#its about gradually forgetting everything outside the loop

[somerunner]

OP’s tags are very good. Especially the “treating your friends like unskippable cutscenes” — the looper respects their friends enough to let their actions play out uninterrupted, but can’t afford the mental effort to engage genuinely every single time, because it’s so much easier to let it become rote.

(OP’s tags copied here. Not my tags.)

Love a self-inflicted time loop. The main character isn’t trapped.  They can stop whenever they want.  But how can they when things aren’t perfect yet?  They can do better than this.  They need to try again.  They can get it right this time.  They just need to try again.  They can stop anytime they want.  Just one more time.  They can fix this. They just need to try again.  There are still things to fix.  They just need to try again.

[queen0fm0nsterz]

It seems the "legacy" that Six and Mono has do needs each other so they can bonded together just so they'll get the right mindset for them to grow into monstrous adults given Mono becomes the Thin Man after he's betrayed by Six and Six gradually becomes worst with her hunger to where she eats up the Lady after she gets hurt by Mono destroying her trust

Yes, and it saddens me to literally no end.

We get to witness how their friendship grows only to see it ripped apart. Both parties suffering the consequences of their actions.

For some reason this ask got me to think, so... Here's a bunch of mini theories I have about The Square (Thin Man, Lady, Mono and Six) that I wanted to share with you guys but never had the chance to. Be sad with me or else.

1) Pacific Thin Man.

The Thin Man wasn't actively trying to kill either Mono nor Six. He only wanted to separate them, which is why he chased Mono away. I think this is almost universally agreed on.

2) The Thin Man wasn't trying to get to Mono at all and only used him to leave. He wanted Six from the beginning.

I actually think the Thin Man was doing what he's always done, even back when he was still Mono: taking his friend back at all costs and keeping her by his side so that he could protect her. Would explain why he only starts running after Mono when he tries to free her from the TV.

I mean, he had plenty of other occasions to get a hold of Mono. My boy literally travels through the TVs a bunch of times before getting here, but the Thin Man only shows up when Mono is actively trying to take Six away.

All three times we see him in person are related to Six.

First time: he takes her.

Second time: Mono tries to take her back so he steps in to stop him.

Third and last time: The Thin Man is the only thing standing between Mono and the Signal Tower, in which Six is trapped.

This would also explain the Thin Man's official description. Let's give it a read:

"As the ever-present hum of The Transmission chokes the airwaves, The Thin Man continues his endless journey through this desolate place, haunting the shadows, searching for something. "

The something would of course be his old friend. Although, he may be mistaken without even realizing it, which brings me to my next theories ...

3) Mono is the only one stuck in a loop.

This is mostly based to the meaning behind his name, especially compared to Six's.

We all know that his name means single, one, only, alone. Many people made the connection with the word "monophobia", a.k.a the fear of being alone, and that's an incredibly valid and fitting connection, but I think it may have an addictional hidden meaning just below the surface.

Because, let's be honest. If they wanted to keep the number theme, why not name him "One" instead?

Mono is a... very unique child. He's the only one capable of controlling the transmission, which is why the Eye keeps him around: to use that power as it pleases. I wouldn't be surprised if it messed with the timeline so that Mono was reborn again and again and again.

The number 6 written on the door could symbolize the fact that this Mono we're seeing is the sixth one.

I tried to check for a 7 on Mono's door at the end of the game, but couldn't see anything.

OOOOR, it could be referring to the Ladies of the Maw, which leads me to...

4) Six and the current Lady are NOT the same person...

The main reasons why I believe this is something that everyone seems to forget.

Guys. THEIR COMFORT SONGS ARE COMPLETELY DIFFERENT.

"And what does that mean?" EVERYTHING MY GUY. LITERALLY EVERYTHING. In a series where characters don't speak, it's up to the visuals and music to tell us the story - which means their role is extremely important.

It seems strange to me that they would use two songs that are so drastically different in melody and pacing if the characters are supposed to be one and the same - especially considering just how personal the songs are to both. For example, when Mono becomes the Thin Man, the latter's theme is prominent in End of The Hall, but when Six eats the Lady it's her own theme song that prevails.

Fortunately, we get a clear listen to both music boxes in the games, so we can hopefully make a comparison.

Here's Six's music box and The Lady's.

5) ... But Six does grow up to become the next Lady.

This. Just, this entire thing.

You see, for the Maw to keep running, it needs a Lady to lure people in and turn children into Nomes. We can assume that it works in a similar fashion to the Signal Tower.

Which basically means that the two structures only function if there's an Host they can feed off from, otherwise they fall apart, just like the Tower did at the end of LN 2.

Let's put it this way: Six absorbing the Lady's powers is the same as Mono sitting on the chair. They sealed an invisible contract with the Eye from which they can't break free, destined to be it's slave until the next Mono and... a possible Seven take their place.

6) The Lady can't leave the Maw...

I already mentioned this in the previous one, but basically what I mean is: The Lady is the only Host of the Maw. If she leaves, the entire thing crashes down.

7) ... But she's been in the Pale City.

We've got proof of this because a lot of paintings and pictures on the Maw depict various sections of the Pale City and some of their citizens. Both the Hospital and the School get their time to shine in these, especially ones the Bullies (I think it's finally time for me to push my "Teacher & her students on the Maw" agenda) who can be seen around the Residence.

Admittedly, most of these paintings aren't placed in the Lady's quarters, so maybe they just belong to her employees who hang them around to decorate the place a bit like Roger did, BUUUT! There's a very particular set of paintings that can be found in her quarters.

Well well well, if it isn't our blob bestie 🙃

Based on what we know, the only location we find the Eye blob is the Signal Tower, so... I think it's pretty safe to assume that's where she saw it. Then again, when did she see it? Probably when she was a child, before the got on the Maw for the first time. Talking about the Maw...

8) How much time has Six been on the Maw?

This may be kind of an odd question, but I wanted to answer it because it has always bugged me. Me, the fool, trying to form a cohesive timeline in this extremely vague franchise... Sigh.

Anyway. First of all, let's give the Maw's official description a read:

" The Maw arrives every year. Always at the same time, but never in the same place, it creeps and crawls and buries its claws deep beneath the glistening water. And there it sits in vast silence. Waiting.

Soon after, they start to arrive. The guests. The monstrous, sweating, hungry guests. All seams bursting, bodies bulging, eyes dead with boredom. They shuffle up the gangway and into the mouth of The Maw. And then they are no more.

For none of those that enter have ever returned to tell the tale. At least, not yet... "

So the Maw comes up once a year, stays there for a while and then goes underwater once again. When the Ferryman takes an unwilling Six to the Maw by boat, implying that Maw has risen.

And the next time we see the outside world in in LN, when Six climbs her way up in that wonderful scene. We can see the guests coming in again, so we can assume it's been at least a year.

The thing about the comics that is really funny to me is that it implies that Six has been wandering around since when she first got on, meaning both Roger and the Chefs are already aware of her presence and are familiar with her. The thought of them being like "Oh no this kid again" when they meet her in the game is so funny I can't.

Also, Mono has been trapped in the tower for at least a year by now :)

9) Mono glitching?

I got to think about this while playing LN 2. You know when Mono starts absorbing the glitching remains? If you don't get too close that he "eats" them but manage to stay close enough, you'll see that Mono himself starts to glitch a bit.

Huh. Leaves room for thought.

Anyway, this is all I have for now.

MASTERPOST

[vampcubus]

Quiet (Midoriya/Reader) [part 2]

| A/n: I have to admit, I re-wrote the ending several times and I’m still not satisfied with it but here we go anyways! |

| See part 1 ... here |

✦✿  Warnings: Angst with a happy ending. ✿✦

✦✿ Words: 5500+ ✿✦

are you guys ready to c r y??

.   .   .

You stare blankly at a red and purple sky, eyes lazily watching the clouds roll by and the half-visible sun dip down and slowly set. You leaned forward to capture that perfect in-between moment, smiling as the last sliver of the sun finally dipped behind the horizon, letting the sky gradually shift from warm pinks and oranges to dark blues, indigos, and purples. You sighed and sank into a more relaxed position as your eyes welcomed the appearance of the moon as it took to the sky, washing the park in its gentle white light.

You sat at the same rotting-wooden picnic table you sat at every night, a familiar book with kitty skeletons draped in red and black across the cover sat just beneath your hand. The lukewarm coffee you’d picked up hours earlier sat right next to the book, half-empty from your lack of interest despite it being your favorite kind. 

You’d even considered dropping by your dorm to throw it in the freezer—to beat yourself with later if you kept thinking about a particularly annoying green-haired boy—before coming here, but you found that you just didn’t want to be on campus more than you had to.

Being out and about decreased your chances of running into him.

You let your eyes stray from the steadily appearing stars and to your right, where Midoriya had sat just a few nights ago.

You let out a frustrated sigh, turning your gaze back up to the sky and raising the cup of coffee to your lips. It didn’t taste amazing right now, but it served as a good enough distraction to stop thinking about him. You’d done the right thing, whether you cared about Midoriya or not, you wouldn’t let yourself be manipulated. You would not come running back into his arms only to be forgotten when other things in his life became more important than you again.

It was better this way. 

You told yourself, trying to convince yourself that you would only distract Izuku from his dreams. You’d only get in the way and end up broken again when he realized that.

You flicked the book open and skimmed your eyes over the pages. The illustrations of grim-themed yet still cute cats above each new chapter momentarily consuming your attention. Your soft smile faltered when you stumbled upon a particularly strange looking cat with wild, curly fur and huge round eyes cowering underneath a couch. Your eyes lingered on the drawing, everything about it just screams Izuku.

You shake yourself out of it and flip to the front page, breath hitching when you noticed a sticky note attached to it. It was in the handwriting of the clerk you’d grown familiar with. She often scribbled funny quotes or little notes things into the books you purchased for you to laugh about when you stumbled into the shop again.

He was here today, wanted me to slide this to you once you came in today. Not quite sure if he knows that ‘secret admirers’ are supposed to be discreet? 

-Kiko ッ

You almost smile at that, not doubting for a moment who she was referring to. But then you knit your brows together in confusion when you noticed an arrow at the bottom of the note. Curiously, you unstuck the unusually heavy sticky note and flipped it. Your heart stopped functioning entirely when you saw a familiar bracelet taped to the back of it.

You gasped tearing the bracelet from the note and inspecting it closely. No way… there’s no way he even remembered this existed.

It was a colorful and cute bracelet with mostly green beads and white lettered ones spelling out ‘All Might.’

The sight of the bracelet brings you way back, and suddenly you are no longer outside at the park.

Instead, you are laying on your stomach with an impressive fort of blankets hanging above your head. Your small hands fiddled with the beads, tiny fingers slipping on each random-shaped bead you could find in your craft box that was remotely green in color. Across from you lays a much smaller Izuku on his belly with his nose buried in a comic book, eyes sparkling and lips noisily slurping at the straw of a juice box.

“Y/N-chan look!” The curly-haired boy squeals, shoving the comic book over to you and pointing at a panel of a very stylized All Might with multiple civilians draped over his shoulders. It’s a familiar frame from the video you’ve watched with the boy about a million times already. You personally didn’t idolize the symbol of peace as passionately as your friend, but it always made him happy, so you always watched it with him. You squinted, scrunching up your nose at the picture.

“They drew his hair wrong!” You complained pointing at the clearly exaggerated shojo-looking hairstyle the number one hero had been illustrated with.

“No, that’s just the artists’ style.” Little Izuku exclaims, standing up in the fort, proudly posing in his All Might one-sie, holding the comic book up into the air like it was Simba.

“Ohh,” You remember humming thoughtfully before returning to tying an s-clip to the end of the bracelet, looking your newest creation over with pride. You sat up too, looking anxiously over to your best friend who had engrossed himself back into the comic. “Gimme your hand.”

You vividly remember the young boy’s freckled face lighting up and his hand being shoved in your direction. You slid the way-too-big bracelet over his tiny wrist and looped it around a second time so it wouldn’t fall off. “Here, so everybody knows you’re the next All Might!”

His big green eyes overflowed with tears, almost flooding your blanket sanctuary and drowning you both in his own tears when he tackled you to the ground, hugging you tight. You remember him showing the bracelet off to all of his friends and Kacchan the next day. He wore it even more religiously than his hero-onesie, his mother even mentioning that he only took it off to bathe.

You recall your shock when a week later he dropped a similar home-made bracelet with your favorite-colored beads and your idolized hero’s name on it. It had been the first time anyone had ever made something for you and you cherished it.

“We match now, so that means we gotta become big strong heroes together when we get big!” You remember his high-pitched voice declaring with his best All Might impression.

You felt your eyes burn with salt and the telltale weight of tears welling up in the corners of your eyes, your fingers shaking as they clutched the bracelet. Despite how old the plastic piece of jewelry was, it was in outstanding condition--save for a few scratches on the bigger beads here and there.

You’d thought that he’d lost it or thrown it away a long time ago. It’s been years. How on earth did he still have this?

Feeling your breath start to quicken you shot up from your seat, grabbing the book from the table and dashing off towards U.A. You turned each sharp corner, narrowly avoiding crashing into several other students—including Bakugou who hissed and swore at you as you retreated to your dorm You shoved the door open and slammed it shut. The next fifteen minutes were spent digging through your stuff, looking through untouched boxes of your things you’d brought from home but never needed until now. 

And then, you finally found it tucked away in an old pencil pouch. You pulled out an all-too-familiar bracelet, holding it up to compare to the green one in your other hand. There was no doubt about it, it was real. Your fingertips traced the familiar beads of your own bracelet, eyes flickering between it and its counterpart.

Why…?

Why did he keep it so long?

You kicked the box back into the closet and toed the door shut, tossing both bracelets onto your nightstand and flopping face-down onto your bed.

It didn’t matter. It was just a bracelet, nothing more than a flimsy piece of plastic. Nothing compared to the friendship you had. So what if he held onto some dumb bracelet? That didn’t make up for months of distance, weeks of him slowly forgetting you existed while you stood idly by. Letting it happen because you cared too much.

So why did you feel so guilty?

You groaned exasperatedly into your pillow snuggling your face into it when it started to soothe your headache. Your eyes opened suddenly with a furious glower when your stupid brain immediately thought back to the times you and Izuku would nap together when you were kids, anywhere anytime. You often played so hard you knocked yourselves out so his mom would find you cuddled up against one another in your blanket forts, on the couch, on the slide at the park, under the sink once… anywhere you could fit into and doze off, you would.

In fact, you didn’t shake the habit of napping together until you were at least thirteen, which is usually around when parents start getting suspicious so you stopped doing it. You felt a slight blush rise to your cheeks, remembering those special times in middle school when you would sneak in and sleep together for a while if one of you had a nightmare. That was most likely the most rebellious thing you two innocent little suck-ups ever did.

You sigh, eyes drifting over to the bracelets strewn carelessly across your nightstand.

How can one bracelet bring back so much nostalgia?

.   .   .

Midoriya was slumped miserably against one of the couches in the dorm lounge, pen shakily scribbling away at an assignment. His handwriting has gotten a little better since last year, still wobbly and inconsistent in places but his teachers have voiced their appreciation of its improvement. He thinks back to earlier when he had dropped off that bracelet at the bookshop, afraid that if he approached you, you wouldn’t want to see him or he’d start crying again.

It really tore him apart inside to part with it, having kept it for so long. He’d found the bracelet while looking through some of his things one day. It fell out of a box with a bunch of his older more beat up action figures.

Seeing it after being put away for so long had brought the biggest smile to his face, remembering how much he’d loved it when he was younger. It was also what made him remember you… It was as if you suddenly popped back into existence. And in excitement to share the memory with you, perhaps catch up with you over coffee, he had disregarded the fact that it had been months since you’d last spoken.

He now realizes his mistake. 

But after last night he knew he didn’t deserve to have such an important piece of you to himself. He absentmindedly wondered if you still had yours… probably not, huh? His wasn’t as pretty as the one you made him, and why would you keep it after he practically ignored you for a year?

Still, he had hope that just maybe there was a chance he could make it up to you, that he hadn’t messed up so bad that you never want to speak to him again. Midoriya closed his eyes, frowning down at his notebook in shame. Who was he kidding? It was just a piece of plastic and likely held no value to you after what he did.

He misses it. Already.

“Midoriya.” Iida’s voice piped up and the green-haired boy jumped.

“Oh hey, Iida. Did you need something?” He asked, trying not to sound as worked up as he really was, forcing a small smile.

“I came to ask if you’d heard from L/N at all today?” Midoriya’s heart dropped at the sound of your name.

“No… why?”

“Well, it’s just that several students claimed to have seen her running obnoxiously through the halls earlier this evening and I was curious if you’d happen to know anything about it?” Iida asks, straightening his glasses with a displeased expression, clearly not amused by your behavior.

“No, I haven’t. Sorry,” Midoriya admitted sullenly, eyes downcast to the floor.

Iida’s eyes softened and the bluenette sighed, taking a seat next to his friend. Ochako and he hadn’t managed to get much out of the sulking Midoriya since the other night, but they suspect that things didn’t necessarily go well between him and you. Not to mention he’s been a zombie all for days, barely getting any sleep at all these past few nights

“And, as your friend, I am concerned about your wellbeing,” Tenya confessed, pushing his glasses up closer against his face as Midoriya sighed. 

“I’m fine, Iida.” Midoriya offered him a half-smile but otherwise made no attempt to spill anything. Tenya made eye-contact with Ochako across the common room, who had been the one to encourage him to approach Deku in the first place.

“Midoriya, what happened between you and L/N last evening?” The Iida son pressed, cautious not to pry too much in fear of upsetting him.

“I messed up,” Midoriya looked down at his lap, a drawing of your face in the corner of his math homework. He abruptly turned the page in hopes Iida hadn’t already seen it. “Really badly.”

.   .   .

The next morning, Izuku is as sluggish and mopey as ever, worrying his classmates with his lack of enthusiasm.

“You should talk to her.” Todoroki’s cool voice shakes Midoirya out of his daze after homeroom. He’s been staring absently at you as you ignored his existence, focusing on the lesson. It isn’t hard to guess who the half-and-half teen was talking about. And yet he still found himself surprised.

“I’ve tried, Todoroki. Talking won't help.” Midoriya sighs, eyes dropping to his mess of notes, including several crumpled up drawings of you.

“And sulking around doing nothing will?” Todoroki questions, not able to recognize the shell of the boy in front of him.

 “I messed up, and she wants nothing to do with me now.” And he respects that.

“Something tells me that isn’t entirely the case.” Shouto replies and the green-haired boy sends him a puzzled look.

“What do you mean by that?” He asks, a brow raised at the possibility that Todoroki knows something he doesn’t.

“You forget that Y/N and I are close friends now, although you haven’t necessarily been around so you may not have known at all.” He states bluntly and it does nothing to comfort Midoriya at all. He hadn’t known you and Todoroki were friends! What else did he not know about you?

“What are you getting at, Todoroki?” Deku asks with a defeated tone, wishing the stoic prodigy would just be out with it.

“Y/N tells me everything, don’t think she hasn’t told me about what happened a few nights ago. But when she spoke about you it didn’t seem like she didn’t want anything to do with you.” Shouto explained, definitely catching the young Midoriya’s attention. “She’s upset, yes, and you aren’t wrong to assume that she is angry with you right now. But the longer you wait to talk to her about it—if you planned to at all that is—the longer it will take for her to forgive you.”

Forgive him? Was that even possible at this point? He didn’t know, but if what Todoroki said was true, and he actually had a chance, he couldn’t waste any more time ‘sulking around and doing nothing.’

“Are you sure that’s even possible, Todoroki?” Deku questioned, eyes adept as ever as he searched the bi-colored eyes of his rival and friend for answers he may not even have.

“I don’t know for sure, Midoriya. That is up to Y/N.” Todoroki admits, and Deku bites the inside of his cheek still torn over this. “But I don’t think she will forgive you if you don’t try.”

“Mm.” Deku nods, thanking the two-toned boy and packing up for his next class of the day.

.   .   .

Your ears perked up at the sound of someone knocking on your door later that night. You sighed into your pillow, not wanting to leave its soft embrace. You tried to ignore it at first, pretending to be asleep but he insistent knocking continued. Grumpily you pushed off of your comfy bed to sluggishly open the door, thinking it was most likely Mina and she’d just keep knocking until you opened up. 

You were not expecting Midoriya to be standing there.

“What do you want?” You asked, your voice holding no softness or enthusiasm ad your narrowed eyes stared coldly at your former best friend. He flinches at the icy tone of your voice.

“I-I um… can we… talk?” Izuku asks anxiously, wringing his hands together, elbows drawn in close to his stomach self-consciously. “Please?”

He meets your steeled gaze with his own apologetic one, green eyes pleading with yours. Izuku owned the most convincing pair of puppy-dog eyes you’ve ever seen, even when he wasn’t meaning to and even now you faltered.

“Why? Why should I let you in? Give me one good reason not to slam the door in your face and go back to bed?”

“B-because I w-won’t leave until I say what I need to say,” Midoriya stated as firmly as he could, a determined glimmer in his eyes as he did so. You don’t doubt that he might sit at your door all night if you refused him. “A-and I have a feeling you have some things to say too.”

He wants to resolve this.

“I have nothing to say to you.” You hissed stepping back into the threshold of your room starting to close the door but his hand smacks against the wooden surface, a desperate look in his eyes that only makes you push harder. “Move.”

“Please! Please just hear me out, Y/N, please just give me this! Let me try! You don’t need to forgive me. I just need you to listen!” Midoriya pleads, his glossy eyes already spilling hot tears down his freckled cheeks. He’s shaking. “Please…”

Midoriya stumbles forward when the door opens and he just barely catches himself, wide eyes darting up to yours as you take several steps away from the entrance. You cross your arms, you can’t believe you’re actually doing this.

“You have five minutes. Start talking.” You relent, sitting down on your bed.

Midoriya sighs in relief, closing the door behind him before clumsily scrambling over to you. You pat the spot next to you, avoiding any and all eye-contact. Izuku’s heart skips a beat when he spots his bracelet on your nightstand. So you did get it! His breath gets caught in his throat when he tries to speak at the same moment his eyes drift to your wrist, where a relic of your friendship dangles. 

You kept it! He feels his eyes overflowing, the ugly fat tears streaking down the sides of his face as he stares dumbfounded at the familiar bracelet.

“You have four minutes.” You flatly remind him, and he jumps, trying to think of the words he’d practiced just a half-hour before he showed up at your dorm.

“AH—o-okay! um, I…” When he fails to speak even after a good minute passes, you sigh deeply. If he had nothing to say, why’d he even come? What happened to all that gusto about ‘saying what I need to say’?

“Why did you keep it?” You ask out of the blue after an uncomfortable silence and his head perks up, but he looks confused, eyes searching yours.

“Keep what—?” He starts, but you cut him off.

“The bracelet. Why did you keep it? It’s been years, I didn’t even think you still remembered that old piece of junk existed.” You blurt out, each word sounding distressed and just… confused. You wanted to understand.

He stares at you, mouth agape at a complete loss of what to say. His mouth suddenly feels dry and his tongue rubs anxiously against the roof of his mouth.

“Because… because it was important... to me.” Izuku breathes, the muscles and nerves in his hand twitching as it laid only inches away from yours. “I was s-so happy when you first gave it to me, my mom had to pry it off of me just to bathe me.” He chuckles, smiling at the memory.

“And I kept it because it reminded me of you, it felt like there was a part of you with me even when you couldn’t be there. It comforted me, knowing that you put s-so m-much thought into something j-just for me and I f-felt so special!” He breaks off when his hiccups start to get out of control. “A-and—”

He chokes and apologizes taking a moment to breathe again. You hadn’t realized how much one silly piece of jewelry had impacted him until now, so much so that he’s crying over it.

“And I made a promise, remember?” Izuku sniffs, wiping his eyes uselessly with his hand, only really smearing the wetness across his cheeks and wetting his hand with his own tears as they continued to spill down the freckled planes of his red cheeks.

You nod, but turn away when you feel your own emotions starting to spike up. You bit your lip, held your breath, clenched your teeth. Anything to keep the tears at bay as they threatened to fall.

“I-I said that when we—”

“We match now, so that means we gotta become big strong heroes together when we get big.” You butt in, sniffling and raising a hand to scrub at the tears streaming down your face and pooling at your chin. “That’s what you said.”

Deku stares at you, guffawed as you quoted his younger self. He hadn’t expected you to remember it so clearly, It makes him feel even worse. Knowing how much it must’ve hurt you when you grew apart. How hard it must’ve been on you to keep quiet about everything while he lived his best life, forgetting all about his dearest friend.

“Why’d you give it back?” You asked, voice trembling as you wiping your eyes with your arm. You glanced over at the green bracelet lying on your nightstand. “If it meant so much to you, why give it back?”

He closed his eyes. He listened to his heart as it slammed against his chest like a pinball machine, demanding him to say something.

“Because I forgot about the friendship it represented, and I shouldn’t have. I wish I wouldn’t have, but I did. I broke my own promise and e-even worse, I hurt you because I was just too caught up in my own problems—my own dreams—to remember that you’ve been a part of them since the beginning.” Izuku sobbed, there was no point in holding it all in now. 

“I gave it back because I was so afraid I screwed up everything between us, and I don’t deserve it!”

I don’t deserve you. The phrase rang in his ears so loudly it was almost deafening, he wanted nothing more than to say it too. He couldn’t because he couldn’t catch a single damn breath to say it. But even as he feels he has gathered that breath it’s stolen away once more when he feels your hands on his face.

In a flurry of your own emotions and a nagging force of habit you had reached out and grasped his face, the soft pads of your thumbs wiping at his cheeks.

“Stop crying already, you had something you wanted to say right? Stop letting your emotions get in the way of that.”

The firmness in your tone as your stern eyes descended upon his own struck a chord in him. You’ve said something like that to him before. Years ago.

“Stop crying, Izuku! Stop letting your emotions keep you from standing up for yourself! Kacchan steps on you because he knows all you’ll do is cry!”

Multiple times.

“Would ya quit crying already? You’re tougher than that, Izu. Like All Might!”

Constantly.

“Stop crying because you don’t have a quirk! Become a hero without one!”

It had always been you. You there comforting him, encouraging him, telling him to quit crying and speak up for himself. To keep pushing on despite the fact that he just wasn’t as gifted as other children. How could he have forgotten one of the most important lessons you ever taught him? How could he have forgotten about you?

You tugged one of your bunched sleeves down with your teeth and dried up the downpour of tears from his cheeks with your hoodie sleeve. Careful not to rub the skin raw, you kept at it until he was simply too shocked to cry anymore. This is the first time you’ve done this in years, yet far from the first time you’ve had to do it at all. Even as children, you were using your fingers, your sleeves, the edge of your shirt to wipe his tears away.

“I—”

“Shush, I don’t want to hear it unless it’s what you came here to say.” You interrupt, and the look in his eyes changes from nervous to determined.

“I was going to say that I am s-sorry,” He stutters.

“What else?” You encouraged, watching as he slowly gained more confidence. “You said you weren’t going to leave until you say what you need to say, keep your promise.”

“I was going to say that I don’t deserve you!”

“And are you lying?” You ask.

“No!” Midoriya exclaims more confidently, more certain of himself than before.

“And is that all you wanted to say?” You asked again, smiling as the sobbing boy from before completely changed with your encouragement, egging him on.

“No…” Midoriya confesses, faltering slightly as his nervousness returns. He doesn’t know if he’s ready to say it yet. Would that even be acceptable right now? Even as strong as he feels right now he can’t help but hesitate, to blush, to avoid your gaze.

“Then say it.” 

“I…” He trails off, suddenly terrified of the thought. He couldn’t! It would put everything on the line! “I-I…”

Your hand cups his cheek coaxing him to look back up at you.

“Stop hesitating, tell me what you want to say.”

He’s already put your friendship on the line, what difference would it make? You wanted the truth so you’d get it! He takes a deep breath, closing his eyes before opening them again, meeting your own straight on. There’s a spark in those green eyes that wasn’t there before he squinted them shut. It’s like an emerald fire was lit behind them.

“I love you!”

It’s quiet.

You stare at him, and he stares right back, his determined gaze never weakening as he maintained eye-contact.

“You what?”

“You heard me,” Midoriya replies.

This time it’s your turn to shy away. Your face darkens incredibly fast, heart racing against your chest as your eyes darted from side to side, deep in thought. Your mind threw numbers together into every equation it knew, each answer coming out the same. You had expected an “I want to be friends again!” or “I want a second chance!” or “I want to fix this!”

Never in a million years could you have predicted him to say that. Not to you. Your eyes drifted back up to his. He looks a little less confident now, almost worried as he awaits your response.

“Get out.” You breathe, eyes wide as you stare at him watching his determined face change to one of confusion.

You couldn’t believe it. After forgetting your existence for almost a year, after only remembering when he found the bracelet, after only wanting to talk to you because it was most convenient to him… and he has the goddamn nerve to say that he loved you.

“W-what?” Izuku gasped, not understanding what was going on. Suddenly you were pressing yourself against the wall farthest from him on your bed.

“G-get out!” You exclaim, the angry tears running down your face.

“Y/N, what are you s-saying?” His voice shook, the tears starting to fall from his eyes again, his nose beginning to run as well as his entire body shook. Why were you telling him to leave? Did he make the wrong call? Did you not feel the same?

“Why are you lying to me?” You asked, the question coming out like a whisper.

“I-I’m not lying to you, I love you!” Midoriya cried. “Please, you have to believe me, I wouldn’t lie to you! I’ve always liked you—since we were kids, Y/N! I can’t fake that! You know I can’t!”

You shake as his desperate green eyes plead with yours, a sincerity in those irises you grew up staring into, a sincerity that just can’t be faked. He actually… he actually loved you? But why? He ignored you for a year!

“And you can honestly tell me that in that year you forgot about me you loved me?!” You demanded, your tears making your vision blurry and unmanageable.

“I never stopped loving you, even if it was overshadowed by my dream to become a hero, even if I made mistakes not even I can fix, my heart always belonged to you.” Midoriya crawled over to kneel in front of you on your bed where you still had your back pressed to the wall and your knees pulled tightly to your chest. “I’m not perfect, Y/N. I made a mistake by not being there for you, and I will do anything it takes to fix it if I can.”

“And you won’t forget me again? You promise?” You ask shakily, feeling a little embarrassed by how small you felt, scrunched up in such a way and crying in front of someone other than your cat at home.

“Yes,” His immediate response confirms it, not an ounce of hesitation present in the way it rolls off his tongue. “I promise, I’ll never forget you. And I’ll never be the reason you cry again.”

“Can you believe me?” Izuku reached his hand out to you.

“I… I believe you.” You admit, a small smile gracing your lips as you take his hand. Izuku lets out a relieved sigh, his free hand trembling over his heart. You can tell how terrified he was. “This doesn’t mean I forgive you though, Izu.”

“I know, and I’m going to try my very best to make it up to you. I promise.” Izuku states. It doesn’t bother him that you didn’t say ‘I love you’ back, he wouldn’t have deserved it. He’s going to have to work for it, and that was fine with him.

“Do you…” You started, face flushing and eyes avoiding his as you removed your hands from his face. “Do you wanna hug it out?”

“Yes!” You yelp when he throws himself at you, tackling you to the bed with his arms around you. You squeeze your own arms around him, face burrowing into his shoulder as you squeezed the life out of one another.

“Sorry.” He mutters when he realizes he’s practically on top of you and most likely crushing you. He moves to roll off of you but your arms only tighten around him.

“No, please just… can we just stay like this for a while?” You asked, and Izuku felt his heart beating so fast he was convinced it eventually just commit seppuku if it pounded any harder. He nodded against your shoulder, cheeks burning a bright crimson as he relaxes.

“Also,” You spoke up and he hummed in response, he couldn’t be bothered to move. You reached over to your nightstand to snatch the green bracelet from it, the green-haired boy whining when he had to re-adjust after you started moving. “Gimme your hand.”

He pulled away, green pools swirling with confusion. He complies with your sudden request and gasps when you slide the bracelet back onto his wrist.

“This belongs to you.” You smiled and he mirrored it with one of his own, hand impulsively taking yours, fingers intertwining with your own. Your matching bracelets reflected the dim light of the room, casting a warm glow over your faces as you smiled at each other. No longer did you feel forgotten or used, instead you felt loved again. “Now get off  me.”

Izuku laughs and slips off of you to lay at your side, his arms pulling you in close so he could cuddle you, just like you did when you were kids.

Izuku rested his forehead against yours, one hand reaching up to timidly brush against your reddened cheek, causing your eyes to flutter closed and a small sigh to escape your smiling lips. He missed seeing you smile. But there was still something else that he needed to take care of before you drifted off to sleep.

“Y/N?” He asked.

“Yes?” You sighed sleepily, 

“Don’t ever feel like you have to keep quiet anymore, alright? Please, always talk to me.”

You blinked, your mouth opening and closing several times.

“Okay.”

[shortace]

Descant Brill and the Bank Break-in

Fairies do not like the cold. Descant Brill shivered, and cursed himself for volunteering for this task. Although if he hadn’t, Opal Koboi would simply have ordered him to anyway. Or killed him. He wondered briefly if sheer terror was a sufficient substitute for the loyalty Opal demanded of him and his brother Merval. He decided it was.

On a winter night in Munich the temperature can get as low as -3 degrees centigrade. He supposed he was lucky that it was only just on zero tonight. There was a light coating of snow on the ground, which meant that he couldn’t walk - on the off chance anybody was around, footprints left by a shielded fairy would raise questions Scant would rather not have to answer. Fortunately Opal had thought to stock a secret warehouse with all manner of equipment prior to entering her cleansing coma, so tonight Scant was equipped with whisper-silent wings and a near-invisible cam-foil suit. There was no way any human would see him tonight, no matter what surveillance and security they had in place. Opal Koboi and her employees laughed in the face of bank security.

Of course, this wasn’t just any bank. This was the International Bank, renowned for having the most secure safety deposit boxes in the world. By human standards, anyway. Scant admitted to himself - and only himself - that he was a little bit apprehensive. Not scared. Just apprehensive. He glanced around nervously, half-believing that Opal could feel his tension, despite the miles of rock between them.

‘It’s a piece of cake,’ he tried to tell himself, muttering aloud. A nearby cat puffed itself up, on the defensive, at hearing the unexpected voice out of nowhere. ‘Human security. Nothing to worry about.’ The cat twitched its ears, then turned tail and ran.

He finally reached the front door of the International Bank, and hovered, shivering, for a moment to see what he was up against. A night guard sat on duty behind a desk, although his eyelids drooped with fatigue. Scant had to squint to make sure the huge keyring, including the safety deposit box master key, was on his belt. This had been a key part of the plan, and if he didn’t have the key, he would have to resort to Plan B, which he did not relish. It involved tunnel blue spiders, which turned Scant’s stomach even when it was somebody else who swallowed them.

However, as it was, the key was visible, and the tunnel blue could stay safely shut away. Glancing around to be sure nobody was watching, he briefly unshielded to use an omnitool on the locks. Of course, the guard saw him at that point, and was immediately awake and alert, striding towards the glass door with a hand on his gun.

‘Stop!’ he shouted, loud enough to be heard through the door.

Scant mimed deafness: one hand to his hear, mouthing exaggeratedly, ‘I can’t hear you.’ The omnitool beeped and the door slid silently open. Immediately Scant dropped the deaf act and looked directly into the guard’s eyes. He wore no sunglasses - being the middle of the night - and as he took a breath to shout another instruction, Scant Brill spoke, voice layered with magical mesmer: ‘You don’t need the gun,’ he crooned, ‘I’m a friend. We’re buddies. Pals. We go way back.’

The guard hesitated. ‘I don’t need the gun,’ he confirmed, ‘because we’re friends. But I still can’t let you in.’

Scant sighed, feining disappointment. ‘You can let me in,’ he said, ‘and then you can forget all about me.’

‘I can let you in,’ said the guard, apparently changing his mind. ‘And then I can forget… what am I supposed to forget?’

Scant grinned. ‘Perfect.’ He plucked the keyring from the guard’s belt, and watched as the guard blinked a few times and then went back to his post, completely ignoring the pixie standing right in the middle of the foyer.

Descant pressed the transmit button on the communicator on his throat, connecting him to Opal Koboi and his brother Merval. ‘I’m in,’ he said. ‘The guard is ignoring me, and I’ve got the key.’

‘Good,’ Opal replied. ‘Now plug in the flash drive.’

Scant tried to remember the diagrams and lessons on human computers the boss had made him examine. A USB port would be somewhere on the side of the guard’s laptop, he thought. He tried a couple of different holes, then remembered to turn the flash drive up the other way. Finally it slotted in and Opal’s program popped up on the screen. Run program, he clicked. Under his breath he sang three verses of the old Riverbend classic, Between You and a Dwarf, I’d Choose a Stinkworm Every Time, to give the virus time to infiltrate the security system. As he murmured the closing line, every creature has its purpose, and yours is to make stinkworms look good, the computer beeped and the monitors above blinked. On-screen, Scant was nowhere to be seen. The video was showing a loop recorded earlier in the night - same sleepy guard, same light snow, same everything - but no Descant Brill. Furthermore, every clock on every computer and monitor was now showing 10.34am. Business hours. The safety deposit boxes couldn’t be accessed by anybody outside of business hours. Now, they’d open like a flower. A very utilitarian flower, full of cash and stolen paintings.

One stolen painting in particular.

Once in the safety deposit box room, Scant hesitated, and swore: ‘D’arvit.’ He’d forgotten to check the computer to find out which box was Sparrow and Crane’s. Human computers confused him, with their strange letters inscribed on oddly-ordered buttons, and a mouse that didn’t even squeak. He’d been so relieved to get the flash drive in and the virus working correctly that he’d forgotten the other computer-related task.

Not to worry. He’d just open all of them. There was an emergency override button next to the master key hole for just that purpose.

He inserted the key, turned it, and smacked the button.

Immediately the small room was filled with the sounds of alarms and klaxons, as the individual security from each box’s owner was activated. Scant nearly screamed at the sudden cacophony.

‘What did you do?’ Opal shrieked into the communicator. ‘What is that? Descant Brill, what did you do?’

Scant stammered for a moment before recovering himself. ‘Not to worry, Miss Koboi,’ he said, despite being, in fact, very worried.

Three blocks from the bank, a light was flashing in a police station. The unfortunate constable on watch duty didn’t see it immediately, as she was reading a particularly good Artemis Fowl book. Reading was technically prohibited on the job, but who’d know? The only other person on duty was the guy in the canteen who made fantastic chips and horrific coffee.

‘Shut it off!’ Opal commanded, forgetting for the moment that Scant had no idea how to do so. Circuits had been broken by the opening safety deposit boxes; simply closing them again would not re-wire each alarm. However they were, gradually, one by one, going silent. None of them had been intended to last long; the aim was to cause terror in would-be thieves and attract attention from negligent bank guards.

‘It’s about twenty different alarms,’ Scant told her. ‘I think it’s just to scare thieves. I don’t think it does anything.’

‘I don’t pay you to think!’ Opal screeched.

Scant forebore to point out that he’d specifically said that he didn’t think. ‘No, Miss Koboi. Anyway, I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about. I’ll just boobytrap the painting, these will all shut off soon, and I’ll be gone.’

Unbeknownst to Opal and the Brills, one of the boxes had been wired to do more than just make noise. It was this which had set the light flashing at the police station.

Hands shaking slightly, and distracted by the noise, Scant finally located Herve’s painting in its tube, and carefully injected the bio-bomb’s tracking device in through the rubber seal. It was virtually microscopic, and left no visible external trace. ‘All done, Miss Koboi,’ he reported. ‘I’m out of here.’ He slammed the boxes closed hurriedly, just as the last klaxon went silent.

At the police station, the light still flashed. Finally, the officer glanced up from her book and saw it. She frowned slightly, and tapped it. It still flashed. International Bank patrons were notorious for being paranoid, and false alarms were fairly frequent, but still, better follow procedure. She grabbed her radio and asked a nearby unit to do a drive-by.

Descant Brill was already out the front door, shielded and flying, by the time it arrived. All they would find was a dopey guard and nothing whatsoever missing from the bank. Just another false alarm from another paranoid billionaire. Scant heaved a sigh of relief, and headed back for the chutes.

[akiwisfics]

Dipping Her Toes In

Summary:  A snapshot of what freedom might look like for Kirari, and the next step of her relationship with Sayaka. Notes: Response to the Hundred Devouring Artist’s Prompt, “Kirari’s first ‘I love you.’” You can find the rest of the collection here. 

---

>> “What does it mean to be in love?”

“... With love being so closely connected to meaning and fulfillment, it's valuable for each of us to define love as an action or series of actions we can take to bring us closer to the people we value...”

A glance through the article doesn’t offer many tidbits. Warnings about not appreciating partners over time, fantasy bonds, things that she never considers. In any case, it’s been some time now, and just as quickly, she clicks the tab close.  She needs something more… concrete.

>> “Scientific studies on love.”

“...During the first love-year, serotonin levels gradually return to normal, and the ‘stupid’ and ‘obsessive’ aspects of the condition moderate. That period is followed by increases in the hormone oxytocin, a neurotransmitter associated with a calmer, more mature form of love…”

The medical benefits might interest Sayaka if she brings it up; they sound like things the girl would use to justify using the word herself, but by now, she knows better: Sayaka gives in to the feeling, surrenders to its irrationality like the true beast that it is. Though it isn’t useful, perse, she does bookmark it for later. Sometimes, Sayaka gets bored with her schoolwork, and something tells her she may appreciate a small abstract like this for bedtime reading.

The girl never learns to relax.

>> “Quotes on love.”

“ At the touch of love, everyone becomes a poet.”

Plato is a questionable source of advice, maybe. The quotes are saccharine and only fill her mouth a sickenly sour taste. They’re better suited for agonizing romance novels and pop tunes that Yumemi still sings on the radio sometimes. Perhaps a straightforward approach is necessary.

>> “Wiki-How ‘How to Confess Your Love’”

“Take a step back. Be rational for a moment, and take stock of the situation. Consider your relationship to this person, and try to predict how they will receive your words.”

Oh.

Was she supposed to confess before the relationship started? She doesn’t think Sayaka would reject her if she admits to it; not when the other girl had confessed her love… a year ago now? A year and a half? It feels longer, but she tries to block out the shades of things she doesn’t want to think about; it’s easier that way, when now she has something normal that’s hers.

But how would Sayaka react to it? It’s a thought she’s never considered, so she keeps reading.

“Make sure that you mean it. If you have never been in love before, it may be hard to understand the implications of this phrase. There are many types of love…”

What does that mean?

“Sister?”

Kirari pokes her head away from her laptop, and notes the curious look in Ririka’s eyes. She knows she hadn’t started that long ago, but it feels so much later than it is. There’s some cacophony of traffic outside their apartment window, drunk office workers bickering about the latest gossip around the office, her stomach grumbles at the sweet aroma of curry simmering in the kitchen, and Kirari feels at home. Her legs are stretched out in front of her, toes wriggling freely as she balances the laptop on her knees. Her glasses feel a bit crooked, but they have to wait another week or so before she can fix them.

But it doesn’t matter, because tonight, she has a bigger project on her hands, and she can see the way Ririka is already worrying her hands into her white apron.

“What are you doing?” her sister asks and peers over curiously at the laptop screen. Her face blanches just a tad as she scans the article.

Kirari can’t help giggling at the response. “Sayaka is coming next week. I thought

I’d do something nice, but I’m… having a bit of trouble.”

“You two are dating... right…?”

She nods, and keeps scrolling through the page. More social plays. Indirect confessions, gauging the other person. However, it just seems like Kirari skipped a few steps. She never has to worry about Sayaka not being receptive, because she must be. Yet… she keeps pulling up to that second step. The types of love. She doesn’t have many examples. She loves Ririka, for instance. Familial love. But she doesn’t know if the word sits right on her tongue the way it does anyone else.

She doesn’t recall ever saying the word before. At least not like that. She doesn’t recall saying it to her mother, her grandmother, to cousins, to pets, to Sayaka. It isn’t something that…

Ririka is stepping away, but the impulse comes to mind. “Hey, Ririka?” Kirari calls after her, enough to give her older twin some pause.

“Yes?”

Should she look at her when she says it? Would it be more natural? Kirari doesn’t quite make it, instead focusing on the small counter behind her, filled with calendars, homework, bills, and dates. Things to remember for later. The words however, come out easily enough-- even as they feel a bit weird on her tongue.

“I love you,” she says.

Ririka looks slightly disturbed. That didn’t seem right either. Is it really that odd to hear her say it?

“I think you’re supposed to say it back,” Kirari suggests.

Her twin still hesitates, as if testing the word for herself-- seeing how it tasted, if it really fit how she feels. She’s learning how to wear her heart better on her sleeve, and Kirari enjoys seeing it. They are two people now, and though love fitted them before now, it molds itself more naturally in her vocabulary.

Yes. She loves Ririka. She is her twin, her lifeline since she was a child and even now, when sometimes it still feels like the world is ready to swallow her whole and drown her in its murky depths.

“I… I love you too?” Ririka squeaks, though it comes out mostly as a question. It works for now, and truthfully, Kirari finds a bit of comfort in the fact that it’s foreign for them both. They are two people now, but something about their commonalities warm and comfort Kirari all the same. She still plays games, has dumb jokes, and sighs and grumbles whenever Kirari doesn’t think. It’s now that it’s only two of them, they can just be that.

Kirari always loved Ririka, but now especially, it doesn’t hurt to call her sister.

--

She’s known for a while, of course, but perhaps Kirari didn’t have a word for it right away. Fascination was a safer word. It sparked academic interests-- thoughts and feelings more akin to objectivism than the more dangerous realms of subjectivity and the heart. When she puts it like that now though, it feels… sterile-- a dry taste on her tongue, better suited for Terano’s voice, her speeches. Or maybe her midterm paper.

It started and ended with the tower. It always did. She knew the name she wanted for them when she fell, but it was a taste that she was familiar with long before then, a certain sweetness that watered her mouth, like fresh fruit in blistering hot summers. Her eyes had darted and memorized the resume with a rejuvenation she had never known, never felt, and from it, the first loops of a love letter began to form in her mind.

But she hadn’t known how to write a love letter, nor the word for her fascination, so instead, she constructed a tower, and let it loom over the entire school-- a beacon of her obsession and tether to this new humanity that encroached on her heart.

(She still has the deed to that piece of land. She keeps it locked tight in a small safe underneath her bed, along with other traces of the old life she left behind. The only two things she ever needs constantly are the things she has already. Ririka. Sayaka.)

(Sometimes the other things still come back. Sometimes the nightmares don’t stop. But there’s either warm arms around her in the morning, or a welcoming, defrosting smile waiting for her in the kitchen-- Ririka’s breakfast. Soft. Perfect.)

She could’ve told Sayaka after the fall, when she looked so divine in the shimmering moonlight, eyes shining and glistening. In a way, Kirari did? But it wasn’t… it wasn’t the same, was it?

Sayaka never does well with metaphors. Despite the constant reminder of this, Kirari seems to constantly forget. It’s easier to slip into those ideas and actions that she knows well-- a double-speak that was necessary in the clan, at the school. If a truth isn’t at least a half-lie, then its free information-- and information never should be free.

Sayaka is an open book, but the language is one she doesn’t understand just yet. She’s learning though, slowly. She prefers her glasses in the morning, she prefers earthy teas, and she fidgets without anything to do. Waiting is an action to her, but to have nothing planned is permission for her to fiddle. Sometimes that’s organizing and cleaning the apartment (much to Ririka’s chagrin, when it takes weeks afterward to find everything), sometimes it’s studying the big law books-- a few extra copies making a neat stack on the coffee table. Kirari isn’t sure what to do with them now that her entrance exam is done, but Sayaka keeps insisting on keeping them in case she needs the books again.

She puts things to reuse and cherishes what luxuries she can afford. It’s a skill that Kirari is learning, slowly but surely. She recycles, she’s started cooking lessons with Ririka, and though she loathes to do it, she puts more focus on what they need versus the excess and statements that she enthralled herself with growing up.

But Kirari has grown to enjoy parts of it-- beautiful aspects that were easy to forget when she was richer and more pressured. Acts of love, self-sacrifice. Coupled with rarer appearances, even the smallest of actions seem to carry a heavier weight.

It started with a picnic.  Early spring, with the white lilies in full bloom, petals fluttering in the warm breeze. Her nose itched from the pollen as she laid on a dark blanket and observed the open blue sky, cloudless and empty. The looming tower was the solitary object in her vision, the lone door they dove out of just the barest outline from so far below.  On a whim, she outstretched her hands, framing the door between her fingers. What would it have looked like from down below? Two girls in the throes of their own madness, plummeting to their supposed deaths.

“Pres-- Kirari!”

Ah. She hadn’t been used to the name yet. Kirari smiled still, letting her hands drop lazily back on the blanket and patted the empty spot next to her. “The weather really is beautiful.”

“You… you just graduated. Shouldn’t you be--”

“Who’s going to kick me out?”

Sayaka relented and piece by piece, she laid down next to her, shoulders stiff and an uncertain fidget as she observed the clear sky above them. It may have been moments, maybe hours. Kirari counted the breaths shared between them, memorized the warmth that spread where their fingers and hips brushed, and allowed herself to consider what forever would look like just like this. The thought was dizzy, unclear, always is, but it was a thought that was hers . A thought that no one could ever, ever take again.

Not even the girl that held that dream in her hands without even knowing, even as Sayaka had continued to fidget next to her, thoughts elsewhere as they always were. Now? She’s better about it, but some days--

“Are you nervous?” Sayaka had asked, though better for herself than Kirari.

“No,” she spoke evenly, “I know you’ll find me when you need me.”

“And--”

Kirari found her hand, fingers twisting and tangling in the sheet below them and tangled them with her own hand instead. She squeezed firmly, once, and tried to take in the softness along her rough pads, knowing that it would be empty come tomorrow. “I always need you.”

--

And she always does.

So Kirari tries to include her in other ways. They text more frequently now, and sometimes when Sayaka visits, they spend half the time just working on homework and studying. She tells herself it’s normal and that’s okay too. The classes don’t challenge her as much as she would like though, and sometimes her mind drifts. Kirari thinks about fish, thinks about the smaller aquarium she has in the apartment, what her and Ririka will learn how to cook tonight. There’s supposed to be a raid, and she thinks Sayaka is free for once to lend a hand. Thank goodness, but Kirari is a shit healer.

Her mind finds the article when it does wander though, and still, she has to consider everything that’s come before and now. She missed the chance to confess when the election ended, she missed it on her graduation day, and distressingly enough, Kirari missed it when they had their first anniversary just a few months ago.

It was pleasant. She had saved her money through the last couple of weeks before it to take Sayaka to an expensive restaurant downtown-- seafood. Kirari had gifted her a pendant necklace-- a heirloom she had stolen from her clan back when she was leaving it. … Still in the midst of leaving it she supposes.

Though Kirari didn’t have the funds (Sayaka would be terribly upset if she spent the money on her instead of fixing the very minor crook in her glasses of all things), she has to wonder if there is something that could create a moment for them. Not so unlike the picnic between them, a gesture so simple but still stikes at where Kirari needs it.

… Sayaka did just finish her entrance exam. The results wouldn’t be posted yet, but perhaps--

“Igarashi-san?”

It takes her a second, but Kirari is learning to get used to that too. She stands obediently, and feels relieved at the lack of curious, bewildered stares. No one blinks at her name. No one recognizes her face. She is just a classmate, a figure in the crowd. But she wonders, if she had kept the Momobami moniker, would they?

“Could you read the next two paragraphs for us please?”

Kirari speaks loudly and clearly, even as her mind continues to wander. It’s a habit she can’t break from high school, unfortunately. She can’t help it, really. Whatever they read today will be a distant memory, foggy shapes once she’s turned to bed for the evening. Instead, she remembers the way she heard that name the first time.

Sayaka doesn’t know. If she was better about herself, she would admit she’s embarrassed. But she likes the way it sounds next to her name. Kirari Igarashi. It doesn’t remind her of peaches rotting in trees, of drowning. It’s a name that’s hers, and Sayaka’s too.

One day, she’d like it to be legally hers. For now, a few forged papers for her college admissions let her live the fantasy.

--

Kirari knows the man that moved next door to them. He’s smart enough to keep gloves on his hands, hiding the brand permanently etched on his skin, but he doesn’t know enough to keep the weighty recognition out of his eyes as they cross paths in the apartment hallways.

She doesn’t bring it up to Terano when she calls her later, even as she makes plans to meet her. They know Kirari still has a foot in the doorway, just in case the clan tries something again.

The next time she sees him, Kirari waves. He ignores it.

--

They always meet in public. Kirari isn’t sure that’s for her own sake, or more for the sake of Terano’s pride. It’s a routine at this point-- Kirari dangles a particularly juicy carrot, one Terano can’t ignore as she works to repair the damage, and Kirari asks for a favor fitting the price. A public space allows Kirari escape routes, and it allows Terano to have watchers-- in case something goes wrong. Kirari counts the heads that look just slightly out of place, the ones that take a second too long to look away when she sits down.

They never meet at the same restaurant, but Kirari learns that Terano has a habit. She likes coffee, the way the beans reek and leak out of the store out into the open patio. Terano always orders it black, and uses careful sips to disguise her nervous pauses. She’s changed little in the year, now with a weary weight to her eyes that Kirari is all too familiar with.

Kirari settles with a chai tea, because sometimes the thick aroma is enough to distract her from the two very ugly things around her: coffee and bad company.

Today is no different. They’re closer to Shibuya, a dizzying circle of subway stations and commuters that dizzy Kirari some ways and fascinates her in others. Now that her aquarium is more reasonable, she occupies her time observing people like the fish. The commuters and works walk their perfectly etched paths with few variations or changes. If she tries hard enough, she can recognize a few-- those that share the same path she does. If she tries hard enough, she could tell what days they stopped to grab coffee themselves, or which ones had some skeletons in the closet that they weren’t trained as a child to keep secret like Kirari did.

But Kirari is supposed to be normal now, so she doesn’t try that hard most of the time. Terano never thinks she’s trying enough.

She sits down on cold iron chairs, swallows the bile down at the thick smell of coffee beans, souring her mouth, and offers a placid smile to Terano. Something more familiar to both of them. “Good to see you, Terano,” Kirari lies.

“Stop calling me,” Terano snipes. Always straight to the point. “Every time you call me, I keep thinking I was better off just killing you.”

Kirari chuckles and marvels at how her cousin’s eyes trail the white envelope naturally as she pulls it out of her jacket pocket. It’s much plainer than the old calligraphy that was drilled into them both, and she prefers it. “You could never pull the trigger,” she teases in return, naturally. “Do you have it?”

Terano scowls, deeper than usual, but she still digs through her suitcase. What she pulls out is an envelope with sleek black, sealed with clan kanji that she hasn’t seen in months. Something inside her sinks, but Kirari knows that’s the purpose behind it. She wishes she could shake the feeling. Instead she lets herself tread along the surface. Breathing room.

“She passed. That really shouldn’t surprise you.” And yet, Kirari releases the breath she didn’t know she was holding. Even as Terano continues, uses slim fingers to slide the cruel reminder of things she doesn’t want anymore, Kirari feels relieved. “Top score. The pre-law department has been busy trying to make sure the offer’s good. They’re worried someone might leak the score to other schools.”

And Terano hesitates. “... The name she’s attached to--”

“It’s not real anymore.” She feels the smooth paper against her own rough palms, and feels how her appetite drains with each inch that she feels. It stings, it burns -- a heat Kirari so desperately tries to ignore as she stuffs the envelope in her pocket for safekeeping. Later, she will smooth out the creases and take in each letter of approval. University of Tokyo. With her. The warmth will be better then. Light.

Terano swallows. “... Igarashi?”

Her smile blooms at the word. Terano doesn’t say it with the gravity it deserves, but in a way, Kirari appreciates it. She wants her to be hesitant. Uncertain of something that never belonged to the clan. It is hers. It is her and Sayaka’s.

“It has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?”

Her eyes trace upward, to silver hair, no doubt too bright in the open sun. Kirari likes to think that Terano is trying to observe her for the first time. Not with the chains around her neck, of that nightmare of Momobami. She grew so tired of it choking her, and though there’s still bruises, some maybe too deep to heal, she’s free.

Only once, Terano swallows her pride. “The short hair suits you.”

--

“Are you sure about this?”

Sayaka threaded her fingers through as if handling something far more precious. Perhaps like sand through her own hourglass, dreading cutting those seconds and years away with a clean shear. Kirari’s eyes slid closed as Sayaka worshipped. Sometimes she misses those mornings where Sayaka would carefully braided silver tresses, looping them with finesse that Kirari could never perfect on her own.

“I need something new,” and she looked up, offering a smile only shared between them. “I know I can trust you to pick something that suits me.”

Sayaka hummed carefully, and through her reflection in the mirror, she could see how furrowed and frustrated she looked. Eyes dark and frown deep. She knew how deeply she was thinking, and the idea of what Sayaka would come up with thrilled her. With gentle hands, Sayaka brushed her hair back, letting it pool behind the chair.

The glean in her eyes was remarkable. “I won’t disappoint you, Kirari,” Sayaka said with stark conviction, leaving a kiss to the back of her head before she began her work.

It took some time and experimentation, but Kirari loves the freedom. They have time to decide what they want. What Kirari wants. The bob cut took some getting used to, but she loves the way it fans against her cheeks when she hunches over notebooks or her laptop. She loves the way that when her and Sayaka are sleeping, Sayaka’s still finds her hands tangled in her hair.

Kirari is in love. She’s always been in love.

--

There’s an extra pair of shoes. Mary’s here. The relationship between her and Ririka confuses her. Mary is all spitfire, physical brushes and jerks. She’s careless and unapologetic with her touches. Perhaps it appeals to Ririka in some sense, that someone would be so comfortable with themselves after spending so long hiding behind a mask like a tortoise shell.

Mary is stretched out on their couch, blonde hair drawn back in a loose ponytail, tied in silk black ribbon. The hum out of her pursed lips is almost contagious as she scrolls through her phone, completely at ease in a space she would have shied away from before. Kirari likes to think that it’s Ririka’s influence, and she’s grateful too, that they seem to be happy together. She just isn’t sure how it works.

Kirari has seen them together of course. Ririka shies away from more overt affection when Mary first arrives, but she gets used to the affection, she sees her grow more into herself. Back to the agonizing babysitter in many respects. She remembers how openly Mary gaped when Ririka admonished Kirari for the first time in her company, and Kirari thinks that was when she realized how serious they were.

But she doesn’t know how they don’t find that constant dance exhausting. And that’s not even including the love mess. Ririka is just as lost by the terminology. She hardly ever makes the first move.

“Where’s Ririka?” Kirari asks in way of greeting as she crosses the threshold into the living room. Their coffee table is starting to lean in the weight of the big law books. There’s a fern plant that needs watering, and the window is open to the busy streets below. She smells noodles at the shop down the street; salty. Maybe they have the extra cash to grab a bowl this evening.

Mary doesn’t look away from her phone, disinterested as ever. “Grocery shopping. She wanted me to wait for you.”

“That’s nice.”

She puts the phone to sleep and sits up, allowing Kirari the space to sit. As Kirari takes her seat, she realizes Mary is wearing perfume and tries to bite back her smile. “I’d like to ask you something,” Kirari says as she sits there, stiffly.

“I’m gonna regret saying yes, aren’t I?”

“Has Ririka said ‘I love you’ yet?”

The way Mary chokes immediately at the question is fascinating as she lurches back, covering her mouth with her hands. The red of her cheeks fits her blond better than Ririka’s silver, but no less amusing. “ What? ” Mary croaked out.

“Has she?”

“Th-This isn’t any of your business!”

“What would you consider romantic enough for such a confession?” She turned closer to her, legs crossed, and studies the way Mary squirms underneath the questioning. There’s something lovely how uncomfortable both her and Ririka could be. “I was considering a devotion day of sorts. People like Ririka and Sayaka need someone to remind them to relax, don’t you think? Breakfast in bed, a nice walk in the park perhaps, and … how do I bring it up?”

“ Shut up, Kirari!”

“Have you said it to Ririka yet? How did you--”

“SHUT UP,” and Mary latches onto her collar tight with clammy red hands, stretching the fabric and shaking her violently. Kirari’s head thumps with the way it rocks back and forth, but really, she thinks the headache is more internal. She wishes Mary could be more honest, but perhaps they’ll learn to do that in time.

--

Some days, it hurts.

It hurts worse than any word Kirari can describe.

But for the first time in her life, she feels like she doesn’t have to be alone to deal with it.

--

Sayaka gets in late, and as they take the dizzying concrete pathways back to Kirari’s apartment, her eyes are already drooping and Kirari spends more time holding her up than actually walking there. She’s learned how to relax a bit more now that they don’t use secretary or president . It’s just them. Sayaka and Kirari. It’s a thought that bubbles pleasantly. Like champagne simmering below. When Sayaka is here, Kirari never stops smiling.

She’s grown too. Sayaka has never stopped training, and she feels muscle as she holds her weight, the weight of a taser in her pocket. Some habits never die. The same time they settled on a good haircut, Sayaka started wearing her own in a high bun with long dark banks framing her beautiful, perfect face. The scratches never completely faded, and Kirari has to stop herself from counting the scratches as she guides them.

“Did you sleep at all?” Kirari teases gently.

Sayaka stifles a yawn, but she doesn’t pull away to save face. “I wanted to make sure everything went well.”

It doesn’t surprise her, but there’s nothing disappointing about it either. Kirari is learning the language, even as it evolves and starts using words that used to be just hers. Sayaka is a book-- her favorite book. She thinks of it like one bound by old parchment and illustrations painted with beauty and dedication. A marvel of detail that frames each chapter in ways that could never be replicated again.

They collapse in bed together as soon as they make it, and Kirari welcomes the extra weight. She welcomes the warmth molded against her. She welcomes the fingers tangled in her hair and the butterfly kisses against her cheeks and lips.

Sayaka shows her love most here, and it’s moments like this that Kirari cherishes most.

--

The date hits a snag immediately when Kirari wakes up to an empty space next to her and the digital clock reading 11:30. She smells Earl Grey and eggs from the cracked door, enticing her to crawl out of the residual warmth of her bed and further into the reaches of the apartment. If she closes her eyes and concentrate, she can hear a light hum, carefully content.

She wants to listen to the melody longer, but she knows Sayaka doesn’t like the breakfast to get cold. Kirari gets up in starts and pauses, fumbling for her slightly crooked glasses and old sweatshirt and pants. She keeps her feet bare because she likes the feel of her toes against ground that’s hers. She yawns and she looks less than perfect. And that’s okay.

Sayaka’s eyes find hers as Kirari wanders into the kitchen, and something catches her by the warm smile. It curves her eyes, black hair wild and fussed from the way Kirari clings to her in her sleep. She’s wearing a t-shirt and shorts, bare legs twitching off and on in a nervous fidget. She pours the tea with a practiced perfection, steam billowing and clouding both of their glasses in the tight space.

“Good morning,” Sayaka says and the smile stretches just a wider, and all too sudden--

“I love you,” Kirari blurts. It’s not perfect, not even close to perfect. They both look like a mess, Sayaka’s dark circles under her eyes after months and months of studying and preparing. Kirari’s hair is tangled and fussed, make-up smeared across her face. But it slips out like a waterfall, one that Kirari can never hope to stop.

She doesn’t realize the tea cup slips out of Sayaka’s fingers until it cracks on the floor, and like a startled rabbit, Sayaka jumps back-- eyes owlishly wide and flabbergasted. Kirari isn’t sure if this is the reaction wants.

“... What?”

Kirari hesitates. “Is… was that a bad time?”

Sayaka cries and Kirari is never, ever sure what to do when it happens. She isn’t sure Sayaka knows what to do when she does either, because rather than responding, she starts bending down to pick up the broken ceramic. By the third piece though, her hands start shaking as the phrase hits her, and almost as if on instinct, her hands start gravitating toward her eyes to cover her tears.

Kirari takes them instead. A quick snatch up and a squeeze tight. She wishes it was to comfort the poor woman, but she wouldn’t-- “Careful. Wouldn’t want you to blind yourself, my dear Sayaka.”

“I’m sorry, I just--”

“Is it weird?”

“No! Never. I…” And her eyes well up again. “... I love you too.”

She kisses once. Forehead. Then along the curvature of one brow. She lets the small touches calm Sayaka down. The ceramic can be picked up later. The tea can be remade, and while the eggs probably couldn’t be salvaged, there’s always another time. She’ll send a better note later, especially after Kirari wakes up one morning to her glasses perfect and the tea cup replaced, but for now, she chooses to cherish the warmth between them.

It’s only one of many first steps in their lives. Kirari doesn’t mind waiting a bit longer for more.

[ladyhallen]

Inverted Fairy Tales: Cinderella

After the funeral of the late Lord Delacroix, the change was so gradual that Ella Delacroix couldn’t pinpoint when things started to happen. 

At one point, she was sure that her step-sisters, Tatyana and Priscilla, protested but were silenced hastily.  

First, it was Jehanne, let go for spilling the tea on carpets and wasting an entire batch of crumpets. Then, it was Marguerite, fired for the accidentally dropping the white linens in a tub of red dye.  

Little by little, the staff was fired until finally, only the housekeeper, the butler and the groom were left.  

Ella had protested the changes loudly and was told to pick up the slack, little things like darning her own stockings to emptying her own chamber pot. She doesn’t notice when she started feeding the chickens and doing the dishes too but she does know that one day, she woke up with callouses in her hands and an acute pain in her back from scrubbing the floor.  

She tried. She honestly tried her best to be kind.  

Ella had forgiven the recently widowed Lady Delacroix her petty cruelties because even if Ella had lost a father, her stepmother had lost her husband.  

But ripping apart her homemade dress just because she didn’t want Ella to get out of the house was just the last straw. She hadn’t done anything to her.  

Ella had lost her father, was slowly losing her home and was also starting to lose her name when her stepmother started calling her Cinderella for having soot on her face.  

Ella was desperate to get out, before she would forget her own self.  

Ella bled on the hearth from the scratch marks of her stepmother’s nails and wept on it with tears of frustration after her dress was torn apart. She did not know the manner of being that came out of the hearthstones that she contracted by accident, only that it was there and promised help. For a price.  

“You want a night out,” the being said, smoke lazily curling around their nude form. It did not detract from its red eyes and the wicked gleam in them. “And you’re willing to pay any price. How fortuitous.” The last word was said with relish.  

She managed to hold back her shivers. “I want to get out from this house for even a moment,” Ella corrected. “I want to see more than the soot in this hearth.”  

The being laughed. “I will grant it. You will have until midnight. The price you will pay, will be worth it. Wet the hearth again with tears and blood, child, and I will answer.”  

She fell asleep with the wealth of smoke breathed on her by the being. And woke up with a start, soft deerskin gloves on her hands and a shimmering, expensive gown on her body the same shade as her eyes.  

It had been ages since Ella last felt anything so rich and she wanted to cry for the birthright that had been denied to her.  

But there was no time. Midnight, the beings whisper repeated, seeming to linger in the air between her and the cold and empty hearth. She was cold, but she had no doubt that it wasn’t a dream and it wasn’t because of the expensive and luxurious things she was wearing, but the unbelievable feeling of dread that weighed her down.  

What sort of creature did she make a deal with?

.

.

Since she had been busy making contracts with beings of dubious morality, Ella was late.  

This was not a good thing, because that meant all the main doors were already closed. The herald was no longer at his post and she had to make do with sneaking into the side door and admiring everything.  

The chandelier, the numerous dancing people, the food.  

Oh the food. If Ella wasn’t so astounded by the noise, she would be eating as much food as she could manage. The table fairly groaned with it and no one so much as glanced at it! 

“First time in a ball?” a young man with a sympathetic smile asked her. He was handsome with lovely eyes. 

“Yes!” she answered with enthusiasm. She was nibbling on a small plate of crepes. She doesn’t let it show that it had actually her thirteenth plate. She had never been so well fed in her life.   

“Are you having fun?” he asked, seemingly amused by her good cheer.   

“Extremely so,” she said brightly. 

“Even if you’re not dancing?" he pressed.   

With a jolt, Ella realized that no, she was not dancing and being one of the very few women not dancing, it was drawing attention to her.  

“Ah,” she said, the crepes suddenly tasting like ash in her mouth. One of those women sitting out was her stepmother and those sharp, cold eyes were watching her conversation partner like a hawk. “No,” she managed to continue. “Dancing. I don’t know anyone and I have no one to introduce me.”  

The man scoffed at the mention of society rules. “You know me. Will you dance with me?” he asked.  

Ella lit up, smiling at the man. “Yes please,” she said, curtsying.  

The plate was removed in short order and both of them arranged themselves at the side while they waited for the next set.  

“What’s your name?” she asked, staring at the whirl of twirling skirts that passed by. “My caretakers call me Ella.”  

“Call me Harry,” he said, a dimple showing up when he smiled. “Everyone does.”  

The name seemed familiar, but Ella was distracted. She was having the time of her life.  

When the refrains for the set ended, everyone clapped and the women on the dance floor curtseyed to their partners.  

“Shall we?” he asked, offering his elbow.  

Ella eagerly looped her arm through his and allowed him to lead her to the center. When the set started, she had a moment’s terror. What if she had forgotten those old lessons in dancing? But no, the moment her partner led her, Ella remembered.   

She laughed in happiness and followed his lead with abandon, every inch of her aware of the lightest pressure of his hands. 

“That’s better,” her dance partner said with that dimpled smile. “Your face seems like it was made for laughter.”  

“I’ve never had a better set,” she said, ignoring the fact that she hadn’t danced in years and therefore had nothing to compare it to but fading memories. “You are a very talented partner, thank you.”  

“I should be saying that,” he said. “You are a very responsive partner. Would you like a walk in the garden with me, my lady?”  

Now that he mentioned it, the room was stifling. “I would be honored,” she said, curtsying. 

.

.

The gardens were magnificent, with rose bushes and hydrangeas blooming everywhere, peppered with the occasional amaranths.  

“These flowers are amazing,” she breathed. It had been a long time since she had seen flowers blooming so abundantly. The gardener had been one of the first ones to be fired and the garden had suffered for it.  

 “Do you know what this ball is about, my lady?” Harry asked her.  

“No!” she said firmly. “And I don’t really care. I only wanted to attend a ball at least once in my life.”  

Her stepmother had done her level best to make sure Ella would not know about the ball. Except Tatyana had told her in secret and tried to give her one of their old dresses and Priscilla helped her sew ribbons to compliment the old lace. It didn’t work of course.   

“That’s refreshing,” he remarked. “But let me enlighten you. This ball is all about Prince Henry. So he can find a wife.”  

“Oh, the poor man,” Ella sighed. “Marriages...can be like shackles. Especially if you choose the wrong person.”  

Ella thought back to her stepmother and her late father. Her father, who had loved to travel. Her stepmother, who wanted someone to be with her all the days of her life.  

It was a very wrong match and both of them had suffered for it.  

“That’s,” he stuttered. “That’s a very different way of thinking about it.”  

“Really?” she asked. It was just common sense. But she was raised better than that and didn’t say it out loud.  

“Marriage,” he explained patiently. “is supposed to be a partnership. Where one person holds another up. Done right, it’s not a shackle, because you’re both moving in the same direction.”  

It made Ella a bit bitter, hearing such idealistic words. But she had promised herself that she would enjoy this night out. There was a price bound to every second she spent outside of her house. If she didn’t enjoy it, what was the point?  

“For some people, maybe,” she sighed, before visibly straightening up with forced cheer. “Let’s go back to the ballroom. The night’s still young, there’s only two hours left until midnight!” 

.

.

Tears and blood, then smoke. When Ella’s vision cleared, the being was there, lounging without care on the hearthstones smeared crimson. 

It was not her imagination that made those teeth look sharp. Perhaps she didn’t look properly the first time.  

“You haven’t gotten it yet,” the being sighed. “I’ll give you one more night. Maybe two. Isn’t this ball supposed to stretch for three nights?”  

Ella didn’t know that the ball would last that long. She didn’t want to know how the being found out.  

“More?” Ella whispered on numb lips. She doesn’t know what price she was going to pay and the prospect of more terrified her. What could she possibly pay for the gift of three nights? “May I know the price? Please?”  

The being laughed, a raspy sound that made her suppress shivers. “You should have thought of what you could pay before you shed your own blood, contractor. Now you are bound and you have made the contract open for me.”  

She shook and didn’t bother to hide it this time.  

“Two more nights,” the being rasped. “Two nights. After that, I will tell you the price I demand. If you don’t. Well.” The being smiled with satisfaction. “There’s a reason these contracts are bound in blood.”  

More smoke, and Ella was sitting alone, in front of the cold fireplace.  

She desperately held back her tears, because the stones were still wet with her blood and she didn’t want another accidental summoning. 

.

.

Her stepsisters gave her tired glances. The bags under her eyes match theirs and no one said anything. She was supposed to be well-rested and the both of them worried why she had not slept. 

“Darn the girl’s stockings and have the cobbler thicken the soles of their dance shoes,” Lady Delacroix instructed. “And be quick about it. The prince danced with that foreign woman all night, but I’m certain my girls can catch his attention tonight.”  

Ella, for the moment, pitied the prince again. Even if her stepsisters were darling, dear girls, marrying one of them would make the prince part of their family. And she would not wish her family on anyone, not even her worst enemy.  

“Of course, stepmother,” Ella murmured, bowing her head, acting extra obedient. It wouldn’t do for her to be suspicious. And besides, her stepmother’s gaze could freeze a lesser person. Ella had learned not to look her in the eyes anymore.  

“And Cinderella, the garden is looking a bit wild. Prune those trees and cut the grass,” she added.  

Ella wanted to sag. That would take the whole day since she still had to cook lunch and feed the chickens.  

She wanted to protest but she just bowed her head lower and said, “Yes, stepmother.” 

.

.

The cobbler had a long line and Ella just sighed at the sight of it. Of course it would have a long line. A lot of women had worn away the lining of their dancing shoes last night and needed them padded to prevent blisters.  

Ella spared a coin to get herself some breakfast while she waited.   

By the time she finished, it was nearing noon and she hadn’t started cooking lunch yet.  

Her stepsisters, the dear girls, were trying to peel the potatoes and doing a terrible job of it.  

“Ella!” Tatyana exclaimed, dropping her potato.  

“Ella!” Priscilla beamed, almost slicing her hand open with her peeling knife.  

She smiled back, hiding a wince at how much potato was with the skin. Still, they tried. That was the important thing. It was a waste though, and she vowed to bake the skins later for her own meal.  

“I’ve gotten your shoes fixed now,” Ella said. “Did you have fun with last night's ball?”  

The two girls giggled. “Yes, we wished you would have been there. The prince was very handsome and he danced like a dream,” Tatyana sighed. Among the three sisters, she had always been the one who loved dancing the most.  

“The cuts of their dresses were very clean,” Priscilla added, always more interested in clothes than in the people wearing them. “I wanted to know their seamstress, except that would be rude, right Ella?”  

“Yes, that would be rude,” Ella agreed. “And how was stepmother?”  

Both of them flinched.  

“Mother was...” Tatyana trailed off uncertainly.  

“Unhappy,” Priscilla completed.  

Ah, no wonder everyone was making themselves scarce. Lady Delacroix in a mood was something frightening.  

“We’ll fix up your stockings and you can rest from your last night. Try to socialize tonight, you need to talk to more people,” she instructed them.  

“So do you,” Tatyana said without tact.  

.

.

This time, Ella knew better and didn’t flinch when the smoke covered her.  

It was even more terrifying this time, because Ella had a few hours of sleep and remembered her mother’s stories. She knew what this creature, this being, was, and she cursed her past self for bleeding. If there had been no blood...  

“Contractor,” the being purred. “What’s this I see in your eyes?”  

Ella couldn’t hide the minute twitch and the demon cackled. “May I please have my second night?” she asked. Her voice trembled but it didn’t break.  

She knew what the demon saw in her eyes this time. Awareness.  

“Of course, contractor," the demon agreed, more frightening for being so obliging. “I wouldn’t dream of depriving you of your second night.”  

Smoke poured out from the demon’s mouth and covered Ella’s tattered working dress. The color this time was of the night sky, and it twinkled like it had the very stars sewn into it. The ends of the dress flared and daringly flashed her ankles if she moved too fast.   

“Thank you,” she said, because being polite was all she had at this point.  

“Midnight is your deadline, contractor. Call me again when you’re finished, I would love to see if my efforts of have borne fruit,” the demon instructed.  

What fruit? Ella wondered. But she knew better to ask and just nodded. 

.

.

She wasn’t as late this time, but Ella still wouldn’t know what name to give to the herald if he asked.   

What name would she give?   

She was no longer Pierre Delacroix’s daughter. She had spent more years of her life being a servant than being her father’s daughter.  

Eleanor Delacroix was long dead. She was just Ella, servant girl who had sneaked out for two nights with the help of a demon. Her mother would cry if she knew Ella had made such a contract. 

So she sneaked in the side entrances again in shame and headed straight for the food. She had only had baked potato skins for lunch and absolutely nothing for dinner.  

Halfway through moving around and pretending that all the other empty plates she’d left behind were from other people, Ella saw Harry again, hiding behind the curtains.  

She couldn’t help the giggles that came out of her and his lovely eyes snapped to hers. He looked terrified.  

“Help,” he mouthed.  

She grabbed another plate, filled it with more sweet crepes and wandered in his direction. She thrust it behind the curtains and, after a moment's hesitation, he took it.  

“What’s so frightening?” she asked with a smile, looking over the dance floor and acting like talking to a curtain was normal. 

“Mother’s with unmarried daughters,” was the answer that almost had her laughing out loud. She muffled it behind one gloved hand.  

“Look pre-occupied and they won’t harass a you,” Ella advised. “You poor, unmarried thing.”  

He finally emerged from behind the curtains, looking aggrieved and amused in equal measure. “Someone, at least, is deriving amusement from my suffering,” he complained.  

Ella’s smile was impish, the sort that polite society ladies don’t show to gentlemen. “You exaggerate. They can’t have been that frightening.”  

He looked a bit dazed before he blinked and shook his head. “You can’t have met Lady Delacroix then,” he said. “And I was waiting for you, Ella.”  

She didn’t flinch at her stepmother’s name and mentally applauded herself.  

“Why?” she asked after a moment. 

He just held out his hand and Ella straightened up, placing her hand on his. “Oh! I will give you one dance then, and another walk in the garden?”  

“Please,” he said. 

Harry was just as wonderful a dance partner as she’d remembered and the gardens just as beautiful. This time, someone followed them from behind, watching from a discreet distance while still remaining in sight. A chaperone, she realized belatedly. Something that she’d forgotten they didn’t have the night before.  

“The garden is just as beautiful as I remember,” she sighed wistfully. “I thought I dreamed this, but if anything, it’s even better than my memories.”  

He smiled at her. “Thank you, it is my mother’s garden,” he said.  

Ella blinked. Took a breath and released it shakily. 

“Your...mother’s?” she asked faintly. “But this is the palace? Home of the royal family?”  

“Ella,” Harry squeezed her fingers. “You couldn’t have been unaware all this time?”  

My God, she had been dancing with the prince. And she had teased him.  

“I didn’t know,” she stammered, voice seemingly coming from so far away. “I. I never hear any news anymore and. And my sisters were the only reason I knew about this. I didn’t even know how you looked like, or your name!”  

He knelt on the ground beside her and pressed her fingers to his mouth. Really touching it and not just kissing the air politely. If she hadn’t been gloved, it would have been really scandalous. As it was, Ella flushed, mouth snapping shut. She could feel the heat of it even through the layers of the lace gloves and it felt like it burned her. 

“My name is Henry,” he told her, voice low and eyes firmly on hers. “And I went to this ball thinking that I wouldn’t find anyone interesting. And there you were, a vision of loveliness, more concerned about enjoying yourself than looking at me. It was fascinating.  

“And you left me last night, wondering if I would ever see you again. And now that you’re here, I can finally ask you. Ella, what’s your real name?”  

Her breath hitched. And just earlier, she had thought her old self to be dead.  

“My name,” she whispered, making him lean forward to hear. “Is Eleanor Delacroix. My stepmother is Lady Delacroix and my late father, Lord Delacroix, is long dead.”  

It was his turn to be shocked.  

“You are the Lady Eleanor,” he said. “The news said that you died with your father.”  

So that’s why. All those years, she had wondered why no one went to their house to call on her. All her old friends never visited again. Because Lady Delacroix told them she was dead. 

Tears gathered in her lashes and she stood up. “Yes, maybe I did,” she said. She wouldn’t cry in front of him.  

“Excuse me, your highness,” she said, curtseying, before picking up her skirts and running.  

Harry scrambled up. “Ella, wait!” he called, but she didn’t stop. If she stopped, she would fall down in front of him and beg for his help, for his protection.

.

.

The demon emerged from the smoke this time with a smile. 

Ella took two steps back but the demon just advanced forward, each step on the hearthstones soundless and threatening.  

“My my,” it purred. “You have reaped the fruits of my labor.” 

“What are you talking about?” she demanded. Normally, she would be wary and careful. After the night she’d just had, she was just heartsore. 

“The prince is in love with you,” the demon announced. “And you ran away, you stupid girl!!” 

Ella didn’t even hide that she was shaking. She sank to the ground, her knees weak. 

“Your price is the Prince?” she asked. “You can’t! He’s so good, so pure!” 

The demon cackled. “No. No, he is not my price. He’s too good, as you said. You’ve dangled my bait though, contractor. Your prince will come and take you away. Once you’ve married him, call me again, we’ll discuss my reward.” 

“And if I don’t call you?” she asked. She didn’t know what possessed her, but she had to ask. 

The demon loomed over her, eyes inches from Ella’s face. “Then I will find you and grant you suffering immeasurable, little contractor,” it snarled. 

Shakily, Ella nodded and the demon left her in her ragged dress.

.

.

The decision on what she would do could wait because Ella fell asleep immediately as soon as her head touched her worn pillow. 

She dreamt of smoke and husky laughter, and blood coating old black stones. 

Ella woke with a start, and her sisters were in her room, desperately trying to shake her awake. 

“You have to wake up,” Priscilla pleaded. “Oh my God, Ella. The Prince and his knights are here. Something about arresting mother.” 

Tatyana helped tie her hair while Ella hurriedly laced her gown. Priscilla fetched her boots and she just about jumped into it, wincing when it tugged the pins Tatyana was putting into her hair. 

“Arresting mother?” she asked breathlessly as they ran down the stairs. It was the curse of living in the attic. Everything interesting happened on the first floor. “On what charges?” 

“Something about appropriating your birthright,” Tatyana said. “And staying in the manor on false pretenses.” 

Ella almost stumbled on the next step. “What??” 

Priscilla tugged her upright and they moved again. “I think I heard one of them say something about the entailment going to Lord Delacroix’s eldest child.” 

She was grateful they arrived in the receiving hall, even if that meant facing all the people, because she had no idea what to say to that. 

“Ella,” someone said. 

She turned and. There he was, a vision in a knights uniform, looking crisp and clean. She felt so dirty compared to him that she flinched from his raised hand. Her sisters pressed their hands to her lower back in support. 

“Prince Henry,” she said, voice low. The three of them curtseyed in unison. 

He looked pained. “Lady Eleanor,” he answered. “May I please speak with you?” 

When she nodded, his knights cleared the room. Tatyana stubbornly picked the corner chair and started embroidering, clearly intent on being the chaperone. Ella had to give Priscilla a look before the youngest girl would agree to leave the three of them. 

“I cannot believe you arrested mother,” she said, because it looked like he had no idea what to say. 

He gave a small smile. “I wanted to speak with you again, and when she kept saying she had no idea who you were, I’m afraid I lost my temper.” The prince somehow looked sheepish without looking awkward. 

Ella covered her hand and giggled. “Harry,” she managed. “Why are you here?” 

He straightened up, looking formal again. “I wanted to ask for your hand in marriage,” he said. In her corner, Tatyana stifled a gasp into her sewing. Thankfully, only Ella heard. Harry added, “I know we’re just friends. But I would rather marry a friend than a complete stranger.” 

She knew what he meant. Love would come later, when they had time.  

“Engagement?” she asked, just to be certain. 

He winced. “Might be a short one. Maybe two weeks,” he said, then hurriedly added, “My father is stepping down in a few weeks and I need to be married to claim the crown.” 

Ella stood up and looked into his eyes, ignoring Tatyana’s huff. His eyes had caught her attention at first, the lovely deep color of blue. It was a royal genetic trait, now that she knew who he was. 

What she was looking for, however, was his kindness. She had had enough of petty and unkind people in her life who ruled over her. If he was her husband, would he treat her well? 

Yes, his eyes answered. Yes, he would treat her well. He would never hurt her. 

“Did you mean it,” she said eventually. “When you believed marriage to be a partnership? That two people moving in one direction meant that it isn’t a shackle but a bond?” 

“Yes,” he said. 

From the first time they met, he had never lied to her. 

“Then yes,” Ella said, the words heavy but lighter than a feather. “I will marry you.” 

.

.

“Your price is the Queen,” the demon declared when she summoned him after the wedding, when Harry was asleep in their shared bedroom. 

“What?” she asked numbly. “But I can’t.” 

“I know you can’t,” the demon said, still wearing that disturbing smile. “That’s why I will do it for you.” 

The demon turned into black smoke that streamed towards her. Ella stumbled back, trying to get away but it was too late. 

The smoke enveloped Ella’s body completely, entering her mouth and choking her breath. Her mind felt another and she flinched, feeling the intrusion like acid. 

Hello, the demon said. Let me gather your price for you, little contractor. 

Ella blacked out, more for self-preservation than fear, her mind curling on itself. 

Cruelly, the demon woke her up. Ella instinctively shied away. 

Thank you, little star. You’ve paid well. Have fun with your little happy ever after, the demon said, before fading away. 

Within a few breaths, she realized that she was herself again. Screaming and blood flashed through her memory and she flinched. 

Shaking with denial and fear, she looked to her hands and found them clean of the blood in her memories. If she concentrated, she could remember her own hands moving of their own will to tear the Queen’s heart out. 

“Ella, why?” the Queen had asked. 

The demon had laughed in her body and the Queen had turned pale. “You are not Ella. It is you. But I have already paid my price,” she had said shakily.

She turned from the memories with a shudder, hurriedly washing her hands. 

The heart, what had the demon done to the heart? She wondered unwillingly, before going as pale as a sheet. Her hands went to her stomach and she rushed to the chamber pot to vomit. 

“Ella, the maids said you are not well,” Harry called out through the bathroom door. 

Harry! Instead of cheering her up, his voice made her dry heave again. She had killed his mother. What had she done?

“My dear, that sounds serious. Can I come in?” he asked. 

He would worry though, if she said no. She couldn’t make him worry. 

“I look terrible,” she managed faintly, voice rough. “If you can bear that, you may enter.” 

Being who he was, Harry entered and immediately rushed to her side, pushing back her hair. His gentle touch made her shudder. She had expected a slap. "You do look terrible,” he announced. There was concern in his expression. “Did you eat anything bad? Did anyone put something in your food? I’ll check the kitchens.” 

She managed a quiet huff, holding fast to his hand to stop him from running off. Of course the first thing he would think about was assassination. “This will pass,” she told him with as much confidence as she could muster. Abruptly, there was the memory of a husky voice whispering in her ear and Ella shuddered again. 

Immediately, his hold on her tightened. “Liar,” he said fondly, looking at her sweaty face. “Rest for the day, I will postpone the carriage ride through the capital.” 

The carriage ride throughout the capital! He did not know yet that the queen was dead. 

Ella fainted and Harry shouted with alarm.

.

.

There was a geas on her tongue that stopped her from speaking about the demon and the contract she made. 

Ella knew this because she had tried to confess once and had choked as her tongue twisted inside her mouth. This was her punishment for making that contract. To live the rest of her life carrying the guilt of that murder. 

Harry changed after that day. He grew sombre and grim. Only Ella could make him smile and she made sure he did smile at least once each day.  

She thought she was finally free of the demon after that, but after she gave birth to the next king, to the heir, there was the flash of black smoke and the raspy chuckle that still haunted her nightmares, making her seize up in the birthing bed and alarming all the doctors around her.  

Ella had screamed and wept, blood loss making her hysterical. Harry clutched her hand desperately and promised to check all corners of the palace for assassins and only then did she calm down. 

Suffice to say, Ella was a very protective mother.

On another note, her sisters each had their marriages. Tatyana to a duke and Priscilla to a foreign prince. By this point, Ella’s reputation as very protective of the people she loved had been cemented after she’d skewered one of Prince Lucas’s would be assassins with a knitting needle and calmly ordered tea afterwards. It was absolutely no surprise that she’d threatened murder on her sisters' husbands should they ever cry. 

It was a credit to their character that they took it in good humor. 

Ella had her happily ever after, but she finally knew the price for that. So she made sure to value every second of every day. Because soon, the wheel would turn, it might be her turn to have her heart eaten. 

[miyiee]

〆WHEN TEA SPILLS  ⑈ ☕

**            **(Job a cafe’)   Prologue: (Wholesome-story, this story took place in youth.)

      Written by Miyie 〴☕

** **(1/4)   <Also I would like to say, before I began, this was actually a real dream I had. Written in behalf of this sweet dream AHH!~>

Welcome,   Welcome  To our cafe’   ! “What would you like?” ** ** A cup of tea, Made with the finest  Honey and herbs You could ever imagine Dear reader,  I am very sorry,  but my hands are very tired :/ Please if you could do me a favor,  Add a pinch of brown sugar in my cup of tea And help me with my next request,  the next after that one too. Request for brown sugar Yes              /             No “HEY! I SAID BROWN SUGAR, WHY’D YOU GIVE ME WHITE SUGAR? ARE YOU BLIND?” Sorry about that- But- Thank you for helping though…  Now, may you now add three tree leaves in? Request: Three Leaves Yes              /             No Thank you…  wait- did you just say no?  “Do you wanna die?” “Try to be nicer to your customers, Misami.” “Alright, finee!” Now, I have one more final request  Please, add the ingredient ‘DNA’ into the drink before I go... Request: DNA  Yes              /             No Thank you for donating to our cafe.  Have a nice day..  A ring of bells follows as you walk out the door.

She was dreaming again. Standing in the middle of absolute darkness, not even a hint of light or colors to be seen in sight. It was a world without substance. A world of nothingness. No value. Then, she would awoke, realizing she was in a dream. A dream where time was stagnating and moving slowly, where the reality was blurred, vivid perhaps. Where everything seems endless and hopeful. There was nothing to do.. And so.. She waited…. And waited. And waited. And waited. And then…. The girl finally heard it.   It was the sound of someone laughing in the corner, along with a girl, fainted at first, but then it had started to become gradually louder and louder, approaching the box. Then, both the boy and the girl had already disappeared.  Please… make it stop….she pleaded. The rest of the day, continued in silence, this wasn’t anything new. During the restless and chatter-filled classroom, “Hey?! Did you hear?!”a student spoke. “IKR!”, another one answered. “HA! Gay!”, another one followed. “Boomer.”, then another. “Tch…”,she ignored all the commotion around her. And… during lectures, did as she was told, all she did was jot down notes she was able to hear. She didn’t speak with anyone. She didn’t speak a single word. She was completely quiet. No one approached her, thus helped her in need, therefore she felt she didn’t need to care for anyone else. This was nothing new.  “What a lonesome experience.” After class, she quietly heads outside. Then, she started to walk, again, picking up pace…. Hey, Hey!? Did you know? 10 minutes down from this street. With a single turn to your left, passed the 4th lamppost. She, her feet lead her down this familiar path that awaits her everyday, dragging her body, but- the place that she was heading to was a place most people would never necessarily notice at first glance. It was… what was.. A place that had calmed me.. A place where I was supposed to be able to breathe, It was.. A place where I could forget everything. No, it was just a cafe, a small cafe, nested in between a flower shop and apparently what was now an abandoned building, far up, above, in the mountains.  The quiet chime of the bell echoed faintly as I stepped inside. A gentle sounding piano piece that played from the speakers. The familiar aroma of cocoa that awaited walted throughout the warm atmosphere of the room.  Aside from him, there were only a few customers in the cafe, all of them, immersed in their own little bubble of silence. One was reading a book. The last one, calmingly taking sips of his tea. This cafe was always encased in a comforting stillness and young peace. This was what I’ve always loved about this place. It’s warm here, you know?  At the front desk, she asked for the same, usual. A tall glass of herbal tea, please!, she said. The cashier would always smile at her, the same caring smile that was her offerings everyday as she just took her order, walking away. Then, she would always take the same seat, by the window, alone, staring at the clock just above the wall, watching its arms move in a steady rhyme. Afterwards, she would take a book out from her bag, the same old one from the library, opening to where she has left off from. Little by little as the time passed by, with a quick glance back at the wall again what had told her that “2 hours had already passed”. Outside, the sky has now dimmed. The bells that started to distance as another customer entered and left. But- with the soft melody of the music still hummed quietly and faintly. Uneaten bits of the cake, left untouched. The remains of the warm tea had already turned cold. After a few more minutes of stalling around there, she turned to look at the window, yet again. “It was time to go,” the clock spoke to her.

One luminary clock against the sky, proclaimed that time was neither wrong nor right. I have looked down the saddest city lane. Out and back in rain.  I have outwalked the furthest city light. But- I have been one acquainted with the night.

Of course, she didn’t want to.  But- it can’t be helped.  From that cafe, she began to walk home, strolls tooks more time, this time, it took up to 20 minutes. That’s when she finally arrived at the foot of her apartment, from walking all those steps up, quietly opening her door, then she slipped inside. Not even bothering saying the words, “I’m home,”it was pointless, she didn’t need to... because after all, who would answer back? At, that night, she had slept, she had the same dream again. Whenever she woke up,  her head started to throb painfully. In the mornings, she went to class. In the afternoons, she stopped by the library. After classes, she goes to that cafe again. And, when night appeared, she walked home. Slepted. She woke up by the mornings, its universe she hated. It was the universe she once loved. Sighing, the only thing that greeted her was silence. The house was empty, just like how it had always been. She quickly made toast and took a milk carton from the fridge before changing into her uniform. It took her a few minutes before she found herself at the doorstep of her house. And with that, she left. Then, the cycle repeats all again. Months passed, just like this. It was a never ending loop, tiring. Then, she thought to herself, time will only tell. That, these people will never change. Nothing changed. Nothing will. 

“Well, would you like it too?”

“I..-I… I don’t know.” 

Then, one day… .it happened. On monday. Classes were over, done for the day. She headed to the cafe. She ordered the usual, she noticed a new face behind the cashier. 

She offered a mandatory smile, “Welcome to the cafe!”  

“Ah, How--Annoying.”, she thought.

[2/4]

Chapter 1:Crush ?

The next day….  And it’s still as busy as ever… 

You begin to sigh again…

Ding-Ding Ding! 

You heard the bell say….

When does this job ever pay more? You thought. 

Why do I have to keep up with such nosy customers?

Why can’t Misami just fill out for me instead?

“Oh well… I guess it can’t be helped.”

But… something seems a bit off today. Nobody was around, not even customers, usually it’s pretty busy here. well that’s what I thought..

I turned around… and there was suddenly someone standing there…

Smirking at me….

It only took me a quick second to analyze the person... 

There was a boy wearing a hat, a gakuran with gold buttons with a long white sleeved western shirt underneath the red hems, black shoes, red socks.  2 white hakujoudai, one with pink and another with blue markings. His left cheek had a white seal with the word ``seal”. A very short boy with choppy black hair with giant amber eyes glaring back at mines. 

“What-, wait- you’re real?” 

“OW, what was that for Miyie, you know we’ve been working here for years already together..is something wrong?”

“Uh- no nothing at all. Please, do me a favor and slap me.”

The boy’s smile grew wider… into a smirk …

“Oh, of course, I will...and I can...do more than that..”

It took me a while to process this.. By what he meant until I realized..

“Oh wait, I forgot you’re that one perverted spirit that lurks around in the girl’s bathroom!”

I hadn’t realized I said that out loud….until he started to sulk. 

“Goodbye.”, he said. 

“Pfffft, haha!” 

“NO WAIT, ITZ A JOKE, YES, JUST A JOKE! COME BACK, IT’S LONELY HERE:C. PLUS YOU’RE MY FAVORITE CHARACTER!” 

“Where’-”

“AH- ITS MIYIE!”, another person, identical to the first came charging at me like a bull. 

Confused, I asked, “Which world is this one?” 

 “She asked us to slap her :/ Miyie’s acting weird today.” 

...

I resumed reading my book, 

Until, I realized something, something oddly wrong 

‘Wait, where did they both go?’ 

Outside the cafe’ it was rainy. 

But I didn’t care, I ran, 

Far until my legs could not stop.

It was growing late, 

I was tired…. Too tired to stand even. 

That I didn’t even realize they were right in front of me 

“It’s alright.” , they both spoke.

As you were embraced into warm arms…

“Ah- how warm.”

“Shhh,  let’s just wait.”, he smiled at Amane.

pat* pat* pat* 

“Dere, dere, little black cat.”. 

‘Sleep… for as long as you like, as long as it’s 

In our arms :)”

5 seconds later-

“What the hell, Miyie?!?!  Were you dozing off again?” 

I heard my manager called me..

“Oh, it was just a dream after all,” I sighed.

Then you

 looked down, 

And saw Ichigo-mochi sitting on the table in front of you...

As your face grew into a wide smile.

“How did you know?”

you mumbled.

(NOTE: Ichigo-mochi is Miyie’s favorite food)

(Just the other day)

“Miyie-chan!”, Misami yelled across the room. 

“?” 

Misami ran over and hugged you as if she were still a child instead of being older than you.. 

“Ah- what has gotten you so happy all of a sudden?” :/

 “Hmmm?!, she smirked. 

“?”

“Oh- my, MeiMei you really don’t know?”

“Know what?!?!”

You were about to ask but Misami’s smirk really made you uncomfortable. 

“Well, who was that one anime crush you had?” 

“Pffft!, No one, of course, you know I’m not into aliens.” 

“Lies! I know you like Hanako-kun! You’ve been fantasizing about it all day long!”

“NO, I do not!” 

“You do!” 

“NO!”

“YES!”

“But he isn’t even real! I wish.”, I cried. 

“You better buy me strawberry, daifuku mochi after this!”

Chapter 2: Good Morning!

 “scoop 

a

cat 

up

from

the

ground.”

place it on a plate

and put it in your mouth

I don't know why,

but somehow that sign 

has made it there.

Hello, good morning!-

How are you today?⑇

“Hmm… you’re tired you say? Well, I donut care! Get to work right this instant!”

:( 

….Okay fin.”

Today, apparently, one of the machines broke and I was to fix them…

well, … I was assigned to…. :C

And that boy, Amane

There was one part to him though...as my assistant and as a person...

For the past few days, I've spent in class with him,

  I realize that Amane is incredibly intelligent.   At least, that's what I thought at first.

   In class, he could answer any question,  despite not paying attention.  

He's always in a daze.   

His strongest points are math and chemistry, and his weakest, apparently, 

is cleaning.  

 One afternoon,  I noticed him staring at the closet, at the back of the room for ten minutes straight, not moving. 

When I concluded he wouldn't move,  I asked him what was wrong. With a confused look on his face, 

 he responded with.

“..Which one of these is a broom?"   

He's...  He's an idiot.  

And not only that,  

he's a pain in the ass.  

 He is insensitive, as he always points out the flaws in others.

but… I owe him.

...

“Hey, Miyie! Look at my fish?!?”

“Where did you get that from?”

“I picked it from the trash can right outside!”, he exclaimed,

Even….. smiling, Like a dumb child, still.

“HA! Pfft.”

“What?”, he asked, confused and innocent.

Then.. it had struck me, that he had once said,

 he really wanted a fish, 

A real one.

:(, was what he responded.

“Hey, look... I’m sorry, we could always get another one for you.” I said, with a faint smile. 

Hmm….sigh

This really brings me back…

I remembered that one day

The week went by quick 

It was Friday and classes were over

By the time I was finished cleaning up,  

Amane had already disappeared.

It was surprising but, I only knew his first name

My gaze, still glued to his empty seat 

“Maybe I should ask?” 

“No, I shouldn’t.”

“Wait, should I?” 

NO!,It doesn’t matter, I shook my head..

With a sigh, I began to leave the classroom and headed the journey home.

People called on me in class, 

And I was often picked on before…

But now.. Nobody really bothers me anymore 

And although I hate to admit it, 

It’s because of Amane

 Almost as if he’s my aegis 

But, what can I say?,

One would be considered 

Idiotic if they weren’t afraid of him

I just finished clearing up 

11:55 pm , the clock read.

Well, it’s getting late, it’s about closing time now.. 

‘Goodbye, have a goodnight.”, my manager waved at me. 

I watched as she walked away…

Not even a few seconds later...

“Oh… great it’s raining outside :( “

I reached for my umbrella but I grabbed nothing, 

“.., wait, I forgot to bring my umbrella today!”

Once more, I sighed… 

Taking a seat at a near bench under the building, 

And waited, 

And waited. 

And waited, 

For time to pass until the rain cleared up...

Without realizing,  I drifted into sleep, Under the rain.

Only a few minutes have passed...

“PSssst!” 

“PsssSt!”

Suddenly I woke up. 

“Oh….?”

I didn’t understand why, 

But the boy just hugged me…

“Let’s just stay like this…..for now...”

I could feel my face starting to redden …. “Umm… uh-, I supposed it-’ll be fi-fine, 

fine then.”  I managed to speak those last few words...

“What do you want to do, wait?”

“Right, now….I don’t feel like doing anything.” 

“It sure is raining, huh?” 

“Yes, just like that time, many, many years ago, 

Remember?”

“Yeah, little cat.”

“Tch, Stop with that nickname, already.”

“But why, does this feel as if I had heard 

those words somewhere before?”

[3/4]

Chapter 3: Stranger A  student, my senior walked me home today-that very day… But no he did not take me home, He invited me, tricked me by excusing me into prepping for our project He really insisted, I couldn’t help it. Dropping me off at a local cafe’ shop. Instead, by the time, we have gotten there, He left there, with the words...instructing me   “Don’t ask any questions, wait, and sit in the seat nearest to the far end.” Without any questions, And I obey. A very wrong thing to say to an inpatient and curious person, My patience is starting to wear thin. I heard a single string of bell chime vibrated, When a short, matted blacked hair and big amber eyes in his first appearance, he wore an identical gakuran uniform and hat to Amane, purposefully matching his clothes. After this, his outfit changes to a Shosei-styled uniform. Wearing a white Western shirt with a black kimono, a grey hakama, black shoes, and red ankle-height socks. He wears a hat, similar but void of any emblem. No words, No hello, No sorry, Absolutely Nothing. Then, his lips curl into a wide smile. “Ah- I see, that student must have been your assistant, you knew you could never reach me, so you went this way of approach, interesting.?” My lips curved into a wide smile. A creepy one, returning it. But, he doesn’t seem like the type to mind. Instead, he kept grinning at me. “Good Evening, Mistress Mei.” “How did you know my name?”, I asked. He doesn’t reply to my questions, He simply just smiles. “Who are you and what do you want?” I paused…:.”.....is  it about Amane?” “Correct, you catch on quick, Miyie.” “I want to know why you had decided to talk to him.” “Because I happen to sit next to him?” “Why?” “Why would you care?” “Because you’re Miyie. I quiet girl, Dealing with everything alone, An unstable mind You’re someone who Prefers to be alone and not bothering And a person like Amane is certainly a person you’ll avoid, But you didn’t.” Uncomfortable... “Awe- how cute.”. He remarked. “Tch! This is really embarrassing ._.  So what do you want from me?” “Well, it is true, Amane is certainly strange. And, you’re right, I don’t like people. But it's not like I can ignore him. I try to but he just pops out of nowhere.” “I only ask you this because I care for him.” As he said those words, his eyes became so dull all of a sudden. 7:30 pm “Do be careful, little cat.” He spoked, in a serious tone. Again with that same nickname! “That boy can lead you to bad things.” I leave, And I don’t look back, to this day.

[4/4]

Chapter 4: Latte “You’re not as bad as they state you are.” Miyie sat there, staring down her cup of latte Watching it smoothly swirl as she stirred it. The two marshmallows refused to go with the flow, And eventually got dunked into the latte “Ah, Isn’t that how life is?” Once you’re not like the others, You cease to exist in their sight. “Ah- I remembered now, There was once a boy, Who changed his future, And said, “I’m not going anywhere.” I took a sip of the latte. While waiting... The bell chime rang “MOrning!”, I blamed. “Hello! Welcome!” “What would you like to order?” “....Latte PLEASE!” Finishing up, my last resort... Break Time! “Why, Why are you doing this to me?” She spoke to herself… “Ah- MIYIE!” “Oh-.”,  he gestured for me to be quiet... Jumped on me like a child .just as always I knew, I saw, from a distance, My manager, and she did not seem happy About us. “Ah--Aman- “ “NO, not Amane, look a bit closer.” Aware of this, he pulled me into a closet Both shut inside. Embarrassed, my head in the crook of his neck. Not willing to look up.. “I am just concerned why you would be hiding with me in a closet that’s all.” “Wow, Miyie, you’re so cruel, ah- how cold,” he pouted. “What are you-,” my words were muffled by his hands. “Aww, why are you with Amane and not me?” as he playfully hugs you, pouting. “That is because you are always with Sak-” “ Miyie, are you avoiding me?” he interupts, his gaze shifting over to you creepily. “Wh-What- N-No,” you hastily declined, but before you could prove your point,   “Well-” suddenly, you hear the door creak, revealing Amane outside of the closet. The person I tried to avoid.. “I finally found you, Miyie.” “Why are you stuck inside the closet with Tsukasa?”, as he gave you a menacing look. This time, both of them spoke at the same time, a huge grin coming from the both of them. “I can treat you much better ᔖ❤” …: As they dragged me out of the shop. “Where are we going?”, I asked. “Anywhere, come, I am going to take you to a place of a lifetime.." ... “Oh…, you ask for my name? Do you really want to know me that badly?”, he laughed. I paused, I nodded. “Amane, Amane ..Yugi.” This time, this time, we both spoke at the same time. “Nice to meet you! :3” “Hey…. let’s go somewhere, somewhere.. Far away.. From this place, alright?”

[Thanks for reading, n’ dropping by haha!] ^^ --Miyie

[curiouskrp]

               “WELCOMING APT 3B TENANT, KIM JUN !

INFORMATION

age – 25 pronouns – he/him occupation – freelance model and illustrator moved into treehouse – two years ago

PERSONALITY: INFP, THE MEDIATOR

positive –

value harmony

-          sensitive and empathetic, jun is highly perceptive towards the emotions of other people. rather than use it to further his own ambitions or hold power over people, it becomes the primary reason why he can’t ignore when someone is in distress. he’s a natural nurturer and a proponent of balance. when conflict can’t be avoided, he will quickly intervene and try to restore order.

creative

-          jun’s excited by new ideas and uncommon approaches to life. he sees the world through rose-colored classes, not for its practical facts but for its possibilities. art is an important outlet for him, one where he can go into autopilot and comfortably let his imagination take over for hours at a time.

negative –

too altruistic

-          jun tends to overlook his own wants and needs in favor for accommodating others. it’s incredibly easy for other people to take advantage of him, as he has a difficulty saying ‘no’. in addition to that, he sees good in almost anyone or anything, even when it is unmerited, and has a habit of lending compassion to those who have hurt him in the past.

difficult to get to know

-          jun’s a private person. those who don’t know him would often mistake his shyness for coldness. slightly self-conscious that he isn’t interesting enough, he tends to let the other person lead in conversations, happy to ask questions but demur when they’re directed at him.  

HAUNT

jun stops in the middle of the marble stairway, eyes catching on the banner suspended from the ceiling.

the national museum of contemporary art presents

< E R O S: sensuality in the modern world >

by park ohsik

against the words are a black and white image of a model’s profile. his face is slightly obscured by shadows, but it’s clear that the anonymity is intentional, the main focus being the elegant dip of his neck and the bare curves of his collarbone. the photography is beautiful; he wouldn’t have expected anything less from park ohsik.

jun feels sick.  

he thinks back to the last time he was in front of ohsik’s camera, back when they were still dating and jun was still pretending not to see ohsik’s eyes wander. they got into a fight in between lighting checks, something about jun agreeing to do a photoshoot with an old college friend and only telling ohsik today. he pulled jun into the dressing room and launched into a speech about loyalty, exclusivity, and how it wasn’t fair that he was rejecting all these beautiful young models who would kill for a chance to work with him when jun was going around letting himself be photographed by anyone with a camera. it was cold in the dressing room. the window was open and jun wasn’t wearing a shirt. he was tired, hungry, and vaguely irritable from not being allowed to eat lunch because it didn’t fit the diet plan ohsik made for him. and now he wasn’t being allowed to make his own decisions.

he stepped back to put some space between him and ohsik. “you don’t own me,” he said.

ohsik stared at jun for a moment, evaluating. then he stepped closer, one foot at a time, until jun felt his back meet the hard edge of the door.

“no,” his voice was light, but jun heard the danger underneath. “i guess i don’t. but don’t forget that i made you. i took you in when you had no money, no family, no place to go, and i gave you a future.” in one smooth movement, he locked the door and raised a hand to cup jun’s cheek. “you’re nothing without me.”

HISTORY

(one.)

in the kindergarden playground, while all the other kids were busy chasing each other through jungle gyms or swinging from money-bars, jun was sitting on the picnic tables. his legs crossed neatly on the wooden bench, he bent over his sketchbook with a fistful of crayons and a face focused in concentration.

one day, when the bell rang to signal the end of school, and all the children filtered out the door holding their parents’ hands, his teacher touched his shoulder and asked his parents to stay back.

( “mr. and mrs. kim, we’re a bit concerned about jun. he seems to have trouble connecting with his peers. he’s a sweet kid with a bright imagination, but he’s very shy and likes to stick to the sidelines. sometimes he starts to cry when he thinks his classmates are in pain, not to mention…" )

and his father, who had lived his college glory days playing baseball for cheering crowds before setting down as an office worker, would try and fail at hiding his disappointment. when their third child arrived, he had been so excited to finally have another man in the family. someone to toss a ball with, play-wrestle in the living room, and argue about sports in front of the tv. he loved his daughters, but for so long he had been outnumbered by girls, and he was looking forward to watching jun grow up as his partner-in-crime. now, he had the sinking suspicion that the son he had envisioned was not the son sitting quietly next to him. with a mouth full of bitterness, he let go of his expectations.

the entire meeting, jun stared up at his father’s face, wanting to be reassured with a smile or a soft glance that everything was okay. that this was a mistake. that he wasn’t in trouble. but no matter what he did, he wouldn’t meet his eyes.

(two.)

all throughout middle school and high school, jun would drift from class to class permanently in a state of his own daydream. his instructor’s voices would fade into monotonous background noise as he looked outside the window, chin in hand, and doodled in his notebook. art was a curious thing that had unfurled in his palm one day when he wasn’t looking. everything became sharper when he had a pencil in his hand. most days it seemed like the world around him opened up to reveal secrets faster than jun could sketch them down. sometime before his 12th birthday his parents flipped through the pages of his sketchbook, read the writing on the wall and decided that the art thing was a useful thing. behind closed doors they had everything figured out. they evaluated his academic prospects, compared him to what his sisters were achieving at his age, and enrolled in him after-school art hagwons instead of the traditional tutoring programs. he was glad. it was true that jun never liked studying all that much, but still a part of him felt like his parents had a habit of underestimating him, of squaring him inside a little frame they picked out themselves.  

still, there was nothing jun disliked more than confrontation and conflict, and he would much rather keep his hopes and plans close to his chest than lay it out for his family to scrutinize it over the dinner table. he knew they wanted what was best for him, and he was pretty sure they loved him.

but he didn’t think they trusted him.

(three.) —- cw: homophobia

university was a turning point in that he finally found his people: art classmates with paint-stained elbows, band musicians with knuckle-stamped tattoos, and all kinds of unconventional characters from the soft underbelly of seoul. he was in his element. at the height of his creativity. florescent and untouchable. but in all his excitement he had confused being out of sight for being free. he had forgotten that he could still be controlled, even from the sky, and that at any moment someone could tug at the rope that looped around his ankle and bring him crashing down.

one night out with his friends, in stomach-sick coincidence, his sister saw him going home with another man.

the following week his credit card was cancelled. the next month his tuition past due. and he couldn’t do it. couldn’t grovel on his knees and swear that it was a one-time mistake. couldn’t ask for forgiveness when he was an adult and committed no crime. couldn’t change who he was again and again, constantly looking over his shoulder, molding himself until his family was satisfied with the result.

(four.)

after he dropped out of school, he worked random jobs to scrape by: mostly night shifts at the convenience store and whatever menial labor crossed his radar. in addition to that, he lived with a friend who would let him sleep on his couch in return for modeling for his art projects. by word of mouth, his name spread to neighboring art schools, and he found himself accepting more offers as a model for hire.

one day, he got in contact with a rising photographer named park ohsik who had seen some artwork of him and had asked around for the subject. he wanted to feature him in his next project. they agreed to meet at a coffeeshop. he ordered him coffee. he grabbed his hand. he claimed it was love at first sight, that he had finally found his muse. and jun, lonely, touch-starved, and hungry for a tender word, fell hard.  

ohsik coaxed things out of jun that he didn’t know he had in him. the nerve to pose in front of a fully-dressed photo-crew half-naked, for one. and to gradually become so in touch with his sexuality that he could sell it for the camera with only a little prompting. for a while, with ohsik, jun felt beautiful. but as the months slid into years, the arm around his waist grew tighter and tighter. ohsik demanded all of jun. he wanted to consume him whole. he wouldn’t be satisfied unless he was the center of every aspect of his life, and jun couldn’t give that to him. it was inevitable then, that their relationship grew toxic and twisted and soon broke off in sour terms.

but now, jun had a career. when he was ohsik’s muse, he had gotten acquainted with other photographers, agencies, and names from the industry. he had built a network, and now he was receiving job offers from enough sources to keep him fed and floating. he moved out of his friend’s house, heard of the treehouse in his search for a new living situation, and went in for a visit. it checked all the logistical boxes he was looking for, and if the air seemed slightly off the day he dropped by, it was probably nothing but his nervousness at living on his own for the first time. he ignored the curious feeling in his gut, breathed out, and signed the contract

[yasuda-yoshiya]

Hey there. Sorry to bother you. I read your write up on The House in Fata Morgana and I really love how you go into such detail on the second half, especially with The Maid. I agree with her being wasted potential, especially when Michel’s love is enough to erase centuries of psychological and emotional trauma and amnesia in the span of one minute. My question is, how would you handle the Maid’s arc while keeping the setup the same? This got long, sorry. But I have a lot of thoughts about her.

Aaahhh, it’s absolutely no bother at all; thank you for getting in touch! It’s great to hear from you, and I’m very grateful for the kind words about my incoherent babbling. Giselle/the Maid is honestly one of my absolute favourite fictional characters and it’s really hard to find any real discussion or meta around her within Fata’s tiny English-speaking fandom, so I’m always super excited to hear from other people who feel the same way about her!

Okay, this got really long so I’ll stick it under a cut:

I have actually put a lot of thought into how the Maid’s story could have been handled and resolved better (and even drafted elaborate AU fanfic about it, for that matter), so I’ll try and put some of that into words here. Prior to door 8, I honestly feel like the broad structure of the Maid’s arc as it exists ingame does actually hit most of the major emotional notes that it needs to; it just rushes through each of them so fast and gives them so little narrative weight that they’re not really able to have the impact that they should, especially when door 8 then goes on to completely ignore the whole thing. So for the most part, I’d lean more towards heavily fleshing out the existing content rather than making any real changes to the structure of the plot overall. Door 8 is the point where I feel that her writing completely falls apart and needs to be rebuilt from the ground up.

As for how exactly I’d want to flesh things out, the main thing I’d want to do is to heavily extend door 6 - both the backstory itself and the conflict between Michel and Giselle in the aftermath. As I think I said in that big old write-up, to me the whole door felt more like a quick checklist of events more than a real fleshed out narrative.The way I see it, Giselle’s character arc is fundamentally about her relentlessly trying to hold on to her optimism and the core of her “self” in the face of traumatic experiences - to not let her suffering take away her smile, her energy and positivity and upbeat personality, the things she saw as defining who she was before all of this happened to her. This is portrayed very well throughout door 5, where we see Giselle very consciously deciding multiple times to try and put her suffering behind her and start over from a clean slate with positive expectations - first when she’s sent to the mansion with Michel, then at the village with Amedee, and then again when she reunites with Michel - and it’s also very effectively conveyed that the effort of constantly keeping up that positive attitude and trying to block out the scars of her trauma puts a significant strain on her (one that Michel tries to ease by explicitly accepting her scars as a part of her and telling her that she doesn’t need to hide them from him).

What ends up breaking Giselle and forcing her to detach from herself entirely and become the Maid, then, is the feeling that she’s finally collapsed under that strain and “lost herself” to the point of being unrecognisable as Giselle, of having lost everything she used to define herself by. The fact that even “Michel” doesn’t recognise her any more, the fact that she herself is barely able to keep a hold on her memories of the past and who she used to be, her body becoming cold and lifeless and losing its old warmth and energy, and the weight of the years slowly wearing down her ability to stay positive and keep believing in a happy ending - all of those pressures end up breaking her self-confidence down to the point that she can’t manage to see herself as “Giselle” any more, and the burden of even trying to keep being “Giselle” becomes too much.

In that state of mind, it’s no surprise that the alternate story that Morgana tells her - that the Maid was always just a lonely witch haunting the mansion, an impostor who became fascinated by the real Giselle and Michel, and deluded herself into believing that their story was hers - becomes so much easier to believe in. Of course she’s failing so hard at being “Giselle”, because she never was Giselle to begin with. Accepting this narrative allows her to detach herself from the weight of having to try to be Giselle, and to project those feelings and ideals from a distance on to the White-Haired Girl instead, who is everything the Maid thinks “Giselle” should be. Note the Maid’s fixation throughout the stories on the WHG’s “purity” and her unchanging nature that stays constant across all times - the qualities that she feels she herself has lost. Of course, Giselle is also very much still subconsciously projecting her own lingering feelings for Michel on to the WHG as well, as she assigns WHG the role of her “master” and “the person she waits for” - but in a context that allows her to safely detach herself as a guide, watching over the real Giselle and feeling pity for her suffering. It puts her in a position where she can be the one to reassure someone else that it’s okay for them to give up, to forget about waiting for Michel and find whatever happiness they can for themselves - without having to shoulder the shame of making that decision herself. The things she can’t accept about herself as “Giselle” become acceptable if she takes the outside role of a witch. As Fata repeatedly puts forth, tragedy becomes a lot more bearable if you think of it as “someone else’s”.

Okay, I basically just wrote three paragraphs of meta here and I’m still not much closer to actually answering your question, so it’s about time I looped back to the point. Everything I’ve outlined above is the basic outline of what I feel is intended to come across through the Maid’s arc. Now let’s talk about where I feel that door 6 fails at actually making that arc really hit home as strongly as it could have. I think the essence of the problem, at least to me, is that door 6 does a perfectly good job of laying out a very believable sequence of events that lead Giselle to become the Maid, but it doesn’t really do such a great job at portraying Giselle’s reactions in any real depth. The narration doesn’t really bring to life the feeling of someone fiercely struggling with themselves to stay positive in the same way that door 5 does, and the process of Giselle’s desperate attempts to keep hold of herself being slowly being worn down over the years gets skipped through so quickly that it’s hard to really feel the weight of it from her perspective. Just going more into depth with Giselle’s internal thought processes here, showing more of her individual reactions to the events of the first three doors and things like her frantic attempts to rationalise it as maybe being okay that the WHG doesn’t recognise her, showing the strain it puts on her to have to keep trying to find ways to frame her story in a more hopeful and positive way until she finally just can’t do it any more, would really help make the door feel like more of a complete experience.

Again, though, as I said in my old write-up, I do think a lot of what is there in door 6 is really strong and effective - a lot of the individual scenes do genuinely feel really powerful in their own right - but there’s just not quite enough there to make the whole thing really hold together as a fully realised narrative. (To put it another way, when you have even a weird side character like Yukimasa getting such a slow, thorough and nuanced exploration of his gradual descent into madness, but your main heroine’s central identity conflict and breakdown of her sense of self is rushed through in about half an hour, something has gone terribly wrong.)

The other problem that I have with door 6 - and this might be more of a personal thing - is the point it chooses to end at. The pivotal moment where Giselle actually finally chooses to disown her old identity and accept Morgana’s story as the truth goes by so quickly that you could almost miss it, and then after that the door is pretty much over, short timeskip to the end of Jacopo’s era aside. Considering how much emphasis the earlygame puts on the Maid’s preoccupation with stories, and how important the story of door 4 is to her in particular, I always felt more than a little disappointed by how little time is given to Giselle’s internal reaction to Morgana’s story when she hears it, or to how she processes it and sorts out her feelings about it afterwards; how she uses it as a way to reframe her own story in a way that’s more manageable to her, and how it hurts to let go of it. Even the most basic point of the Maid passing her old identity on to the WHG isn’t actually touched on by the text of door 6 at all. It just really feels like a lot of wasted potential, since the Maid’s relationship with the narrative of door 4 is probably the single most interesting part of the character to me, and I think it could easily have been elaborated on a lot more here in a way that would make the arc as a whole much stronger. (Although now that I think about it, I think I might have pretty much made a lot these points already in my old write-up, so I might just be repeating myself now? Whoops? It’s been a while, sorry!)

So that pretty much covers my feelings on what I would have liked to see from the Maid’s backstory. Now I can move on to talk about how I’d want to handle the resolution, which was probably the main point of your question to begin with! I think the biggest problem with the Maid’s turnaround as it stands is that it feels so easy, with very little real struggle or conflict - as you said, it really does feel like all of Giselle’s issues as the Maid are just flat-out “erased” in a matter of minutes, and she just reverts back to her old self entirely. And that feels incredibly wrong to me, because it seems to basically uncritically validate Giselle’s ideal of herself as someone who can hold on to her cheerful attitude and just block out her suffering entirely as if it never happened - which feels totally at odds with the the rest of her narrative up to that point stressing how much of a burden she placed on herself with that unrealistic expectation and how trying to live up to that impossible ideal ended up tearing her apart completely.

I think it would have worked a lot better to instead put the focus on Giselle’s resolution on challenging that ideal for herself, and letting her realise that she doesn’t have to be that ideal unchanging person she wants “Giselle” to be - that even if she has changed, she’s still Giselle, and still the same person Michel loved (Requiem’s epilogue briefly touches on this idea too). To accept the Maid as something that came from her, that’s a part of her, and that she doesn’t have to be ashamed of or make into an entirely different person to accept. The Maid believed that she’d lost her humanity entirely and become unrecognisable as herself, but when it came down to it, Michel did still recognise her, and still sees the person he loved in her. And some part of Giselle evidently still recognised and reached out to Michel as the person she had really been waiting for, too, even after she’d supposedly rewritten her story entirely to put the WHG in that role. The way her suffering ended up shaping her into someone like the Maid doesn’t make her inhuman; the ways she’s reacted to her suffering by trying to change into someone else are themselves human and relatable, they’re understandable and okay reactions for Giselle to have had in her situation, and the Maid is still someone Michel is perfectly capable of deeply empathising with and feeling love for.

Because in the end, the heart of Michel’s love for Giselle wasn’t ever really dependent on her always staying a bright and cheerful person who never stops smiling and always stays positive and never gives into despair; it was a relationship between two deeply wounded people who connected with each other through their shared experience of suffering. In blocking out and trying to forget the painful aspects of her past, in replacing them with a gently beautiful fairytale of a tragic love between two totally pure and selfless people, Giselle ended up losing what was really important about their relationship - that neither of them had ever been perfect, that they’d both been irreparably hurt by their trauma, but they still loved and understood and accepted each other, scars and all. Her remembering Michel as such a perfectly pure and flawless person is very sweet in its way, but it actually ended up turning her memory of him into someone so perfect that she couldn’t possibly live up to him or keep believing that he’d love someone like her - as is a running theme in Fata, blocking out the pain of their past ended up also blocking out the real significance of the connection they’d managed to make with each other through that pain.

So, approaching the end of door 6 and the Maid’s final resolution through that lens, I think I would put a lot more emphasis on Michel getting through to Giselle by his understanding and acceptance of what she’s been through and how it’s changed her, and by his own simple empathy with her and love for her as a fellow flawed and scarred human being. I think I’d also want to make that process of him getting through to her and coming to understand her a lot more difficult and painful than it came across in canon - I think a lot of things about the Maid’s attitude should have been difficult for him to understand and come to terms with for a while, especially when it comes to her wanting to cling on to her own story and push a false identity on to him instead of confronting the truth, which would hit a particularly bad spot for Michel at first. For example, with those small breakpoint scenes midway through door 5 where Michel and the Maid are reacting to the retelling of their memories, I’d want to have the Maid be a lot more fierce and persistent at first about denying that these really are her true memories, and denying the idea that the Giselle she sees in door 5 could ever possibly have been her - I’d want to see her trying a bit harder to defend the protective narrative she’s built up for herself in the face of Michel’s brutal attacks on it, and Michel maybe initially lashing out in frustration at that, until he slowly comes to recognise the basic emotions behind her actions as essentially sympathetic and familiar from his own experience of severe isolation, recalling how it had made him want to shut his heart off in much the same way.

Michel having to accept his own responsibility in leaving Giselle alone to deal with all this in the first place - for underestimating just how much she needed him - is also something that’s going to be difficult for both of them to deal with, but it’s something that I think they needed to more explicitly acknowledge and work through with each other because it’s important in the sense of Giselle being able to remember that Michel is a flawed and imperfect person too. (The Michel in door 4 explicitly did make the choice to die together with Giselle instead of leaving her alone, again reinforcing Giselle’s inaccurate memory of him as someone pure and perfect.) The Maid’s issues with her repressed resentment for Michel and with her own self-image are obviously very deep-seated to an extent that actually fully “resolving” them in just one conversation with Michel isn’t at all realistic, but I do feel that the process of actually having to talk things through with the real Michel would start to remind her of what their connection actually felt like after all those years of turning it into an abstract archetypal love story, and of how Michel was always someone she loved for being an approachably flawed and awkward person rather than any kind of perfect ideal - and to start to believe that maybe it’s okay for her to be flawed too, that her flaws could still be a part of her humanity and part of “Giselle” rather than something that makes her inhuman. As has always been the case with these two, humanising each other helps them to humanise themselves. Dealing with everything that’s happened is inevitably still going to be a difficult process for both of them, but I think Fata could have believably gotten them to a point where they’re at least starting down the right path without just lazily erasing Giselle’s issues and brushing the whole thing off. It’s a difficult balance to strike, but I do feel that Fata manages that delicate balance in other places and could have done so here, if a bit more care had been put into the writing.

From there, I’d keep the flow of the story as it stands - Michel and Giselle try to leave the mansion, Morgana stops them, and Salvage and Door 7 proceed as before. So the next thing to talk about here is Door 8. As it stands, the portrayal of Michel and Giselle’s relationship in door 8 is basically all about Michel gradually breaking out of his shell with Giselle’s support; as I think I said in that old write-up, I think it would have been much more effective if the focus was instead on the two of them supporting each other to start to break out of their respective periods of isolation and reclaim themselves as human beings who are still capable of living in the world and connecting with other people. Rather than Michel and Giselle’s dynamic just reverting to how it was in door 5, I would have liked door 8 to have them starting to develop a new dynamic to reflect how Giselle has changed, and to present her having to learn how to act like a “real person” again as more of a difficult and gradual process. Giselle really has irreversibly changed in many ways, but she’s also far from actually being unrecognisable, and I think the basic idea of her starting to naturally take on some of her old mannerisms again as she talks to Michel could have been genuinely sweet and touching if it felt a bit morenuanced and earned in its execution - starting to reclaim her identity as a human rather than a witch, as someone who’s still capable of feeling human emotions and having human connections, in the same way that Michel is gradually brought out of his shell by the events of door 8 and starts to be able to believe in himself once again as a person who’s capable of living in the world without being rejected or treated as an outcast. I think my ideal version of door 8 would focus a lot more on Michel and Giselle helping each other through that process.

Well, if I permit myself to indulge in full-on wish fulfillment here, my real ideal scenario would honestly be for Giselle to actually be physically there in door 8 and have her and Michel working together to save Morgana, with both of them getting to interact with the other characters and play an equal part as co-protagonists in the truest sense - but honestly, even without radically revising the structure and just keeping Giselle as a voice in Michel’s head, I think she could still have easily been given much more of her own personal arc within door 8 rather than just serving as an extension of Michel’s. One thing that’s really potentially interesting to me about door 8 is Giselle having to come face-to-face once again with the people from doors 1-3 who she had so strongly detached herself from and treated as supporting characters in the WHG’s story, to be picked apart from a distance as tragically flawed protagonists. I feel like the Maid was pretty clearly projecting a lot of her own feelings on to these people’s stories, using them to explore her own issues in a way that felt safer by framing them as “someone else’s problem” - so how does she feel seeing these people again, now that she’s self-aware enough to realise what she was doing? I think there’s a lot of interesting material to explore there.

With Yukimasa’s story, for example - before, as the Maid, she wouldn’t have been capable of articulating that her complex feelings about Yukimasa’s narrative and her wish for him to find happiness as Bestia were projections of the way she felt about herself and the way she also tried to find comfort in her own dehumanisation through a false narrative, because owning those feelings for herself would have meant acknowledging the fragility of her own coping mechanisms. But now that she’s started to come to terms with who she really is, I could see her having a lot of difficult and insecure reactions to seeing Yukimasa again, and having his story bring back Giselle’s own deep-seated fears that she’s fundamentally “not human” and deluding herself about her humanity in the same way that Bestia was. Of course, Michel would be there to help her talk through those feelings and remind her why that isn’t true - even as the Maid, she was still very recognisably human at heart - but I think that Giselle actually getting to talk those things out with Michel would go a long way toward giving proper narrative weight to her struggles and making it clear that the deep fears and insecurities she felt as the Maid aren’t just going to magically go away, the way they pretty much seemed to in canon. In the same vein, there’s plenty to explore with things like the Maid’s fixation on the theme of childhood innocence being inevitably lost with Mell and Nellie’s story, and her identification with Jacopo as someone who also tried to kill off his old self completely.

I think it would have helped tie the game together a lot better to have Giselle’s own resolution running parallel with that of the three men in this way, that seeing them being able to reach a more positive conclusion would help her to feel a bit less hopeless about her own story as well - as well as to start to see herself as her own person again, whose story doesn’t have to mirror theirs in the first place. In my ideal version of door 8, I kind of see working through their resolutions as a process of letting Giselle free herself from defining herself by these stories and from the story of the mansion’s curse as a whole, to be able to start to see herself and those around her as real people with real agency rather than as actors in a doomed, unavoidable tragedy.

But I also feel like this scenario has all kinds of potential in terms of allowing Giselle to maybe be able to reframe some aspects of “how she’s changed” in a more positive way, and to see some of the Maid’s characteristics as genuine strengths that she can draw on as well - the ability to emotionally detach from a situation and critically evaluate people and their relationships from afar can be legitimately useful in some situations too, you know? So I’d really like to have seen the Maid’s worldweary cynicism and piercing insight into people’s flaws get to be played as a strength at times, as an important complement to Michel’s lack of experience and knowledge about the world and people, rather than just a shameful phase that she has to move on from. (I think I’d definitely have liked that dynamic a lot more than the “Aww, Mell is like our best friend! We can definitelytrust him!” nonsense that canon pulled, which was just ridiculous. The Maid was absolutely brutal about Mell! Who is this person?!)

One part I really liked from the actual door 8 (and wished had been given more weight and expanded on a lot more) was Giselle saying after Mell and Nellie’s resolution that she felt bad for how she’d treated them as the Maid, sneering condescendingly at their flaws - but Michel responds that her story cutting right to the heart of their problems in that way actually helped him to fully understand them as people and how to help them, and that he couldn’t have done it without her. Making that into more of a fleshed-out arc about helping Giselle to reclaim some of the Maid’s attributes as something positive, not something she has to run away from, would have been a really satisfying resolution to me - there are absolutely real problems with dehumanising people and arranging people’s lives into a neat narrative, but there are also times that being able to detach and get that kind of overarching perspective can actually really help, if it’s done in a more balanced and self-aware way. I think going deeper into exploring this would have really done a lot to integrate Giselle and the Maid, and to tie together Fata’s whole themes as a story about people’s relationships with narrative in general.

Also, I would have really liked to see Giselle involved with the WHG’s resolution too! She spent 400 years obsessing over the WHG and defining herself in terms of the WHG’s story, after all, so I think it only seems fair to give her some closure on that and to let her play her own part in putting her to rest. Michel, Giselle and Morgana’s narratives are all connected together by each of their relationships with the WHG and their respective struggles with the pressure of the ideals she represents, so I think it would bring the whole game together nicely for the three of them to get to let go of her together.

So, I think that’s pretty much the outline of what I would have liked to see from Giselle’s arc in Fata! I hope this all made sense since I am kind of half braindead at the moment, ahaha. I would really love to hear your own thoughts about her too, though, so please don’t hesitate to share them if you can! I’d be super interested to hear your take on the character!

[positivlyfocused]

Conspicuous Consumption Is A Spiritual Practice

There is no distinction between a spiritual practice and wantonly consuming material goods. Both produce the same result. Guaranteed.

So go ahead and consume all you want. Or live your life as an ascetic.

It doesn't matter too much really.

And don't worry about the planet. It is easily handling the demand. Though it seems like it's not.

We know, science isn't on our side.

That is, if we had a side, science wouldn't be there. Not yet anyway.

Whether you're determined to master meditation, go vegan, drive an electric car and recycle everything or generate enough wealth to buy an Airstream, a yacht, five houses and a G-5, you're eventually going to come to the same realizations.

Everyone arrives at the same realizations after death.

Some, again, on both paths, get there before that.

That's rare.

Those who do are venerated. Bill Gates–Deepak Chopra. Leonardo DiCaprio–Eckhart Tolle....there are endless examples of the venerable on either path.

· · ·

Some say you can not be spiritual let alone experience higher consciousness while pursuing material satisfaction. These people sometimes see consumerism itself as possibly the worst invention of modern civilization, and the most conspicuous consumers, a scourge.

^^Many people out there rail against material success.

But when you consider where all this material stuff comes from, how it is produced and why, you discover something interesting: the pursuit of material satisfaction is just as powerful a path to "enlightenment" as any spiritual one.

That's because, all things material, including the pursuit itself, is a spiritual process.

To explain:

^^This stuff we see has to come from somewhere! Photo: ohmky

Where do things come from?

Every invention starts with inspiration. Whether it's Facebook, Medium, A Tesla, or BlackKKlansman, creation starts with an idea. Where do ideas come from?

Science will tell you they come from associative processes in the brain which constantly fire in the background of conscious awareness. But there are many steps prior to that process that happen that science doesn't know about.

These steps take place nowhere "near" the brain. Let alone in the brain.

For example, we recently were designated a Medium Top Writer in the Racism tag. We had no idea there was even such a thing as a "Top Writer”.

One day three weeks ago, we got the impulse (a strong urge) to share our work on Medium. We had been sporadically doing so, but two weeks ago, that strong desire turned into a process where we gradually attained a three-story-a-day publishing regimen.

There was no problem in our mind needing a creative solution. We didn't even think about how to attain Top Writer status, let along in the Racism tag. We simply started including Medium as a publishing outlet of our work, enjoying the artistic process along the way.

We know the coordination of events in the physical world which had this result show up in our life experience occurred in a "place" we call The Moment Of Becoming. That place doesn't exist anywhere in physical reality, and is certainly outside the brain. Rather it is a conduit through which material reality emerges.

This is why we practice being more immediately responsive to our intuitions. We have seen so much evidence that intuition is not a random, unreliable source of knowledge, but a highly accurate, intelligent and reliable guide to getting everything we want.

Even things we don't realize we're wanting. Until we have them. Such as this Top Writer thing.

The inspiration to increase our publishing on Medium came from somewhere.

Where did it come from? From that no place we call The Moment Of Becoming.

It is the same place a desire for a car, or a bigger house or a better job comes from: an innate process all humans have and use as expressions of aware-ized life experience.

Aware-ized life experience, which is what you are, desires more of everything. As those desires are satisfied, satisfaction births new desires propelling aware-ized life experience "forward"....along the lines of specific desire focuses, or "channels" or, as Seth calls them: Value Fulfillment.

Inspiration is individual guidance from the larger part of who we all are. It indicates paths through which Value Fulfillment can ultimately be experienced, in a given moment of the collocation of time, space, events and participating expressions of aware-ized life experience.

· · ·

A person is born with a natural desire to create. She seemingly fumbles around for a bit in life until she gets her footing and tunes into her intuition –– her innate impulses "sounding" from "non physical" and received in The Moment Of Becoming.

All during the fumbling she is creating, but indeliberately. Indeliberate creation is valuable too. So it's not wasted energy. No more than the millions of seeds a tree produces, only a very few of which actually become trees.

Intuitive inspiration doesn't just come out of nowhere, it results from a long series of deliberate and focused attention resulting in a momentum of accretionaround a value fulfilment unique and inherent to the individual intuition receiver.

At some point our intrepid human follows that inspiration. It doesn't matter when, because, like all of us, she is eternal. As she gives more and more attention to the inspired idea, resources in the form of people, money, opportunities and events accrete around her.

This process is sometimes delayed by a person who is not naturally attuned to what is going on. A person might try to use the world of "doing" or "action", manipulating matter, people and events, in order to fulfill intention. Those naturally attuned to this process we're describing, use far less action, are much more effective and enjoy the journey far more than those who aren't.

Some time later our individual has a product or service or some kind of value or usefulness to offer. The gestation is perfectly culminated to coincide with the desire for said product or service. Or....due to one or many factors, there is a delay prior to the co-incidence of events wherein eager consumers are ready to consume said value.

This delay humans like to call "failure".

Which is a misnomer, because there really is no such thing. Just like seeds that don't grow into trees aren't "failures".

In the former instance, where everything comes together easily, consumers consume said invention and life moves on. In the latter, an infinite number of alternative events can result, depending on how the maker reacts to the gap between desire expression (wanting to create value for others) and actual desire realization (having someone consume said offer).

Both parties – consumers and producers – are collaborators in this process.  Inventors invent based on input from those who want the invention. That communication happens in non-physical, then is "seeded" to many potential "inventors" simultaneously, which explains why multiple inventors will have the same idea at the same time.

It also explains why patent law is a joke.

But that's another story.

Collaboration includes aware-ized life experience expressed in the physical world as the material resources used to make the product or service. All matter is representative and contains within it aware-ized energy. Everything is alive, in other words.

The satisfaction gained by all parties in the consumption of the thing –– from the smallest particle to the largest instantiation...a planet perhaps ––  and the value produced is the "more" that was only "potential" when the seed of inspiration got planted.

Thus, with the blooming of invention leading to the delight of consumption, the universe, All That Is and all participating parties become more.

^^Even graffiti taken to “more” becomes beautiful in itself. It is the same with life. Photo credit: anders nord

In an ideal world, humanity would work its wonders to create more and more efficient and useful (i.e. valuable) ideas which increase the capacity and efficiency of its productive capability as well as the productive enjoyment of humanity's physical environment, with no resource exhaustion.

Expanding desire would cause resource expansion and both would keep pace with each other in an ongoing expansion of everything.

We see this happening despite obvious signs to the contrary.

But the timing of "desire" and "fulfillment" is wonky because humans pay too much attention to What Is Happening, lose connection with their invincibility, experience fear and insecurity and act from those places.

This connection loss opens a can of worms too complex to go into here. Suffice it to say, we see the world today, where "waste", seeming resource depletion and environmental destruction are the order of the day instead of what we're describing.

And yet, underneath all this is what we're describing: everything working wonderfully in an elegant and consistent orientation towards more and better for everyone and everything.

The problems humanity faces are due to many factors, one of which being the belief that goes something like this:

"Everything has a cost and if you can't tell me how to pay for it, I'm not going to support it. And if I have to pay for it and I don't agree it should be done, forget about it, particularly if it benefits others, or makes them lazy. People should work for what they get."

Desire causes opportunity for desire satisfaction, leading to desire fulfillment, then more desire and thus more "more".  Beliefs like the above just slow things down greatly delaying the process and leaving those who could enjoy satisfaction not enjoying it.

Until after the death moment.

Aware-ized life experience has an insatiable desire for more. It will always desire to experience more of itself. This positive feedback loop –– the desire to have more experiences is partially responsible for you (being an instance of aware-ized life experience) being eternal: it's just not possible for you to come to an end because you are constantly creating more life experience through experiencing your life experience.

How Consumption Equals Enlightenment.

As we said above, some achieve great prosperity allowing a level of material freedom that affords freedom of time and resource abundance. Sometimes in this state, a person begins to look inward or outward, or both. They want to do good. And they want to be able point to the good and say "see, that's because of me".

Of course everything aware-ized life experience does leaves an indelible, positive mark on physical reality. Most people don't understand that.

So they "try" to become more than they perceive themselves to be.

That is the same outcome some "spiritual" people can also arrive at. For every single spiritual guru we can think of has turned to do exactly what some very wealthy people do. They just do it in ways consistent with the path they are on.

Some spiritual "finders" tend to also become wealthy. Particularly those in the west. In those cases we see them trod both paths: spiritual and material, blessing the world and people as they go along.

But no matter the path, those who make it while still in a body is small. In fact, there are a lot more who don't make it than those who do.

The following is going to get heady....

What Is Happening and How The What Is Happening Is Happening

People get stuck in another feedback loop, where they don't understand the “How The What Is Happening” part of What Is Happening. Thus they get lost in the happening, instead of understanding the How The What Is Happening Is Happening.

Lost there, they see the world as random, uncaring dangerous and risky. Their only recourse is to try to take charge of the What Is Happening part. They are oblivious to the How The What Is Happening Is Happening part, even though the "How...." part is the funnest, most enjoyable part of the whole process making up the "What...".

Thus the challenges in the world.

Racism, sexism, Trump and his supporters, the alt right and the alt-left, Russia and the US, wars, poverty, disease, etc. All sides of any "issue” are oblivious to How What Is Happening Is Happening. Instead they are dazzled by What Is Happening.

So they take sides.

In their dazzlement, they stumble through life fighting against What Is Happening, where they have no power instead of focusing on the "How..." part, where all their power is.

Thus, they suffer.

With the right guidance a person can easily navigate their awareness from the What Is Happening, back to the How What Is Happening Is Happening, regain their power (and their invincibility) and therefore be a Conscious Creator Of Reality.

That understanding, and the deliberate creations which results from that, is enlightenment.

Few are doing that right now, but oh, boy how times are a changing!

· · ·

There is no difference between living "spiritually" and living immersed in a consumer lifestyle. Both create experiences which canbut usuallydo notproduce lasting fulfillment and unshakable happiness. Not until after death.

Which is why, when it doeshappen, we venerate such people for their rarity.

The ultimate path of humanity is to become a vast collection of super human individuals in a vast civilization of super humans. We're speaking both materially and spiritually since they're one in the same.

We're a long way from that. But we're happy with a civilization of ordinary humans, punctuated every now and then by individuals who are super human.

The venerable position of “invincible super human” is available to everyone. Both paths can lead there.

Everyone gets there eventually.

So don't sweat it. Consumer or Ascetic. You're on the right path. And eventually, you'll arrive.

[roominthecastle]

Okay but Sting’s Desert Rosé... I am officially fixated on this one

bc Cheers!!!!

bc I’m almost sure it’s Michael’s handiwork. He has the ability to construct such things + a history of hiding puns in them, e.g. “Strangers Under the Train” & “Bend It Like Bentham” can be spotted in the background in his trolley problem simulation (TPS)) + Janet doesn’t leave the tape room

bc it specifies that the bar serving as a framework for this (forbidden) meeting w/ Eleanor is named after Sting’s Desert Rose which Sting described as a song of romantic-sexual longing placed within a larger philosophical context - “romantic love as an analog for the greater love of God” [x] and thus redemption (see the “Redeem Yourself” poster on the wall by the door).

Now overthinking/reading into things is my forte, and that’s exactly what’s happening behind the cut, so beware:

The puns in Michael’s TPS have direct relevance not only to the “practical nature” of the simulation at hand (strangers are literally under the trolley as they keep mowing them down amidst spurting blood and flying body chunks that “curiously” only hit poor Chidi despite Eleanor’s close proximity), but also cleverly hint at Michael’s own feelings on the issue that won’t get revealed until later. Bentham’s famous “greatest-happiness principle” governs his actions when he chooses to sacrifice himself to give Eleanor & the others a chance to secure passage to the real Good Place where eternal happiness awaits. He “bends it like Bentham”.

IF we can take TPS as precedent (and that’s a big if, I know, but it’s fun), then Sting’s Desert Rosé is also likely to be more than just a simple pun. Then it is both relevant to the practicalities of the situation at hand (it is a bar that serves wine) and to feelings which have not been articulated yet and will come into play later. Michael’s solution to the trolley problem (self-sacrifice) develops silently and remains in the background until a situation demands its disclosure. The implication of Sting’s Desert Rosé is a feeling of deep longing for the love of a woman and even that of a higher being (God) - a painful desire to return to the “good place” (or the “pre-fall” condition).

Michael is already invested in how Eleanor sees him and he also wished to follow them to the real Good Place, but since he is still a demon, gaining both her & (the show’s version of) God’s love (=entry) must feel like a long shot at best. I think he became painfully aware of this as a result of those ethics lessons and his billion failed attempts to sneak into the Good Place. All this likely informed his trolley problem solution, too. Being made aware of how fundamentally disqualified he is hasn’t enabled him to change it, it just made him feel miserable since the longing is still there, a longing no other “sane” demon has. Yet it doesn’t stop him from trying to help the others, which makes me wanna wrap him in an eternal hug.

If we look at the lyrics and compare/contrast them w/ the show, several thematic similarities emerge. (ofc these could be entirely accidental and/or irrelevant, but they are still there, imo)

“I am looking for myself and my loved one”

The Algerian Arabic intro (which sounds almost like a prayer) sums up Michael’s journey of discovering what it means/feels to be human. Such a journey inevitably involves the pains & pleasures of choice, of identity forging, and the experience of love (returned or otherwise). Janet started out as an anthropomorphized mainframe and now, after a social “evolution” induced by environment interacting w/ some unique “susceptibility”, she is questioning what/who she is. Michael is in the same boat: he started out as an office drone demon but that’s not quite what/who he is anymore. Both were obedient workers “pre-programmed” to serve but now they make their own paths separate from their kind. They threw out the rulebook and are actively choosing the recipients of their devotion, even when those recipients can no longer remember them.

“I dream of love as time runs through my hand those dreams are tied to a horse that will never tire My life is for you”

Janet gravitates toward Jason and Michael toward Eleanor in particular. They have to let them go at the end of S2 as another round of experiment kicks off, but one connection, in form of ticker tapes, remains and we can see them holding and reading these w/ unwavering commitment. It’s likely just a coincidence but a very nice one still, so I am going there: the word “ticker” can refer to a watch (and thus time), the heart, and the machine connecting Michael and Janet to Eleanor and Jason respectively.

The titular desert rose is not without concrete relevance, either. All her life Eleanor lived in Arizona which is home to several deserts (Sonoran, Mojave, Chihuahuan). This is at the core of one of my favorite gags where Michael keeps asking the freshly rebooted Janet for Eleanor’s file, and she keeps handing him cacti instead. Then, when she finally produces the file, it still has a bunch of cactus pictures in them. If we roll w/ this desert connection, then Eleanor = desert rose def works too (+ she is wearing red in the bar scene)

“This memory of Eden haunts us all This desert flower This rare perfume, is the sweet intoxication of the fall”

The fall and Eden are key elements in Genesis. Eve shares the fruit of the tree of knowledge of good and evil w/ Adam and they get booted from paradise. Something similar happens in the show, too, albeit w/ some neat twists. Eleanor insists that Michael attend Chidi’s ethics lessons (=“tree”) where they acquire knowledge (=“fruit”) of, yes, good and evil. She shares it w/ him and it changes Michael, which leads to his disobedience or “fall” and ultimate banishment as their “good place” gets completely disassembled.

Michael has a spark of deviance in him from the get-go, an innate urge to color outside the lines, but he starts to cross them in earnest only after Eleanor enters the picture. First, it’s in the form of 802 reboots, which is 800 more than he is authorized for, but he gets fixated on besting her. The 2nd big moment is when he takes his senior staff pin (the very symbol of everything he ever wanted) and pins it on her, irrevocably betraying everything he previously stood for. He pulls a sort of “reverse Lucifer” (his “rebellion” takes place in the show’s approximation of hell and is driven not by pride but by humbling himself) but it’s patterned on the fall of man. This mix of demonic and human heritage would be very in-keeping w/ his character: a demon longing to experience what it’s like to be human.

“No sweet perfume ever tortured me more than this.”

It is one of the greatest sources of irony in the show how the torture master ends up tormenting himself with and within the very framework he constructed for others. At the end of those 802 reboots, nobody is suffering more than Michael. His subordinates may be frustrated but they eagerly turn his failures to their advantage while the ultimate responsibility still rests w/ Michael who, already after the 2nd failed reboot, runs the very real risk of dying the only death his kind is able: the eternal shriek. The four humans endure a measure of psychological-emotional torture, but they forget all but the last week of their afterlife due to rebooting, whereas Michael remembers everything. He has to endure failure over and over again bc Eleanor keeps figuring him out, upping the pressure w/ each reboot, and, finally, exposing him to blackmail by his own underlings. This is when he reaches complete isolation which is a special kind of hell even within hell.

This 1st type of torture Eleanor (unwittingly) puts him through is mental in nature. She repeatedly hits him where it hurts the most at that time - his sense of intellectual superiority -, gradually evicting him from a life he’s known since forever. The direct continuation of this process is when she makes attendance of Chidi’s lessons compulsory, which again forces him to fully confront the fact that he’s not always the smartest guy in the room, not always in control, and - most importantly - that it’s okay bc the others are there to help and guide him when he’s in need.

This breakthrough gives way to the 2nd, more complex phase that involves (social) emotions that tend to develop as a result of cooperation (esp the kind Team Cockroach engaged in). We can already see their effect creep in when e.g. Michael is plagued by fear at the possibility of losing his friends or when he experiences the first sharp pangs of remorse. He is no longer immune to the full palette of “human suffering” bc he cares and even loves now, and it all stems from and loops back to Eleanor. She is the one he desperately clutches after the dangers pass, it’s her disappointment that slices through him even though he let the rest of them down too, and it’s her “progress reports” that fill his life after they have to part ways.

In this new phase he is forbidden to help or have any kind of contact, but when he can no longer stand doing nothing, he has to risk everything again in exchange for a few minutes w/ her. He could have easily nudged her in the right direction w/o revealing himself - the way he did when he saved her life. But no, this time he shows himself, prompts her to just ramble on about Kangaroo Jack, which, objectively speaking, is an insane risk to take when you can get caught every second, so you know Michael only took his feelings w/ him and left objectivity behind, and, at the end of it all, she still looks at him and sees a total stranger bc this is the only way for her to gain entry to paradise.

Now that’s some exquisite torture in a bar named after a song of romantic-sexual longing placed within a larger philosophical context.

[sequoiann]

by a thread

pairing; seventeen seungkwan x reader genre; angst, soulmate!au, ft. bestfriend vernon word count: 5.1k

synopsis; the ring finger of soulmates are connected by a red string. some people can see them but some can’t --- seungkwan can see them, but you can't. that means you never know whose string yours is connected to --- and that's pretty much the only way to find your significant other. if one soulmate dies, the threads will slowly turn black and fade away.

Your eighteen-year-old self sat drearily in your seat in the lecture hall, body slumped slightly as you rested your arms on the small little black table that was fixed to the chair. The pads of your left index finger and thumb gently rubbed themselves on the lower region of your right ring finger as you tried to picture how it would look if a red thread coiled around it like how it did around your friends' fingers.

The red string was something that would gradually appear as one grows older, but there is no specific age whereby one would be able to see the string. Some people claim that theirs had appeared at the age of a mere seven years old, while some others' strings only came into view at the age of thirty. People were indirectly classified into three categories --- the first being a group of people who had their strings solidified by the time they are 12, the second being a group who had their strings solidified at ages above twelve, and for the rest --- the third category that included you --- people who simply, and unluckily, do not have the ability to see the string with their two eyes. The third category has an unbelievably small population, you were told.

Vernon, your best friend, caught you going into a daze with your eyes fixated on your almost un-ordinarily empty finger. He grabs your hand and pulls it away from the other. You jumped slightly at his abrupt gesture and yanked your arm away almost too harshly, holding it to your chest as if he had just attempted to rip your arm out of its sockets. 

"What?" you asked, your eyes looking at him up-down. 

"What?" he parroted, his eyes reflecting surprise and disbelief at your seemingly exaggerated reaction. "Stop staring at your finger like that!" 

You blinked, noticing that you were subconscious about the fact that you were doing that. 

"I was just daydreaming," you defended. 

Vernon nods his head his mock belief. "Yeah, yeah." 

You rolled your eyes and lightly nudged him to the side. You suddenly became really sheepish as a visual craving popped into your mind. 

"Hey, Vernon?" you said in a soft voice, your eyes turning back to the lecturer every once in a while to make sure you don't get scolded for 'disrupting the class'. Mr. Bons wasn't very tolerant of his students talking during his lecture. 

"Hmm?" he hums, his fingers doing some fancy pen-twirling thing. His eyes stayed glued to the front of the auditorium, but he leaned slightly closer to you to show that he was listening. 

"Can I see yours again?" you asked, a meek smile playing on your lips. Red strings were invisible to others' eyes, unless the owner grants the opposite party permission to see it. 

"Y/N!" Vernon exclaims in a hushed tone, his focus breaking off the lecture. "You saw it just before the lecture started!" 

"Which was an hour ago!" you retorted.

"Those two students at the side," you hear Mr. Bons bellow, making you and Vernon jolt in shock and sit upright, facing the front again. 

"If you two would like to have to have your own little conversation, it'd be favorable to all of us if you stepped out," Mr. Bons said. "Would you like to?" His voice wasn't raised, but for some reason that made everything seem scarier and more... intense. The eyes of the students in the hall that were settled on you two were not helping either.

"No, Mr. Bons. We apologize," Vernon spoke, bowing slightly. Mr. Bons shoots you two another piercing glare before returning to his lecture. A chuckle couldn't help but bubble itself out of your mouth, and Vernon nudges you as a gesture to shut you up, but you could see the corners of his lips turned up too.

The lecture ended another hour later, and you and Vernon exited the auditorium with childish shoves and blame-pinning on who got who into trouble with Mr. Bons previously. You were still bent on seeing his soulmate string again, though --- it was like a drug; you couldn't get enough of it. 

Vernon sighed (not tiredly) and held his hand out to you, the relatively thick and solid red thread fading into view. You loved seeing the way it coiled around the length of his ring finger like a vine looped around a tree, leaving gaps at his finger joints so that Vernon could bend his finger without any restrains caused by the string. 

"Nice," you muttered, brushing your fingers across it, before it disappears again. 

You whine. "Vernon!" 

He smiles smugly, shrugging as he walked along. You sulked and followed. 

"Why are you always so unwilling to show it to me?" you asked, tightly hugging your moderately thick stack of notes to your chest. 

"Because you always become like that," Vernon said pointedly. 

"Like what?" 

"That," he said, his eyes looking to your pouted lips as he nodded towards it. "All whiny and sulky and sad." 

"I'm not sad," you huffed, crossing your arms under your stack of notes. "I just find it unfair that I can't see mine." 

Vernon smiles slightly. "Don't worry, you'll still find him. That's for sure. I'll help." 

You scoffed. It wasn't that you didn't trust Vernon and/or his words, it was just easier said than done. The possibility was really near zero.

"Have you heard?" Vernon asked, pushing the greens on his plate to the side as you two sat in the canteen. You teasingly pushed them back into the rice portion, mixing them up slightly.

"Eat up," you smiled, ignoring Vernon's narrowed eyes at you as you dug into your own food. "You were saying?"

"Seungkwan's coming back," he told you, and you thought you heard him wrong. You quickly gulped down your mouthful of food so that you could speak.

"Seungkwan? Boo Seungkwan?" you queried. Vernon nods in confirmation. Seungkwan used to study in the school you were in during freshman year, but he had transferred schools by the second year due to his parents' work, you had heard. You never knew him personally, but everyone in the school would've known of the name Boo Seungkwan --- he was quite popular for his easy-going-ness and his humorous personality. You never actually met him properly before, though. You've only seen him a few times on campus across the field or something. 

"I thought he left the province," you said. 

Vernon nods. "He did, apparently. But his parents decided to come back since their business isn't improving much there and Seungkwan likes it better here," Vernon said, putting a spoonful of rice into his mouth. "These are all rumors from the other kids, though. I'm not sure." 

Your mouth formed the shape of an 'o'. 

"And they also said Seungkwan's joining our main class, since they've mixed the classes up from freshman year. He can't exactly go back to his 'original class'," Vernon said pointedly, shrugging. "But then again, all rumors. We'll have to see tomorrow."

You pursed your lips --- you weren't very sure if you liked the idea of having someone new in your class. You've already grown accustomed to the current bunch, and a popular kid being thrown in seemed unnormal to you.

Your busy and packed schedule the next day made you nearly forget about the unsubstantial story about Seungkwan's arrival. Your class was in the middle of History, when you heard buzzing outside from the students from other classes who were seemingly having their break. Heads turned and you caught sight of the 'hot topic' stopping in front of your classroom door --- Seungkwan. He was nearly unrecognizable to you at first glance, but the way his teeth showed and the way his eyes turned to mini crescents when he smiled was still the same. He lost weight, that's for sure --- the chubbiness in his cheeks were less prominent now, and his hair had been dyed into a darker shade of medium ash brown. He donned a slightly oversized maroon hoodie, his bag slung over one shoulder.

"Oh, Seungkwan, you're here," your History teacher, Mr. Walter spoke, before Seungkwan had a chance to introduce himself. Seungkwan stopped in a half-bow in slight surprise. 

"Good afternoon, Mr. Walter," Seungkwan greeted, much to Mr. Walter's delight that he had remembered his name even after these few years. Seungkwan was directed to the empty seat behind you, since you were seated in the second last row of the classroom. You were never one who took seats at the front --- you didn't have to make it more difficult for yourself and get caught for dozing off in class. Vernon was actually the opposite, which explains why his notes always end up with you for at least 3 days.

Seungkwan took his seat behind you after fist-bumping a couple of students whom he was friends with while walking past them, and you found yourself shifting such that you were sitting upright. You told yourself to ignore the fact that he was literally right behind you, but you internally didn't want to come off as a bad and/or lazy student to him. After all, you are going to have to be his classmate for the whole of the next school year. 

You found yourself forcing your eyes to stay open through the two-hour lesson, your entire body starting to feel sore from being so tense. You'd usually just slump into your seat. But the lesson finally passed, and you had time to break out of your 'trance' and stretch as almost everybody crowded around Seungkwan and asking him how he's doing and whatnot. Even Vernon did, and you narrowed your eyes at him, pressing your lips into a line. He simply chuckled, pushing his shoulders up slightly as he cocked his head to a side. 

"I'm just being a sociable kid," he said, and you merely shook your head. 

The day went by slower than usual, but towards the end of the day's classes you just laid your head down on the table, but you still did listen to whatever the teachers were saying. When the last class ended, you felt the need to pop some confetti and throw a party --- you actually sat through the day's lesson without sleeping. 

"Hey." 

You continued packing your bag, stuffing your pencil case and books into your bag, which was placed on your lap. 

"Um, Y/N?" 

You frowned and stopped, turning around to the voice. Seungkwan was leaned forward on his desk, looking at you, and that only made you confused. 

You pointed an unsure finger at yourself. "Me?" 

Seungkwan nods, his innocent, child-like smile playing on his lips. "Yeah. That's your name, right?" 

You nod. "You know me?"

"Well, I believe we did attend the same lectures before," Seungkwan reminded, chuckling. "Though we're always on opposite ends of the auditorium. And I've seen you walking around campus too." 

"Oh," you said slowly, trying to recall if you actually ever took the same lectures as he did. As far as you remembered, you two were never in the same room before; but maybe that was just your short-term memory playing its cards on you. "I see." 

Seungkwan hums. "We’ve never actually talked though. So hi, I'm Seungkwan," he said, extending a hand to you, his lips pressed in a smile that resembled a seal's.

You chuckled at the similarity, shaking his outreached hand which was soothingly soft and warm. "Everyone knows," you muttered, not rudely. "You already know too, but hi, I'm Y/N."

Seungkwan giggles, and you couldn't help but mirror the ray of sunshine painted all over his face. "You've changed quite a bit," he told you, crossing his arms on the table. 

"I did?" 

He nodded. "You actually stayed awake through the whole day," he teased. "You used to be sprawled all over your desk during classes. Napping." 

You widened your eyes, feeling the tips of your ears tingle as blood rushed up your neck. How did he know? You didn't exactly sleep during lectures.

"I've passed your classroom a few times during freshman year," he explained, reading the question in your head off from your expression. "You're always in the window seat." 

You chuckled sheepishly, rubbing the nape of your neck. 

"The desk must be comfortable for you to always sleep so soundly on," Seungkwan said mockingly, lying down on the table, pressing his cheek onto the tabletop.

You laughed aloud. "It is, actually." 

Seungkwan clicks his tongue and sits back up, pressing his fingers to his cheek that was in contact with the table. "Not my type."

You laughed again at his statement, shaking your head. 

"Y/N!"

You turned around and saw Vernon with his backpack slung over both his shoulders, ready to go. He raises a reminding eyebrow when he sees you talking to Seungkwan.

"Dinner?" 

"Oh, right," you said, quickly shoving the rest of your items into your bag as you zipped it up, standing up and glancing over to Seungkwan. 

"I'll see you tomorrow, Seungkwan," you said as a goodbye. 

Seungkwan nods, waving as he stood up to take his leave too. "See you tomorrow, Y/N." 

"Actually," Vernon started out of the blue, and you looked up at him, expecting him to be directing his words at you. However, he was looking at Seungkwan instead. 

Seungkwan blinks, tugging on his bag strap as he turned his body to face Vernon. 

"Do you wanna join us for a meal?" Vernon suggested, and you widened your eyes, subtly nudging him so that Seungkwan wouldn't see your aggressive action.

"Why would you---" you muttered under your breath with gritted teeth, only speaking loud enough for Vernon to hear. Inviting Boo Seungkwan for a meal? It's his first day back, he'd definitely have his evening schedule packed.

"It's okay if you don't have time," you quickly added in. "We know you're busy."

Seungkwan laughs, shaking his head. "I'm free, actually. So sure, I'd be glad to."

Vernon smiles, almost proudly. 

Unexpectedly, Seungkwan became part of you and Vernon's two-man group. It wasn't just you and Vernon skipping unimportant classes together anymore --- it was you, Vernon and Seungkwan playing truant together. The two-seater table at the corner of the canteen that you and Vernon always took during lunch breaks was no longer used --- round tables or four-seater ones replaced that to make space for Seungkwan. 

Like that, two became three. 

Everything really did become brighter in the presence of Seungkwan --- it made you understand why he was so popular. He can literally make a serious situation become light-hearted and entertaining, and sometimes it would get you three into deep trouble, but it didn't really matter. There was something about his personality that was just so playful and bubbly, you can never not smile when you're around him. He was really the best friend you could find --- after Vernon, of course. You wouldn't forget Vernon. Vernon was the peacemaker of the group. You and Seungkwan were the ones who would do everything with a strong, burning passion --- and more often than not, too much of that. Vernon always has to make sure that no one dies when you and Seungkwan plan to go to amusement parks to replace the free time during skipped lessons. 

Vernon even teased you about neglecting him at times, ever since Seungkwan became a part of your little clique, as Seungkwan's dormitory room was actually closer to yours than Vernon's was. And that meant that your mornings were always greeted by a chirpy voice belonging to Seungkwan, and you two would walk to class together. But you knew Vernon wasn't actually hurt about it --- he wasn't that petty.

However, half a year passed and Vernon had to move. You literally felt the feeling of betrayal surge through your body at that point in time when the news was revealed to you and Seungkwan. Apparently, the reason was that his parents are convinced that Vernon would never find his soulmate in the state he was in. He'd been out and about quite often, and his parents were the kind who wanted him to have a stable future. Seungkwan reacted before you did after Vernon spilled the beans, shoving Vernon childishly, before starting to fake-cry and whining really loud. Vernon was still being all smiley and cheery, though, because he promised that he'd be in contact and he'd come back every once in a while. 

"Can't leave you two alone," he had said teasingly. "You'd burn down the entire school." 

You took his word for that, but you couldn't help but feel a little empty once he actually moved away. Not a 'little', actually. You felt pretty damn hollow.

Three became two again. 

The two of you started to take that two-seater table at the corner of the cafeteria during lunch breaks, and only two empty seats were in class whenever you two were absent --- most of the time somewhere in the arcade. But Seungkwan, being the sweetheart he was, really made up for the empty spot that Vernon had left behind, and you noticed that he had seemed to inherit some of Vernon's motherly traits. He always indirectly made sure you weren't skipping meals, but sometimes he just overfeeds you. If you have eaten but he hasn't, then it is equal to you not having eaten your meal yet, for Seungkwan never likes eating by himself. He also always makes sure that you don't get injured while running around like a headless chicken --- and you do that a lot, especially after long days at school. You played your part in taking care of him too, of course --- Seungkwan was one to trip over air and then start laughing to himself even though raw scratches were visible on his knee, really. 

You had also gradually come to know about the fact that he hadn't found his soulmate yet, and like the majority of the world's population, he did have the ability to see the red string around his finger. You've seen it a couple times, and it was a different shade of red compared to Vernon's. The red on Seungkwan's thread was softer, while Vernon's was more of a crimson shade. After you had told Seungkwan that you didn't have the ability to see your own red thread, he had frowned a little but you two didn't stay on the subject for long.

The year ended faster than you thought it would, and your family had planned a vacation to Genting Highlands, which was a theme park situated at the top of a mountain. It was going to be a 5-day stay, and Seungkwan had jokingly complained about you not bringing him along. He had never been to that place, but you, on the other hand, had been there a couple of times since you were a toddler. 

"You'd have to take a car up the mountain, right?" Seungkwan asked, scrolling through his phone of the images that he had Googled as he sat in your room at your actual house. You were packing your luggage for the trip and Seungkwan casually came over.

"Yeah," you said, seated on the floor too, rolling your clothes up so that there was more space for them to fit in the bag. "We're taking a bus, actually. My dad doesn't want to risk driving up by himself."

Seungkwan chuckles. "I thought he said he was a good driver."

You laughed, shrugging. "On the road, that is. He'd have to turn a lot on the mountains. The road isn't simple. You should see it for yourself someday. It's really nice once you get past the roads, though."

Seungkwan nonchalantly lies down, resting his head on your lap as he scrolled through more photos of the said place. You smile to yourself and briefly ruffled his hair before you continued folding your clothes, stuffing them into a ziplock bag before placing that into the luggage. 

"It says it's really cold at Genting," Seungkwan pointed out, and you nod. 

"Not very, but yeah. We're literally touching the clouds up there," you told him, chuckling. 

"Then what's with your short-sleeved clothes that you packed?" he asked, scorning. 

"I tolerate the cold well, Seungkwan," you argued. "It's really not as bad as you think."

Seungkwan pays no attention to your words and stands up, going through your closet and pulling out long-sleeved clothing.

"Bring these instead!" he exclaimed, removing them from their hangers and throwing them in your direction.

"Are you trying to die of hyperthermia, you small, little bean? You think you can withstand cold? No, you can't," Seungkwan sneered, placing them in your bag before you could stop him as he mentioned something about how you were tugging at his coat the other day when you guys were out and you were cold because you had underdressed.

You stared at him, removing the sweater piece that had landed on your head and stifling your laughter at his attempted insult. “You’re adorably annoying.” 

“I know, now continue packing. And don’t you dare remove those clothes I put in.” 

You left for Genting Highlands two days later with your flight being in the morning. Despite that, Seungkwan came to the airport and sent you off with a bright half-hearted smile, waving to you at the airport and then making faces once you checked in, a glass pane separating the both of you. Seungkwan then went home, and he simply anticipated your return in five days. 

Those five days --- ended up not to be five days. 

When Seungkwan heard the words "Genting" come from the television in his living room, he immediately brisk-walked from where he was --- the kitchen --- to the living room. The anchor on the news seemed particularly serious about the report, and Seungkwan immediately grabbed the controller, turning up the volume so that her words weren't so muffled. 

"The tour bus had departed to Genting Highlands at 4pm this evening, but it has been reported that the bus driver was unsober, resulting in the unstable driving and overturning of the bus which had fallen off the steep and curved mountain roads. The bus was carrying 23 passengers, all reported to have sustained serious injuries, except for 9 of them who are suffering from minor external wounds. All victims have been sent to the nearest hospital and are currently receiving treatment. The driver..."

The controller in Seungkwan's hands slipped out of his loosened grip as his tears started to fill his eyes, his lips quivering as horribly scary thoughts raced through his messed up mind. The image behind the anchor showed the broken pieces and debris of the severely damaged bus. Your name was continuously recited in his mind like a silent mantra. He quickly grabbed his phone, dialing your number as he placed the phone to his ear. 

The number you have dialed is not in service. Please...

Seungkwan roughly ends the call, re-entering your number into the dial pad. He knew the call would get through even though you were overseas. When the same words echoed from the phone, he shuts his eyes and bites down on his lip, hot tears pouring down his cheeks as he dialed another number --- your mother's. Then your father's. The same robotic voice comes through instead of whatever he wanted to hear --- the simple beep of someone picking up the phone and the voice of yours or your parents'.

Seungkwan speedily dials a different number, which was pretty much his last hope.

Beep.

"Hello?"

Seungkwan's heart was racing, his hands shaking, his palms clammy. "Vernon..."

Seungkwan took hours to get to wherever you were, and throughout the whole thing, he was repeatedly praying that the bus wasn’t the one that you were in. The trip was filled with random bursts of silent tears on the plane during the flight or on the bus. Vernon had freaked out after receiving the news from Seungkwan, but Vernon managed to keep his calm and cooled the desperate Seungkwan down a little. He was making his way to you too, but Seungkwan knew that it would take longer for Vernon to reach the destination. Seungkwan had found out which hospital the bus victims were sent to, fortunately.

Once Seungkwan reached the hospital, he immediately ran to the information counter, his eyes now puffy and bloodshot.

“The bus,” he lisped, breathless. “The bus that was on the way up to Genting. That accident. The injured people were brought here, right?”

The redhead counter lady frowns slightly, nodding.

“Did a girl get sent in too? She’s around 5’4, brown hair,” Seungkwan said, his arms frantically moving about as he described your features, recalling the outfit that you were wearing when you waved goodbye to him at the departure hall. “She’s wearing a beige sweater.”

The frown on the lady’s face deepens as she recalled the bloody scene when the victims got brought into the hospital, and she apologizes. “I’m sorry, we’re not allowed to…”

“Please,” Seungkwan cut her off, pleading as he placed his arms on the raised countertop, his head bowing for a moment before he looked back up. “She’s my friend, please.”

The lady hesitated, but relented in the end.

“What’s your friend’s name? I can check the records.”

Seungkwan let out a breath of half-hearted relief. It was ironic, really. He was comforted that the lady was willing to help him, but on the other hand, if your name was indeed found in the registered records…

“Y/N. Y/F/N.”

The counter lady types in your name into the computer, and her eyes briefly scanned through the monitor before she looks back up at Seungkwan, her expression falls subtly, reflecting sympathy and pity. “Room 104, level 3…” she said, trailing off as she considered adding a few more words. “You should hurry.”

Seungkwan ran even faster than he did when he got here. He didn’t even wait for the elevator, he just darted up the six flights of starts, dashing down the hallways of wards and muttering apathetic ‘sorry’s to the people whom he had accidentally bumped into, barely avoiding the other people in his way.

When he finally neared Room 104, he slowed down to a jog, stopping in front of your ward door. His hands suddenly seemed to lack the strength to just push open the door and go inside to see you, whom he had traveled miles for. He glimpsed inside and saw you. Was it you? He questioned even that. A large, white bandage was wrapped around your head, your chocolate-colored hair flowing over that, and a cervical collar around your neck as you rested uncomfortably, stiffly on the pillow behind you, your eyes shut close and an oxygen mask was pulled over your nose and mouth. Tubes were poking out of your arms. Both large and small scratches and cuts were visible all over your exposed skin, with angry red remnants of dried blood.

With shaky, pale hands, Seungkwan pushed the sliding door open and stepped in, closing it behind him. Seungkwan walked over to your bedside and squeezed already sore eyes shut, the beads of tears replacing his dried ones as he saw you in the state you were in.

“Y/N…” he sobbed, dropping to his knees beside you, taking your limp hand in both of his and clasping it tightly. Your fingers remained flaccid, not holding his hands back.

“Come back safe, okay?” he had said repeatedly, pulling you into a hug.

“Yes, yes, you naggy grandpa,” you chuckled, wrapping your arms around Seungkwan.

“I’m just being a concerned friend!” he retorted. “Really though, promise you’ll come back safe with no injuries or whatnot! I won’t stand that!”

“Yes, Mr. Boo! I promise!” you said astoundingly, laughing as Seungkwan pouted cutely.

Seungkwan’s tears couldn’t --- wouldn’t --- stop. “You promised, Y/N,” Seungkwan cried, burying his face in the sheets of your bed that smelled unfamiliarly like iodoform; the smell that all hospitals had. “I haven’t told you that I love you, Y/N, please.” 

Your fingers suddenly twitched ever so slightly, and Seungkwan shot his head up, his eyes on your face. Your expression remained monotone and unchanged, but your fingers slowly and weakly closed themselves around Seungkwan’s. Seungkwan’s eyes widened and he could feel the adrenaline and hope surge through him. “Y/N.” 

But that only happened for a brief period of time, as the next moment your fingers loosened its grip again, and a loud sound filled the room. The heart rate monitor beside your bed had a continuous beep sound, one after the next, as if a city truck was backing up on the street, alerting anyone nearby ---  almost verbally telling everyone of the urgency; Seungkwan didn’t even have time to react. Then just out of nowhere the monitor changed its tone --- this time the sound was constant. No breaks in between the beeps. Just a long, flat piercing sound that penetrated Seungkwan’s eardrums. A sharp burning pain was felt all over his ring finger, and the originally bright red thread coiled around it faded into black. The black wasn’t a color --- it was nothing, a void --- dull with an almost powdery sheen. Then it just disintegrates.

The monitor had flatlined.

You were gone. You, Seungkwan’s oblivious soulmate.

You were the person who held Seungkwan’s hands when he was cold even though it didn’t help much, and he would whine about how you were cold too. And then that would result in you two huddling together like penguins, with you squealing sometimes because he always used that as an opportunity to tickle you.

You were the person who crept into his room at night to bring him soup when he was sick, or stuff like seasoned chicken --- his favorite --- when he wasn’t. You would put yourself at risk of being caught by the patrolling teachers, but your little trip was always successful. You and Seungkwan would just sneak out together sometimes, and end up as a giggly mess when you two barely avoided the guards or teachers.

But now, there was no more ‘you’. Seungkwan now sits alone at lunch, even though he doesn’t like being alone, and usually buys instant food for dinner, even though he can practically hear you reprimanding him for being unhealthy. He’d rub his two palms together and stuff them in his pockets when it was cold. He’d have to treat his own wounds when he ‘trips over air’ and injures himself. You were no longer there to chide him for getting hurt, or shush him when he whines while you apply the yellowish medication to his wounds.

And two became one.

[bellatrixobsessed1]

The Fishbone and The Firelily (Part 20)

Azula blinked the remaining visages of sleep from her eyes. Sokka was still deep in slumber, the man had a habit of sleeping in. Not that she blamed him, the frigid air was plenty of reason on its own to stay beneath layers of sheets, furs, and blankets. It had taken much effort for her to get used to the frost of the Southern Water Tribe. All of that time, and she still wasn’t quite acquainted with it. She forced herself to stand, put her hands on her back, and stretched. She supposed that she was as ready as she would be to start the morning. Azula pulled a coat on, no doubt she’d be hearing it from Sokka again, how she wore more layers of clothing than anyone who had ever visited the Water Tribe.  She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. This woman had a sort of gentleness in her golden eyes, a glow that wasn’t there before. In general her features seemed somehow softer in the company of such a tender expression. Perhaps this was due in part to a lesser use of makeup—things were simpler in the Water Tribe, in that regard. The makeup she did use was limited to a soft sweep of eyeliner and a lighter shade of lipstick. Complimenting the lack of makeup, a thin scar running, uncovered, along her cheek. A scar she hadn’t thought too much of in years. Her thoughts of that endeavor had mostly faded into the background coming up only once in a while, in the shape of a dream, during times of stress. She trailed her pointer along the length of the scar. To some degree, Azula didn’t quite recognize herself, especially now that she found herself adorned in Water Tribe garb. Her hair was longer still with strands pulled through beads of many colors and shapes.

She wandered outside where she was met with another flurry. The snowflakes never seemed to stop falling around these parts. They clung to her lashes for seconds before melting away once more. Adjusting to life so far from home, and so outstandingly different had been a task. Learning to walk on the snow and ice was unexpectedly tedious, there had been a few times when she had placed her foot in the wrong spot and landed face first in the snow. On those nights she’d go home shivering and accompanied by a bought of childish laughter from Sokka, who had apparently been getting a kick out of watching her make friends with the ground. The food, to her dismay, was all of the sea variety. Naturally had to overcome her aversion to its taste.  Before long though, she as adapt as anyone else in the villager—if not, very close to it. Even still it had taken the village some time to get used to the presence of a firebender within their walls. Azula was a rather curious thing for them, coupled with being a woman of high birth, she found herself being the subject of many stares. Gradually the number of eyes on her dropped until she was just another woman going about her life; fishing with Sokka, gazing at the curtain of light in the sky when it was present, and on certain nights joining a traditional dance or two. All in all she had grown fond of the place. She had to admit that it was rather laughable, that just as she was getting used to being there, she, Sokka, and Katara would be going back to the Fire Nation. Though she was eager to hear how well Zuko had been taking care of Muzuko in her absence. The child in her hoped that the toad-squirrel was giving him a hard time.

 Deciding that it would be best to start packing, Azula ended her reminisce and re-entered the house. Upon doing so, she was greeted with an odor of seafood and a type of spice that had to have been imported from the Fire Nation. The smell of seafood, as it turned out still made her nauseous—oddly enough more than before.

 Sokka didn’t miss the appalled look scrunching her face, “Don’t you just love the smell of seaweed and squid?” He held his bowl of seaweed stew right under her nose.

 Her lip curled back in disgust, “get that away from me before I throw up.”  She pushed the bowl back towards him.

 “Good morning, to you too.” He laughed.

 “Yes, that was quite a greeting.” She muttered.

 “How’s the weather?”

 “Roasting, absolutely scorching, Sokka.” She rolled her eyes. “It’s the same as it is every day. Cold and snowing.”

 “Yes, but is it a flurry or a sleet, or a blizzard?”

 “Does it matter?” Azula asked, already knowing the answer.

 “To a good tribesman, yes it does!” Sokka declared offering her a bowl of stew with a scent masked more heavily by Fire Nation spice.

 “I don’t know about you all, but I’m stoked!” Katara dropped her already organized suitcase at her feet. “Aang said he would meet us on the boat. And someone still owes me a trip to the royal spa and I’m ready for it.”  Azula had to give the waterbender props, the woman’s memory was just as keen as her own.

 “Yes, I’m quite read for that myself.” Azula agreed as she forced herself to eat the last of her breakfast, it wasn’t quite sitting well with her that morning. “It will be nice to be in the heat again.” Truth be told she had mixed feelings on the matter—going back would surly reawaken just how much she longed to have lightning dancing on her fingertips. In the Water Tribe it was so much easier to forget…to just put it behind her. No other firebenders were around to remind her of what she no longer had. “You should start getting your things together, I wouldn’t like to miss our boat.”

 “Don’t worry, I don’t pack much anyways.” Though that’s what he had told her, the man turned out to be very particular with his belongings. He would question exactly which pair of pants to bring and whether or not he really needed that many pairs of socks.

 “I can’t get all of this to fit.” Sokka huffed as he tried to ram another fold of clothing into the pack.

 “Here, let me.” Azula offered, only to be ignored by the man who was so invested in getting the job done on his own.

 “Just…just give me the suitcase, Sokka.” Azula grumbled, eventually resorting to snatching it from him with an impatient glare.

 Sokka lifted his hands. “Alright, alright. No need to get angry.” And then to Katara he mumbled, “she always gets so moody when she’s nervous.”

 Azula, who was bent over the luggage, came to an abrupt pause and dropped the shirt she was holding. “I’m not nervous!” She snapped. “And I’m not being ‘moody’.” She finished folding the shirt and put it away neatly.

 “You weren’t supposed to hear that.” Sokka gave her a lopsided grin.

 “I’ve heard a lot of things that I wasn’t supposed to.” She shrugged. “Anyways, if you want it all to fit you can’t just toss it in, you have to actually fold it up.”

 “Noted.” Sokka replied.

 “I can’t believe we have to teach you this.” Katara rolled her eyes. “You’re what, thirty now?”

 “Twenty-Nine!” He corrected as if it made things any better. He hunched over to give his suitcase one final run through.

 “Sokka!” Azula huffed. “You already checked your suitcase thrice over. What’s in there that’s important enough to check it so much.”

 “Oh you know, my favorite pair of socks, my best underpants, all of the finer things in life.”

 Azula groaned, “say something like that again and I’m leaving you.”

 He slung an arm around her neck, “and let you miss out on the true joys of our relationship, not a chance.”

 .oOo.

 Sokka dug around in his suit case again. He wrapped his fingers around a velvet blue pouch. He couldn’t imagine that it would go anywhere after zipping his suitcase tight, but it still brought him relief to know for sure that it was still there. Between his fingers he fiddled with the pearl on the end of the band that held the pouch closed.

 “What’s that?” Katara asked.

 “Very important.” Sokka replied. He looked up to see Azula making conversation with Aang. With cautious hands he pulled the pouch open and dumped a necklace into his palm. He turned it over for Katara to see. It was a thing of elegant craft; smooth polished turquoise etched with intricate swirls and bas relief waves. Fixed in the center was a large sapphire and around it looped a series of deep blue onyx.

 “Is that…”

 Sokka nodded. “I just don’t know when or how I’m going to ask her.” 

 .oOo.

 The air ran hot across Azula’s face, welcoming the princess back into her country. More than anything about the Fire Nation, she missed the way the sun scorched and kissed her skin. The bliss of it, displayed itself quite plainly on her face.

 “Oh thank Agni you’re back, this thing is driving me nuts.” Zuko greeted, thrusting the toad-squirrel cage into her arms.

 “He’s doing very well then.” Azula stroked the head of her old companion.

 “Welcome home.”

 “Thank you, Zu-Zu. Be a dear and tell one of the servants to carry my things.”

 “First, tell me what you thought of the Water Tribe.” Zuko requested.

 “Once you get past the cold, it’s a very charming place. Have you ever seen lights dancing in the sky?” She rather enjoyed the phenomenon—it had become one of her favorite things about the south. “The penguins are pretty lovely too, sometimes they sneak into the house.”

 “Well that’s something I haven’t gotten a chance to experience.” Zuko laughed.

 “You should try it some time. They kind of just tower of you until you wake up and notice that they’re there.” She put her hands on her hips. “How have things been in the Fire Nation?”

 “The usual. Mother has me watching Kiyi in between council meetings. I got a…strongly worded letter from the prison.”

 Azula chuckled, “did father have anything worthwhile to say?”

 “Just that I’m letting the Fire Nation go to shit and that aardvark-sloth could do a better job than me. He said that uncle is a uh…never mind. He called our mother worthless as well and he didn’t mention you, which is probably a good thing.”

 “Wonderful to hear.” Azula replied. “At least we have one constant to rely on when everything else is changing.” She fell back to talk to Katara and give Sokka some time to chat with her brother. Sokka had a few things that he was bursting to tell Zuko, including things about his increased hunting abilities, this new sword he had crafted for himself, and some other news that apparently wasn’t for her to know. “So what kind of petals would you like in your bath?”

 “I’m fine with any as long as it comes with a facial mask.” Katara grinned.

 “I enjoy rose and pandalily myself.”

 “I don’t know, I’m more of a lavender kind of guy.” Aang put in. For all of her people skills, she couldn’t tell if he was joking or if he really wanted to join them.

So she replied, “I’ll make sure you get them.”

.oOo.

 From what Sokka gathered, the spa was not quite enough luxury for Azula for one day. He found her that night sitting on the stony ledge of the hot spring, absently kicking her feet at the water below when he approached her. The steam furled and licked her bare skin, rising up aplenty to meet the full moon above. The warm night was made humid by the churning water below. He watched her slip into the spring water. Once chest deep in the water, she closed her eyes and let a relaxed sigh escape her lips. He could tell that she had missed the Fire Nation’s abundant selection of springs. In general, she seemed happy to be home, her fiery mood, efficiently smothered. She tossed a look over her shoulder and patted the water next to her, “join me.”

 Sokka striped down and eased himself into the water. He on the other hand, missed the cold air and had to take getting into smoldering water in strides; first getting his ankles used to the temperature, and then his calves, and then his thighs, and so on. She extended her slender arm out to him. He took hold of her hand and she tugged him towards her, letting the water do most of the work.

 “It’s a nice night.” She commented. “Lots of stars.”

 “I just wish it wasn’t so hot.”

 “Is that right? It wouldn’t be a Fire Nation summer if it wasn’t suffocating hot.” She replied. He had a feeling that she’d have it no other way. She trailed her pointer in circles over his chiseled chest. Her demeanor was lax, emitting an aura of leisure. He allowed his hands to glide from her shoulder blades down to her lower back and then some lower. She dipped her head and kissed his neck. “One day we should go to Ember Island together. You’ll find out what it really means to endure Fire Nation heat. If I had my firebending, I’d be able to show you right now.”

 “You’re still on about that?” He dared to ask.

 “You’re a nonbender, you couldn’t possibly know what it is to have something all your life and then feel it ripped from you.” For a moment he thought he’d effectively pissed her off. But the tempered expression passed in fleeting, giving way to something more somber. “It’s not something you get used to, it’s something you forget about until it comes up again.”

 “You’re right, I don’t.” He agreed softly. With that he was holding her listening to the bubbling and hissing of the spring water. She looked up and followed her stare until he was staring at a sea of space dust and a kaleidoscope of stars. The reflection of them in Azula’s eyes magnified their birth-blessed radiance. She swam out to the center of the spring where the moonrays fell directly over her. The glow the moon put on her skin and the shine it put in her hair seemed so natural—she’d been in the Water Tribe for so long it looked right on her. If it weren’t for the vivid color and slanted shape of her eyes, Sokka realized that the princess could easily pass as a tribeswoman.

 Gradually, she submerged herself completely. When she came back up she remarked. “I lost something very important in the Forgetful Valley.”

 Sokka stepped out of the pool, rummaging through his heap of temporarily discarded clothing. “I like to think that you found something more important to you.” He responded, upon reentering the spring water.

 Azula hummed lightly, “maybe so.”

 He drifted behind her and fastened the betrothal piece around her neck and slipped his arms under hers in a loose embrace. “I’ll let you decide if you want to keep what you’ve found.”

 Azula rubbed the back of his hand with her thumb. “I always keep what I catch.” She smirked.

 It was the answer he was hoping for, delivered in such a fashion that only Azula could have successfully managed. Azula slipped out of his hold and let herself float lazily on her back. For a good while he simply watched her glide. He couldn’t place for how long they remained like so. But in due time he was at her side with on hand touching the scar on her cheek and the other held at her back. The stars reflected enchantingly in the delicately thrashing water.

 .oOo.

 The scar opened up.

At first it was a pinching pain.

And then it was piercing.

And then she was on the floor with a steady stream of blood welling down her cheek and along her neck. The gash grew longer and wider still as she lie on the floor trying to hold it closed. If Azula held on long enough the skin would fuse back together. But the wound just kept splitting open. She wanted nothing more than a moment of peace. As she lay, there came a sudden awareness that there was no purple glow to be seen. On weak arms, she dragged herself to the pool’s edge and peered in. The heart was missing. Yet she could still see perfectly in the dark. She could see her blood drop into water, breaking the solid surface. A few droplets unfurling in smoky clouds turned into many droplets. And then a rain of them until her blood outweighed the water itself.

 She felt it, then. The heart—first in her throat and then in her stomach. Pounding out of sync with the heart in her chest. Had she swallowed the heart? Her own lurched. She put a hand on her belly. It was there, she had definitely consumed the heart, though she had no knowledge of ever doing so.

 In a flicker of images too fast to actually catch, she was in the other cave, on her back, the stingray beneath her and Sokka to the side of her. He gazed reassuringly into her eyes and she into his. The stingray drifted away and she could see an infinite tunnel lined with crystal clusters.

She still couldn’t find hers.

 And in the same merciful that brought her there, she was back on the cave floor in perfect darkness feeling colder than ever. This time she had no clothing, in its place was a horrible sense that she was being watched. Acting without permission of her own, her mouth twisted into a smile. A jagged purple smile. She was paralyzed. Paralyzed and alone with his grin on her face and a distinct beating in her tummy to go with the rapid pounding of her chest. The cave was in her and she could get it out.

 She woke with her hand on placed exactly as it were in the dream. In waking, she could still feel the phantom sensation of the heart pounding beneath her fingers. For a moment she couldn’t breathe. For that moment, she feared that the cave was still in her. She rolled over and pressed herself up against Sokka, a new desire seeping into her soul. A certain and sudden sense of purpose.

 .oOo.

 Azula seemed to be deep in thought when he sat up for himself. She was as close to him as she could possibly get, but her eyes were so far away. His concern was short lived, for the minute she noticed that he was awake, she came back to the present and sat up.

 Without getting up himself, he asked, “what’s wrong?”

 Azula sat with her hands clasped together on her lap, seeming to stare off for some time. “I have to go back there.” She said at last. “To the Forgetful Valley. To the cave.”

 “Why would you want to do that?” He asked.

 “Resolve, I suppose.” She replied, sounding very much like she had something to add. He sat quietly and waited for her to elaborate. “You asked me where I’d like to get married. I’ve considered many places; mother thinks I should take the traditional route and marry in the ceremonial temple. This family hasn’t been very traditional at all lately, so why should I?” She languidly inspected her nails. “I’d like to hold the ceremony near or under the mangrove tree.”

 “Do you really think that, that’s a good idea?” He questioned.

 She drummed perfectly filed and manicured nails upon her chin, processing the inquiry. There was a sense of finality when she simply repeated, “Good idea or not, I need to go back there.”

[gothic--fairy]

Klaine cross paths with Malec in a NYC nightclub when an unexpected demon attack spills out onto the dance floor.

How About a Drink? 

Malec/Klaine crossover. 

“C’mon, Blaine! It’s okay, everybody hangs out around here.” Kurt spoke up, taking Blaine’s hand into his own and dragging him inside the dance club. It was by far the noisiest and craziest club he’s seen since he moved to New York and he already felt high on adrenaline. 

Pandemonium, that was the name. The club everyone seems to be talking about and a place where you could find anyone who meant something at NYADA. A place where you went when you wanted to mean something, too. 

“I still don’t think it’s a good idea.” Blaine shouted, his voice sounding soft and quiet in the loud raging music. Never in his life has he heard anything that would even come close to this strange song. It was dancy and shrill, but in the same time held a sense of melancholia and some sorrowful undertones that made shivers crawl up his spine. 

He came to New York to finally see Kurt after tormentuos months they spent apart, only to find this completely new person standing before him. It was still Kurt - tender and bold and expressive, both in his fashion and opinions. But there was so much more to him now. He seemed more care-less and easygoing, free in his choices. As if the heavy weight and burdens he carried on his shoulders in Lima let go of him at last, let him breathe. 

As much as he had to get used to this different aspects of Kurt, he felt closer to him than ever before. The confidence in his steps, the passion in his lips. It was like falling in love with him all over again. 

“It’s fine, I promise!” Kurt was already losing himself in the strange music, pulling Blaine through the crowd. Pale skin and dark leather. That’s all Blaine could see. Colorful hair shining in the dark, bodies moving and swaying as one. 

There was an odd-looking smoke in the air as Kurt looped his arms around Blaine’s neck a closed his eyes, dancing. Except, it didn’t really look anything like the smoke you normally see at concerts and such, Blaine realized. It was silvery and almost liquid, leaving drops anywhere it touched bare skin.  

Kurt’s hair were covered in beads of this silvery fluid and Blaine could also smell it on Kurt’s skin when they pressed together on the dance floor. It was very sweet, but tart, leaving a sickening taste in his mouth. 

“Are you sure it’s safe?” Blaine said close to Kurt’s ear, steadying himself with his hands on Kurt’s hips. He started feeling dazed and light-headed from the moment they walked in, his mind becoming foggy and unfocused despite the cautious parts of his brain. 

He caught glimpses from the corners of his eyes. Shadows moving in the lights and figures running through his vision. There was a man sitting on one of the few sofas, surrounded with people. Even from the place where Blaine stood, he noticed the silky fabric hugging his body and shimmers on his face. For just a moment Blaine though he saw golden eyes glimmer in front of him, his heart beating fast. It seemed as if everyone waited to get a piece of that man, touch him with the tips of their fingers or lock their gazes for a second at least. 

But the man never looked at them. He stopped scanning the crowds and a smirk grew wide on his glittering lips. He stood up and made his way away from the couch, his movements graceful and cat-like. 

Turning his head, Blaine found another man walking through the entrance. This time, though, there was tension behind Blaine’s eyes as he tried to make out his features. He looked blurry and hazy, only the dark inky tattoos stood out on his fair skin. 

“Blaine? Is there something wrong?” Kurt’s voice made him turn away. With worry in his eyes and pursed lips he resembled the old Kurt so much, it hurt Blaine a little. 

“No..” Blaine replied, shaking his head and looking at Kurt. It was their night. One evening they could spent wrapped around in each other’s arms without the worry of what will come. And Blaine wanted to make the most of it. Even if he didn’t really like this particular club. “Everything’s fine.”

He let himself go after that. Tried his hardest to forget about the strangeness of that place and get lost in the way Kurt’s lips grazed his own, his fingers tipping his chin upwards. People came and went, drinks appeared in their hands and songs changed, even though they always got somewhat creepier than the previous ones. 

It felt as if he had spent years simply moving to that rhythm. He almost didn’t want to wake up when he heard a horrifying shriek.  

There was a girl. A girl lying on the ground, frightened eyes looking for help that wouldn’t come, her dress drenched in her own blood. Her skin already turned an ugly shade of gray as if someone literally sucked the life out of her, as if she wasn’t alive just a minute ago. There were wounds on her neck, flesh torn to pieces and even burnt on some places. Claw marks, bite marks and blood everywhere. 

Blaine wasn’t able to look away. He heard Kurt’s shocked gasps next to him, felt his hand tighten on his waist. How was it possible? She must’ve died only a couple of feet away from them. Why didn’t they notice? Why didn’t they do something? 

A dark figure approached the body on the ground. Slumped and limping, it crouched down and made a low gurgling sound, its slimy arms leaving fresh cuts. 

“What is it?!” Kurt’s pitched voice came to Blaine’s ears. But he didn’t know. His mind was telling him that it was a man, deformed and monstrous, but it had to be human to do something like that.

“Step back!” They were pushed away by a tattooed hand. It was the guy from before, his tall slender frame standing in front of them. In an instant, he drew out a blade, casting a gentle light around him. He took a step towards that thing and the girl’s body, and in one swift motion buried his blade in its flesh.  

Everything stopped. There was a moment of silence and then air was filled with sharp acrid fragrance that made Blaine stomach turn. Both the thing and the girl disappeared, and the rest of the crowd went on in their fun, not caring.

“Magnus? What are mundanes doing here?” The tattooed man spoke up again, barely sparing them a glance. Blaine’s body was stiff, going through some kind of shock. 

“Don’t know.” Another voice came up behind them, shifting as the man walked up towards them. 

“You just killed someone.” Kurt whispered, his eyes wide open. It seemed he was doing a bit better than Blaine, despite the trembling in his muscles.  

“It was a demon.” Magnus said, coming closer. Lazily, he snapped his fingers and suddenly Blaine felt oxygen surging through his lungs again, his legs not giving up under him anymore. 

“What just happened?” he murmured, dazed and confused. Kurt was holding onto his arm, both of them supporting the weight of the other.

“It was a demon that attacked the poor girl.” Magnus told him, sadness filling his eyes.

“The thing he just killed?” Kurt asked, pointing at the other man. 

“Unfortunately, Alec didn’t kill it. The demon escaped back to its dimension and took the girl with him.” 

Blaine’s heart was beating steadily, but his brain was screaming. He knew he should feel something - fear, shock, anxiety, but he couldn’t for some kind of a reason. 

“You two shouldn’t be here.” The man, Alec, retorted. He was frowning, pulling at the sleeves of his shirt.

Blaine and Kurt looked at each other, uncertainty mirrored in their eyes.  

“It’s okay, Alexander.” Magnus interrupted Alec’s firm gaze and placed a hand on the small of his back. “I can handle this.” 

He moved his arms, sparks and blue waves coming out of them. In front of Kurt and Blaine, two glasses with long stems started to appear. Gradually, they were filled with midnight-blue liquid, with shining spots just like stars on the sky outside. 

“How about a drink?” Magnus suggested, a warm smile spreading on his lips.

The next morning, it all seemed like a bad dream filled with a bit too much alcohol. There’s no such a thing as demons anyway, right?

Here it is! I haven’t really written any actual Klaine fics before, so hopefully it isn’t out of character too much. Also, I quess Klaine didn’t really break up in this universe? 

Let me know what you think! ^^

Read on Ao3.

Prompt Me/Ask Me.

[kattloaf]

Endings (Dinner Party pt. 4)

Kat was out of time. 

Need to do something….

Less than one minute until we either have to drop an illusion, or start hurting ourselves. 

I told you, we have this. 

If so, we need to do it now. 

Frowning to herself, Kat quietly slid her hands down to her thighs, removing the daggers hidden there with excruciating slowness. The side slit on the dress she wore would, normally, have made them plain as day. She’d put the effort in to have several small illusions running the entire evening to conceal her armaments, however. Ironically, those same illusions were the reason she was running dry now. If she were to do this and succeed, she had to be swift. Kat closed her eyes to center herself, then set to it. 

Her illusion, totally complacent up to this point began to shimmer, drawing the soldiers’ immediate attention. One, leaning forward to inspect it, got out a “What the-” before the illusion exploded. A concussive blast of wind knocked all six men against the metal walls of the carrier. Dropping her own veil, Kat swung one dagger, its blade slicing through a soldier’s neck guard and throat with ease. With her other dagger, she made a concise slash in the air, sending a biting arc of wind-aspected aether into the three men along the opposite wall. 

The sound of armor and metal shearing was deafening in the small space, as were the screams of the soldiers. With a need to keep moving, she darted forward, dipping below a haphazard punch thrown by one of the two remaining guards. Adjusting her grip on one of the daggers -Fuyukaze- she jammed it upward and at an angle into the man’s left armpit. A cry of agony heralded her success, but it was a short-lived success. The sixth soldier, having the precious seconds to gather his bearings, slammed into her. Both of them fell to the metal floor roughly, each scrambling to gain an advantage. Grunting with the impact, Kat tried to slice her remaining dagger at the soldier, but he got a grip on her wrist before she could strike true and held it down.

The soldier, enraged by her attack, clamped down his other gloved hand on Kat’s throat, squeezing tightly. As she struggled against both the soldier’s weight atop her and the hand around her neck, Kat’s vision gradually began to grow spotty.The vice grip on her neck was working to render her unconscious, and quickly. Leveling a few ineffectual blows against the guard’s helmet and chest, she did the only other thing she could put her mind to in the moment. Fingers fumbling as she vainly gasped for breath, she felt in her dress for one of her kunai.  Finding one, she got a finger through the loop at the pommel, pulling it free. 

Within a second, the last soldier was lying on the floor, dead. Still gasping for breath, Kat shakily removed one of the vials she’d brought, an ether, and downed it. It wouldn’t put her at full strength by any measure, but it gave her something to work with. Her body would have to do the rest of the work itself. Still uneasy, she looked toward the front of the vehicle. It was impossible for the driver to have missed the commotion, but they were still moving. Still keeping a wary eye on the door to the front cab, Kat reclaimed her weapons, including the kunai that was jammed into the last soldier’s head, sat down, and veiled herself once again. She would wait. 

Eventually, the vehicle stopped. Kat wasn’t entirely certain how long it had been, but she felt fairly certain they had been driving long enough to reach the airship pads at the edge of the coastal town. The vehicle quieted, the engine being shut off. Kat thought she heard shouting outside, and readied herself. Her blades bared, she waited. After a short spell of anticipation, the ramp began to lower. Outside stood another eight soldiers with gunblades and pistols all aimed at the interior of the vehicle. Kat was still veiled, however, so all they saw were the sundered bodies of their compatriots. 

With a focused thought, Kat conjured another illusion, this time behind the new group of soldiers. Looking smug, it called out in a carefree voice, “Looking for someone?” Immediately, all but two of the octet wheeled around to face the source of the noise. The two who didn’t immediately caught aether-propelled kunai to the face. Their bodies going limp and tumbling to the ground, Kat advanced onto the landing pad. 

It was over quickly. Two down, Kat simply had to slice, stab, and dodge through the others With the help of illusions that split off of her to confuse, she made short work of the six. It was a tactic she’d used often, even back in Thavnair. It was effective. 

She was on the airpad, just as expected. Nearby, not twenty fulms away, was the airship that, she presumed, Cassian had arrived in. It had been the one the personnel carrier had come from, of that she was confident. The ship’s engines whined in what was likely its pre-flight ramping. Cassian would be near, of that she was also confident.

Before Kat could begin her hunting of Cassian, she was struck in the arm. The sound of a gunshot rang within that same moment, making it clear just what she’d been hit by. Then came the pain, clouding her mind as she spun around to the ground. Her left arm was now a conduit of pure, unmitigated agony. With a weak cry of pain, she hurriedly began to scramble away, purely out of instinct, angling for the shelter the airship’s hulk provided. 

“Yes, run. I could use a little sport.” Cassian’s arrogant voice echoed across the platform, only somewhat discernible over the ambient noises of the airship. “About the only thing you’re good for. Sport.” 

Tucking into a nook at the base of a landing gear, Kat swung her head around, trying to pinpoint Cassian’s location. 

Give me the pain. We need to think clearly. 

Done.

Done.

Done.

Kat swung her head around, trying to pinpoint Cassian’s location. The whine of the airship made it nearly impossible to hear his footsteps, and the surrounding clutter gave ample cover. Stealing away a moment to inhale a deep breath, Kat committed the roiling, throbbing pain she felt to one of her minds. It let the rest of her think clearly, if for a time. Able to think more clearly, she pulled up the skirt of her dress, using a dagger to cut away a swath and bind the gunshot wound. 

Cassian’s shouting voice interrupted her work, causing her to stop binding the wound and look around in alarm. “You know, I really do have as much time as we need. This is my airship. And there will be more soldiers coming. You can hide as long as you’d like. It won’t make a difference.” Cassian was toying with her now as he stalked the landing pad, moving in and out of crates, ceruleum canisters, bodies. 

Kat started. Ceruleum. That would work. Moving carefully, she willed some of her remaining aether into a veil before returning to the personnel carrier she’d arrived in. After checking to make certain it was empty, she reclaimed her kunai and Harukaze, which she’d dropped during her tumble as she had been shot. 

She was returning to her nook at beneath the landing gear to prepare when she heard the cocking of a pistol, strangely audible beneath the engines. Freezing, she spun. Cassian stood ten fulms away, in front of a set of hoses and, ceruleum canisters. Strangely, he was wearing an odd set of… overly large spectacles? 

“That’ll be enough. I know you’re there. Can see you.” He reached up, tapping at the unwieldy device. “Do you like them? They’re from Eorzea, you know. Can see your aether.” He waved the pistol lightly, gesturing for her to kneel down. 

Dropping her veil, Kat simply stood, defiant. “You’re a piss-poor shot, Cassian. Had the drop and the best you could do was wing me? You need to practice more.” She had to keep him occupied. Her aether was mostly drained, and without somatic gestures to help, her plan was tenuous at best. “Nice gun though.”

The Garlean smiled, meandering closer with a confident swagger as he spoke. “You like it? I keep it for… special occasions, like this. When someone has made a point of irking me enough to be… personal in removing them.” His smile turned to a could, zealous grin. “For only shooting a worn-out old whore, this is going to be rather satisfying.”

She was almost done. She only needed a few more seconds. “You’re forgetting something, Cassian.”

He drew to a stop and aimed his pistol, the muzzle barely two feet from Kat’s forehead. “And what’s that?”

She smiled, her voice echoing from behind Cassian. “To watch the hands, not the face.”

Abruptly, he spun around, pistol readied. There stood an illusion, already beginning to foment into a fireball. Right next to a group of ceruleum canisters. Though Kat couldn’t see it, the blood drained from his face as a dawning horror overtook him. The illusion exploded, rupturing the canisters and starting a chain reaction of flame. 

Knowing she didn’t have time to get away, Kat stepped forward, driving a dagger upward into Cassian’s lungs from behind. The taller Garlean’s body as a physical shield, she pooled what dregs of aether she had left to form a protective ward. Her skill with them was paltry at best, but it was still something.

The explosion blossomed outward as the canisters erupted violently, sending shrapnel and flames soaring. Caught in the explosion, the airship shook, then began to contribute its own fuel and metal to the fiery cataclysm. The shockwave hit first, knocking both her and her Garlean shield back, the flames and heat following on its heels. 

Everything went dark.

[magnetar1]

Presence of the Dead

Entering Baltiasa.  Town of my birth - Vestiges of a former life.  A soul darkly seasoned in this place for all time . . . I did not wish to return, but felt there was little choice.  These last couple years the old violence I felt as a younger man was returning & the only legal way I knew to neutralize  it was by drinking more & writing less - From a fairly young age I knew I wanted to be a writer & had modest success, but now felt the urge leaving me.  All I did was drink & pretend.  Waking up too early, staring into the fog in my mind, counting down the hours before I could start drinking again.  Getting on the bus,  going to a job I hated, fantasies of snapping the necks of those who sat around me.   My tyrannical mind leading me here, to the source of the violence that has stayed benign for most these years.  While many kinds of violence or forms of rebellion might be regarded as youthful nihilism. Seek & destroy, burn the school, rob a gas station.  Horrible acts by society’s standards, but generally no one gets hurt.   Unless, of course, things go terribly wrong.  In my case, an understatement. - - - Walking up to my old house with tears in my eyes.  Practically a hovel when I left.  Now little more than a pile of sticks, collapsed in front with some of the structure still standing in the rear.  Windowless frames boarded up, graffiti scrawl over weathered plywood, symbols that are a mish-mash of other known symbols: swastikas looping out into flaming spirals until becoming scrawled names of made-up heathen gods.   My old house was near the high school.  Besides this, a cemetery. Alongside the main road leading to the edges of town.  On one side a slough winding its way behind it, toward the ocean.  Sludge of mud, bullheads & discarded animal corpses; human too, I imagined. On the other side there is a place called Indian Legends.  Miles & miles of unkempt wilderness right in the backyard.  Shot through with a  transit of trails snaking their way to the ocean.  Or ending abruptly in a tangle of dense forest.  My two best friends & I spent entire summers exploring & getting lost.  Up all night drinking the cheap, shitty rum that David liked to drink.  While Bryan & I got stoned, tripped & look at stars.  David was fourteen, a couple years younger than us, & already preferred alcohol to psychedelics . . . Suddenly, a shape lurking in the corner of my sight.  A cold feeling I recall from living here.  Best not recall too much, though, as I’d need to conserve my strength.  Taking a flask out of my shirt pocket to ward the spirit away.  I still remembered some of them by name even after all these years.   Making my way to the shed out back.  A trail winding through a dense thicket which in those days seemed like primordial lands.  Toward a canopy of trees that eventually connected to a secret entrance leading to Indian Legends - On night journeys, with burning torches, in search of spectral portals to demonic realms.  Things I now ascribed to a steady diet of D & D, heavy metal & horror films. - - - Sitting on a cracked stool stunned by how intact our temple seemed. Other than a few more weeds growing through cracks in the floor it was as we’d left it.  No longer the upturned cable-wheel we used as a table.  Nor the homemade bookshelf sagging with stacks of comics & porn: a secret compartment built in back where we could stash joints & hits of acid . . . I thought of all the acid I took in those years & now it makes me shudder.  Getting ripped apart without even leaving my room. Listening to record after record on my headphones in total darkness. Opening my eyes to strange shapes in the corners.  A palpable resiliency that never left.  In the house.  Town.  Inter-dimensional.  I want to forget it all over again.  My muscles tightening just thinking about . . . I get back up to pace in the tall grass outside.  I drain my flask. Walking back to the car a friend let me borrow - To fix my head, I’d told him.  He had it in his mind that I was going to a retreat or something so wanted to help. I was beyond that, I thought, refilling the flask with a fifth from behind the driver’s seat.  I tugged from the bottle itself & pocketed the three hits of acid I’d brought. - - -       No one pays me any mind as I continue to pace outside.  I think about breaking into the house, but did not have the courage.  The house, itself, situated on the edge of a precipice that I did not quite understand.  Leaving a trace after it crumbles.  Sealing its flagrant energy back into the soil which erected it.  All terrible things that have happened inside. With a history of violence before we got there.  My father got it for cheap much like in a classic horror film scenario.  The entire town was starting to degrade rapidly at that time due to the waning logging industry.  A rather large house could be rented for practically nothing. Less, even, for a house like this.  Even though they were all rimmed by a kind of destitution.  Still, citizens of Baltiasa would not mourn the death of their town.  A shift so gradual they never acknowledged it, or were too dumb to care. I didn’t care either.  I wanted to make my peace & get out.  Suddenly, the grinding mechanism called the city didn’t seem so bad.  Only it was existence itself, bane of life, that had forced me to accept this as some kind of metaphoric suicide mission. Unable to say what I needed to say & trapped between worlds.  All secrets buried deep making me sick.  Many resided in this house. Haunted traits & a disdain for familial settings - Waiting for my father to leave for work every morning.  After which, hearing footsteps approaching my bedroom door followed by a thing’s ragged breathing. I never turn around to see what is there.  I don’t turn around now.  I try to keep my mind on what it is I came here for.  Still, I remain aware of their correspondence.  Voices I heard in the basement telling me to kill them all.  To cut off their heads in their sleep.  To cancel their dreams with bloody screams: I am the last thing they see.  Blind Incubus . . . For a moment I feel the same demonic power I felt then & I am nearly repelled back into a sane state.  Tears once again mounting in my eyes.  I feel the weight of car keys in my pocket & am crushed by an urge for escaping.  Instead, I pace harder & wait for the sun to go down.  Dusk evaporates into night as the wind picks up & tosses the trees around. It never occurred to me that it could rain this night.  While the town itself hunkered in a low slung valley.  Hills sprouting far & upward before sinking down.  Creeks wind their way across beds of silt & stone, leading to the slough or out into the harbor. I’d cut across these many hills toward the Pacific.  Tidal waves of soil rippling ahead to where it meets the ocean.  It’s where ghosts of my past will meet.  An undisclosed location fixed above a long stretch of beach.  A cave burrowing through a quarter mile of sheer rock. Station for our secret ceremonies: Fortress of Leviathan. - - - Bryan & I discovered the cave together.  Rumored as a spot for ritual sacrifice.  Shamans in the old world went there to enter darkness & come out reborn: To sacrifice their own meandering spirits toward more evidence regarding the afterlife.  Since, they say, it was a hive for local satanists.  Mostly living in Cascadian foothills above the town line in burrows worse than mine.   These were the poorest neighborhoods.  A grey zone of  meth-heads & veterans living off meagre pensions.  Single moms who’d given up hope.  Detritus of a third world nation beginning to show.  Hid in overgrown places, nestled deep as worms.   David came from this place.  And although Bryan & I came from poor families, he was a different breed.  Some kids at school referred to him as ‘the vampire’ at the beginning of his freshmen year because of his pale skin & frail demeanor.  Always in black wearing headphones. He rarely talked to anyone but himself.  Bryan & I became friends with him because we listened to a lot of the same bands.  Smoking pot in the cemetery.  David passing a cheap bottle of Rum around.  Ditching school to wander the hills: the triad . . . Now, as I look down at those three tiny hits of acid in my palm, I think of David.  It hits me hard & heavy.  Nearly hurling the doses to the ground & getting out of there.  Instinct becomes focus as my brutal emotions abate.  Having trust in the moment. I swallow them down, unthinking.  A grand meditation reduced to an afterthought. Realizing I’ve never been afraid to die & the flashes of fear I suffered are spectral.  I was so young.  Scarcely do I remember exactly what it is I saw.  Writing it down from various angles.  Snapshots of Hell. Waking up in the middle of the night with total entropy on the mind. To see it all burn for a chance at freedom.   Meanwhile, returning to the wellspring of my nightmares for another look. - - - The acid kicking in.  I stood with residual trepidation: At the foot of The Portal . . . Everything Bryan & I did was epic.  The real world faded as we delved deeper into more truant manifestations - Beyond the shroud of the town.  Our sensitivity toward what was considered the ‘normal’ world greatly dimmed.   Holding my breath in my room every morning so I could summon the thing I was too frightened to face.  Force of violence assumed in the form of its wraith-like stare.  A messenger, perhaps.  Or guide.  A combination of the energy surrounding the place co-mingling with the synaptic edge that we were experiencing from the drug. One might argue it all away with this very excuse, but I awaken cold in the night to this day with the feeling that it’s never left - Bryan & I. Unafraid to die.  Sorcerers.  Spending morning hours after we’d endured the long night talking about how reality was changing for us. No longer devotees of spatial reasoning or fenced logic. Everywhere we looked there were signs of the other world.  It is this feeling that has never left.  Even as it’s the first time I’ve dropped in all these years.  I’ve been unable to undo the retooling my consciousness received when Bryan & I were taking it every day & getting lost in the ghost-like radiance of it all. Procession of past lives into shadowed lands.  I hear the dirge as I followed.  Much sadness in the final days of my youth: a violent crossroads where I might have become a different person.  A shrink, perhaps.  Businessman.  Or serial killer.   All the ugly things I might have become.  I keep them at bay by starting to write.  All the demons & the ghosts.  Everything gets in. Every relationship I’ve been in & each alcoholic nightmare.  Family that’s abandoned me & so I’ve abandoned them.  Still murdering them in their sleep after all these years - Weakened side.  A sick return to my base person . . . Standing at the foot of the Portal about to go in.  Wind howling around me like it did the night Bryan & I led David to the Fortress. Lifting my gaze to gathering clouds overhead & the dense haze of the night sky’s hammering thoughts.  Rain comes hard at first before settling into a whispering drizzle.  At tail-end of the procession they are taunting me. All the town’s dead shadows co-mingling with ancient spirits that lived here.  Standing in the rain above a pale, flickering light.  Irreal fog packs densely across its shimmering back. Rise of the Wyrm.  When warm rain comes.  All spirit clings to her.  All moving along Leviathan’s course . . . - - - The howling winds made me think of my last few months here.  I was nineteen & gaining on becoming a full fledged burnout.  I rarely saw Bryan anymore until, finally, he held up a gun-shop with one of the shop’s own guns.  Shooting it out from behind the counter with a couple of rednecks who’d walked in during the middle of it.  Soon cops busted in to finish it: one clean shot to the head.   Suddenly, I wish Bryan was here.  He always knew how to talk me through.  It made me feel bad, though, that I’d thought of him as evil in the end.  Now, feeling evil myself, with hatred becoming clear & concise.  I fought back the urge to turn it loose on Baltiasa itself.  A point in space where time is stalled by lethargy . . . That’s how it happened.  All the energies swirling up in that place at once, getting inside the collective mind - Wind howling around me. Nature’s screams co-mingling with the guttural cries of the dead.  In place of shadows I saw faces. Now I could see beyond the hills, across galaxies, & I no longer felt human.  Somehow, the grid of all existence was grasped.  Turbulence of spirits at the moment of rebirth.  I look into the heart of the town from above.  It struggled just as I had struggled.  It could not get past the point of remission - Disease without consent.  Breeding ground for old serpents dropping seed in veiled & foetid gardens.  Blind, slithering masters of forlorn kingdoms. - - - I follow Leviathan to her grave.  The ocean.  Alive with her strength & law.  They couldn’t make her abate even as the world went on. Civilizations thriving & fading where time could still pick them up & tear them asunder.   The shore slips off the edge of the world & into her widening maw.   That’s what I feel like entering the cave of my youth.  Momentarily, I feel the sublimity I used to feel when Bryan & I came here.  Quickly, it withers away . . . So why had I come?  To face an evil that was as much a part of me as I was of it?  Or to sever my spirit from a violence that might take over at any time?   I embrace the feeling before I’m able to move on.  To see past it: shapes flickering to life. Crawling on hands & knees careful not to stumble.  The cave’s not as big as I remember, but just as long - The moon does not penetrate so deep.  Instead, a ghost-light is seen, hiding forms in its murky translucence.   Electrical glow from that charged night.  At the peak of our elemental powers . . . I hold back retching as I watch the image of Bryan take out his sacrificial knife.  Glinting off cave walls to reveal all the symbols that have been scrawled there.  Some that are similar to those on the side of the old house - Gateway, connecting ALL private underworlds, horrors that have followed me for years.  A sanguine propensity for death over life.  My inability to re-imagine it any other way.   - - - I’ve lived through it every day, shadowy but prospective.  Return trip: on the first day I forget the world I left behind.  Burning around a dark seed we left.  Everything else scorched in its wake.   Stumbling through ashes toward the goal.  David, on his knees, in a halo of smoky light . . . I swear that Bryan is burning from the inside out.  He often talked about feeling like he was on fire while tripping.  I could feel it, too, but on a current adjacent from his own. Poles meeting where David lied unconscious.  His face streaked with vomit & blood.  He drank too much & lost his balance stumbling along. Bryan is freaking out.  He says there are spirits inside the cave that are trying to possess us.  He explains the spirits are even older than those of the shamans who came here for night journeys &, when necessary, sacrifice. To the spirits themselves, both caustic & liberating.  The only way to save ourselves was by absorbing one who is weaker; liberating his weakness with our strength. Bryan’s eyes as big as saucers as he waits for the child to go limp.  Mad, inhuman,  nature’s frenzied look. Later claiming to have had an obscure vision: raging ocean below a pregnant moon.  Bilious forms in the undercurrent.  Nauseating & serpentine mass.  Tumorous . . . Afterwards, I never did experience those same evasive manifestations in my room & considered it a powerful sacrifice.  However, taking harder drugs, drinking more.  I spent the months following the 'disappearance' of David in a brilliant stupor.  And yet I was content to see old demons replaced by new ones.   The entire town (outside this experience) dissolved & I was eventually able to consider some mode of suffering to call my own. Ghosts of my youth became the internal grief of my adulthood as I tried escaping it through artistic means: to distance myself from the eventuality of my own mortal breakdown.  A Sacrifice, to nothing, in the morning . . . - - - I look in Bryan’s eyes & understand that he’s done with this life.  In many respects, I am too.  Is that considered evil? Cutting David open with his sacrificial knife.  Bryan feeds me parts that are both revitalizing & repugnant . . . Across the divide.  I look back on my life from a vantage point of strangeness & grief.  Baltiasa & its aftermath; mythic, cannibalistic fortune. I’ve survived with these rites in my personal canon.  While the rest of the world sits & waits for instant communion - Vital force at center. Shaman’s gift.  Nature’s everlasting council.  Demons prey, but never attack.  Benign to the ever expanding universe. Harboring true reality’s conquest.  That we were never meant for this. False agendas of the weak.   Sacrifice becoming necessary when rot awakens.  While under the surface is a percolating dawn.  So easy to see, yet out of reach.  When we are are not the thing we aim to be. When purity of vision becomes a nightmare . . . Hunched, broken, grinding my teeth.  Welling tears in darkness, I impress all my will on growing past it.  How else will I go on with my life?  Keep murdering until the feeling goes away?  Drown myself in alcohol until the last drop takes me?   Pounding a fist against the cave floor until my hand is raw & bleeding.  I taste my own blood &, unsheathing the knife I brought along, consider going all the way.  Letting my guts spill across. Uncoiling.  Opacious.  A serpent awakens.  Possibly to let me pass without devouring my spirit, suffering no cognition of a world beyond its own.