#listening to hollow skies always makes me emotional i remember even in the game when i realized when playing through it again

[southboundhq]

MEET HARLOW,

FULL NAME › Harlow Vulpecula Belle AGE › twenty two GENDER › Cis female (She/Her/Hers) FROM › Upper West Side, New York LODGING › Copper Cactus Motel PRIOR EMPLOYMENT › Ballet Dancer (Soloist) NOW PLAYING › ‘Non, je ne regrette rien’ by Edith Piaf

BIOGRAPHY,

trigger warnings: death, injury, mental illnesses, suicide / contemplation of suicide, substance abuse, implied abuse and emotional manipulation

The rise of the curtains meant the show is starting. When they fall for the last time, it means the show is over.

A life in four acts (and counting), one for each loss.

ACT I. BELLE

She was her mother’s daughter; the same laughter, the kindness, the eyes.

The gentleness of her mother’s touch, the honey of her voice. Her delicate fingers brushing through Harlow’s hair, the warmth radiating through every room in their small home, right in the heart of Paris. The smell of the evening wind. The sight of it all. Harlow, in her best dress, her legs swaying, as her mother took her to watch Swan Lake. The first time she had ever held onto something.

An angel loved and doted on.

Memories of her golden childhood, from a time she wishes had never ended. It was the only thing that Harlow Belle could do: cling to the innocence and the wonder that her mother blessed her with— even as her mother’s health quickly deteriorated. For they were things she could not understand; she had never known loss. A ghost in the night, taking away the color from her mother’s cheeks. Her mother whispering I love you, but it had sounded so much like Farewell. The man standing by the door the next morning, one she did not really know, but was familiar only because it was his face in her mother’s cherished photograph. He wept at her side and her mother ran her hand through his hair, planting a kiss on his head. His hand was warm, his voice gentle, leading Harlow away.

The universe had shown her paradise, and it burned it down infront of her.

You’re not coming with us? Harlow had asked.

Her mother smiled, I will be with you, my love.

But her mother never came, no matter how long Harlow waited. She was alone.

ACT II. LACY

She never really understood why her mother never came. Or why she had to leave. Was her mother dead? Did her mother not love her anymore? There wasn’t an answer that Harlow wanted to hear, so she simply never asked. Entangled in her own little world, where she blurred the lines between her reality and her memories.

On some days, it was as easy as breathing. It meant formally studying ballet. It was the white dress she wore on her father’s wedding day. It was listening to the affection in their voices as they spoke to her. As if she belonged. It was her hand on her stepmother’s belly, waiting for their unborn son to kick from the womb. It was a future where the ache left by her mother was the size of the pendant of Harlow’s dainty necklace.

It was easy, too, when she was twelve, one the eve of her first real performance.

You’re coming to watch, right? The excitement in her voice.

Her stepmother tucked hair behind her ear, Wouldn’t miss it.

It was the heartbreak and the fear, a distant memory replaying in her head. Harlow, watching the empty seats her parents couldn’t fill. The tears that followed, the apologies, the sobbing. The car accident that happened that night, claiming the lives of her stepmother and her unborn child. Her father, paralyzed, spending his days in a wheelchair and looking out into the window.

Sometimes, Harlow thinks he’s asking to be taken, too.

He did not look at her. He did not speak to her. Not that he could.

Harlow found herself alone again. And this time, it was her fault.

ACT III. PRIMA

Her grandmother, as she had learned, was an esteemed and respected Principal Dancer, known for her completely control over her body and the tantalizing performances she brought. She was eloquent, with a dignified walk, the air around her had always seemed so.. perfect. But Amanda Lacy, in Harlow’s experience, was a distorted mirror—her reflection was crooked, and every inch of her cruel.

The first time Amanda Lacy used violence on Harlow was a week after the accident. Harlow had refused to dance so adamantly, and she remembers the thunder and lightning that sounded as Amanda Lacy’s hand collided with her small face. It was my fault, Harlow would repeat her grandmother’s words, It’s because I didn’t want to dance. It’s because it was my fault that dad can’t dance anymore.

It was easy, too, to fall back inlove with ballet. Too easy.

Dancing as the sun rose in the morning, until late at night. Under fluorescent lights. Her body in full view. Drenched in sweat. The tears on her eyes as she pushed her body to its limit, to bend until she almost breaks. Almost. Until every muscle ached.

Until her grandmother was satisfied.

Harlow, who had loved ballet, grew afraid of it. It was a constant game of hide-and seek. A push and pull between her passion and her fear. Escaping. Craving. The chill that ran down her spine, the way her blood ran cold. Amanda Lacy would only ever call her “Prima”, followed by the ache of a wish that she would one day be worthy of being called such a name.

It meant drowning out the praises of strangers, growing blind to the eyes that landed on her, the expectations they had. The anxiety that drowned out the adrenaline brought by the stage lights and the music. The numbness. The collapse and the caving in. Attempting to put an end to it all. The doctors she had to meet with, who only ever gave her pills. though none of them ever really fixed her, a hollow porcelain doll. The slashes on her wrists.

More pills.

More, more, more, until she couldn’t count them anymore.

The empty seat she wished her father would fill, if somehow reality had been kinder to him. To them both.

At the age of twenty-one, Harlow had laced her shoes for a production of Swan Lake. It had been her dream, her turning point, her one last hope to be freed from her mother’s memory, of her grandmother’s presence. There she was, a mess of blood and tears, hunched over the sink, her consciousness fading, the strength leaving her body. Amanda Lacy stands by the door, though Harlow couldn’t gather enough of her thoughts to think about how she had gotten in. There is a look of anger and disgust as she pulls at Harlow’s clothes, her palm coming down on her face in a hard slap.

Compose yourself and dance, Prima. Do not embarrass me. Words, stone-cold.

Stellar form. Control. Grace. Precision. An expressive, electrifying performance. One could not look away.

Harlow Lacy, the prodigy.

IV. HARLOW

The smell of his cigarette followed Harlow even hours after they had parted. The mischief in his smile. His hand, taking Harlow’s own. His fist colliding with a stranger’s jaw, the one who touched her. The way they made a run for it after that. The kisses they stole from each other. The skies when she and the other lost kids snuck into the city pool, the way it painted everything purple. The kisses they gave back.

He called her Prima, too, but it did not carry venom when it left his lips. She should know, he had always tasted sweet for her.

Harlow was fifteen when she met him. The childish trouble they would get themselves into, she and all the other kids who she learned was just like her, the hungry and the desperate.To numb the ache, or to take away the numbing.

Over the next few years, Harlow would have gotten herself through all sorts of troubles. Disappearing for days without so much as a word. She had learned that Amanda Lacy did not really care about her whereabouts, just that she was able to deliver a performance. Harlow made sure to make full use of this knowledge. She would end up coming back, anyway.

It didn’t matter to her at twenty-two, when she put all of her belongings into suitcases and a backpack, and a suitcase filled with all of the money she had made from dancing, and every transaction in the backwaters, everything she could steal from her own family, and all of the money her mother had put in her name (which, Harlow had learned, was a lot).

Her pointe shoes. The necklace her mother gave her. Photographs. Memories. Saying goodbye to her father, though he did not really answer. Even though he may still despise Harlow, she knew he would understand. An apology. And then another. Lying with a straight face, every alibi and every answer perfectly crafted. Pulling all of her strings and sneaking out in the dead of night to find herself on a flight from New York to California, then driving to Las Vegas.

Or anywhere, really.

Anywhere was fine.

She would end up coming back, anyway.

She had been hung-over when she drove into Boot Hill, going straight to a motel to sleep off the exhaustion, stay for a few days, then head back on the road. But there was something endearing about Boot Hill that Harlow couldn’t pinpoint. The way it was everything she never thought she wanted, a remote place where Amanda Lacy would never even imagine her to hide in. Where she was not haunted, seemingly plucked off from the grasps of her grandmother. The poison that dripped from every word that left her mouth. The sharp pain on her body as it collided with the wooden cane. The bruises. The ache.

But right now there is only Harlow, and her three-legged pug, Poppy.

Occasionally, she watches the town’s sign and the open road ahead, thinking she’ll have to go soon. She’ll have to come back sooner or later. She cannot keep running away.

Then there is the heaviness.

I’ll leave tomorrow, she says, but tomorrow never really comes.

❝ i wonder what’s in store if i don’t love it anymore; stuck between the having-it-all and giving-it-up. ❞

CENSUS,

FACECLAIM › Zendaya Coleman AUTHOR › Fey

[timeinabottle]

Danse Macabre | Jopper AU | Stranger Things

William Byers disappears into thin air in 1883. His distraught mother, Joyce must put aside her differences with the only man that can help her now. In their desperate search for her son, they uncover the dark world of the occult, a terrible haunting and something the Witch's daughter calls... the Other Side.

Stranger things have happened...

Read on AO3 {X}

Listen to the soundtrack on spotify {X}

Chapter One: The Vanishing of William Byers

Hawkins, Indiana October 26,1883 Sleep riddled James Hopper’s head like a dense cloud, letting him forget where he was for the foggy moment between dreams. He reached across the bed for the warmth a woman who was not there. His hands grasped at thin air instead, and the cold, twisted sheets that wrapped around him like a tourniquet.

When he finally stumbled out of bed and shook the cobwebs off, he caught a glimpse of the clock and cursed. He was late for work again.

He hastily made his way to the medicine cabinet and took a swig off a dark glass bottle. The bitter tincture burned on the way down, but he didn’t care. He looked forward to the sting every morning. And periodically throughout the day... And twice again before bed. Initially prescribed by a physician for a chronic case of melancholy and fever three years earlier, Hopper reasoned it was the only thing keeping him going at this point.

As he got dressed, he chased the tonic with a nip or three of whiskey and half a cigarette leftover from the night before. A touch of cologne was the finishing touch to mask the scent of his morning routine. He strapped his sidearm and fixed the crooked badge on his uniform before stepping out into the low autumn sun.

Fall had swept through the Midwest with a cold fury that year, turning the trees into an ocean of fiery yellows and reds as far as the eye could see. The clear cornflower-blue skies of summer had given way to brooding clouds. They hung over the town like a death shroud, a shadow veil hiding the sun, and bringing with it the acrid perfume of decay.

As the days grew shorter, so did Hopper’s patience. Once a loving and devoted husband and father, he felt dead inside now. Utterly devoid of human emotion. His wife Diane and his darling little Sara were taken within days of each other by a nasty bout of consumption almost four years previous. It wiped out half of Manhattan’s Eleventh Ward before he realized New York had left him with nothing, and he retreated to the comforting arms of his hometown.

Looking up from rock bottom, sleepy little Hawkins seemed like the only choice left for him. It was somewhere he felt safe enough to collapse; to mend a shattered heart and ride out the rest of his years in relative ease. After all he fought for during the war and carried with him still, the tragedy of losing his girls was too much to bear. It left him feeling empty.

More than empty; like a dark star, ready to collapse in on itself.

He found as the years passed by, and despite his best efforts, the broken pieces of his heart would not fit back together, no matter how hard he tried to make it work. He was watching himself turn into a lonely and embittered man in the mirror. He was slowly becoming his father and couldn’t think of a worse fate.

Just like his father, he only had a small circle of people who he could trust. His closest friends were former soldiers in the war, now his deputy officers, Callahan and Powell. He could barely admit it to himself, but he spent most of his time with those two fools either at work or at the tavern after work. His friends had their own young families to focus on though, so after he sent them home for the day, Hopper would spend the latter half of his evenings closing down the bar and chasing after the available women in town, breaking their hearts before they could barely get attached.

He was alone in this world and was starting to think that nothing would ever change. It was his lot in life. Eventually, he accepted his fate and stopped caring. He became lazy. Mid-morning arrivals to work had become the norm, but no one seemed to notice or care.

No one, except Florence.

The police department’s secretary was all but tapping her foot at his late arrival, waiting for him when he arrived. She took his coat from his arms and the still burning cigarette from his mouth disapprovingly. He nodded to the boys in the bullpen as he made his grand, yet fashionably late entrance.

Callahan piped up, “You look miserable, Chief.”

“Funny, your wife hardly looked any better when I left this morning,” Hopper didn’t skip a beat, smiling snidely to the young officer as he walked by his desk. Powell hid his chuckle behind his cup of coffee and watched Callahan struggle to find a suitable response for his superior.

“Thank you very much for gracing us with your presence, James,” Florence interrupted, handing him his day's work and a cup of steaming black coffee as he passed by her desk. A schoolmarm in her younger days, she played the part well enough around the office, making sure all of Hawkins finest were running on time. Her only problem child now… was the chief.

Her hands found her hips when he didn’t acknowledge her, “You have a visitor this morning.”

Hopper grumbled into his cup, “Already? It’s only… half past ten. Did I not make myself clear before? No appointments before noon; my mornings are for coffee... and contemplation.”

Yes, that sounded about right.

“I didn’t have a choice in the matter,” Florence explained with a huff, handing him the paperwork she had already started and following him through the bullpen to his office in the back of the building. “The young lady insisted she speak with you immediately and pushed right through to your office. She won’t budge until she sees you, and only you — stubborn thing. Of course, I’ve been keeping her calm while you took your time getting here this morning,” the older woman’s voice dripped with sarcasm. Hopper would have told her that particular tone didn’t suit a woman of her age… if only he were a braver man.

“Please tell me the pushy little lady that’s waiting for me is beautiful, or at the very least, eligible,” he grunted as he stuffed the paperwork in his uniform pocket, not able to muster enough care to look it over. He was confident the matter was a stolen purse or a civil disagreement, something that didn't require his personal attention — that's what he had the two buffoons sitting in the bullpen for.

“It’s Joyce Byers, Chief. She says her son is missing.”

That stopped him in his tracks. It felt like a lifetime since he had heard that name, and it sounded so foreign to him now as his secretary said it. A pang of nostalgia caught his attention, which quickly turned to hurt, remembering how much heartache that confounded woman had caused him in a previous life. He felt a burning agitation growing in his chest at the parting memory he had of her… or perhaps that was the laudanum finally kicking in.

“Did you ask the Widow Byers if she remembers where she left him?”

“That’s not appropriate James,” Florence tutted at him, giving him a stern look over her spectacles. “She’s rather upset.”

Hopper took a deep breath before opening the door to his office, preparing himself for a maddening interaction. His guard dropped slightly when he saw her sitting there, looking lost and forlorn. A small nagging thought played at him, a reminder that she had played this game with him before, and he was the one who lost; she could always play the victim so well.

As the door closed behind him and he stepped into the room, he got a better look at her under the dim light from the window. Her hair was a matted, frizzy mess tucked under the net of her fascinator, a futile attempt to look put together. Her hollow eyes stood out against the sharp pallor of her skin, betraying her weak constitution. She was so far removed from the young, vibrant woman he once knew. It was if a stranger was standing across the room from him now.

“Police Chief Hopper,” she curtsied as he walked around her to his desk, much to his chagrin. Her tone was polite, but he could hear an underlying hint of irritation as she spoke. No doubt for having to wait over an hour to see him. “Thank you for seeing me on such short notice.”

“We can drop the formalities, Joyce. You know damn well you didn’t give me a choice in the matter. Safe to say we’re beyond pleasantries now,” he was stern, not wanting to play games with her, just wanting to get this over with and move on with his day. Yet, despite everything that had gone on between them in their formative years — and the resentment he felt thinking about it again — seeing her looking like this was pulling at a small part of him he thought was long buried.

“Oh, well. My apologies... Hop,” her head dipped at her slight and his correction, but she made a point of saying his name as only she knew it.

Joyce looked like an awkward little bird with a broken wing that needed mending. As he sat down behind his desk, she followed suit, and he observed her nervously plucking at her wrinkled skirts while she waited for him to get settled. It looked to him like she had been wearing the same dress for days and Hopper supposed that was very likely the case if her son was indeed missing. If he knew anything about Joyce, it was that she loved her sons more than life itself. He also knew her to be flighty and forgetful too, so it was hard to say if Will was truly missing or she had just lost track of his whereabouts in this state she was in. Regardless, he could tell that whatever had happened was clearly impeding her mental faculties — she was a vibrating, nervous wreck. Gazing at her pitiful form, he supposed he could give her the benefit of the doubt, one last time.

“All right then, why don’t you tell me what happened. From the start,” Hopper set out a pen and ink, and some paper to take notes as Joyce spoke.

She took a trembling breath, looking down at a small cabinet card with her son’s image on it, and held it tight in her hand as if in prayer. Steadying herself, she began, “My son, William -- Will was out visiting friends two days ago after school. He never made it back home.”

“Did he tell you when he would be back?”

She nodded, elaborating, “He said that morning he would be home for dinner. It’s not like him, but he’s getting older now. When he didn’t make it back, I just assumed he stayed with friends. I called on all of them yesterday, and all they could tell me was they had been at the river that afternoon, and he had left an hour before I expected him home.” Her words were clipped. She was trying her best not to cry.

He wrote down her answers languidly as he continued the inquisition, “And you’ve searched the property for him? Your house is at the edge of Mirkwood, isn’t it?”

“Yes. My oldest and I have torn the forest apart. It’s as if Will disappeared into thin air…” she wrung her hands in worry and bit her bottom lip hard as if willing herself not to think such things.

Hopper paused for a long moment to light a cigarette and offer another to Joyce, who took it as if she had been starving for one. Watching as she brought it to her lips with a shaky hand, he bided his time before he spoke again, wanting to choose his words with particular delicacy.

“Have you considered that he might have run away? Boys of his age will do that, you know. Do you still have relatives in Illinois? Is it possible he went to visit them?”

“No,” she couldn’t help but raise her voice at the underlying suggestion that she was a bad mother and couldn’t keep track of her boy. “I know my son; he wouldn’t do something like that without telling me. It’s been almost two full days! Even if he did, he would have contacted me by now,” she cast her eyes to the floor, the uncertainty starting to creep in. ”I’m sure of it.”

“I stole away when I was a teenager to go fight in the war, Joyce. I didn’t tell anyone until I had to,” Hopper spoke gently, confident she didn’t need the reminder of the abrupt end to the trysts of their youth.

“The war is over if you recall, and… and he’s not like you!" Joyce snapped at him and her face twisted, vexed at his words. He could tell she was holding her tongue to keep from insulting him.

She took a deep breath before she continued. Hopper was her only hope now, and he could tell she was desperate for his help.

“And he’s not like me. He’s not like most. He’s a sensitive soul, creative… and smart… the other children tease him and call him awful names.” She went back to wringing her hands, getting lost in her thoughts, “Something is wrong, I just know it.”

Her eyes locked onto his from across the desk, imploring. Hopper sighed. There was no getting out of this, was there?

“Well, the first thing we should do is organize a search party and get his image in front of as many people as we can. You have that picture card of him?”

She looked down to the card in her hands, tracing the grey image of Will with her fingertips; likely the only memento she had of her beloved son. Hopper only wished he had the same of his sweet Sara.

“Take that to the printers on the way home and have them draft up some posters with his vital information.” Hopper wrote down what she would need to give to the pressman and passed it to her. “I will organize the rest, but I have to be honest with you Joyce… Your reputation around town won’t help us much.”

Joyce’s set her jaw at his words and heaved a drawn-out sigh as if she had been expecting him to say it.

“I can certainly pay your department for the time if that is what it’s going to take to get this process started.” She stuck the cigarette in her mouth in a very un-lady-like fashion to open her coin purse with both hands, as if expecting his outstretched palm, but Hopper waved her off.

“That won’t be necessary. You’re entitled to public services as much as anyone. I’m just uncertain how many volunteers we can muster up for someone who’s known as the Widowed Witch of Mirkwood…” his voice trailed off, regretting the words, as he watched her face cloud over.

Joyce frowned at the ridiculous name the townsfolk had given her. She knew it all too well.

Her husband had died a mysterious and sudden death the year previous. Joyce never spoke of it to anyone, but they all knew. His body wasn’t even in the ground before she took advantage of the life insurance policy in his name at the factory. It seemed that dying had been the one and only good thing Lonnie Byers ever did for his family. And despite being given every opportunity to mourn, Joyce had refused her social obligation. How could she possibly be expected to grieve for the drunken brute of a man she had married? Someone who beat her and her sons if they stepped out of line. Someone who treated her like a dog when they were out in public and didn’t even bother to hide his frequent visits to the bawdy house. From the outside looking in, Hopper could understand why she couldn’t bring herself to mourn that monster of a man, but the community couldn’t ignore her disregard for societal norms, and she was quickly shunned.

Joyce only fanned the flames. Instead of indulging the proper grieving period, she splurged on a new wardrobe. She wore jewel-toned velvets and pastel chantilly lace loudly around town, just to make sure her true feelings toward her dead husband were well known. It didn’t take long for the townsfolk to start talking after that.

Did you hear? Joyce Byers murdered her husband. She only did it for the money.

Hawkins ran wild with whispers and lies: She went crazy and poisoned him. She cut his body up and buried him in the woods behind their house. A secret lover helped her do it, and they danced naked under the full moon… on his grave!

Soon, rumor had it she had summoned a demon to do her bidding. She was labeled an outcast. A scarlet letter. A particular kind of witch.

Of course, Hopper didn’t believe any of the rumors… but he did think that maybe she had it coming. After all, it was Lonnie’s arms she ran to when Hopper didn’t court her fast enough for her liking in the summer of 1863. It wasn’t soon after she broke his heart, Hopper left her and Hawkins behind to fight for the Union, severing any remaining threads that kept them bound together.

“Those rumors are completely unfounded,” she started, trying her best to contain the rage bubbling up inside of her. “And they have nothing to do with my Will.”

“I know they are, Joyce,” Hopper rubbed his tired eyes. “You’re right, it has nothing to do with Will. I’m just saying this might be a bit of an uphill battle for us if we want any information on the whereabouts of your son.”

Her face clouded over at the realization sunk in. Even though he was six feet under, Lonnie Byers’ was still causing her trouble in this life. That son of a bitch.

“I was awfully sorry to hear about your husband,” Hopper cleared his throat, though his voice betrayed him; Joyce picked up on his lack of sincerity immediately.

“Please, spare me your condolences,” she held her hand up to him to stop right there and save them both the discomfort of going through the motions. “We both know what type of man my husband was. My sons and I are much better off now…” she trailed off, a look of distress adorning her delicate, worn features. “Or rather, we were, until my poor b-” she choked on a sob, clutching the picture to her chest. Hopper passed her his handkerchief and gave her a quiet moment to lament her missing child.

He was all too familiar with the pain she was going through, and as she wept, he resolved to put the past aside. He felt compelled to help this broken little bird, despite himself and their history. At least there was still hope for her that Will would return home safely. He’d be damned if he let her lose the fleeting chance to bring him back; something he never had.

When she composed herself again and looked back at him, it was with glassy, pleading eyes, “I need you to find him, Hop.”

“We will find him,” Hopper hoped she would see the truth in his eyes, even if he didn’t feel it himself. “I promise.”

There was nothing more he could do right then but comfort her with a pledge that he prayed he could keep.

For the first time since he laid eyes on her that morning, a small smile graced Joyce’s delicate features. “Thank you,” she extinguished her forgotten cigarette out in the ashtray on his desk and stood up to shake his hand. The gesture felt strange coming from her.

He took her proffered hand with both of his and watched as her lips parted with the shock of his touch. He waited for her to say something more, but she never did; the space between them heavy with everything that would remain unsaid. He couldn’t shake the sudden feeling that they had done this all before. Déjà vu.

When the strange moment passed, he was the first to let go, and he guided her to the door, giving her brief instructions on her next steps.

“Take that picture to the printing press and then go home straight away. I’ll take care of everything else. Get some rest. I will stop by as soon as I have more information for you.”

She paused before leaving, her hand clutching his forearm. Her eyes searched his, one more time.

“You’ll find him for me?”

He nodded, “I swear.” That time it felt like the God’s honest truth.

She nodded solemnly, holding the slip of paper and image of Will tight to her chest, taking his promise and her orders with her as he escorted her out of his office. She seemed to float down the dark hall towards the station’s front door, and as he watched her exit, he wondered how he would manage this mess. Just when he thought he had enough of his own problems to deal with, she had to show up at his doorstep with a doozy.

How could he expect anything less from Joyce Byers?

As Joyce stepped out onto Main Street, the gravity of the situation finally hit her, along with the heavy door to the Police Department. It slammed shut behind her, clanging like a gong, waking her up to the sudden realization that this was all too real, and the dark, dreaded feeling, that nothing would ever be the same again. A horse tied to the hitching post outside the building whinnied, startling her once more, just as a young man walked by. He gawked at her until he rounded the corner, out of sight, as if he saw a ghost. It took all her strength not to break down right then and there. She couldn’t, not yet. Her heart was heavy with the weight of the tasks laid out for her: Visit the printing press, then home to rest. Miles to go before she could sleep.

Joyce felt like she was drifting above herself, tethered to her body, as she glided down Main Street like a ghost. Another woman caught her eye, her face twisted into a disgusted sneer. She imagined she was a sight to be seen, practically un-dead; a shell of the woman she was the day before last. Her reputation was preceding, and her current appearance didn’t help, but she didn’t give a damn about any of that anymore. If they only knew…

She could feel the townsfolk eyes on her. She could even hear them whispering. Her cheeks burned red from resisting the urge to lash out at the next person to point at her or titter to their acquaintance. Joyce bit her tongue, knowing that she would need these people on her side if she wanted even the slightest chance to find her boy. She kept her eyes down and focused on her steps, one foot in front of the other.

Printing press. Home. Sleep. Press. Home. Sleep.

It became her mantra as she made her way through the center of town. It was taking everything not to collapse on the street under the righteous scrutiny and the unbearable burden she carried. There was nothing else left to do but carry on.

When she got to the printers, the Pressman was waiting for her. She never thought she would say it in her lifetime, but thank goodness for James Hopper and his keen foresight to have the operator call ahead. Joyce was grateful for the small gesture saving her from having to relive the nightmare and explain herself again. It only took a quick moment to get the information organized for the poster and an estimate on when the prints would be ready. She left with the Pressman's kind word that the photo would be returned to her within the day in the same condition she gave it to him.

Once again, she found herself standing alone and feeling lost on Main Street in her hometown — a place she knew like the back of her hand. She was restless with the urge to do something, anything to help find Will. It felt wrong to head home to idly stand-by while others held her son’s life in their hands, but Hop was right. What good would she be to the cause when she was such a mess? His word's ringing in her ears, she turned around and began the long walk home.

[denilmo]

All I Can Taste Are Poppies

For the record, I blame @thealicehuntt (your title for the fic game just got the creativity going!) and @bouncyirwin for suggesting Coldplay (I wrote this listening to a playlist of their heartbreaking songs so... thanks lol)

ANGST ahead! You’ve been warned.

All I Can Taste Are Poppies Words: 1,382 Rating: T

Kakashi was lying flat on his back staring up at the sky. It had been a long time since he'd just taken in the world above him. Winter was pressing in; if it hadn't been evident in the muted blues of the skies, it was known by the wind blowing through branches shedding themselves of their foliage - the blaze of red and orange leaves extinguished as brown ones fluttered down around him like snow.

Winter had always made Kakashi a little sad. The days were shorter and it was colder, and he'd always found it difficult to stay warm. Everything just felt lonelier, and he found himself reminiscing more. The memories were bittersweet as he tasted them.

Even though he'd accepted the reality of his biggest regrets, it didn't make them any less painful. But then he began to remember the tender moments: Rin’s smile, the way Minato would encourage him, how Obito’s antics would pull a secret smile from him.

He couldn't remember his mother, but he could remember the feel of her hand brushing through his hair. The smell of rice, and the eggplant his father would grill for him.

Naruto’s energy and enthusiasm, as much as Kakashi would deny it, was infectious. Even if the blond was loud and brash, he got things done. His faith was unshakeable. Kakashi admired that about him, was maybe even a bit envious of that quality.

The laughs and close encounters with death he'd shared with Tenzo - there were times he never felt more alive as he did than when returning from a mission with him.

And Sakura. He smiled just at the thought of her. She was perhaps the most bittersweet. They had spent so long dancing around one another, and the transition from friends to something more had been so gradual - so subtle - that he'd been unsure if she held any feelings for him at all until the night of Naruto's inauguration. Like a photograph, he could remember every detail of her that night - how her hair was styled, the color of her dress, how she smelled, the way her laughter reverberated into his chest, his soul. He could still see the dust of pink on her cheeks as they slow danced off in the back corner of the room, as she pulled herself closer and whispered how she didn't want him to let her go as the song ended. He could remember the thrill in her chakra as he pulled her out onto the terrace and into the shadows, as her fingers curled into his hair, and around his heart, as he dragged his mask down and kissed her. And Kakashi knew from that moment on that he was hers.

Sakura, she'd been just as fiery in their relationship as she'd been on the battlefield. Sometimes she knew just the right buttons to push, the right combination of words to elicit his knee-jerk responses. Their arguments had been as passionate as their embraces under the crisp white sheets of her bed.

But most of the time she'd been quiet understanding, and even now if he closed his eyes he could still feel of the smoothness of her skin against his cheek as he lay curled up in her arms.

The soft mornings they shared were rare, and treated with care as if anything beyond a whisper would shatter the fragility of the moment. But those mornings - when their legs were twined together and his nose buried in her hair, her slender arms around his middle - were always his favorite.

Beyond dinners and scattered empty bottles of shochu, more than holding hands on the balcony and how she looked dwarfed in his clothes, aside from how she'd sigh his name or how she'd laugh at his dry jokes… those mornings were more precious to him than anything she could give him.

And she'd given so much, and tried to give more and more. Her love could be nearly suffocating at times, but that's just how she was. When she loved - when she fought, when she attempted anything - she went full force.  And she deserved the same full force of his love, but he had no idea how to reciprocate.

She insisted that she was okay with it: she didn't need to hold hands as they walked the village. She didn't need kisses stolen when no one was looking. She didn't need extravagant dinners or double dates with her friends.

But she wanted it, he knew. He could see it in the tightness in the corners of her eyes when Naruto would kiss Hinata and make her blush in the middle of the marketplace. He could hear it in her voice when she turned down invites.

“I only need you, Kakashi,” she'd say time and again.

But he could hear the change in her tone every time she reminded him. Light and airy with a smile, to sounding like she was convincing a child there were no monsters under the bed, to sounding like she was convincing herself.

He never wanted to do that to her, to dull any of her edges, smother any of her fire. Sakura had been one of the best things to happen to him, however Kakashi did not feel that the opposite was true. She deserved so much more. The last few weeks of their relationship had been arguments about their future, about the state of her happiness, and how much more she could be if he just stepped back.

He can still see the angry tears rolling down her face as she’d yell at him to shut up, to stop pushing her away. As she asked if he still loved her. Which he thought was a ludicrous question. Of course he did, which was why he was doing this, she just couldn't understand. And every fight would end with them hugging, with her pleading him to just come to bed, that they'd figure it out, that they’d be okay. He loved her and she loved him and that was enough, was in it?

“Tell me it's enough.”

Those delicate mornings never came again.

Kakashi had been ready to take all the blame, to shoulder all of her discontent. He could do this for her. He'd been ready for everything except the quiet devastation on her face. He had been expecting more yelling, more pushing, more fire. Instead, he could remember with perfect clarity the exact moment he'd broken her heart. The hurt and betrayal she felt screamed on her features though she didn't say a word, only crumbled.

A shaky breath parted Kakashi’s lips and he closed his eyes, cutting off the view of the sky. Warmth spilled down his cheeks and he sniffled, reining back the emotions. If only he had a second chance, he’d do things so much differently. He cracked bleary eyes open again, his gaze drawn to the cottony wisps of clouds passing. Another breeze passed through, shaking more leaves free, rattling his bones. Briefly, he considered that it was time to go inside, but his body felt so heavy, as if his limbs had rooted him to the ground.

With all of his energy he lifted his hand up, up, blocking what little sunlight remained. Crimson dripped from his fingers and slid down his forearm.

That's right…

A single humorless laugh jerked his shoulders as his hand fell to the ground. Iciness had gripped his body and for the first time Kakashi wished for a miracle. He’d spent so many of his Anbu days wondering which mission would claim his life. He had volunteered up that same life to save his village. He’d been ready to meet his maker so many times. But now, now he wanted to live, to have the opportunity to fix his wrongs, not even for him but for Sakura. Because she deserved more than this. Because she was still listed as his contact, even all these months later. She didn't deserve that visit.

Kakashi concentrated, but he could barely pull any chakra forward to his hand. He laughed, a deep and hollow sound, before he pulled in a sharp breath through a sob. His eyes focused back on the blurry sky. Please, someone... anyone... come for me. Find me... save me…

If only he had a second chance.