#courage writes

[hero-of-courage]

What if each of the Links' biggest phobias/irrational fears were based upon the trauma of their predecessor?

Some of these are angsty and some ended up kinda funny.

Creepy Enemies (Disembodied Hands)

Hyrule hummed thoughtfully as he tossed a short stick into the campfire. He glanced up at the other boys seated around and asked carefully, "Are there any kinds of enemies that really creep you guys out? Just curious."

"Disembodied hands," Twilight answered quickly.

"Hey! I was gonna say that." Wind grumbled.

Legend pondered a moment before squinting at the flames and replying, "Actually... the same as them."

Hyrule raised his eyebrows in surprise. "Not fans of wallmasters huh?"

"Hands that come out of the ground are worse..." The youngest shivered.

"Oh," Twilight grimaced. "Yeah. I don't like the sound of that."

Water

"Come on, Hyrule!" Wind called across the gap. He studied the other boy's expression as Hyrule hesitantly inched closer to the edge of the dark water. "It's okay if you get wet! I have an easy way to dry off!"

"That... That's not the problem..." Hyrule replied with a shaky voice.

"What?"

"I can't swim." The brunette backed away from the edge and locked his worried gaze with Wind.

"Really?" Wind tilted his head curiously. "Why?"

"I never learned. Deep water... makes me anxious." Hyrule crouched with his palms on the ground. Magic vibrated under his skin as he readied to jump. "You might want to stand back!"

Hyrule launched himself over the divide filled with the dark abyss of water and stumbled to safety. His friend joined him at his side with a kind smile.

"Are you good?" Hyrule nodded after a moment. Wind continued,"I'll try to avoid deep water next time."

Sneaking up from behind

"Four."

A hand gripped his shoulder. Four jolted.

"AH! NAYRU!" He swung around franticly and his fist collided with the unfortunate person's stomach.

"Gah!" Warriors doubled over with a groan. "Gods! You've got a killer left hook, Smithy..."

"Captain! Ah! I'm sorry! It was his own fault. Why did you sneak up on u-me?!" Four's eye color changed rapidly before landing on grey. He breathed slowly soothing the chaotic colors in his brain. "I'm sorry, Captain. Are you alright?"

"I'll be fine..." the man ground out as he straightened his posture. He kept his hand pressed to his gut. "Everyone is turning in for the night so we should head back. You wouldn't want them to worry would you?"

The short teen marched past him. "Of course not. Let's go."

"Are you okay, Smithy?" Warriors raised a brow at the teen's unusual behavior.

"Yes I am. You just... startled me."

"If you're sure..."

Ghosts

"Can we not go into a suspicious probably haunted basement?" Warriors glared at the old rotting staircase leading into the dark.

"What's wrong, Captain? Afraid of ghosts?" Legend snarked already half way down.

"Yes actually!" Warriors growled. Ghost were dangerous. They can injure or possess people and the like. What's worse is that they aren't easily defeated by the sword. "Why aren't you?"

Legend shrugged and descended into the darkness. "Eh. They get old after a while."

Warriors stared at the inky abyss that Legend submerged into with an unsettled stomach.

"Come on, Captain! We don't have all day!"

Steeling himself, Warriors carefully crept down the creaking rickety stairs. He sucked in a sharp breath as an unnatural cold gust rushed past his ear. He shivered and at last he had reached the floor.

He scanned the dark for movement and for any glimpse of a blue cap. Finding nothing but his growing unease, he called out, "Vet? I can't see where you are!"

Legend's voice hollered back sounding painfully far away, "Keep up! Honestly, I had no idea you could get like this!"

The Captain stumbled in the direction of his friend's voice only to be yanked to a stop when his scarf tightened around his neck.

"Agh! What the hell?!" He choked out as he tugged on the fabric to loosen it.

Nearby something slammed on the floor. Warriors felt his breath leave his lungs as the sudden need to be silent paralyzed him.

The cold gust whispered in his ear once more as a creeping sensation crawled up his back. His heartbeat thundered in his chest. Too loud. Too loud. They'll hear...

Thumping footsteps echoed in the dark. They're coming...

The greeting of a warm glow of a lantern caused the terrified hylian to squint.

"Captain?" Legend called as he approached. His tone was carefully maintained as indifferent, but to those who knew the hero of legend he was poorly masking his concern.

"There's something here..." Warriors responded barely above a whisper.

Legend frowned at his uncharacteristic behavior and grabbed the man's wrist attempting to pull him along. "We're wasting time."

"Wait!" Warriors coughed and tugged on his scarf again. "I'm stuck."

At his strained voice, Legend stopped immediately and glanced behind them. The scarf was taut and lead into the darkness where the light of the lamp didn't reach. He released Warriors' wrist to examine the cloth closer.

Warriors stumbled backward, but the scarf remained strained. "Come on!" He groaned as he struggled against it. Impossibly, the scarf seemed to tug back and Warriors began to lose his footing.

Realizing too late what would happen, Legend frantically reached for his hand again. As their fingertips brushed against each other the Captain's feet slipped from underneath him.

"Legend, help!" Warriors cried out as he was yanked into the abyss.

Shrill laughter swirled around the maze of a basement and the cold gust snuffed out the glow of the lantern.

Legend cursed his luck. So much for finding the others as soon as possible.

(Giant) Spiders

"Wild. Wild! Stop walking!" Twilight's voice ahead of him caused him to glance up from his sheikah slate. To his immediate horror he was met face to face with a huge white skull which had eight spindly legs growing out from the sides.

"Ahhh! What?!" He cried as he fell back away from the monster. "What is that?!"

With a grunt, green goo sprayed the ground and the monster disappeared into a cloud of purple smoke.

"You almost walked into a Skulltula." Twilight reported as he shook the revolting goo off his sword. "You gotta be careful around them. Their bites are nasty."

"That's what the giant spider is called?" Wild shuddered as he followed the rancher further into the cave. "I thought that the largest species of spiders only grew to about the size of a dinner plate! This is so much worse!"

Twilight threw a smile over his shoulder. "I'm guessing you've never fought an armogohma before? Good for you."

"What's that? A spider the size of a guardian?" The Champion crossed his arms with a disturbed expression.

Twilight's smile grew sheepish as he seemed to regret his words.

"Eh... it's best you don't know..." He turned around and continued on into the cave.

"Wait... wait no... That means that it's even bigger!" Wild impossibly looked even more disgusted and clutched his bow like a lifeline.

Bells

Bong bong bong

Link shot up in his bed. What was he doing?! He didn't have time to be laying around like this!

Bong bong bong

He was too late! The world was ending! Everyone would perish because he had wasted so much time!

Bong bong bong

The final tolls of the bell rang out declaring his failure to the world. Where was his ocarina? He rummaged frantically through his bags.

"I'm sorry... I'm sorry... I'll fix everything," he muttered aloud.

"Time?"

A soft voice cut through his mind numbing panic like a ray of sun through a storm. He heard the sheets rustle as Sky nearly tumbled out of the other bed.

With shaking hands, Time placed his instrument back into his travel bag and set the bag down. He turned to the younger hylian as he groggily walked his way over.

"I'm alright, Sky..." he whispered to the young knight. Gently, he placed his hands on his shoulders to steady the boy. "You should go back to sleep."

"You didn't sound very alright earlier," Sky mumbled completely ignoring the second half of Time's words. He yawned. "Wha's goin' on?"

"I had a... an episode," Time decided to answer honestly yet vaguely. He steered Sky back to the bed and sat him down. "Don't worry about it. You helped me out so I really should thank you."

"Oh..." Sky blinked at him for a moment before he reached up and brushed his hand over Time's cheek.

Time froze at the action. A mere moment later he took notice of the wetness of his cheek. He had been crying in his panic then?

"Are you going to be able to sleep too?" Sky asked, turning to squint at the window. "Those bells were kinda loud for people to be ringing this... late? Early?"

Time nodded in answer. "I just need to get some water first."

Seemingly satisfied with that answer, Sky slid under the bedding and tried to get some more sleep before the morning.

With a heavy sigh, Time exited the room and closed the door with a click.

Bonus: Claustrophobia/Imprisonment

The knight of Skyloft slowly blinked away the tendrils of unconsciousness from his eyes. It was dark. Pain lanced his temples when he raised his head. He winced. His hair was matted on one side and stuck to his face. That discomfort was accompanied by the metallic scent of blood.

He groaned at the throbbing in his skull and made an effort to touch it. To his distress he found that he could not move his arm. Frantically, he glanced to his right. His arm was stretched outward and chained to the wall with no slack to grant him movement. He was suddenly very aware of the ache across his shoulders and back. A glance down at his legs revealed that he was fixed above the floor and currently incapable of moving his legs either as the were shackled to the floor not unlike his arms.

"How... how did I get here?" He wondered as he glanced about his cell. An inkling of anxiety began to grow when he noticed that all of the walls were made of dark stone and the door appeared to be a thick sheet of metal. It was impossible to know what was happening outside of the room because of the lack of windows.

The darkness seemed to curl in on him even though his eyes had adjusted to it. The air was cold and it bit at his lungs as he breathed it in. He shivered, causing the chains to clink.

"Where is everyone?" It was so quiet. His breaths sounded painfully loud to his ears. "No one's here..."

His breathing picked up and his head and heart started pounding rapidly as panic settled in. This room was too narrow. The ceiling was unnervingly low. It would crush him. He needed the sky. He needed to see the sky.

He yanked fruitlessly at the chains sending a twinge of pain up his arms. He cried out in frustration and panic before letting himself droop in exhaustion. Eyes wide yet unseeing, he breathed shaky breaths as his ears rang unbearably.

***

"The shadow is retreating!" Twilight yelled to Time over the din of the battle. "Go find him! We'll take care of the rest here!"

"Alright! Be careful!" Time answered his successor. He turned to their shortest member. "You're with me, Smithy."

"Got it!" Four confirmed and followed after.

A moment later Wild ran alongside them. "Let me come too."

Four's eyes narrowed slightly at the older boy. He sighed. "Fine. Be sure to keep your emotions in check Champion."

Wild merely grunted in reply.

Finally, they arrived at the dungeon underneath the abandoned castle. It was cold, dark and damp like a cave. Almost all the way down the hall of cells the doors were open. They carefully made their way through, wary of any traps that might presently spring.

When at last they stood before the only closed door, Four glanced about cautiously. "There weren't any traps. Strange... It's almost like the shadow wanted us to find Sky. It gave the battle up so easily... What's it's motive here?"

"It's like it's observing us, our actions, how we react to what it does." Time hypothesized as he watched Wild break open the lock on the metal door.

The door was shoved open with a shriek of metal on stone and Time heard Four gasp upon entering the room. Glancing up, he rushed forward.

"Sky! Are you alright?" Time gently lifted the young man's chin off his chest to see his face.

Sky blinked slowly but he seemed to stare straight through the hero of time with his eyes clouded. His breathing was harsh and shallow and his frame shook with each breath.

Time frowned. He glanced to the boys next to him. "Smithy, Champion, get the chains off him. I'll make sure he doesn't fall."

"Got it!" Four replied already digging out his fire and ice rods. He handed one to Wild and set to work. "Freeze the right one. Lower the temperature as much as you can then switch with me."

Time turned his focus back to the boy before him. He wrapped his arms around his torso and braced himself as he listened to the humming magic, the licking of flame and the chime of ice.

With a snap and the clanging of chains against the walls, Sky slumped into Time's embrace. He groaned. His arms and back still ached terribly.

"We'll get you out in a minute and then we'll take you back to camp to rest." Time whispered to him. Slowly, he sunk to the floor and maneuvered the boy so he could see his face. Sky's expression remained blank. "Sky? Can you hear me?"

When he was met with silence again, he reached for the boy's hand. He gave it a little squeeze and rubbed his thumb over his knuckles. To Time's relief Sky's pale, cold fingers curled around his own.

Sky fixed his gaze upon the face of the man who was cradling him. The hero of time smiled faintly in return, the corners of his lips slightly quirking up. "Hello. Are you with us now, knight of Skyloft?"

The boy in question squeezed his hand shakily, his deep blue eyes never leaving Time's face. "Please, get me out..." he pleaded breathless and quiet as a silent tear slipped down his cheek. "I can't breathe. Please..."

Time felt a sudden twinge in his heart at the boy's words and a righteous anger simmered under his skin. He held him closer and ran a hand through his crimson stained hair detangling it in an attempt to soothe the young knight. "They're almost done. Just a second. Only a second and then we're out."

Another snap rang out in the cell and Sky was scooped up and raced out of the dungeon.

When the four Links finally burst out into the forest, Sky found he could breathe deeply once more. He calmed down significantly, yet he was still unnerved by the manacles around his wrists and ankles.

Four smiled at him sympathetically, his eyes shining a rose red, when he was noticeably staring at them. "Sorry, Sky. It would've been too dangerous to remove those while we were in there. I'll take care of them when we get back to camp, okay?"

Sky nodded in response. He made an effort to ignore the metal bands; however, it was hard to when the small length of chain still attached to them clinked with every step Time took.

Turning around to face him as he continued to walk backwards, Wild piped up, "I'm sorry too, this probably wouldn't have happened if I had been watching your back."

Sky waved a hand. "It's not your fault. I should have been more vigilant. The shadow was targeting me and had me drift away from you during the battle."

"Exactly why we should prepare so it doesn't happen again," Time cut in.

Wild sighed and turned forward again before adding, "I have the Master Sword in my slate just so you know."

Sky let himself relax in Time's arms. He closed his eyes and listened to the birds chirping and the leaves rustling in the breeze. "Thank you, Champion."

The group broke into the clearing where the camp was nestled in the center. They settled down and moments later the rest of the Links joined them with smiles of relief just as the sun sank low in the sky.

I did not mean to write a whole one shot for Sky. Please, Courage try not to be so obviously biased.

Anyway~

Lege, Twi and Wind get their fear of Wallmasters, floor masters and other things from the hero of time. Who has fought those enemies plus deadhand and bongo bongo. I think Lege might also have a fear of getting lost. He loves his maps.

Hyrule gets his fear of water from Legend. YaBoi went sailing one day, caught a storm and got shipwrecked and then Link's Awakening happened and he accidentally erased everyone on koholint, including his girlfriend.

Four gets his fear of being attacked from behind from Sky. Four hasn't had the best luck when it comes to betrayal especially in the manga. And then there's Ghirahim.

Wars gets his fear of Ghosts *cough*and basements *cough* from our beloved hero of the winds. Wars was hard to decide for and I ended up basing it purely off of Wind rather than something that paralleled. The ghost ship in Phantom Hourglass is pretty creepy and so is the labyrinth under Grandma's house in Wind Waker.

Wild gets his fear of giant spiders from Twilight. This one was also difficult to decide so I did a thing similar as with Wars. Twilight Princess's Armogoma is freaking huge arachnid that you have to squash with a statue. Did you know that the boss fight could have been a chase sequence instead? There's a small clip in a TP trailer where Link is being chased through the hallways by a gargantuan spider. No thank you.

Time gets his fear of bells from Four. I'm sure most of you reading this know about the hero of time's adventure in Termina. The clock tower in the town counting down the days hours minutes till the end of the world slowly but not slow enough. The people never knowing how many times they had lived those three days over and over. Never knowing that their lives were in the hands of a child too old and too young. Four was a child too when he was tasked with saving his best friend and the world as well. He raced against time and the tolling of the bell, tearing through enemies as fast as he could to save Zelda from her soul being ripped out and being turned to stone forever.

Sky gets his fear of imprisonment and claustrophobia from Wars. Ah no. He gets it from the first hero, the knight of Hylia. At first I didn't know whether to include Sky or not but of course me not being biased at all had to (big mistake). The first hero(who I call Chosen) was imprisoned for seven years on unjust charges by his own people. Then when calamity struck they released him and had the audacity to ask for his help. He decided to help them but YaBoi needed a sandwich first and didn't get one so he died in battle.

I wrote everything above in September of last year lol. It’s also no longer spoopy season anymore but I thought y’all might enjoy this.

[thingswedontunbox]

[aslyran]

Visions

[homemadesterekpie]

Stiles getting in big trouble at school because a video starts circulating around of him in a compromising position with a certain young man who’s been under suspicion of murder not too long ago…

it starts with people whispering to eachother whenever he passes them by. but Stiles is kind of used to that by now. ever since fucked up shit started happening in town with him almost always having something to do with it one way or another people tended to talk. but then at lunch, Boyd practically runs to him and grabs him by the arm to drag him out of the cafeteria, Erica and Isaac following behind looking pissed as all hell.

and that makes Stiles pause a second because Boyd never runs unless shit is going down so he just lets himself be dragged to an empty classroom.

Boyd just pulls out his phone pressing play on a video and turns it to show it to Stiles with a vague look of embarrassment on his face.

Stiles looks down at it and yep that’s Stiles alright. Stiles getting his shit rocked by their one and only Alpha.

at first glance it’s not overly explicit, all you see is Derek’s upper body facing away from the camera moving suggestively and Stiles’ face over a tanned shoulder and arms around his neck.

it’s the sounds that truly makes it look as bad is it is. Derek’s grunting is loud on the speakers and Stiles’ little moans sound wrecked and Stiles remembers he did feel absolutely wrecked that time. it had been the first time Derek had fucked him on the counter in the kitchen and Stiles had propped his phone up to catch it all because he may be a little freak but it was only ever meant for his own eyes. But it’s the sounds of their bodies moving together that really and truly puts the last nail in Stiles’ coffin. It’s beyond obscene, the slapping of skin on skin along with the wet sounds…

Stiles tells Boyd to turn it off, red in the face, completely embarrassed. he asks where the fuck did he get it. and Boyd doesn’t beat around the bush and almost kills Stiles on the spot when he says everyone fucking received it on their school email.

Stiles sits down hard on a chair and hides his face in his hands. this is it he’s going to die. his dad is going to fucking kill him and then Derek would kill him too.

Erica asks how could it have been sent to everyone like that. Stiles just shrugs, he can’t think right now. Isaac suggests that maybe someone could have stolen his phone during practice one afternoon?

Stiles’ head snaps up at that and he’s sure that’s it. but who could it be, no one knows the combination of his locker? well Scott knows it but why would he… Stiles stops his line of thoughts because yeah Scott definitely would.

Boyd who’s been watching him closely the entire time asks him what? what is it?

Stiles looks at him, mortified and mumbles that he’s pretty sure Scott might have done it.

Stiles had tried to avoid the whole thing going on with Scott. all they did these days was fight so Stiles just stopped talking to him. they were on a friendship break if you will.

he should have known it would blow up in his face and boy did it blow up.

Erica curses and says she’s going to kill the little shit while Isaac agrees. Boyd rolls his eyes but there’s definitely a murderous glint in them.

Stiles is about to tell them to stand down that he would deal with Scott himself but he’s suddenly called to the principal’s office on the PA system.

Stiles sighs and makes his way to the office like he’s on his death march. the betas follow him and there’s people in the halls who point and laugh at him and Stiles is so humiliated and embarrassed he can’t even manage to roll his eyes at them but the betas must threaten them somehow because they shut up quick and practically run the other way.

his dad is there waiting for him when he walks up to the office and Stiles feels like being one with the floor. he’s talking with the principal who looks serious and disapproving.

he doesn’t look at his dad in the eyes when he approaches, he can’t. the principle tells the betas to go back to the cafeteria but Boyd says they’ll stay right here. Stiles has to give them a look and mouth the words it’s okay for them to back down and walk away.

what he’s not prepared for though is for Derek to show up. they’re about to enter the principal’s office when he enters the double doors of the school like a bat flying out of hell. he looks beyond pissed and Stiles’ stomach drops with dread. but when he spots Stiles, his face softens just a tiny bit and Stiles lets out a small sigh of relief.

his legs move without him noticing and he shuffles towards Derek who strides towards him with purpose and next thing he knows he’s in Derek’s arms, face into his neck and he’s apologizing over and over while Derek shushes him softly.

the principal clears his throat and says this situation is private between the school, Stiles and his father. Derek lets Stiles disentangle himself but doesn’t let him go entirely. Derek stares the principal down for a moment before saying he’s in the video too and as far as he knows that involves him too.

Stiles steals a look at his dad and his face is unreadable and Stiles blanches. because he knows that look. that’s his on duty sheriff face.

in the end they let Derek sit in to which Stiles is grateful. he stands behind Stiles’ seat the entire time, Stiles feeling the heat of him at his back comfortingly.

they try to blame Derek for everything of course but Stiles is adamant that he was the one to take the video and that the video got circulated without his knowledge or consent.

his dad’s unreadable expression cracks at that and he asks Stiles who did it. Stiles stutters when he says he doesn’t know yet. he feels Derek shift on his feet behind him and he knows Derek heard his lie and hell, Boyd probably already texted him their suspicions of Scott being behind it.

his dad doesn’t look convinced but he doesn’t press it, instead he talks with the principal as if Stiles isn’t there.

the principal assures that the emails has been taken down but that they can’t guarantee the students haven’t downloaded the video on their own.

as for punishment Stiles is expelled for a week to which Stiles’ jaw drops because that’s beyond harsh. its not like he beat someone up. and its not like he’s the one who circulated the video. all he did was spread his legs and film it, dammit.

his dad not so subtly imply that he might press charges on Derek for statutory rape and Stiles whips his head to him, face hard. he says with a voice thats just as hard as his face, no, you will not.

his dad turns to him and looks at him like he doesn’t know who’s sitting right there beside him. Stiles repeats that no, he won’t and that Stiles won’t let him. his dad’s chest puffs up in anger, a dangerous warning in his eyes but Stiles doesn’t back down.

the sheriff doesn’t back down either but he goes back to talking with the principal, Stiles tuning them out. Stiles is angry now, his embarrassment completely forgotten.

it’s obvious the main reason why his dad and the principal are being hard on him is because he got caught having sex. and thats humiliating for them and for the school.

suddenly, he feels Derek’s fingers at the back of his neck, just a brush of knuckles and just that small touch is enough for his shoulders to relax.

He doesn’t speak to his dad when finally they’re done and out of the office. the betas are back and waiting for him and Derek. Derek talks with Boyd for a bit while Stiles tells the other two what happened in there. Derek leaves but not before kissing Stiles on the forehead with a hand gripping the back of his neck, comfortingly.

his dad approaches him and looks at the betas awkwardly before telling Stiles lets go we’re leaving but Stiles says he has things to get from his locker and that he’ll be home later. again, it’s the both of them not backing down but eventually the sheriff just walks away and out of the school.

Stiles gets the things he needs from his locker, the betas his shadows and the four of them pile into the jeep and leave. as he drives, Boyd tells him Scott didn’t come to school today but that he’s home though. Stiles makes a turn, taking him away from his usual way home and instead towards Scott’s place.

Scott is on the porch when he turns in the driveway. Stiles tells the betas to stay in the car but they don’t listen to him but they do stay close to the car.

Stiles walks up to the porch and just looks at the guy who was supposed to be his best friend. Now that he’s here, he doesn’t know what to say to him. Scott knows what he did and by the smug look of his face he certainly doesn’t regret it either.

Stiles sighs, exasperated and defeated. this is so stupid. Stiles calls Scott a moron and that whatever his reasons were for doing what he did, all it ended up doing was making Stiles mad and that he doesn’t want to talk to him again and if Scott were to ever show his face to him outside of school, he would let the betas get at him.

with that said, he turns around and walks back to his jeep while Scott sputters a little before starting shouting vile shit at Stiles. the words whore and bitch are thrown in there and Stiles would lie if he said it didn’t hurt to hear those but he refuses to give Scott the pleasure of a reaction. he just gets back into his jeep with the betas and drive away.

he had planned to go home after but he’s more upset than he anticipated so he drives to the woods where he knows Derek will be waiting for them.

as he drives up, Derek is already jogging down towards the jeep and he’s just put it into park when Derek opens his door and pulls him out of the seat to hug him.

he murmurs words in Stiles’ ear. like why did he go see Scott that he would have dealt with him, Stiles didn’t have to go through that. he also apologizes to Stiles that he shouldn’t have let Stiles film them but he can’t say no to him and that he doesn’t want Stiles to fight with his dad, etc, etc. Stiles just holds onto his Alpha tighter, nodding his head into his warm chest.

Stiles knows all of this. Derek would stop the earth from turning if Stiles asked him to and that’s why nothing else matters. he’ll deal with his dad. he’ll deal with the school. he could deal with anything if it meant that at the end of the day he would be back here just like this, in Derek’s arms, right where he belongs.

[mischievous-thunder]

And thus began their domestic life together

[hero-of-courage]

Thanks for the tag! I also have an unforgivable amount of unfinished works. 😅

I might be forgetting some, but oh well.

@majorproblems77 tag you’re it! (Or anyone else who wants to do this)

Make me work on my fics!

Rules: Make a 24hr poll listing the titles of every WIP you want to work on. (It’s fine if you only have one, still make a poll for the vote count). Whichever WIP title gets the most votes, write 1 sentence for every vote received.

Thanks for the tag @pelicanpig With the end of the year upon us, it’s a good chance to take a step back and reevaluate what I want to focus on.

I'll tag @spices28 @lily-alphonse @to-be-frank-i-dont-care Join in if you want! :)

[carebeardean]

Charles has always left Edwin little notes slipped between the pages of his favorite books, in his science equipment, places he knows Edwin loves. Just silly things—post its that say “hi Edwin :)”. doodles of Edwin with his nose stuck in a book. reminders to stock up on wolfsbane. but.

Then, post canon, Edwin tentatively starts dating people. And it’s ridiculous, because Edwin’s right there, all the time, but Charles..misses him a bit. And his heads a mess, and he can’t sort out what the hell he’s feeling most of the time, and whenever he tries to say any of it out loud it comes out rubbish.

So. He writes down some of the shit he can’t say right, and because he’s a coward, hides them so he doesn’t have to see Edwin’s face when he reads them.

then Edwin starts writing back.

Neat lilac blue little envelopes appear in Charles coat pockets. In his bag. Once, in his shoe? Some nights, Edwin will clear his throat and mention something from a letter, offhand, like they’re just picking up conversation, and Charles can pretend they are. That they always have talked about the basement, the belt, the nameless fear that chokes him every time Edwin walks out the door with someone else on his arm.

Sometimes he can’t. The words get stuck in his throat. Edwin’s not mad, he’s maddeningly, stubbornly kind about it, which is worse.

Some nights they trade. A secret for a secret. Charles learns about the novels Edwin used to hide under his mattress, about all the lonely years before Charles got there. About Simon.

Meanwhile, Edwin is losing his mind, because Charles has accidentally stumbled onto what was a fucking courting ritual in his time. Love letters were something engaged couples treasured for years, kept and reread over and over. (Edwin does. keep them in a special box, will take one out and trace the words, tuck it in his breast pocket for courage).

Edwin would rather have to reattach a limb again than lose Charles trust, all the dark and beautiful things he shares with Edwin only. He knows—knows Charles doesn’t mean to make him fall more in love with him.

[witchlake]

from the diary #003

[1alchemistart]

"Waltz with me!"

i don't usually take requests but this one (coming from @mariichengg thank you mwah!) got the gears in my little head turning! 'tis a scene from my own fic from a while back :D was fun to revisit!

[hero-of-courage]

Got all my LU longfics up on Ao3!

Sky fans get y’all’s food!

I have a couple short stories on there too. Please check them out if you’re interested.

[surqrised]

I will spend more time with myself in this lifetime than anyone else. Let me learn to be the kind of person I would like to have as a friend.

Courage to Change: One Day at a Time (Al-Anon.)

[hitlikehammers]

💅That One Time Mommy Harrington Came Home Early and Found Her Son In Bed with A Man and Had To Square With The Reality of Her Baby Boy Growing Into a Man+Building His Own Family (Without Her)

and/or Being a Better Man of the House Than His Father Ever Could Be

🌼OR: 2/5 times Steve/Eddie talk to anyone but each other about their feelings (for each other), +1 (other time they turn around and talk to one another)

She’s slipped her heels off by the time he stands in the entryway to the kitchen.

“Mom.”

Diane Harrington is not the type of woman to be caught back-footed in conversation. And she does suppose that lasting two decades without ever catching her son in flagrante is better than most mothers can hope for. She was admittedly unexpected—their arrival wouldn’t have been until next week if all had gone to plan. Richard’s secretary—not the young woman Diane caught him with last night, shockingly enough—but the secretary always sends Steve certified letters to make sure he’s aware they’re returning to Hawkins.

So she was unexpected. And she’d heard noises, crying out, when she’d cautiously entered after her flights were delayed past nightfall—there’d been a very suspicious and unfamiliar van in her garage where she’d expected Steve’s BMW to be parked, he’d always cared so diligently for that car but it was in the drive, and had shoe-prints on the dashboard she could see through the window. That, added to foreign articles of clothing strewn like evidence of a tussle, a hard-worn leather jacket and a pair of jeans darker than anything she’d ever seen her son so much as glance at, then the baseball bat dropped, perhaps, near the front door when no one in this house had ever played—though Steve had wanted to, as a boy, but swim will get you noticed for college, Steven, Richard had always insisted—it had all sent her chasing the noises up the stairs to Steve’s room, throwing her shoulders back and forgetting that she had no implement for defense as she opened the door and heard—

Well. Heard more clearly the words accompanying the cacophony of noises, paired with the image of her son on top of another man, the two of them very much notcovered by the sheets nearly kicked clear off the mattress.

They’d frozen when they saw her—and she’d frozen in kind upon seeing them, processing in slow-motion how her son was not in fact in mortal peril, or battling an intruder.

Not…even close.

But when the boy below him had looked up and met her eyes, she’d seen absolute terror, and then her legs had remembered how to move, and she’d dashed back to the stairs with a gasp, heels clacking on each step of her mad descent.

She’d checked for wine like an instinct—none in the kitchen, and she didn’t want to go to the cellar in the basement. She honestly didn’t know if her legs would give out on her for the climb, given the way the adrenaline was leaving her swiftly, with just the shock left to drop her into a chair at the kitchen table.

And she’d stared into the middle distance with little anomalies catching her attention through a sort of syrup, through a daze: snacks Steve never gravitated toward before, but even without accounting for shifting tastes, the sheer volume is confusing.

Pizza boxes waiting to be broken down for the garbage—but likewise, far too many—a party, maybe, but then why was the house not still in full swing?

The entire wall behind the countertops snaking about the room: lined with empty bottles of Yoo-hoo of all things, like modern art, some kind of statement.

The unmistakable marks of girls in the house: hair ties and neon scrunchies wrapped at random about the room. Bottles of nail polish by the little basket meant for keys. A young girl’s lunchbox, open in the corner, sitting at an odd angle on its hinge. Like it’s out to be fixed.

The fact that the dining room table is bigger, but farther—and instead this mostly-for-show kitchen table’s been stretched to its maximum length, exceeding both the dining room’s capacity and also the space made for this one, here, with all the long-abandoned leaves added in, and chairs surrounding it from anywhere and everywhere, hardly any matching. Scuffs in the wood mostly buffed but some a lost cause. Like it’s been lived on.

Then the refrigerator, that’s never once had anything hanging on it, practically plastered now in its entirety with…Polaroids. Drawings, some maps, maybe. To-do lists, only a handful for groceries from what can be read. Colorful letter magnets, as if for a toddler. School exams with varying marks but also varying levels of difficulty—different grades, perhaps? A calendar, with so many notes. Like life was busy enough, here, that each and every day was filled to the brim.

It’s not…she doesn’t understand—

It’s in the empty blinking, the confusion, that Steve calls to her. She regrets that that’s exactly the same gaze she turns on him, at first.

It’s nothing to do with him. She just…she’s been absent too much and too long, she knows. But when her child calls for her, her first move is to look.

It always will be.

“We didn’t expect you back yet.”

He doesn’t apologize, for how she found him; what she saw, or who. She’s unexpectedly, but undeniably and expansively proud, in the face of it.

She clears her throat, still a little stuck in the molasses-slow fog of…this. All this.

All this unexpected living.

“You’re…” she swallows, blinks, wills away the clinging fingers of the trance still lingering in her eyes, on her mind; she needs to see her son—

“You’re being safe?”

Steve’s jaw drops a little, and it’s so…defined. He’s…he’s a man now, and he’s staring at her like he doesn’t trust her, not entirely, both of which break her heart a little, one way or the other.

But he looks like he distrusts her, but doesn’t want to. Like she may have hope of salvaging something.

Like he’s found something—more likely someone—that he values deeper, cherishes closer, to be wary of anything that could bring harm to them.

That…that also breaks her heart. That she’s something to be wary of, in service of the people her Steve loves.

“Why is that your first question?”

Steve asks…too blank. She’s mourned that sin of her husband’s, privately above most others—the way he’d slowly and carefully worn Steve down to fit the mold he liked best, not the shape Steve blossomed into all on his own.

The way Steve juts his hips and crosses his arms as he leans against the doorframe—so unlike Richard would have tolerated—and does it well balanced and worn-in; she wants to believe this version of Steve has taken root, has become his honest everyday self. That he’s left that limiting mold behind.

But he’s asked her a question, and is eyeing her—rightly—in anticipation of answer.

Which he deserves. And she’ll give him in honesty—not least because she really was both lucky, to have drawn out having to catch her son in the act this long, and so much more unlucky, that she’s likely been able to cheat the whole affair this long largely because she wasn’t there for the possibility, before now.

“Any questions about whether it’s serious, or how you feel about him, are irrelevant,” she tells him, keeps her tone open and warm but doubles down on both when Steve’s eyes narrow; seek out any hint of insincerity, or likely more often necessary to target, and far worse: of judgement.

“Not just because it’s not my business, so long as you’re happy,” and she means that truly; with her entire heart she means that, even if Steve doesn’t see it, or hasn’t had enough chance to know her heart enough to recognize it—her heart for him, her own boy’s happiness as her most fervent wish—but she makes her voice warmer still, expansively open from there to continue on; “but more because you’ve already more answered them.”

Steve looks at her, still so blank, blank but…somehow not the same as before. How blankness can change is beyond Diane’s ability to put into words but she doesn’t need to, really; she sees something softer, something with more forward possibilities in this blankness.

And Diane Harrington would never, could never be accused of not finding opportunities to encourage the best case scenario.

The result where maybe her son can look at her without suspicion.

“I’ve been down here almost half an hour, Steve,” she makes sure to call him by the name he’d always told his parents he preferred, and to do so without fanfare, without making a point of anything less; she’d always bristled when Richard used his full name as a rule against his wishes.

His eyes still widen, a little, when she says it like it’s a given. She should have fought Richard harder on the little things; the little things that meant everything.

Their son’s sense of himself.

But to the point, which she owes him, and so much more:

“You didn’t come rushing to explain.” It’s the most important thing, because she can read people well, wouldn’t be successful outside her marriage otherwise, just a housewife making dinner—and she thinks her son has the same gift, just maybe aimed differently, and maybe exponentially expanded, if the hints around the house are things she guessing at correctly—and she’s so impressed with how no part of Steve is apologetic. Is even hinting a considering trying to distance himself from what she walked in on. Not even for the sake of defiance—more as a matter of course: and it’s impressive to witness. How tall he stands when she’s still the threat, much as it pains her.

But because she can read people, she sees that he doesn’t see the reasons she sussed out so quick and clear, despite all the other haziness.

“You’re not embarrassed, or ashamed,” and he isn’t, at all, and she hopes she sounds nothing like expecting he should be; prays she sounds half as overjoyed as she is that this is the man he’s grown into—

“So I assume you spent that time taking care of him,” she leans in a little, tips her head forward and tries her damnedest to project that joy, for him, for what she thinks he’s found, for what she sees in his eyes, eyes she doesn’t entirely recognize anymore—her fault, again, her fault—but she can see it in anyone: love.

Her boy is in love.

And even if she couldn’t read it off him—

“And a mother may never want to see her child in such a state,” and Steve shifts, a little uncomfortable even as Diane bites her lip against a smile at how it reminds her of him as a tiny boy; “but I heard you, not just the noises but the words, before,” and she leaves it there, because they’d both know those words well enough, the love you, love you so much, would die for you, again and again, you’re my whole heart and soul, you fit just right, you’re made for me, we’re forever, we are always, I love you—

And certainly, people do say wild things in passion. But…odd as the circumstances? And as badly as she’s fumbled for the task of motherhood over the years?

Call it a mother’s intuition, nonetheless.

“So,” she claps her hands a little, finally, but more on the way to folding them, leaning her chin on the platform they make: “those questions wouldn’t be needed anyway.”

Steve doesn’t say anything; she doesn’t like that. But then, she’s not sure what she’s hoping he would say, what would even suit the moment.

She thinks she just wants to hear him speak some more.

And besides, she’s given him his answer. She…maybe she isn’t entitled, but she would still like to know for her own peace of mind:

“But you are being safe?”

It’s dangerous these days, after all.

“We are,” he answers, quicker than she expects, and it’s more a relief than she expects, too—and she’d expected it like walking back from a cliff’s edge, but still it’s more. He nods, and she accepts that that’s all she’ll get, and she doesn’t truly believe she deserves more but: something.

Something in him, things she doesn’t know and couldn’t begin to see; or else maybe something in how she looks to him, in her face, in whatever her expression gives away—he says more, he gives her little gems of who he’s become:

“He’s my first, like that,” and he lifts his chin, defensive; or no. Not that.

Defending.

And he takes the posture of it like it’s second nature; easy as breathing. She hates that there must be a reason to it, one bigger than just her absence—or Richard’s even limited presence.

She feels a need to know, and yet an equal-opposing need not to press this thing, to reawaken that initial cause. She isn’t a threat.

She needs to listen, for now. Soak up his words.

“And Hawkins is,” his one hand reaches to gesture broadly, in a world-weary way she doesn’t expect until she sees it; that’s so far beyond his years—before he tucks that hand back into the protective cross of both arms over his chest. “He didn’t have the opportunity, before, with here being…here. So.”

The words are clipped. But they’re…they’re words. Firm. Real.

Her boy is nowhere to be found in any of it, save as the foundation for this commanding force, this presence of a man, a shining, radiatingly good man, standing in front of her.

He is nothing like his father. It’s everything that she hoped could come of their absence—despite it.

Because of it.

“Good, that’s good,” she exhales, nodding to herself—her son, safe, grown, protecting himself and his lover, maybe his beloved, from the ills this life might set upon them, this good man—

Then she revisits her words and feels herself blanch a bit.

“Not good that this town is,” she gestures, and realizes: that’s what Steve had done, for the exact same thing, in the exact same way; “but,” she looks to him, beseeching a little, but his lips are quirked the slightest bit, his shoulders that little bit more relaxed against the wood.

“I got it.”

Diane nods, sniffs, and then sighs. It’s not…it’s late. She is exhausted.

And she doesn’t know how to talk to her own son.

“Noticing my absence isn’t his strongest suit,” she jumps at the easiest topic to follow on with because it’s probably obvious, but: she needs to make sure Steve knows that Richard’s not here, and not immediately on his way. Things would have looked very different, had he opened Steve’s door.

“That said, he may or may not be here soon. But in case—” she glances meaningfully to the stairs. They can’t continue to keep the door unlocked, at the very least.

“Of course,” Steve says, solemn while simultaneously appalled that she’d imply he’d even risk it, tone tightening a little. “Tonight was going to be the last time we, here, given I thought you’d be back next week.”

It’s not censure. But it feels like it should be. Or wants to be. Because…

Because Steve is the man of the house now, isn’t he? No matter whose name is on the deed. This is his domain. He’s kept it as to quickly enough be reverted for neither of his parents to notice, if they stuck to their schedules, if Diane hadn’t acted impulsively, too fed up with her husband’s indiscretions—but even if he keeps it hideable, this is Steve’s house.

Diane finds himself wanting to know all about the ways, and the whys for all the changes she sees. And all that she hasn’t, yet.

“You’ve grown so much,” she says, so soft, eyes prickling; “I’m sorry I’ve missed it.”

It’s not enough. The words are so far beyond insufficient.

“Me too,” Steve says and again: not a censure. But it should be.

It wants to be.

But the fact that it’s not maybe means he wants to meet in the middle. Maybe he’ll listen if she shows she means it, if she demonstrates how she cares, even if it hasn’t been enough—it’s never been wholly absent. It’s never been nothing.

“You never pick up the phone.”

She does not actually mean to say that, at all, and certainly not like it tumbles out: juvenile almost. Petulant.

God, but the day’s catching up to her. She’s usually so much more composed than this. More polished.

But then: this? This is her son.

Steve’s as taken aback as he rightly should be, and she knows she’s mistepped when he balks a little, when his tone hardens like he’s…like he’s very well practiced at scolding wayward children.

“Excuse me?”

Very good at scolding wayward children, somehow. She has no idea where the skillset came from but damn it all, she wants to learn. She wants to know if it’s connected to the assignments and drawings on the refrigerator. She wants to know if the scrunchies aren’t from ex-girlfriends but kids he cares about, and how they came to be under his protection, his unwavering care.

His narrowed gaze—more pertinent in the now—as she herself sits more like the wayward child.

But she’s begun the point, and it’s not in her nature to fail finishing what she starts.

“When so many terrible things have happened,” she says, voice low as her mind flickers through the devastating headlines of the past few years; “when I call to check, once I hear what’s happened, and it’s always reported with such a delay, it’s unconscionable,” she’s even called the mayor’s office about that, she shouldn’t have to see her son’s whereabouts in flames weeks later when she checks, because she does check. Because Steve doesn’t tell them, and contrary to some of her missteps: she worries.

She constantly worries because she is a mother, and she will worry until she’s quiet in her grave: she will worry until her dying breath about her son.

The fact that their town seems to court the apocalypse in regular intervals now certainly doesn’t help, but she’d worry either way.

“But I call, to see if you need,” she starts, and is a little surprised by how tight her throat is, how much feeling’s overcoming her.

But only a little surprised, if she’s wholly honest.

She takes a deeper breath, and starts again.

“I call, no one answers. The tape in the machine’s been full for over a year.”

She knows. Because the line just rings, plays the horrible out-of-space message—and Steve’s own line never had a machine. All she gets is endless ringingwhile her heart pounds every time for the fear that it’s not just because the tape’s full.

“I,” Steve starts to say, then clamps his mouth shut, but his eyes dart to the machine, or no: next to it. A…what looks like a carphone, maybe, for the size, but it’s more a metal block, really, with knobs and buttons and lights and—

Maybe whatever it is, is how the people Steve knows would need him can get in contact with him. An overgrown pager she doesn’t have the number to.

She understands it, maybe even deserves it.

That does nothing to dull the sting.

“I have learned to call the police chief,” she says, dropping it conversationally when she hopes the gravity of going that far will convey some of how serious she takes all this, feels all of this; “someone must have a dire grudge against the man, I was told one time that he was murdered!”

She absolutely does not expect the snort that escapes Steve, at that.

“You could say that,” he murmurs, a twisted, almost crazed sort of smile spreading for a few seconds. She’s never seen that look on her son, and it doesn’t last long enough to examine before he turns more serious, takes the conversation in his hands without direct prompting, which Diane will gladly call progress.

“I didn’t know you called Hop.”

Hop?

“And his wife, as necessary,” she huffs a little, set on conveying her determination to at least get some confirmation of life about her first-and-only child. “I didn’t know you were on friendly terms with local law enforcement.”

She’s not sure if that’s a net positive or negative, but the smile—maniacal as it’d leaned—at least suggeststhe former.

“He’s,” Steve’s smile is softer now, more…normal. Genuine. “He’s a lot like family. Joyce too.”

Diane aches to know how it happened to be that way. Hurts to presume part of it was because Steve’s own blood wasn’t in the picture enough. But—

“I knew Joyce Byers, when we first moved back here,” she says softly, her own genuine smile curling her lips; “I remember her as a tough woman. Resolute,” she recalls her pregnant and pushing a stroller, never stopping on her way through for groceries; “but always observant, especially of what others needed. Always kind.”

Steve’s face is unreadable, but what she can make out is the affection in it. Some things must not change in this town, then.

Enough about the past, though.

“Back to your gentleman upstairs,” Diane raises an eyebrow, but makes sure it’s a soft thing. A welcoming thing. “You are serious, yes?”

She doesn’t even have to try to sound soft or welcoming, with the words. Because she hopes very much that her son wouldn’t risk what he is for casual; she hopes even more that she’s right about reading love in him.

“I think,” Steve finally says after a long, thoughtful pause—he always had been careful with his words when they most mattered. “I think if ‘the one’ even exists?” he looks at her then; meets her eyes and oh yes.

She saw true, when she saw love.

“It’s him.” And the way Steve says it, so certain, almost makes her want to cry.

“And if it doesn’t exist,” he adds on with a shrug, like reality is relative, just semantics; “he’s it, anyway.”

She doesn’t fight the tear that drops to run down to her smile as she stands, approaches Steve cautiously—wants to hug him, hold him; isn’t sure if she’s allowed.

He doesn’t come to her. But he doesn’t move away.

“You’ll leave here?” she reaches for his hand and he reaches back. Her heart beats a little extra hard for it.

He nods. Her baby.

“When the kids graduate.”

Which makes no sense, but would explain so many of the bits and pieces she’s already picked out around the kitchen. He’s…he’s made a family.

In the absence of the one he was born in; even just looking at the trailings of it, she can tell it’s a more vibrant one.

She’s failed him, in so many ways, and yet he stillbecame this.

“Do you know where you’ll go?” she asks, her voice only a little choked.

“Not yet,” and his voice goes gentle, tender in response—he was always a softhearted child, and Richard tried to train it from him as a weakness. The man reaching for her other hand, and squeezing both in reassurance—he is anything but weak.

“We have other people to think about staying close to,” he adds, something settled and easy in the way he says it, something Diane doesn’t even think she knows or can claim at her age now, vibrant and unshakeable in her beautiful boy as he rubs his thumbs over her knuckles; “at least close enough,” he tags on, a little joke in it that she doesn’t understand, but relishes anyway to see it at all.

She may not be able to take much credit for the person her son has become, this pillar stood before her, giving simple solace where he scarcely owes her—but she still bore him from her body, she still loves him in the cells of her. She is…

It is not hyperbole to say that she’s a little in awe.

“Before you decide on the right home, the one that fits you perfectly,” she starts, ready to list off the top considerations for house hunting and finding a good neighborhood, open and accepting in all the right ways, to guide her boy as true as she can with all that she knows, but he cuts her off with a laugh, first.

His laugh is different than how she remembers it last. Freer but also somehow hard-earned. Like he was as a child, but bruised from the journey back.

Stronger for it. Worth more, but more than slightly soul-crushing, nonetheless.

“Mom,” and his voice is so warm, she may cry more for it; “he’s my home. He’s the right, perfect fit,” and he’s so earnest, so settled in that truth that she feels buoyed for it just the same by proximity. “All the rest is just,” he huffs, rolls his eyes and flicks his hand: dismissive.

Everything else is window dressing, or less than.

And she lets go of his hands then to reach for him, takes the chance and fears she was foolish when he hesitates for a second but then he gives, he hugs her back.

This man in her arms is so much more than she could have raised, even if she’d been here every moment. It’s humbling.

But it’s also beautiful.

She doesn’t want to let him go, now that she has him, but she’s reminded starkly in that moment that she couldn’t have raised him—and Richard would have crushed him by force, even if he didn’t recognize it. Her husband isn’t a wholesalely bad man, but he is a horrifyingly careless one. Wasn’t always, but has certainly gotten worse with age.

She needs to act before he gets here; in case he gets here.

Just in case.

She kisses the side of Strve’s cheek—without her heels she’s not a small woman, but she’s smaller than him—and goes to where she dropped her purse on the counter, suitcases still near the door. Her checkbook is always at the bottom, so she pulls it out, flips it open, glances at the balance ledger and confirms she can write this immediately without issue.

In the note section she writes, after pulling it free form the carbon copy:

for the perfect fit

“Then you, and your perfect fit,” she says with a smile, rounding back to where she left Steve standing, watching; “you deserve the most amazing setting for your story to unfold upon,” she hands him the check and kisses his forehead this time, now in reach as he looks down to read what he holds: “and nothing less.”

She keeps her hands on his shoulders as his jaw drops:

“Mom, this is way too,” he tries to protest, and looks honest about it—he never was so concerned with the money. Not like his father.

But they have it, whether he shares the obsession. They have it. Which means Diane can share it with him regardless.

“It’s the most I can give just now, with it drawing from the account that’s only mine,” she explains, a little apologetic, because while Steve seems to think the number extravagant, it’s less than a drop in the bucket. “I know it’s not much, but if you plan to stay here, at least for awhile, I will get you the rest as quickly as I can,” she promises him, she promises; “your trust, the money from your grandfather,” she pauses, worries her lip.

“I can’t guarantee your father won’t write you out of the will if he finds out,” she doesn’t have to say whathe’d need to find out, for that; “but as long as I’mhere, I will do what I can.”

And she means that, with all her heart. And she doesn’t mean only money. They’ve traded primarily in dollars for so long, it’s the quickest way to act, the easiest form of support but…she may be out of practice.

But she doesn’t just mean money.

“You don’t have to,” Steve starts again, sounds resigned but she doesn’t want him to even land there in accepting what’s rightfully his, and beyond that, something on,y just close to what he’s due and deserves.

“Very little of what I’ve done in life was what I had to,” she draws him close again, now, wraps arms around him; “and too much of what I’ve done was less than what I had to,” and she holds to him fiercely even before his own arms return the embrace.

“I did not do right by you, my petite étoile,” she murmurs; she always called him that. She doesn’t speak French, doesn’t even know if she pronounces it right, but she’s fairly certain he was conceived on her honeymoon, in Paris. It was her own treasured little name for him as he grew in her, as she felt him and spoke to him in her womb, as close to her heart then as he’s always stayed.

“Let me do this,” she hisses a little too desperate; or maybe not even close to desperate enough; “I’m sorry it’s so late.”

She hears Steve’s throat click around how he swallows, how he nods, doesn’t say anything.

She finds another wild and vibrant emotion to associate with her son for it: respect. Such…suchrespect.

“I’m so proud of you,” she says as if it can even scratch the surface of what feels like meeting a whole new person, in some ways, and then the boy who curled up against her when he was sick, who was soft before he was formed into doubting all that he was at his heart. “I barely know you, and it breaks my heart, but it’s my own doing,” and it is. It is her own doing.

She’s the reason she’s only just meeting Steve, a man now, with his whole heart on display like a challenge, like a warning—brazen and full enough to stand formidable. Magnificent.

“Yet I can see you’re not my little étoile anymore,” she kisses his cheek again once, twice, shaking a little with so much feeling she knew she’d buried inside for a very long time but didn’t…didn’t think it was this much.

“You,” she pulls back only enough to look him in the eyes, frame his cheeks in her palms as she declares with all that shaking feeling in her:

“You’re a full-grown sun, soleil courageux,” and she doesn’t speak French. Not a lick. Probably says it wrong.

But that cannot matter more than meaning it wholly, and then some.

“And if you find it in you to give me the chance,” she heaves a shuddery breath; “to have the privilege to truly know my brave, brave son,” she strokes back and forth over his cheekbones, cherishing him; “and where he’s put his lion’s heart?”

Because whether he grants her this or not: she needs him to know. She needs him to know that she understands that to learn her son is to learn is love. To meet Steve is to meet the man waiting in his bed.

And she wants to know both, more than anything in the world.

“And either way, wherever you land,” because she needs him to know this part too—she is not his father. Her love and her commitment is not conditional. “You’ll know where to find me,” she kisses the side of his head one more time and whispers fierce there:

“I’ll come however far I need.”

She will. She’ll trek the globe on foot if she has to. She’s wasted so much time already, she’s—

“I love you, mom.”

And with those words, those heart-swelling words, she’s pulling him back to her chest and he lets her, falls into her for the first time in so long after saying those words for the first time in so very long—

“Oh darling,” she breathes, nothing short of tearful; “I may not have shown it as I should have, or even as I wanted to in my heart of hearts,” and her heart of hearts is beating riotous in her chest, and all she can do is clutch her little star, her courageous sun all the closer to it so he knows.

“But I hope you never doubted that I loved you more than life,” and life has given her many more blessings than trials, but none among them could ever compare to her baby boy, could not even hope to try; “that allmy love in this world is fixed on you,” and it’s true—her family is mostly gone now, none close left on her side, and her husband, well.

Even if they’d all been there, with her marriage in its fullest bloom: as soon as she found she was pregnant, it was all peripheral. There was love as she knew it, and then the moment when love split into two things: her child, and then all the rest.

The rest landing kind of…kind of like window dressing.

“If you were ever unsure,” she says, hesitant because she fears the answer, the truth; steadfast because this is an opportunity to make it right, or at the least to start to: “please know now, the best I can still manage,” she tips her head to Steve’s shoulder, breathes him in like she used to—he doesn’t smell the same as a baby in her arms, of course, but there’s…there’s something there she would recognize anywhere.

“You were the love that pulled me through some very dark times, my brilliant star,” she whispers, getting teary again, lord, she hasn’t shed this many tears in years. “I love you.”

“Stevie?”

They both turn, though Steve’s slow, calmer. Diane recognizes the hair on the boy in the archway first from just the moments she’d caught them—and then the eyes.

Only slightly less terrified than before, here and now.

“Sorry, to interrupt,” the man pulls a thick bunch of hair across his mouth; “I just didn’t want you to be…”

And his eyes land on Steve, and Diane recognizes that kind of look: protective. Assessing. Making sure Steve’s okay.

Maybe her son wasn’t the only one on the lookout for threats to his love.

“Ah,” she says, looking at the boy—she doesn’t even know his name yet, but she already feels a fondness in him as she cups Steve’s cheeks again, but still looks the other, fearful boy square-on even as she speaks to Steve knowingly, but loud enough the whole room can hear:

“You found a courageous heart to match your own, hmm?”

And Steve huffs, a smile stretching his lips like he can’t help it and wouldn’t dream of wanting to, and when he reaches for the boy, that boy answers exactly the same. For love.

The perfect fit.

She offers an open arm herself, should he want to take it, suddenly overcome with a maternal instinct she hasn’t felt so strong before, for the doubling of its targets.

But before he can accept it or reject, before he’s close enough yet to decide either way, or even close enough to take the outstretched hand Steve’s beckoning him with; before any of that she whispers into Steve’s ear:

“Please tell me you’re teaching him to condition that hair. Those curls could be devastating with the proper routine.”

And when Steve catches his beloved hand, it's on a crest of laughter.

Diane has the clear feeling now that it’s not the first time this house has seen such unbridled joy, such unsheltered care in the way two hands slide into one another—has a feeling this is more routine than otherwise, but Diane hasn’t seen it. Not in a…a very long time.

It’s wondrous. It’s…

Steve’s done an incredible job with the place. He’s built an incredible life.

“Mom?” Steve shakes her back to the moment; he’s watching her, careful again but this time also hopeful. It’s a potent mix. He glances to the boy now tucked against his side, now melting into his space—she never had that with Richard.

Real love. That’s all she could have hoped for, for a boy who was born with the biggest heart for the world that she’d ever known.

One that’s only appeared to get bigger, once it was free to, and safe to, if the way her son locks eyes and gently guides his perfect fit to turn into a hand on his cheek; to let him hold, and soothe, to reassure and promise: safety.

And forever.

“This is Eddie,” Steve keeps his eyes on Eddie as he says it, and those eyes say all anyone could ever need to know: love.

Love, love, and more love to bursting.

“Eddie,” Diane says soft but with a glowing kind of joy, gratitude that Steve could have found someone who moves to make clear the way they’re suited to the genes in them.

“I’m sorry I barged into your home,” she says, because she knows what she’s seen and she meant what she felt: this is Steve’s house. And Eddie and Steve belong to each other. “But it’s an absolute privilege to meet you.”

It’s the right thing to say, if the dimples hiding behind the fear mean what she’d suspect, and then the skepticism softens into unmitigated trust in Eddie’s expression at Steve’s side: it’s the way those dimples pop in the end as Eddie looks at her and takes her hand, too, that makes it clear as day.

Granted: she always was good at reading people.

1: Gareth // 2: Mrs. Harrington // 3: Wayne // 4: Chrissy // 5: ??? // +1: ???

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[perfectquote]

I will spend more time with myself in this lifetime than anyone else. Let me learn to be the kind of person I would like to have as a friend.

Courage to Change: One Day at a Time (Al-Anon.)

[littlemissihaveaquestion]

One day, you’ll find the spark again, and you’ll be glad you persevered

[heartssarrow]

- Brené Brown - daring greatly

[my-fancy-hat]

The process of creating is the active, constant question of the self, to question the extent of my capacities to convey a message worth of people's respect and admiration. To me, Look Back is a tale of self-reafirmation for Tatsuki Fujimoto. I'm aware it came out in the gap between part 1 and part 2 of the author's best seller, Chainsaw man, which makes this oneshot such an intimate soul-shaking story after what may be the pinnacle of his career. This made me question, why would he write this kind of story after CSM (and Fire Punch) anyways?

Through Fujino and Kyomoto's journey (which funnily, their names convined are Fuji-moto) we are put in the shoes of the stirring yet self-doubting mind of the creator: "why do you draw manga? why do you create?" is the question the protagonist has to find the answer for. Fujino navigate her life for her passion and pride as a talented story-teller artist, while Kyomoto does so for her love for art itself in a more reserved and personal way. Combined, I think they are the rope that pushes Fujimoto back and forth in his mind, the fear of the creator to tell a story worth of people's respect (Fujino) while being faithful to oneself (Kyomoto). Fujimoto knows there always will be an expectation, a mark above his head everytime someone is aware a new story has his signature, so it's understandable for anxiety to take the worst of you, the fear to be openly judged by the masses. So why do you even bother to get through that unpleasant thing? will I ever surpass what I made in my past projects? why do I keep creating? is this all I will ever be? the entire process is tiresome, boring, a never-ending task, I enjoy art better as a consumer anyways, so why?

If there's only one person who my art made their day better, made them smile or excited for what is coming next, then it was worth every single second I spend working on it.

It's a reafirmation to keep going. That I was born to live into this world for this sake, and I'm worthy to connect and receive this love. This is my place.

I deeply respect you for it, Tatsuki Fujimoto.