. “I know it is, that's why I tried to make you laugh.”

He wanted to say something along the lines of “Congratulations, you succeeded.” but nothing came out. It sounded sad, even in his head. Everything begun to sound sad a while ago and now Ivar had no idea how to get out of this spiral. He missed laughing.

“What are you going to do after this?” Silje asked in a whisper. When Ivar's eyes refocused he found her staring at her cup of coffee and biting her lip. He knew what she meant by that.

“I don't know, I'll improvise like always. Call dibs on a bench and stay there until I get hungry.” Ivar shrugged and ate a pancake almost entirely in a single bite. Anger boiled right beneath the surface of Ivar's frustration, but Silje did not dig further.

There was something else she had not anticipated when she invited Ivar to her place at Christmas – a random visit from her brother who was not supposed to be in town. At half past one it happened. The doorbell rang, startling both Ivar and Silje who were now sitting on the carpet, playing a board game and drinking tea – a common passion apparently. At first he looked at her as if to ask 'should I hide under the bed?' without daring to ask aloud in case the person standing behind the door heard him.

“Stay here,” Silje told him as she made her way to the door and peeped through the judas.

She made a surprised face but opened the door. Though it was only half open the person on the other side must have considered it to be an invitation to come in because a second later there was a tall bearded man standing in the room.

“Well please come in,” Silje said sarcastically as she closed the door again. “And hello, I guess.”

“Hei little sister,” the tall man said as she engulfed Silje in a tight bear hug. “Merry Christmas!”

“What- why are you here? I thought you were spending the holidays with Margrethe in Sweden?” Silje questioned him when he finally let her go.

Ivar realized that he had lifted her off the floor and that made him swallow hard. The newcomer still hadn't noticed his presence and he might just crawl into the next room. Except that it would be ten times more suspicious for him to be found in Silje's bedroom rather than her living room.

“Yes, we were delayed because of her work,” he informed her. “I wanted to come by and see you before I leave. Do you need anything? Something on the top shelf you can't reach? A spider to kill?” He mocked her with a fond smile on his face. He reached out to mess with Silje's hair.

“Would you stop treating me like a child,” she scolded him in that maternal voice that all girls had even those younger than you. “I have a guest, you can patronize me another time.”

It was then that her brother turned around and that the two boys locked eyes. Silje would have sworn the world went silence and the air sizzled with tension when her brother's eyes landed on this strange boy sitting on her floor. He never was good with boys getting near her.

“Ubbe, this is my friend Ivar. Ivar, this is my brother Ubbe,” she introduced them. “See? That's why people call before dropping by.”

Ubbe ignored her and Ivar stood up to shake his hand. His grip was slightly tighter than necessary and his stare a little intense but Ivar held it up. There he was, in a pretty girl's apartment, shaking hands with her brother mere hours after meeting her – it's like living life in fast forward. A life that wasn't even his own. He cursed the Gods for playing this cruel trick on him, for giving him a taste of what his life could be, without ever indulging him.

“Pleasure,” Ivar said a bit stiffly.

“Likewise,” Ubbe replied, though it was easy to tell he didn't mean it.

It was the coldest, least amicable meeting Ivar recalled having. Meanwhile Silje stood there, wondering what kind of strange male strength display she was currently witnessing, and also pondering whether or not she should make them take a step back and let go of each other before fingers got crushed.

“Where's Margrethe?” She asked to break the tension. Ubbe looked away from Ivar.

“Doing some grocery shopping at the supermarket down at the corner,” he said. “For the trip.”

Margrethe's family lived in Stockholm so they had quite a long ride to get there.

“I should probably go since you found someone else to help you reach your top shelf,” Ubbe snickered. Ivar visibly tensed but Silje knew Ubbe said it without malice. He was a tender at heart despite the appearances and the least hostile person she knew. He was merely doing his big brother job by being threatening towards the boys in her life. She elbowed him nonetheless.

“Be nice! Ivar is keeping me company since everybody decided to celebrate without me this year,” she teased her brother who shot an awkward but apologetic wince at Ivar.

“Well it's your fault for going to university, otherwise you could be in Australia with mum and dad.”

“That is the last thing I want!” She protested. “No snow? No tree? What is left of Christmas if you take that away?”

“You really are a woman – never satisfied,” he joked and earned a smack behind the head, no matter how tall he was. “Ouch!”

“Get out of here and back to your girlfriend's skirts,” she scoffed. “Ivar and I have a game to finish and you are spoiling the mood with your dumb jokes. The Gods know how Margrethe deals with you all the time”

“I should drop by unannounced more often if that's the only way I'm gonna meet your boyfriends,” Ubbe kept teasing her, making her cringe and wish she was an only child.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever, goodbye and merry Christmas Ubbe,” Silje said, holding the front door open. “Tell Margrethe and the others I said hi and glædelig Jul, will you? You still skype with them tonight, right?” He nodded. “Have a safe trip.”

It took a little more time and sighs and pushing him out, but Ubbe eventually crossed the door and stepped out leaving his sister be – at last.

“So sorry about that, he's- well, he's a big brother,” Silje laughed nervously as she sat back down next to the board game, waiting for Ivar to join her. “He's not the worst though.”

“Not the worst?” Ivar was confused. He sat down and stared at her.

“Yeah, he's actually sweet once you know him,” she said.

“Okay but, you said 'not the worst'. Not the worst of what?” He specified his question. “Of brothers?”

“No, of my brothers.”

“How many do you have exactly?”

“Four,” Silje said as she moved her pawn.

“Four?” He coughed out, nearly choking on the word.

It was stupid but it actually intimidated him for some reason Even though he knew his encounter with Ubbe was accidental and he would never get to meet any of the others, there was something inherently scary about a girl having four brothers. One was usually enough of a pain in the ass.

“And they are all older than you?” He asked.

“Yes,” she answered with a sly little smile – he must not be the first one to react like that. “They never ate anyone to my knowledge though. Ubbe won't come back with the rest of the gang and put your head on a stick because you play monopoly with me.”

“Oh, very reassuring, thanks. It'll help me sleep tonight,” he said sarcastically. “I don't have much but what I do have is my head on my shoulders – it'd be nice to keep it that way.”

“C'mon!” Silje rolled her eyes. He was being dramatic. “Ubbe was nice, you should be glad it was him and not Bjorn or Sigurd. Sigurd doesn't like people in general, and Bjorn, ha! He's something else! He's fifteen years older than me - my dad's son from his first marriage. He's a sergeant in the army and about twice as bulky as Ubbe. You don't want to meet him by surprise.”

“And the fourth one?” Ivar asked, eager to speak about something else than Silje's scary oldest brother.

“Hvitserk is only two years older than me. He's cool, not really the protective type. You'd have to try very hard not to get along with him.” A happy little laugh fell from her lips as she mentioned the youngest of her brothers with fondness in her voice. “Don't worry, there's no risk of them bursting through the door.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive. They have all been deployed and are not coming back before another two months. Ubbe is the only one who's not in the military anymore – bad injury forced him to quit.”

“You have the scariest siblings in the world. You might want to consider this piece of advice: don't introduce them to a boy you like. How do you even get a boyfriend with four older brothers looming protectively over you?”

“I keep him a secret,” she said with a shrug. “It's the coward's solution, I'll admit that, but I haven't met anyone worth the trouble of convincing them all one by one not to chew him up. My most recent boyfriend actually left me because he got tired of me keeping him away from my family.” She said in with a laugh that sounded surprisingly genuine.

Silje didn't seem to realize what impact her words had on Ivar who just learnt that he already met more of her family than her last boyfriend, even though he had known her for a whole twenty hours at most. It was his turn to play but his mind wasn't in the game anymore.

“Oh. I said something I shouldn't have, didn't I? I can see it on your face that you want to run away now,” she tried to laugh it off but she winced a little bit.

“Not a chance,” Ivar replied severely. “I'm not the running away type. Besides, I'm not leaving this place until I beat you at this game.”

She was probably going to beat him since it was his first time playing, as crazy as it sounds. But he was a quick learner and he'll beat her next time, if there ever was a next time.

“Let's not get ahead of ourselves here.” Silje shot him an unimpressed look and gestured him to simmer down. “You're up against the Monopoly Queen.”

“I'm not talking to you anymore,” Silje grumbled. Her defeat left a bitter taste in her mouth, especially since Ivar couldn't stop smiling smugly since the end of the game.

“Don't be too harsh on yourself, strategy is my thing 'is all,” he laughed, the grin on his face widening when she looked over her shoulder only to glare daggers at him. “That's the subject of my thesis that I never finished – the vikings' military strategies.”

Silje rolled her eyes but turned around.

“It was a board game, not a battle,” she told him a bit condescendingly. “But I suppose I get your point. My pride is wounded.” Ivar shrugged.

“So? It's the same, there's a winner and a loser.”

“Are you always that competitive? Is that why you decided to get a double degree? Are you driven by a compulsive need to overdo everything?”

Curiosity shone through the cracks of Silje's frustration. He shrugged again. She expected an answer but he remained quiet.

“There are worse flaws I guess,” she finally said. “Come now,” Silje told him and put her hands on her knees before standing up with a grunt. “I am famished! Let's see what we can dig out of my kitchen.”

Except that it was getting late already, the sun was starting to make its way down, slowly but undeniably approaching from the line of horizon. Silje dreaded this moment, she had from the moment Ivar stepped into her apartment. If only there was something she could do to help him, if only she wasn't this broke student with no real means of helping someone in need. She would do anything to delay his departure for one more day – in hopes that she would win the lottery or find a miraculous solution to Ivar's problems within the next twenty-four hours.

“Silje,” he sighed from behind her.

She pretended she did not hear him though she did all too clearly. Even his posture was evident in her mind. They had known each other for a short time but she knew he was standing by the wall, slightly leaning against it with his hands in his pockets. It was such a typical boyish posture. He probably looked good too.

“It's half past six. I should go now or I won't have enough time to find a place to sleep before dark,” he explained. “Good sleeping spots are a priced possession in winter.”

“I know!” She snapped, jerkily opening a drawer. “I'll be quick. I can't let you go on an empty stomach. If you want to take another shower feel free to.”

Ivar nodded in gratitude and walked away, heading for the bathroom. He hadn't planned on abusing from her hospitality, he had wasted enough of her food, hot water and time. Which led him to wonder why one earth it felt like she was the one who dreaded the moment he would walk out of this cocoon of warmth. He did not need to shower but still turned on the water; his gut told him that Silje needed a minute or two alone. The way she had snapped at him when he reminded her of his imminent departure made him realize that she had invested herself too much in this.

When she offered him a bed and food he didn't think she would spend every waking minute talking with enthusiasm and laughing with him – he supposed neither did she. But now they were friends and it was parting time. Regardless how cosy he was here, he could not stay any longer. He was messing with the natural order of things; he had nothing to offer her, his friendship was worth nothing. He couldn't even guarantee her that they would see each other again.

It was best if they didn't anyway. A necessary evil for her to forget about him and move on – she had other things to think about than unfortunate underdogs like himself. He was not her problem, he was his own damn problem and Ivar refused to be her charity case.

This shower took significantly less time than the first one since there was no dirty to wash off. When he pushed the shower curtain aside, he found that his former clothes were waiting for him on the floor. They smelled clean and were still warm, as if freshly out of the tumble drier. He noticed that she replaced his underwear, worn out socks and stained sweater though.

“Ivar?” He heard his name being called from behind the closed door. It was followed by a timid knock. “We can eat whenever you're ready.”

He had to admit that putting on his old jeans knotted his stomach. He was about to answer but a lump in his throat prevented him from doing so, so he flung the door open, startling Silje. Her hand flew to her heart and she laughed nervously.

“Wow you scared me,” she said. “Looking good Ivar,” she added without any trace of humour.

They did not waste any time to eat and if somebody asked Silje she'd swear that dinner was over in the blink of an eye – she had not recollection of what was said, or if anything was said at all during the meal. She was not ready when Ivar set aside his plate and stood up. Words were needless , his expression said it all – it was time to go. He grabbed his jackets and shoes and put them on.

“I prepared a couple things for you,” Silje said and pulled out a plastic bag. “There's a Thermos filled with tea – I put some honey in it – and a pack of cookies, the rest of the pancakes wrapped in aluminium, a couple sandwiches, a bottle of water-” she kept enumerating all the stuff she had put in the bag for him but he stopped listening. His throat tightened to the point where he wasn't sure he could speak even if he found something adequate to say. “And I found some gloves that you can take too, and a scarf because I saw yours was ripped. I put them in your bag. I saw your laptop by the way, now I know why you clutched at your backpack like it was your lifeline,” she tried to laugh but she didn't fool anyone not even herself.

He was supposed to speak up now but Ivar still hadn't thought of anything worth saying. He wanted to say thank you but it felt redundant at this point. Silje looked ready to disappear in a mouse hole, she anxiously waited for an answer that didn't come.

“I don't know what else to say,” she finally told him just to cut short this unbearable silence. They stood there, facing each other without saying anything, like two idiots. “I wish I could do more.”

“I don't think you realise how much you've already done,” Ivar somehow managed to say without sounding too pathetic. His voice was brittle. Did she notice? If so she didn't show any sign of it. “And yeah, this laptop is my lifeline, sort of. It has all my research for my thesis on it.”

Silje nodded in understanding and handed over the bag of supplies.

“I'm terrible at goodbyes,” she warned him. A crooked smile fought its way on her sad face and Silje brushed her hair out of her face – it was more of a nervous gesture. “I hope things will get better for you and that you'll get to finish your master's degree. I had a great time with you, Ivar. I'm glad we met.”

“Shut up,” he finally told her. “Not another word,” he added when he saw the surprise on her face and how she opened her mouth to say something.

This time she seemed to take notice of his own sadness to part. With her arms crossed over her chest, Silje shot him one last of her bright and warm smiles when she understood. Without any warning she threw herself to him for a farewell hug. It was the last thing he expected to happen and also the one thing that made him lose his composure as soon as she closed the door behind him. Ivar angrily rubbed away the tears before he exited the building, knowing Silje was at her window, watching him and waiting for him to wave.

He didn't.

If you like my work please consider buying me a coffee <3

1 Neighborhood in Copenhagen

2 Christmas Eve in Danish

3 Largest cemetery in Denmark. Beautifully landscaped, it also serves as an important open space, popular for people to take a stroll, and look at the old graves and monuments.

A/N: Don’t forget that likes ar enice but reblogs are better. It took me days to put this story together while it only takes a handful of minutes to consume it. It would mean the world if you helped me share my hard work! <3

TAGLIST: @golden-guide @bathshebaa (t’as pas le choix, tu dois lire haha) @moonllily (je te tague à tout hasard, comme tu le follows sur insta ;) )

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quicksilversquared · 7 years

Text

Paranoia

Gabriel Agreste knows perfectly well that he isn't exactly what one might consider a normal father. He worries about everything when it comes to Adrien's security, and sometimes it makes him act a little irrationally about things like Adrien walking to school, having a bodyguard with him at all times, and.....birthday parties?

(AO3) (FF.net)

Gabriel Agreste knew full well that he was paranoid. After all, most parents didn't insist on their kids having bodyguards. Most parents let their kids walk to school or take public transportation, instead of having a private chauffeur drive them a couple blocks. Most parents let their kids go to public school instead of insisting on homeschooling, and even if they did do homeschooling, they tried to let their kids meet plenty of others their age to have friends with. And, while most people had some security measures in place in their homes, they didn't have the best security precautions that money could buy, ones practically equal to the measures found in banks and museums.

It was weird, and he knew perfectly well that it was weird. But in all fairness, he actually had fairly good reasons for being paranoid.

Sure, he could say that he had first gotten that way after his wife vanished. But that would be a blatant lie, considering that the security system had been installed long before that, and Adrien had been homeschooled ever since he first started learning. They had always had a chauffeur, since they were rich enough to afford one and Gabriel often got bursts of inspiration that he just had to sketch out while he was driving (or being driven) around Paris, so it was just more convenient. Admittedly, they hadn't always had a chauffeur who doubled as a very efficient bodyguard- that was a slightly more recent switch-out- but they had always had one on hand.

And he and his wife had initially tried to introduce Adrien to more kids his age, they really had. They had also tried to have birthday parties for Adrien, but that was way before Adrien could remember.

That was also before the attempted kidnapping...and the kidnapping that had actually worked.

Adrien's second birthday had been celebrated with a party at the Grand Paris. Of course, since a two-year-old really couldn't do much in the way of celebrating, it was more of an excuse for the adults in Mr. and Mrs. Agreste's circle of friends and acquaintances to get together and eat some cake. Their mistake had been not locking the door and not paying a whole lot of attention to who was coming and going, since there were so many people. The two of them had been so distracted with socializing that they almost missed seeing the man trying to sneak off with Adrien.

In fact, the would-be kidnapper would have succeeded that time, if it weren't for Adrien deciding that he was hungry and needed food right that instant. His loud, unhappy announcement (something he had picked up from Chloe, Gabriel had assumed; he had made a mental note to see if he could get Adrien to have playdates with some other child instead of the newly-elected mayor's spoiled daughter because clearly she was already a bad influence) had drawn the attention of nearly every adult in the room, and the would-be kidnapper had promptly dropped the boy and taken off. In the ensuing panic to make sure that Adrien was all right, the kidnapper had gotten away.

They had freaked out, but not for too long. After all, who was to say that the kidnapper had been after Adrien specifically? There had been quite a few rich people and their kids at Adrien's birthday party. Who was to say that someone hadn't just wanted some ransom money and had grabbed whatever kid they had seen first?

They were more careful for Adrien's third birthday, and his fourth. By his fifth birthday, they had long since stopped freaking out every time he was out of their eyesight or gone to someone else's house for a playdate. The party was at the hotel again, but since Adrien was old enough to have some friends that he actually recognized, it was a little less adult heavy and it was definitely a bit more kid-oriented.

Of course, the kids had wanted to play hide and seek. Mr. and Mrs. Agreste didn't notice when the kids first dashed out of the main room to hide in the lobby, but they did notice when Chloe came tearing back in, yelling about a man that had taken Adrien away.

The party ended pretty quickly after that, as the police were called and a search for kidnapper and boy started. The two worried parents huddled together as the police questioned them, terrified for their little boy. One hour bled into two, then three, then four and five and six...

Nothing.

Gabriel swore then and there that he hated birthday parties.

They were questioned again the next morning, after a sleepless night. Did they have any enemies? Any family members or friends that had been acting off recently? Employees that had been fired or spurned lately?

Never before had either of them been so tempted to tell an outsider about the Miraculous. Sure, they had enemies, but they weren't normal ones. They weren't ones that the police could really do anything about, even if they said something.

If superheroes couldn't find their enemies, then what chance did non-superpowered police have?

The first day dragged by, with hour after hour of no news. Day two started much the same, until the kidnapper was identified using the video from the hotel security cameras.

"Great, we have a face," Gabriel couldn't help but grumble when the police relayed the info. "A face, but no name or address or any other information whatsoever. Fabulous."

"It's a lead," his wife soothed, though she hadn't looked particularly impressed by the police when they couldn't immediately identify the kidnapper. Every minute, every hour meant that the criminal could be getting further and further away from Paris. "And maybe they have more information than they're letting on about this guy. Maybe they'll be finding the name soon enough, but they didn't want to get our hopes up right away."

And apparently she was right. Three days later, the kidnapper was behind bars and Adrien was back home. His parents fussed over him for a solid week, and then started looking up bodyguards that they could hire. Within a month, the old chauffeur was working for one of their friends and the Gorilla was being trained in.

Adrien didn't remember the ordeal at all. Gabriel wasn't sure if that was a good thing or not, because on one hand it was good that his son didn't have to deal with any mental scarring or physiological issues stemming from having been kidnapped for several days. On the other hand, it meant that Adrien just didn't understand why Gabriel didn't treat him like a normal kid. It meant that he fought against the safety measures that Gabriel had put in place for him.

It meant that every year he asked for a birthday party, not understanding why his parents cringed every time the subject was brought up.

Realistically, Gabriel knew that the likelihood of someone attempting to kidnap Adrien again was low. His son was older now, and would know to fight back if an unknown adult tried taking him anywhere. Adrien knew how to fight well- Gabriel had made sure that he was proficient at both fencing and karate- and if he hosted a party in his own home, he could monitor everyone who came and went.

But some associations were just too hard to shake. Gabriel preferred to try to ignore the existence of birthdays altogether.

As Adrien got older, Gabriel wondered if maybe he should just tell him about the kidnapping. He was probably old enough to learn about it and not freak out and become scared of his shadow. But his wife wasn't so sure. She insisted on keeping it secret for a little longer, a little longer, a little longer...

And then she vanished, leaving absolutely no clues behind.

And just like that, Gabriel's cautious optimism that maybe, just maybe it was time to back off a little on the overprotective measures vanished. He updated all of the security around the house, double-checked the security measures surrounding Adrien's various activities, and got increasingly more uptight about Adrien's various escapes from his bodyguard.

Really, one would think that Mrs. Agreste's mysterious disappearance would make Adrien more cautious, but instead it just made him more restless, now that he had one fewer person in the house to talk to. It didn't pair well with Mr. Agreste's increasingly strict attempts to keep him safely in sight. It took Nathalie's influence to make Gabriel realize that letting Adrien go to school like he wanted would actually be safer than trying to keep him at home, since he would (in theory, at least) stop trying to sneak out.

(And, in all honesty, it didn't take that much persuasion on Nathalie's part. Gabriel's wife had been the one who hadn't wanted Adrien to go to public school in the first place, and security and the possibility of a kidnapping had definitely been a valid concern when Adrien was younger and less able to defend himself. But Nathalie had reviewed the safety measures around the school and reminded him that Adrien had demonstrated excellent skills in all of his fighting and defense activities, which meant that really, going to school would be no more risky than going to a photoshoot.)

So going to school was no longer something that Gabriel Agreste had a problem with. But, despite all evidence pointing to the conclusion that it was perfectly safe...birthday parties were still a bit of a (perhaps somewhat illogical) no.

Well. Maybe a bit of a no would be understatement. A very cutting, explosive no would probably be more accurate. A very cutting, explosive no that ended with his son's best friend being expelled rather decisively from the mansion.

And now that he was back alone in his office, Gabriel couldn't help but feel that maybe, just perhaps... he had overreacted. Just a little bit. After all, since even Adrien didn't know (or, more precisely, didn't remember) about the kidnapping on his birthday, his friend definitely didn't know. He couldn't know, unless he had gone out of his way to look up "Adrien Agreste" "birthday" and "kidnapping", which in itself (even Gabriel had to admit) was highly unlikely, and even then...would articles that old even still be online?

He certainly wasn't at all inclined to look himself and see. He didn't want any reminders of those awful days.

Perhaps he could have been a tad kinder with turning down Adrien's friend... Nino, was it? He had let his temper get the best of him, the stress he always felt on Adrien's birthday combined with the irritation of being called "dude" and the additional stressor mention of a birthday party combining to bring out the explosive temper he normally kept reserved only for adults who should have known better. Gabriel certainly wasn't going to enforce the whole "never allowed in this house again" thing (though perhaps he would speak to Nathalie about talking to the boy about manners and how to address adults properly), and he could (despite all outward appearances) recognize that Adrien's friend clearly cared about him.

(...not that he would tell anyone that. If Gabriel Agreste apologized every time he blew up at someone, no one would take him seriously anymore. Perhaps some of his blow-outs were somewhat unjustified, but he'd be darned if they don't result in some level of behavior correction.)

There was a scream outside and Gabriel spared a glance out the window, only to see a fashion disaster of what had to be another akuma zip past the window, trailing bubbles as it went. He stood up and peered outside, curious, only to see the bubbles enveloping adults and hauling them into the sky. He could already see both Nathalie and the Gorilla, each in their own bubbles. His first thought was to be concerned- if Adrien's bodyguard was gone, who would protect Adrien from another birthday-themed kidnapping?

Then he noticed something- it was only adults being targeted by the bubbles. In fact, it looked like all of the adults in the city were being whisked off. That meant that any potential kidnappers would also be off the street.

A noise at the window across the room caught Gabriel's attention, and he spun around to see one of the purple bubbles squeezing its way in. Before it could reach him, Gabriel snatched up his phone, sketchbook, and a handful of pencils before the bubble could reach him, tucking them away in his jacket.

If he was going to get hauled away from the office for any length of time, he was going to take advantage of it, thank you very much. Perhaps seeing the city from above would provide some inspiration. He had been somewhat lacking in that as of late, and he had certainly heard of other designers chartering plane or helicopter rides in hopes of getting inspiration from the view from above.

But for now, he had a client from out of town to text to reschedule her meeting before he got out of signal range. After all, even if he was floating above the city in a giant unbreakable bubble, it would be simply unprofessional to not contact his clients to let them know.

He could only hope that the attack wouldn't last for long. After all, he had a call scheduled for an absolutely impossible client at three, and they would not react well at all to rescheduling.

#Miraculous Ladybug #My writing #Gabriel Agreste

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lapinchatain · 7 years

Text

Anonymous sequel chp. 5

Jacob hesitated quite a bit before sending a message to Evie before Christmas holidays, asking her if she’d go home with him. They hadn’t really talked to each other during these two months after the “incident” at their birthday party and Jacob wasn’t sure it was him who’s avoiding her or the other way round. But they’d always go back to Crawley for Christmas every year, even after Father passed away. That’s the advantage (or the disadvantage) of being a family: you were always obliged to show up on the same occasions. He wasn’t sure whether it’s a good or bad thing. Both, probably.

“Same as last year,” Evie replied shortly after he sent out the message. “Do I need to get the tickets for you? See you at Paddington. I’ll email you the tickets later.”

She was totally talking to herself, offhand and bossy as usual, with no regard to his opinion. Not that he cared. She was the one who’s always commanding since they were children, bringing him to the library in town in summer holidays and reading a book alone for a whole afternoon, leaving him bored and tired at the chess table in the hallway, or deciding that they should go to hiking summer camp instead of lying idly on the beach in Brighton, or watching The Addams Family on weekend evenings, eating her homemade pistachio ice cream instead of going to the bowling club. There was once when Father was always away for work when they were in middle school, and she was also the one who decided what meals they would have every day.

“Get some takeaway food if you don’t like it,” Evie said coldly when she saw him push the broccoli in the bacon and vegetable lasagna aside with his fork in his plate, frowning, “Just don’t ask me for money.” Though at that time he was indeed ordering takeaway food a lot, as his cooking skills “suck” and that he really didn’t want to burden her further with chores while she already had the stress for exams to cope with.

Jacob threw aside his phone and slumped heavily onto the bed, covering his eyes with an arm. He shouldn’t have made that stupid move at their birthday party. He had always been an idiot in her eyes, he knew, but it felt like the first time that he truly regretted it. Wait a minute, would she think that he’s a bad person now?

He couldn’t help but let out a groan, feeling like a middle school pupil caught in the act while smoking cigarette for the first time.

Luckily it didn’t really feel as awkward as he had imagined when they finally met each other at the train station. It was a usual cloudy morning, and Evie had just left a coffee shop in the crowded station when he saw her, giving him a paper bag and a cup of freshly squeezed orange juice, a large heavy bag on her shoulder and her navy blue suitcase in her hand.

“Chocolate filled, orange juice,” Seeming to be talking to herself, as if Jacob needed to be reminded what his favorite breakfast was, she gave him a kiss on his cheek, then stepped backward and scrutinized him with a serious air. “Too much sugar is bad for your health.” Then added, “You’ve put on some weight.”

“Bollocks.” Jacob took a huge bite on his croissant, satisfiedly tasting a mouthful of chocolate. “I thought you’d take Henry home this year.”

Evie gave him a dirty look. “Henry’s got his own plans.”

“What plans would be more important than meeting the family of one’s future wife?”

The look on Evie’s face made him know delightedly that his attempt at annoying her succeeded again.

George drove to the train station in Crawley to pick them up, his coat billowed out around him by the wind on the platform, looking somehow embarrassingly comic. For some reason, George didn’t seem to have changed a bit in Jacob’s memories, staying always the same cautious, gentle, slightly awkward and prim middle-aged man, the only difference being some more white hair in the recent years. He’s a librarian in a library in town, widower for many years and had never had children. Maybe that’s the reason why he especially doted on the twins. He used to be Father’s patient before the twins were born and according to himself, Father was his life savior. “I thought it was true when I was little, but after I went to med school, I found out it was just a minor complication.” Evie told Jacob once in her surgeon’s tone. He’d always drop by their house when they were little, bringing them all kinds of little gifts, including the first toy train Jacob ever had in his life. When they were in college, Evie would go to his library during the holidays to write her essays or study for exams and take the afternoon tea with him. “People at the library say he’d always leave every day at 16:59 sharp. How terrible”. She laughed. Jacob didn’t see Evie much different from him, nor could he figure out why he was particularly close to Father.

George left after the dinner and Jacob was washing the dishes in the kitchen downstairs, before realizing that Evie had disappeared at some point. He went upstairs and didn’t see the light on in her room, but instead felt a current of chilly air coming from the attic. He knew where she was now.

“Hey,” Jacob climbed up to the attic and leaned out of its open window. The night wind of late December was freezing down to the bone, while Evie was sitting on the roof smoking with only her gray wool sweater, trousers and socks on. Jacob went back downstairs to fetch her coat and scarf, and put on a black coat from his own room.

“Can I sit here? ”

“As long as you don’t try to kiss me this time. ”

“Too sober for that.”

“That’s true though.”

Evie let him put her coat on her shoulders quietly, giving him the cigarette she was smoking in the meanwhile. Jacob sat down next to her, taking a deep puff and throwing the unfinished cigarette away. The neighbors opposite far away had decorated their roof with colorful bright lights for the Christmas, the warm light from the windows of the house shimmering gently in the cold and silent winter night.

“Hey ! Don’t throw the cigarette butt here! ”

“Just don’t smoke altogether. Gives you cancer. ”

“As if you were the one to lecture me.”

“I’ve never got addicted anyway.”

“You’ve been saying the same since you were 15 years old.”

“Because it’s a fact. ”

Evie sighed.

“Ok, so one new thing on the list ‘things that can get Evie Frye smoke’ apart from parties and exams: ‘I dumped my brother because I made a new boyfriend.’” Evie would always climb up to the roof to smoke alone in the night during the months prior to A-levels, but she couldn’t hide it from Jacob, even though she could from Father. But it wasn’t their only secret, obviously.

“Jacob!”

“Ok ok, I’m sorry.” Jacob said hurriedly. He didn’t want Evie to get angry and leave him alone again, though the roof on Christmas Eve’s night wasn’t a particularly romantic place, not with this glacial temperature. Evie didn’t reply.

“I have thought about saying sorry to you, but I just can’t do it.” She finally said, but wasn’t looking at him.

“You’ve got nothing to apologize for. We’re not,” Jacob put much thought into finding the right word. “Exclusive. We’ve never been. Hey, give me another cigarette.”

Evie rolled her eyes, but still handed him another cigarette. He took it, lit it up and took a puff, watching the smoke disappearing quietly into the cold air in the dim light of the night.

“Do you remember the boyfriend I had back in middle school called Jack? I saw him on Facebook the other day, he’s in Australia now.” Jacob broke the silence.

“You’re still using Facebook?”

“Don’t miss the point here. I mean it’s not like we can make any kind of commitment.”

“Tell me something I don’t know.”

“Ok, I know that you want to be normal.”

“You don’t?”

“You think I’d be interested?”

Jacob smiled and gave her the cigarette. Evie took a puff and smiled back.

“Henry has been nice to me.” She said slowly.

“That’s quite obvious.” Jacob shrugged his shoulders.

“But he’s very serious.”

“And that scares you?”

“A bit.”

Jacob made a hum sound.

“Okay – actually I just want to know how it feels like to be in a normal relationship with someone.” Evie seemed to weight her words very carefully while she spoke, and he could sense that she was tensed. Evie wasn’t one of those people who didn’t know what they wanted. “But I’m just not that interested in – family.”

“God, you’ve only been together for a few months. Don’t tell me that he wants to take you to India to meet his grandparents this summer.”

“Exactly what he plans to do.”

Jacob choked on his cigarette.

“What?”

“Yes.” Evie fell in silence for a while. “I’m not sure whether I’m ready for that or not, but I know that if I’m uncertain, it’s not the right time yet.”

Probably for the first time in his life Jacob felt thankful for the sharp judgment and determination of his sister. It wasn’t that he didn’t admire that part of her before, but this time it seemed that this trait was to his advantage.

“Then don’t go.”

“I know.”

They didn’t speak for a while. Evie took the last puff, the golden red weak light quickly fading out and disappearing from the cigarette butt. She carelessly tossed it to the ground, though she had been lecturing him on not throwing cigarette butt away some minutes ago.

“Why is that?” Jacob asked suddenly.

“What?”

“The whole you’re-not-so-interested-in-family thing.” Not that Jacob was interested himself.

“Do you remember that summer, when we went to the south? When we said that things could have been different if Mother was here?”

“Yeah?”

“Sometimes I think, fuck, I wish I could have a normal family.”

It was hilarious to hear Evie swear. Jacob couldn’t help but laugh out loud.

“You think I’m abusing you?”

“For god’s sake Jacob, don’t be ridiculous.” Evie paused for a moment. “But you know, what we do – what we were doing – is NOT normal.”

“I know. Do you care?”

“This is like you ask me ‘our mother died when we were born, do you care?’ or ‘our Father threw us to our grandmother and didn’t come back until we were six years old, do you care?’ So, the answer is nor yes, nor no.”

That was quite a smart answer. “It seems that you’ve finally abandoned your fervent veneration of our father and listened to the voice of reason.” He didn’t know if Evie would be mad at him for saying so, but it was a god damned truth.

“You’re right.” Evie’s reaction still surprised him. “I guess we’d just never have that chance or the will to live that normal life anymore. This is us, this is our life.” Evie said quietly, turning her head around to look at him, smiling. His heart skipped a beat, but resisted the temptation of kissing her. It felt right, it never felt wrong, but he couldn’t be a bad person. However right at this moment she leaned in and pressed a kiss to his forehead, then rested her head on his shoulder. He reached out and took her hand in his, and she didn’t let go.

She was right. They knew it, deep down, that this was the only life they had had, and that’s the only life they would ever have, for better or for worse. But what else could they do? A faint hope was lit up like a little candle at the bottom of his heart, but somehow Jacob felt a slight sadness permeating the air. At least that’s the sadness and loneliness that they could share, and they still had each other’s backs even if they were all alone in this big and lonely world.

“Want some more spiced wine?”

“As if I’d say no.”

***

So I really really like this chapter…the reason why I translated it into English. Damn, I can never get over my personal shit. The twins are wonderful for sharing so much in common with me.

Oh and it’s after writing this chatper that I remembered this quote I saw some time ago: “I’m nostalgic for a life that I’ve never had.”

#fryecest

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missunknown624 · 7 years

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Someone to Stay

Liam Dunbar X Reader

Author’s note

TEEN WOLF FOR EVERYONEEE! :3 So this is, Season 4 Episode 11, a little scene where Liam attempted to make Mason stay at his place, who apparently has things to do. In the process, he got a little down and a bit lonely— (poor pup) well, let’s say help is on his way. Spreading warm fluffs to all! +w+

~***~

The strong pouring weather resounded outside the Dunbar resident’s. Instead of hearing the audible thunderstorms and restless splashes of rain, the smashing 2D sound effects echoed around the beta’s room. Their friendly gaming competition was nearly finished, clearly because Mason’s life bar was almost the size of a pea. Usually though, he normally would’ve won every game Liam insisted to play, but this time was a bit different. His strategies were completely useless from his best friend’s unbelievably quick response to his strong attacks. Then after one little blow, Liam ended the game, declaring him as the winner.

“Oooh!” The both of them expressed, having a two-sided rhythm. Mason briefly threw his arms in the air, slightly chuckling and looking a bit surprised from his friend’s unexpected victory.

“Dude! When did you get so good?” Smiling proudly, Liam almost shrugged at the compliment.

“Hey, have you been practicing? Or did you just suddenly get superhuman reflexes?” The other teenager exaggerated in a joking manner.

“U-Um…” Liam widened his eyes involuntarily, averting his gaze from him as he immediately answered back.

Of course he knew that his best friend was being sarcastic, but really, he couldn’t help to be a little taken aback towards the mere coincidence. “I… uhm— P-Practicing! Yeah, I-I’ve been practicing.” The anxious male blurted enthusiastically while Mason nodded as response.

‘Thank god he’d bought it.’ Liam barely sighed in relief, feeling uneasy about the sensitive topic.

The black male glued back his eyes to the screen and grinned in astonishment at the little battle they had. Then, he suddenly remembered something important, as he announced rhetorically, “Right, and I should be studying.” Putting down the game controller, he slowly elevated from his seat.

“W-Wait! Where are you going?” Liam dramatically reacted, making the other throw a skeptical look upon his overwhelmed glance.

Just within the brunette’s tone and his peculiar demeanor lately, he vividly expressed his vulnerable state how afraid he was of isolation. But more than that, he was certainly terrified. He obviously didn’t want to spend another night by himself after those ominous delusions that constantly haunting him up for the past few days.

Mason narrowed his eyes in bewilderment, replying from his odd questioning tone. “Um, home? Besides, I got this History test tomorrow.” On the other hand though, Liam kept insisting him to stay a little longer, his voice cracking a bit. “Come on. One more game.”

“Sure, you said that four games ago.” And with that, Mason entirely stood as he strolled his way at the end of the room.

Panicking, the beta exclaimed and stumbled from his words, hinting the desperation between. “S-Study here! You can stay over!” His friend halted, turning over by his concerning pleas.

For a moment there, his voice resonated like he was entreating his life on the line. But the truth is, Liam just wanted company. He just wanted someone to talk to, like… someone to have this problems melt away for just a tiny moment, even if he was given little chance to get their time. He extremely needed someone like that, especially with the things happened when his supernatural status almost made him leave his normal teenage life behind. Well, almost…

“Come on, one more game. Just one.” The troubled teen tried calling out, but it was left unanswered.

“You okay?” Mason prompted, his eyes flowed in both worry and confusion.

With a struck of realization, Liam was quite surprised at himself as he caught how eager he acted. Completely ignoring eye contact, the helpless boy forcefully pierced his eyes shut in dismay and disappointment, meekly distracting himself from the game console in his palms. “Y-Yeah. You’re right. You should go.” He stuttered.

Replying ahead, he gave a weak uptight tone. “I should p-probably study too.”

He shook his head a little from his foolish act, as he bid a farewell to his friend. “See you at school.”

At some time later, Mason went home as the beta ended up cleaning his room from the mess they made one moment ago. Liam leaped into bed, merely making himself comfortable. While he whipped around momentarily, he soon landed his eyes at the lamp switch. He started to feel hesitant if he’d grow comfortable with the room scorching in pitch black.

Flashing images of that monstrous creature paused in the back of his mind. Hearing the wild echoes of the berserker’s deep growl made the male pull up and sit from the rickety mattress. His azure eyes scanned the almost dimmed room, alarmed of the fact that something might be secretly watching over him. Apparently, everything was at place and nothing was out of the ordinary. All he knew is he saw his regular old bedroom. But, he had this strong feeling that it wasn’t just it.

He brought himself back to bed, still cautious of his unpredictable environment around him. Swiftly turning the lights off, he was shutting his eyes one second then doubtfully shifting them open after.

At that moment, silence was the most distinct sound that his senses could hear, but the colorless scene became clear when the once faint drops of rain became louder as it balanced through the ears.

Slowly, he heard the wooden floor inagruably creak. The boy’s breathing almost hitched, exhaling and inhaling very heavily. Trying to convince himself that he’d mistaken the sound, the fast pace of his frightened heart didn’t faltered a beat. He couldn’t tell if it was true or just a pigment of his imagination. Maybe this terrifying beast was real that he was just waiting to be slaughtered alive?

Pausing, he heard a profound snarl. Violent heavy footsteps soon approached him. Its massive silhouette followed each crushing steps, but Liam never bothered to move a single inch. He anxiously panted as he felt this large figure hovering around him.

“Y-You’re not there.” Trembling, he said in fear repeatedly. He chose to close his eyes, hoping for this nightmare to end.

Before a few ginger knocks came at his door, he suddenly heard a low soft heartbeat enveloping his supernatural senses. With that, he instantly sat up and went flicking the lights up hastily. His eyes fixated towards the room right before him. Once again, he found it normal as it was before, yet the eerie atmosphere that extremely disturbed him somehow evaporated into thin air. It was like his nightmare faded away upon feeling a heartbeat.

The boy heard the person on the other side sigh lightly, creating a tiny cough to clear their throat out. Imagining some murderous voice at his door, he heard it far more feminine and gentle than he could’ve imagined. “Um, hello? Liam? Are you there?”

He then recognized her melody. The boy vaguely arranged himself altogether and he blinked relentlessly, realizing he was already sane. He rested his right palm on his forehead as he sighed in relief.

Soothingly, her reassuring voice cooed kindly. “Liam… I’m coming inside now, is that okay?”

Letting himself answer a quick hum, the hinges of his door squeaked slightly, some soft shuffling steps followed after. A female entered his room with a small tender smile on her lips that sent strange unraveling feelings inside the beta’s stomach. How odd.

“Hi, Dunbar.” She waved a bit and shyly walked up to his bed. “Are you alright?”

“Uh… yeah. W-What are you doing here, (Y/n)?” He wrinkled his brows, a dazed expression plastered his face. Chuckling lightly, she told him honestly. “Well actually, a certain person told me that you need someone to talk to and unfortunately, he’s busy at the moment… so, I wanted to help you with it.”

In a heartbeat, Liam got flustered at the scene and carefully broke eye contact with her. “It was Mason, wasn’t it?” Nonetheless, the girl nodded in response.

(Y/n) sat on the male’s bed, although the teenager beside her flinched at the abrupt closeness. As respect, she made a little space for him to be comfortable towards the situation. She graciously smiled, hoping to encourage him quite a bit. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Like any other being, they would be taking second thoughts about heart to heart talks, but Liam wanted to say every single word of what he’s been bottling up inside, though nothing came out. He wanted to have this long conversation with her, believe me he really does; but, something was still having him hold back. His innocent blue irises articulately stared back at her curious (e/c) ones. They didn’t needed a voice to explain every detail, their eyes already spoke.

“Ah, it’s okay… I’m not trying to force you out of it.” Withdrawing those delicately caring words out, the beta slightly smiled at her assuring rhythm. She reciprocated the gesture, but with a bitter appearance. “It must’ve been hard for you, wasn’t it?”

The boy furrowed his eyebrows and laughed nervously. “What do you mean?”

She sighed as a smile curved her lips. “You see… you reminded me of someone I know. It might not look like it but I can feel the strong resemblance inside of you. Even if you haven’t seen it yet, you’re really the same as him.”

Liam glanced at her in wonder, noticing her eyes lit up when she warmly looked back towards his blue orbs. “So… who was he?”

“He was someone who always protected his friends and stood beside them against all odds. He’s someone who cared for his pack very much, which now included you too.” She pointed, as the boy’s once large pupils shrank at the unpredicted revelation. He froze momentarily.

Slipping her hands into his, she squeezed his hand comfortingly. He found it very endearing of her, and couldn’t help but be struck in astonishment. His eyes narrowed down with a tender glimpse on to her. The female locked their gazes together and said. “I already knew, Liam… Whatever or whoever you’ll be, I’m not afraid of yo—” Halfway to complete her sentence, (Y/n) felt the mattress shuffle across her and a sudden warmth radiated her body. Liam wrapped his strong arms around her waist, terminating the short distance between them once and for all. He leaned his chin over her shoulder as he was hugging her from behind. Both of their hearts hammered inside their chests, feeling the same awkward predicament. Soon after, the two of them relaxed, though stayed put like that, never breaking the silence nor the connected contact.

He held her tight like he was going to lose her at any moment, yet at the same time kept her safe like a frail feather. He felt himself melt entirely, as if this dangerous cruel world stopped and all of his worries were erased entirely. Hesitantly, he softly mumbled under his breath, subtly tickling her earlobe. “(Y/n)? C-Can you— uh… s-stay over for t-the night?”

Unexpectedly, he then heard a small giggle from her. “Oh, Liam…” Turning around to meet him, she smiled warmly. “Of course I will, silly.”

(Y/n) bundled her arms around his neck as he buried his burning face on to her (h/c) flowing locks near her collarbone. Liam focused his hearing into her steady heart, gladly closing his exhausted eyes. In that perfect moment, he felt very delighted and secured in her kind fragile touch, he even found himself clinging into her like a poor scared puppy.

As she stroked his hair affectionately, she reached over and planted a brief loving kiss on his temple. “Remember that we’re here for you, okay? I’m here.”

~End

#teen wolf #mtv teen wolf #teen wolf mtv #liam dunbar #teen wolf liam #liam #liam dunbar x reader #someone to stay #dylan sprayberry #teen wolf x reader #teen wolf dylan sprayberry #puppy love #stiles would've raged

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trdwriting · 7 years

Text

Revisited

Portals: FF.net | AO3

Rating: Teen (very mild cursing and sexual innuendo)

Summary: Ten years after his first and only time travel adventure, Wilbur travels back in time once more to meet his father in his past again for old time’s sake and before his father in the present day destroys the time machines for good.

A/N: I decided to write this fic in honor of Meet the Robinsons 10th anniversary. This movie meant a lot to me when I was younger (it was the first fandom I really wrote fanfiction for). Thus, it only felt right to honor it.

Pay phones in his time were mythical things. So, it seemed unreal that Wilbur Robinson was standing in front of one, feeding quarters into the money slot.

Everything considered, Wilbur had thought out this foray into the past more than he usually planned his days. He had done brief research on the Web into his father’s past, using interviews, tabloids, social media feeds and other archived information to piece together how likely Cornelius would be in town on March 30th, 2017. (The answer: extremely likely.) Facebook posts from thirty years ago informed him that his mother was in the picture. They got engaged the following year, but Mom had moved in already. His grandparents lived there still, but they were so crazy that if they did happen to meet him during his travels, they would probably forget it altogether, or never connect the dots when Wilbur was around years later. Wilbur hated that his grandparent’s failing memory was a positive thing. Wilbur had even made sure to scrounge around the Robinson household for out of circulation coins before the year 2017-in between couch cushions and especially lying in corners in the garage-because he knew that current currency would most likely not work. He just hoped he wouldn’t need pennies…

The time machine operated like his personal car, aside from entering a date before take off. Nowadays, Wilbur was a licensed driver, but piloting the time machine at the age of thirteen had been more of a stomach churner. Back then, his only experience behind the wheel had been at a birthday party where they all went Go-Karting. Wilbur was lucky that he hadn’t crashed the thing his first time out…outside of fighting with his father, leading to him tearing the wheel out.

He wasn’t used to the watery blur when the time travel sequence began, and his spine went icy at the thought of accidentally materializing inside an office building or someone’s living room if he flew too low to the ground. Instead, he arrived safely above his hometown city 30 years ago.

The city was in metamorphosis around this time. The drab brick faced skyscrapers were being replaced with the colorful, sinuous high-rises of his time. His father’s auto building machines had yet to be perfected, so most of the landscape was still built the old-fashioned way and Wilbur could see the construction workers in their cranes putting together the buildings. Flying cars existed by this point, but they weren’t common, with around 6,000 in the air. The cloaking device on the time machine may have been smarter than anything else his father had invented. Unfortunately, finding a place to park was a tough call. He settled on next to the roof of a nearby parking garage, where he could easily step into it. He marked the time machine’s location with a group of pebbles on the roof’s lip.

So, now, here he was, dialing his father’s mobile phone. (His research indicated that his father hadn’t changed that phone number in ages). He figured he had better chances of getting a response from his father that way than the house phone, where his grandparents were more likely to answer.

After what felt like years of dial tones, someone picked up. “Hello. This is Cornelius’ cell phone.” Wilbur’s throat dried up. She sounded much younger, but this was his mother. All the preparation Wilbur had almost evaporated, but he regained composure. “Hey, uh….Is he there? I wanted to speak with him.”

“Sorry, but Cornelius is…..busy right now. Maybe you should call back later….much later.” Something like a spider crawled up Wilbur’s spine. His mother wasn’t saying anything directly, but her tone was unmistakable. Wilbur pinched his nose and took a deep breath, trying not to read too much into what Franny was saying. “This is very important. Please.”

He could mentally see his mother tilting her head and squinting her eyes, the way she got when she was suspicious. “Somehow, I doubt that.” Wilbur suppressed a groan, but he heard some shuffling and someone else murmuring to his mother, then the phone being moved.

“Who is this?” Cornelius sounded annoyed, but very calm at the same time.

Wilbur sucked in a breath. “Hey, Dad….It’s, uh….It’s me.”

The silence on the other end was nerve-wracking. What if his father didn’t remember their time traveling adventure? In that case, Wilbur would probably play it off like a prank call and swiftly hang up. Instead, he heard “Hold on.” then murmuring, and lots of shuffling, then a door opening and closing.

“Wilbur, where are you right now?” He sighed when he heard Cornelius say his name. His dad had confirmed that he, indeed, remembered him.

“I’m at a pay phone on 5th Street.”

Before Wilbur could say anything else, Cornelius cut him off. “I’ll be there shortly. Don’t move.” He hung up.

Wilbur hooked the phone back onto the receiver, shoving his hands into his pockets. He leaned against the telephone booth, trying to act casual, but he couldn’t ignore how his stomach knotted up. Roughly a half hour later, his father approached him. Suddenly, he realized how old the Cornelius of his time was. This version of his father still had a full head of shocking blond hair that managed to stick straight up, like static electricity ran through it. His face was less wrinkle- creased, though he still had heavy bags under his eyes. His circular glasses perched on his nose. The wide blue eyes behind them were familiar, as were his typical button-up shirt and tie, sweater vest, khakis and dress shoes.

Wilbur opened his mouth to greet his father, aiming for a jovial tone to break the ice, but Cornelius spoke first.

“Why are you here?” Cornelius asked, his voice stern. His gaze darted over Wilbur, as if the answer to his question was written somewhere on him.

“I’m just here to talk, Da-Cornelius.” Wilbur heard his voice crack a little. “That’s all.”

“I highly doubt that.” Wilbur winced at Cornelius’s tone. He didn’t blame his dad for being cautious. The last time they had met each other like this, a man and a robotic bowler hat were plotting the destruction of the future as Wilbur knew it. He took a deep breath.

“I swear to God, Cornelius, there is nothing wrong, okay? No robotic creepy-crawlies, no stolen time machines- nothing. I just….really wanted to talk to you.”

“And future me wasn’t available?” Cornelius cheeks paled suddenly. “Am I dead?”

Wilbur waved his hands. “No! No, you’re still alive.”

“Then why aren’t you talking to future me about…whatever it is you wanted to talk about?” Cornelius furrowed his eyebrows intensely.

Wilbur sighed. He should’ve figure his father wouldn’t have accepted his arrival without an onslaught of questions. Jesus, he was older than Cornelius at present, yet Wilbur felt scolded. “Well….future you is destroying the time machines today…..and I…I just wanted to….I don’t know….use it again? Before it’s gone forever?” After he said it out loud, he realized how poor his reasoning was. To pilot a time-altering device for nostalgia’s sake was selfish at best and potentially destructive at worst. “Plus….in the future, you’re my old man...but in the past, you’re…..”

“…A peer?” Cornelius offered. His eyebrows relaxed.

“Yeah. Something like that.”

Wilbur studied Cornelius, rubbing his Converse against the pavement. Cornelius chewed on his bottom lip thoughtfully, gazing out somewhere behind him. Wilbur looked around him, watching people pass them. Some people would pause and whisper. They probably recognized Cornelius. Even now, before the height of his father’s success as an inventor, he had attained celebrity status.

Cornelius exhaled through his nose. “In that case, Wilbur…” he looked back at his future son, a small smile on his lips. “…How does lunch sound?”

Cornelius took Wilbur to a burger joint that no longer existed in his time, though Wilbur didn’t mention that a bike shop had taken its place. It had a rustic feel, with wooden seats, faux leather booths and low lighting. The host immediately recognized Cornelius and asked him who Wilbur was. Cornelius introduced him as a “family friend” from North Montana. After they had ordered drinks, Wilbur noticed that Cornelius was staring at him.

“Is something wrong?” he asked. He looked down at himself. “Is there something on my face?”

Cornelius shook his head. “No! No….I just….You look so much like Franny…It’s unbelieveable.”

“No kidding.” Wilbur deadpanned. “What gave it away?”

Cornelius raised an eyebrow. He idly rubbed the stubble on his chin. “I guess I have your sass to look forward to.”

Wilbur rolled his eyes. The waiter came by and dropped off their drinks. “I actually wanted to talk to you about the last time we met.” He idly swirled the straw in his drink, the ice clattering.

Cornelius didn’t respond, just watched him patiently.

“So, I think that the time travel affected us in different ways, because…” Wilbur struggled with his words. “I mean, it feels like I have been living two lives sometimes.”

“What do you mean?”

“Like, after I got back to my time, I realized that I had two different sets of memories? Like, one that existed before I travelled and one that exists because of the time travel. Sometimes, I don’t know which memories actually happened to me.”

“Hmm…What changed? What is the difference?”

“Goob, mostly.”

Cornelius sat up more.

“Before I time travelled, I never knew much about Goob. You…You never talked about your past in the orphanage. You may have mentioned Goob once or twice, but it was always in passing. So I had no idea who he was when he stole the time machine. But then, after I got back from the future, he was like another relative. I have all these memories of him coming over the holidays with his family…going over to his place when I was hanging out with George-“

“Who’s George?”

Wilbur blinked a couple of time. “His son.” He pulled out his cell phone, a thin holographic sheet of glass. He flipped through the device to find a picture of him and George side by side. He smirked at George’s smile, the way his hazel eyes glowed, his hair an unruly mop. He slid the device across the table.

“I can see Goob in his face. I guess you two are still close?”

Wilbur felt his face grow hot and he snatched up his phone. “Well, yeah. I’m dating him.” He looked away from his father. He heard him laugh.

“Why are you embarrassed? That’s great!”

“I’m not embarrassed. It’s just-“

“-embarrassing?’

“Personal.”

Cornelius was silent after that. Thank God. Wilbur wouldn’t have exactly minded talking to his father about his boyfriend (If he were honest about it, he knew he could talk to Cornelius about George for hours), but he got that feeling in his stomach that he would be judged for falling in love with a family friend. It felt wildly cliché, almost like he had been set up with George since he first met him back in kindergarten. When he brought George over one day after telling his family about his relationship, the entire household had applauded, which had George visibly uncomfortable. Then the unrelenting storm of questions: How long have you been dating? I told you they were going to be a couple. I could tell when they were kids.

“I’m guessing the family has been…invasive?” Cornelius took a sip of the iced tea he had.

Wilbur huffed. “You guys are way too nosy sometimes….all that attention.” Wilbur drew his fingers through his hair. “Sometimes George hates when we visit. He gets drained really easily. I mean, he came over for play dates a couple of times, but I could always tell that he was never very comfortable around a lot of people so…..I don’t know, we ended up mostly going to his place after school.” Wilbur thought back to his years in elementary and middle school, how George would almost hide behind him whenever family members came up and asked him questions, or how George’s shoulders would relax when they were finally alone in Wilbur’s room.

“How serious is your relationship with him?”

“We live together.”

Wilbur couldn’t describe how Cornelius’s face changed, but it softened. “Are you married?”

Wilbur’s ears flushed, but he kept as best a straight face as he could. “That’s an excellent question.”

When Cornelius didn’t move to change the subject, he finally said. “No, we’re not married. We’ve talked about it before, though.”

“Are you using protection?” Wilbur practically choked on his drink. He gawked at his father, who was gazing at him casually, like he hadn’t just asked an extremely personal question.

“What the hell? What kind of a question is that?”

“An excellent one.” Cornelius’s lips twitched into a smirk. Wilbur gritted his teeth. This man wasn’t his father yet, but he still took every opportunity to poke fun at him.

“Dad, I am 23 years old. You’ve already given me ‘The Talk’ at this point!” he explained, exasperated. He covered his face with his hands.

“I’m sure I have. But you are living with your boyfriend which implies tha-“

“OH MY GOD!” Wilbur’s face was tomato-red and was never more grateful for their food to arrive. He immediately dug into the burger in front of him, hoping the meal would distract from the conversation.

“You still haven’t answered my question.” Cornelius eyed Wilbur impatiently.

Wilbur heaved a sigh. “Yes, we use protection….” He mumbled, avoiding eye contact.

Cornelius sat back in his side of the booth, as if satisfied with Wilbur’s answer. “Glad to hear it.”

“So, what inventions are you working on?” Wilbur spat out his question immediately, needing to change the conversation as fast as possible.

“You already know the answer to that, right?”

“Look, can you blame me for wanting to change the subject?”

Cornelius was silent at that. “So, let’s return to what you were talking about originally, with your two sets of memories.”

Wilbur chewed on his hamburger as he listened to Cornelius.

“How much have you talked about this to future me?”

Wilbur thought for a moment. “A couple times. He seems to have only one set of memories, the one where I visited him in the future. You theorized that I hopped dimensions? Or that a new me was created after the events of the time travel resulting in a divergent timeline where events changed? It was very confusing.”

“Time travel is inherently confusing that way. Have you ever heard of the Many Worlds Interpretation?”

Wilbur shook his head.

“Well, I won’t bother with the gory details, but essentially the theory states that every time a choice is made there is a timeline that exists because of that choice. In the case of time travel, there is a world where you never time traveled to save me from Bowler Hat Guy and there is a world where you did. There is also a world where Goob never stole the time machine in the first place.”

Wilbur mulled the idea over in his head. “So, basically, you’re suggesting that I have memories of an alternate reality, one where I never time traveled?”

“In layman’s terms.” Cornelius looked hesitant, but Wilbur appreciated the fact that his father wasn’t trying to over-explain the intricacies of quantum mechanics.

“And you only exist in one timeline?”

“Yes.”

“…Does that mean that I was always meant to travel back in time?”

“That’s a whole different matter. The answer might depend on who you ask.”

Wilbur’s head swam a bit with this new knowledge, but instead of asking any more questions, he took another bite of his hamburger.

“Wilbur?”

He looked up from his food. Cornelius’s face had softened again, only now his eyebrows were creased more than usual.

“Yeah?” he mumbled through the food in his mouth.

“Is there….Is there anything you wish was different?”

Wilbur set down his hamburger slowly. “I don’t follow.”

Cornelius’s line of sight was on something behind Wilbur’s shoulder. “I mean….do you….do you have a lot of fond memories of your childhood? Is there anything…you would have changed about the way you grew up?”

Oh. Suddenly, Cornelius looked smaller, deflated in the seat across from him. Even though he had passed puberty, Wilbur could briefly see the twelve year old he had brought to his future family, a young boy with nothing to his name, who only thought of himself as a failure, desperate for validation. He hadn’t considered how his father might have changed upon meeting his future son.

“If you’re worried about screwing up raising me, then don’t be.”

Cornelius’s expression still looked clouded over. “Wilbur, be honest with me.” His blue eyes stared at Wilbur.

“That was honesty, D-“

“No, it wasn’t. No parent is perfect, especially not me.”

“I didn’t say you were perfect-“

“Then why aren’t you telling me what I did wrong?” Wilbur shrunk at Cornelius’s tone. He had seen his father frustrated before, obviously, but it was still unsettling sometimes.

“Why are you assuming you did anything wrong?” Wilbur asked him softly after a pause.

Cornelius opened his mouth, but no words came out.

“Look, I’m not going to act like my childhood was problem-free. But in comparison to some of the kids at school, I might as well been living in paradise. I had so many people who supported me, you and Mom especially.” Wilbur looked at Cornelius pointedly. He hoped Cornelius would relax, but his father still seemed to be waiting for a scathing critique of his parenting, even before he had properly become one. “But….you guys did put pressure on me. I don’t think it was purposeful, but there was this….expectation that I was going to be stellar in school. Every teacher I ever had was always incredibly disappointed when I didn’t get straight As, especially in the sciences.” He thought back to high school, when his chemistry teacher had set up a conference with him, asking him why he was struggling so much. He had to tell her that he just wasn’t good in the sciences. The teacher must have thought he was crazy. How could it be possible for the son of Cornelius Robinson to have a poor science grade average?

“The only subject I did amazing in was computer science, but that was it. In every other subject, I was a B student at best. You never were disappointed in me directly, but…I still felt like I was letting people down.” Wilbur hung his head.

He heard his father shift in his seat. “I’m sorry it was like that. I can’t say I can speak for my future self directly….To be brutally honest, I don’t know you as well as my future self does, but….from the two times I met you, I can tell that you care a lot about doing things right. You are also very eager to impress others…..You did try to play yourself off as a member of some secret agency when we met.”

Wilbur chuckled a little at the memory, especially the tanning salon coupon he had used as an ID badge. He didn’t meet Cornelius’s eyes.

“You know, Wilbur…You were the first person to ever truly believe in me, right?”

That got Wilbur’s attention. He glanced up at his father, looking for the punchline to this obvious exaggeration. “What do you mean?”

“Exactly what I said.”

Wilbur’s eyebrows furrowed. “But, that’s impossible. You had to have teachers….you had Goob.”

“Yes, but not with my inventions. They always failed before the Memory Scanner. Yet, you still insisted that I could actually make it work. Even when all evidence pointed to the contrary, you still believed in me.” He smiled softly.

“I…”

“My point is that you will always be important to me, not just because you are my son, but because you are my friend as well. I owe you so much.”

Wilbur was still lost for words. He met his father’s eyes, seeing that they were seeking validation. “Just keep doing what you’re doing, Dad. You’ll be fine. I promise.”

Cornelius gave him a warm smile. They kept eating their food, chatting casually until they paid. They walked until they had to part ways. Cornelius reached out a hand to shake, but Wilbur pulled him into a hug instead.

“See you soon, Dad. And thanks for humoring my weirdness.” He rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly self-conscious. “I know time traveling wasn’t the best decision but…I needed to talk to you like this.”

Cornelius nodded. “Yeah, I think…it was good hearing from you again. I’ll be seeing you soon.”

Wilbur gave Cornelius one last wave before walking towards the parking garage where he had parked the time machine. As he stepped in, he thought about his younger father, about how much of a friend he felt. He smiled to himself as he reset the date and flew away.

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I am upset that I wasn’t able to post this directly on March 30th, but I think I took my time with this piece, which is the most important thing for me. I am debating whether I want to write a companion chapter/piece from Cornelius’ POV, or more fics with Wilbur in them, so please let me know if that is something you would be interested in that

Thanks to @that-guy-in-the-bowler-hat for reading this over before I posted it. I really appreciate his input! You all should follow him on Tumblr!

I have accounts on AO3 and Fanfiction.net. Want to request a fanfic? Send me an ask or a PM!

-TheRationalDove

#fanfiction #meet the robinsons #wilbur robinson #lewis #cornelius robinson #OC #franny robinson #goob yagoobian #that-guy-in-the-bowler-hat

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