#maybe it will turn out like hit fanfic a lesson in running away (the art of returning) by hit writer summer when-wax-wings-melt 😁😁😁

[when-wax-wings-melt]

wait actually ive switched sides im gonna love this book. perfect opportunity for keefitz canon WHO'S WITH ME

[incarnateirony]

An anti dressed up as a shipper, an idiot, and a terf all walk into the same bar.

It’s the same picture person.

A lesson.

Warning: if the title doesn’t give it away, queerphobic content comes up in this from the other party being documented.

So, some of you may have watched a twitter exercise yesterday.

It started simple: concern trolling white knight “for the writers” comes in to angrily declare fans doing something tagged in support of them about Destiel was “out of line.” She claimed things like “Misha was gaslit into supporting Destiel”, and pulled all kinds of stunts.

She immediately got on a soap box yelling “I HAVE A LIT CRIT DEGREE, I KNOW AUTHOR INTENT” of course implying she knew better than EVERYONE around her how to read text. She then pulled, of all things, @chill-legilimens​​ ‘ article about the network gods gutting the show out of the internet, and somehow misread it SO FUCKING BADLY -- SO FUCKING BADLY -- she thought it aligned with HER. She argued that fans influenced the writers, essentially, and basically pulled the exact opposite of the very clearly delivered message there out. When it was pointed out we know this author and even sometimes help edit their pieces, and she was, flat out misreading it while bragging about how good she is at deciphering text, it turned into a SHITSHOW.

I had watched her give a large group of queer people 2 days of runaround, while they tried to be polite, and similarly tried to prove everything while she proved nothing. Just preached. After 2 days of them exhausting themselves on her, I came in doing my blunt & savage thing, because fuck civility culture when it’s used by oppressors. Of course, she immediately started tone policing, while herself being an arrogant shitbrick the whole way.

She continued to preach author intent and talk down about “headcanons.” You see, she knew the authors very well. Berens’ name was mentioned in passing, and she came back with. “Who’s Berens? Is that the author of the article?” after Deirdre’s name had been directly cited in associated with it about 15 times.

(credit: @judgehangman​ )

But it gets better. She started pulling the “authors have said Dean is straight.” line. Now, at this point, we had already sourced her at least four pieces of information (quite formally too: SPN Official DVD Collection Season 8 episode 13 creative commentary, Edlund and Sgriccia; Dissent Magazine The Attack Queers Bob Berens review; the books in the office with screenshots, and more.) So we issued one simple request: Okay. Source.

For the next-- I shit you not-- 10 hours she bricked the thread to death, finding any and EVERY rabbit hole she could try to venture down. For the first hour or two a few of us tried to actually debate her newly raised points, but still gave reminder that we were waiting for her source. Every tweet was an opportunity for her to drop a 15 tweet thread trying to derail onto a new topic, and often clarifying she had no idea about any of it (Edlund, Sgriccia, Berens, Dabb--who she couldn’t spell the name of--and Deirdre all became an amorpheous blob in her retelling that she swore she looked at sources and wasn’t convinced, while she crossed all the data and comments about the sources). She tried to challenge that anyone could know all the writers and episodes just because she proved she couldn’t, even when multiple people expressed it to her extremely rapidly with not just author and director listings, but cross references on when they overlapped and major elements (like the 15.20 shot 19 tree being the Kim Manners memorial tree). She randomly babbled about Kripke once. Lied her way through and claimed those sources were vague. Etc.

But at some point, I decided, we’re not playing this distraction game. You wanted a debate, you claim you have a lit crit degree, and thus know the entire art is Argumentation. A source, if you’re declaring knowing author intent. One source. Any time she dropped a distraction tweet, I replied to her thread with things like a list of our sources vs her lack of any and a reminder. I installed a counter ticker. How many times had she been asked to either recant her point or give a single source?

Someone made a list of the logical fallacies she used in the argument. It was two tweets long and still missed several obvious ones. That didn’t stop her. Neither did the dozens of requests for a source or a recant. Onwards, she marched, derailing time and again. She brought in a buddy to try to distract, but he fell out real quick when he realized “the burden of proof lies on the arguer” shot him and her both in the feet in record time and he ducked out. 

Other greatest hits came out like “Dubs (Dabb’s) fanfic books”, and calling the ability to list authors and episodes “headcanons.”

Over time, the dialogue shifted: see, she came in trying the snide “enjoy your headcanons” downtalk, but as time and time again she was pulverized on every point about the show, or the authors, or anything else while STILL never even giving a single source to even her FIRST POINT and running distractions, it became a reality-- she was told, “We’ll enjoy our canon and author intent. You can enjoy your headcanon of... Dabb’s fanfic books and Lord Barons and the writers being collective hallucinations and whatever else in your hot takes about the show content itself” and she FLIPPED SHIT. 

As the ticker for sources approached 100, she started becoming flustered. Before that, even, she started repetitively misgendering Ezra (no tumblr to link in), and Ezra screenshot their bio of they/them and asked them to adjust. Ignored. Ezra linked this request and asked it to be addressed again, and again, and again. 13 times. Ezra linked it 13 times. She even replied to several of them. No avail. No change. Not until literally any and every tweet in her vicinity either had “source?” or “address gender?” for her to reply to did she flee there, and write some giant write-around of “oh, I didn’t see this, sorry” but still refused to actually use it. Or “I’ll use the right one now.” No, just completely strickened pronouns from her vocabulary with Ezra moving forward, after not one mistake, not two, not five, but 13 answers.

At this point, I notice a trend: throughout the entire conversation, she had flip flopped on my pronouns, clearly confused as to what to call me. As I generally don’t care (honestly I prefer he but meh), it didn’t ping me as something to react to while she switched religiously between “he” and “she”. But I realized now, despite all of that confusion: she never once thought to use “they.” Also earlier we found tweets of hers that, while now declaring herself bisexual, she used troublesome wording in the past to blur the line on if she was an ally or, as she phrased it “maybe less than 100% straight in the bell curve” in other conversations.

I mutter about this on the side to Ezra and some friends, but continue on towards the 100 ticker that was the goal to show people in this digital terrarium how disingenuous most people you argue with are -- an exhibit for the class. They know they’re lying and have been caught, but will not cede to admit “oops, I guess I was wrong.” but rather stick, unironically, to their own headcanons about things. After all, they vaguely sorta apologized even if suddenly just refusing to use any pronouns at all on Ezra after that. And she’s so quick to disappear into 15 tweet bombs of distraction trying to play victim for being held accountable at this point, we just didn’t jump to a conclusion on that, alarming as it is.

So. You know. Source.

At this point, she RANDOMLY starts evoking the fact that like, How Dare, She Watched Gay Men Die To AIDS, She Is A Great Philanthropist How Dare How Dare. 

I’m sorry, did you just evoke the blood of our dead to run away from the most basic scrap of accountability in what is literally the first wave of a lit debate because for the last 10 hours you have refused to take the necessary steps to move on to the next point? Did you... just... evoke the ghosts of gay men that were genocided to, essentially, pull up a smokescreen and run away from being party to queer erasure? Or even just? Giving a source? or admitting you were wrong on one point in a debate? Wow, you really just did that. 

Naturally, people involved got pissed. Her Sources ticker hit 100, but at this point, all that haunted her was how completely fucking vile and inappropriate that was in this discussion. 

She got blocked. She then tried to glom onto anyone that hadn’t blocked or muted her and run the same argumentation points she had earlier been decimated in the argument with, while yelling “I ship Destiel too! I wanted them to have sex too! Why does this make me the bad guy?” around the block and hoping nobody actually read the thread. She tried to pitch the “headcanons” point of view again, hoping a new audience would lick her boots. She was, largely, ignored; given a few more comments about her leaving the conversation losing all points and only covered in the blood of our dead she was so proud of; blocked by a few more. (unsurprisingly, if you check her actual tweet history, she seems more invested in Megstiel but)

This is when CommaSameleon -- a professor with two lit degrees and a primary focus in teaching the art of Argumentation -- literally -- stepped in. She initially tried to engage the fact that, well, this woman not only can’t argue out of a paper sack but wasn’t even arguing, she was just running in circles and distracting from all the points and hadn’t addressed a single lit point directly while preaching down at people. But Sam, also, noticed something. This woman kept changing things like “queerphobia” to “homophobia.” Sam mentioned this kinda puts off TERF vibes (I think Sam picked up on the gendering thing herself too.)

Her response? Which she deleted since? But Discord’s embed helpfully saved?

Her inacted non-apologies remain weak, especially in any form of debate be it lit or now queer topics.

Oh I’m sorry, let’s recap her viewpoints: TERF is a slur. “They” is made up and should be avoided at all costs. The blood of dead gay men are a token to use in a lit debate you’re avoiding responsibility in. After this, “authors are headcanons” is suddenly not your worst take, but fascinating that you 13 times didn’t even read the blatant ass screenshot. And I mean, these weren’t subtle or easy to miss these 13 times.

100. She had 100 chances, literally, on a timer, to give a source or shut up with her platforming until she had one. Instead, she chose every rabbit hole she could manifest to disappear into, only to be met by another request for a source, and not moving on until we address the first points. We’ve given ours, now you give yours. Instead, you choose this. This is the hill you choose to die on, rather than admitting, “Sorry, I guess I was wrong” or “I guess I heard that somewhere, my bad.” 100 chances. 13 direct QT requests to address gender which she replied to but didn’t reply to until cornered (and still didn’t, truly, reply to), and “TERF is a slur.” Oh, and after waving around the dead men’s blood she also suddenly Can’t Be A Terf Because She Adopted Two Trans Kids. Lord help those children. Or, you know, the more realistic thing is she’s just manifesting all kinds of bullshit at this point to save face, which is probably why she deleted all the related tweets that show she’s a giant-ass TERF.

So anyway, this is very much a lesson on:

Paying attention to how people manipulate conversation to erase genuine discussion and debate.

Paying attention to WHY they do it. Motivation on methods and tactics will clear up a lot.

Figuring out HOW they try to sound woke about shit and when it’s entirely fucking vile and inappropriate to pull

And by all above points, figuring out that these people are among us, and how NOT to let them influence your conversations.

I don’t care if it’s about a discussion on a ship or show or anything else. People do this. A lot. Extremely dedicatedly, if the 100 asks doesn’t make that clear. 

Stop letting people railroad your conversations with disingenuous bullshit.

So anyway in honor of this I made everyone a gif

Use at will. It’s tagged anti-terf if you want to use the search feature on it.

UPDATE: 

Just went and checked. She went and deleted literally her entire side of the conversation, hundreds if not thousands of tweets. Luckily, Ezra mentioned repeatedly -- and I do trust them inherently -- that they were saving the entire conversation, so that zip file exists somewhere. How fascinating, after she accused us that we would want to delete tweets. Someone realized they had a bad look and giant failure all around.

Also, a related anon that links to an earlier part of this conversation I didn’t even document where she was crying about “cis erasure” [x] This shit went on so long I legit forgot about that.

[katsrnerstories]

BillDip SlowBurn FanFic Chap. 1

Bill had destroyed Dipper's mind.

It has been a few years since weirdmageddon. Since Dipper and Mabel defeated demons from hellish planes of existence and saved the world and their friends from soul and mind crushing madness.  

Dippers a freshman in college now. It was a moment that he had wished for for years. Highschool had been…

Well it wasn't the worst it could have been. Dipper hit a major glow up around the beginning of junior year (with Mabel's help of course) and life was a little easier. He was asked out on dates, went to a few parties here and there that people dragged him to, had some typical highschool fun in the city...

Until around that same time he started getting replies from colleges his senior year, he started to see Bill again. Every once in a while his mind would wander back to that summer, but it was always the good things or nightmares of the horrors they saw.

It started with just a little glimpse here and there. An eye in the back corner of his periphery, some yellow glimpse in a dark room. 

A ghostly hand on his shoulder.

But these things were nothing to the first time Dipper realized something was wrong.

Dipper saw Bill in his dreams. And those dreams were beyond nightmares.

He had had nightmares before. Nightmares of weirdmageddon were common for both dipper and Mabel. But these… these were real; as much as a dream could be.

Because of Gravity Falls, Dipper really wasn't afraid of a lot of things that would have scared him. The unknown was comforting to him. Maybe because it wasn't too unknown to him and Mabel.

But bill. During those nightmares, brought everything he feared to the frontlines. 

It had been a while since Mabel and him shared a room, so Mabel really didn't know about the fear Dipper experienced those nights. 

She was more focused on getting to LA.

She wants to be a criminal psychoanalyst. To look at the minds of people and figure how they tick. Criminals especially. 

Dipper could swear that Bill had done something to her to make her go down such a dark career path, but he couldn't say anything; he neither had a psychology degree nor was untouched by Bill himself.

Who really knows, it could have been anything else that happened to her in those hellish four years of highschool. 

She had moved away quickly after highschool ended to learn in LA. Of course they facetime and text all the time, but the separation was still felt by both of them.

Everyone missed her presence. Her positivity, her unique personality. 

That had transformed into something much darker come junior and senior year. She found out after a few failed boyfriends that she was not only Asexual, but that guys and even girls, can’t seem to give that part of a relationship up. Some even found it offensive that she felt that way.

Dipper went back to oregon. Of course he was in the city, but on weekends he would visit the Mystery Shack and Gravity Falls. 

Soos was happy to give him one of the rooms in the basement. Sometimes even Grunkle Stan or Grunkle Ford would visit. 

They decided shortly after Dipper and Mabel left that they would travel. Of course Ford's labs still sit under the mystery shack, but when Mabel and Dipper visited Soos the summer of their junior year Ford gave them full control of the labs (as long as Dipper kept everyone safe. Which he did too much annoyance of Mabel)

Soos and his wife at that time had just had a little baby boy, and now have a comfortable four kids, two boys and two girls (three of them were triplets) and run the shack not to much better than Stan did, with the same soul in the campy attractions and overpriced merchandise. 

Wendy is in her senior year at a community college in Oregon city, right around the same place Dipper decided to go to school. They hang out pretty regularly, just around weekly.

Robby left gravity falls as soon as he got his GED. Went for New York, looking for a punk career. He sends Wendy emails every once in a while about his music and where he's at. 

Shockingly, Pacifica stayed in Oregon, going to the same college Dipper goes to. They see each other, and after leaving her family, she found a lot out about herself and became a much better person. 

She found she loved a good smoke and art. Apparently, something she hid from the world was that she loved art. She was probably one of the best artists Dipper had seen. After she left the hell hole of her family, she became really chill. Calm. even nice. 

Her and Dipper have coffee pretty much every day. She was one of the only people who also knew what he had gone through.

And she was the only person who noticed as Dipper got worse and worse for wear. 

Bill had been particularly evil the past few weeks, taking much more joy in Dippers struggle. Long ago Dipper had just sort of given up on screaming for Bill to stop. But he always refused to make a deal with him to stop the fear. Not again. 

“Another nightmare again?” Pacifica asks, as Dipper requests 5 shots of caffeine in his already bitter caffeinated black coffee. 

“Yeah. it's getting harder and harder to say no every night. And honestly the empty dorm isn't helping.” 

“Why don't you just move in with me? I've got an extra room that's got your name written on the door if you want it.” 

Dipper almost accepted, but decided against it. It was kind of weird, no matter how good of friends they were, to live with the ex that made you realized you were gay.

It wasn't her fault, it was just…

He liked a different kind of ass, as Mabel had said when he came out.

No, the daily overpriced coffee meetup was enough. 

“Have you talked about it to Ford? Hes got to know something about it if he went through the same thing?” 

“I don't want to bother them with it. They thought they got rid of Bill that summer, we all did. Bills my problem now.”

Pacifica gives him a knowing look. She knew that he was breaking, but couldn't figure out how to help him. 

“Hows journalism?” Pacifica takes her coffee as she changes the subject.

“As boring as it ever is. Graphic design?”

“As confusing as ever.” Dipper takes a big sip from his steaming coffee. It's a briskly cold morning, enough he brought out his knit set Mabel had made for him on their 18th birthday. He had no shame in wearing it, and it in fact felt comforting today, to know that she was still with him in heart at least.

She never grew out of her sweater thing. She still makes sweaters, using it to get her to the next rent payment sometimes. Everyone can count on a big box with sweaters from her every Christmas here in Oregon. 

With their coffees in hand, Dipper and Mabel head off to campus. And once they made it there they said their goodbyes with a hug and went their separate ways to start the day. 

Dipper wanders into the lecture hall for his advanced maths class. People filter in as he types away on his computer. 

The students around him wanted to be scientists, economists, etc. everyone found it weird that a creative writing major was not only taking advanced maths, this early in the morning, but was killing it. His grades spoke for themselves. 

The class starts and Dipper still types away on his computer. He had been bored the night before as he was staving off sleeping and had read a chapter ahead in their textbook. He taught himself the three hour lesson that day in an hour. 

It was no doubt that Dipper took after his great uncle Stanford. Grunkle Ford told him at one point that Dipper reminded him of a young Dr. Fiddleford. Dipper didn't really like being compared to the scientist that started a whole cult under Gravity Falls before going batshit crazy himself for a very long time.

He only hoped that he wouldn't end up like him. He didn't want to be some crazy man who roams the town. 

Dipper had a story that he needed to finish for his next class. He had started to wear away the stories of Gravity Falls with his creative writing classes that he now had to actually think about what story to write. Mabel helped him out with the premise of the story last night. So he spent that class writing a simple flash fiction of one roaming the backrooms. (an urban legend Mabel had read about in an article somewhere.)

He found comfort in knowing that one thing did not exist to him. That one thing did not sit in the pits of Gravity Falls waiting for Dipper or one of them to unearth it.

The story reminded Dipper of falling through the endless pit just outside the Mystery Shack. A hole where they reminisced on days of the summer as they spent the day, or who knows how long, falling. they were all lucky that it was not, truly, endless. 

And quickly the story was finished and the class closed early. 

Dipper went for an early lunch. He scrolls through his phone, seeing Mabels three new instagram posts and all the other people she introduced him to. 

After Mabel found out Dipper was gay, she went on a mission to hook him up with some LA guy. Oregons not terrible with their acceptance, but it's not something to be very open about. Plus Dipper wasn't the kind to walk pride without someone like Mabel hyping the both of them up. Because god knows that she needs just as much hyping up with who she is as Dipper.

When he walks into his empty apartment, anxiety wells up in Dippers chest. Quickly he turns on the TV, letting it run as white noise as he makes his lunch. The apartment had been empty since his recent relationship ended. Dipper is glad it ended, as the abuse just got too much; yet it was bad for Dipper to be left alone with his thoughts. Especially in an apartment that seemed to hold so much sadness and bad memories.

Mabel, after helping Dippers style, had made him a whole cookbook for him. It had all different kinds of foods, but the main dishes all were healthy. She had gone on a fitness rampage her sophomore year and had never truly grown out of it. It was from a bad place, but she turned it to a positive. As she always does. 

She had told him that it was the first thing other than sleep to keep alive longer. She had made him promise that he would try to stay alive. 

At this point it was the only thing keeping Dipper alive. 

Bill had taxed his mind so much it was rare to find him not paranoid. Bill made Dippers anxiety beyond chronic, and the lack of sleep did not help his depression. 

That had developed after Pacifica. It wasn't because of the break up, more at the fact that she had helped him so much. 

She had accepted him being gay. She had helped him gain friends during their relationship, and she even helped him when money wasn't the best. 

All this caused his anxiety to get to his head. 

What if they think I’m evil for breaking it off with her? What if she'll never want to see me again? What if, what if, what if…

His depression had just gotten  worse after the breakup and dealing with being alone again. It was the reason Dipper stayed with someone like that for so long. 

All of the depression and anxiety ended up crashing down at the same time Bill Cypher ended up crashing into the picture. 

At that point Bill only came to terrorise Dipper a few nights a month. It was easier to deal with.  Now it's every night.

Dipper finishes making his food, sitting down in front of the TV to watch a show on Netflix. 

He had been getting through the true crime shows. He swore that eventually he'd eventually either run a show like it with Mabel or be one of the cold cases lost to the world. 

Yet within only a few minutes Dipper not only found himself asleep, but stuck in the mindscape. 

“Been trying to avoid me, Pine Tree?”

Dipper no longer was shocked by Bill's voice. In fact the more and more he heard his voice, the more and more it began to sound almost human.

[kawaiijellymonster]

So I’ve got a note in my notes app called “Fanfic lines that should be in a hall of fame” and it’s gotten pretty long so I figure I’ll toss it on here so yall can enjoy it, most of them are: mha, zukka, miraculous ladybug, harry potter, and I think one is from a comment on a hannibal amv, But here you go:

Stain sold papers because he just had an aura about him that drew people in, like people who slow down to look at car crashes.

“The Rumor Come Out: Does Todoroki Shoto is Gay?”

Izuku spent the next week going to his normal martial arts classes, studying, and drinking gallons of coffee. Not healthy but he could deal with it. His body was never meant to be permanent.

So no one was watching when Mei placed her forehead against his, breath fanning across his face as she spoke. "Wake up Loki… the world needs you."

“No probs ‘lil listener!” Hizashi said, striking a dramatic pose. “I’ll be your DJ all through the night, bringin’ you such rockin’ hits as safety, security and sweet dreams!”

“This is stupid! Screw the waiting and screw these stupid butterflies. They're not paying rent, the little shits--”

Experimenting with unstable genetic mutant abominations is more of an art than a science, really."

Several looks pass across both their faces. “No flying for a month,” Sirius declares. That sucks, actually. But he’s also a hundred percent certain he can get them to cave on that in two weeks tops. “Okay. Is that for the breaking into the Ministry, destroying the Department of Mysteries, making a bargain with Voldemort, or bringing all my friends with me?” “It’s for recklessly endangering your own life again,” Remus says, “and while the punishment very much doesn’t fit the crime, we’re a bit at a loss for what else to do.” “It wasn’t reckless!” he protests. “We had a plan and everything, and we even brought an adult! An adult Order member! Also what else were we supposed to do, let Snape die?” Sirius takes a deep breath, but Remus steps on his foot before he can put it in his mouth. “Which is why you’re only getting flying privileges taken away and not thrown in a cell in Azkaban for our sanity and your safety.” As if any cell could hold him. “I accept your terms.”

“Who’s Theophania?” Sirius asks. Harry hesitates. Perhaps bringing her up was his smartest decision, strategically speaking. “If I tell you you’re not allowed to throw me in Azkaban. Or ground me.” “This isn’t a negotiation,” Sirius repeats. If Blaise has taught him anything, it’s that everything is a negotiation. “She’s a friend.” “And?” Sirius repeats. Remus suddenly grabs onto Sirius’s shoulder, “Wait. Petrifying - during your second year - is Theophania - she’s not the basilisk.” “No, they killed it,” Sirius says automatically. Harry remains silent. “Harry!” He rubs his nose. “It turns out I’m not that good at killing things. Unkilling things, however? My specialty.”

“It’s okay,” Nanaia says, “you don’t know. What do you do when you don’t know something?” “Try something you do know and hope it doesn’t make everything worse?” For some reason, Horace looks sad at that answer, and Dumbledore shifts from one foot to the other. “No,” she says, “you ask for help.” Oh.

“It’ll piss off your son,” he answers bluntly. “Fuck that kid,” Riddle Sr. says

“You played me!” “Like a cheap kazoo”

Batman sighed, before speaking in a voice that was so unlike his usual growl that most of the other League members almost fell out of their chairs. Diana and Clark seemed to be used to it. “Damian,” he started. His voice was still deep, but a regular-deep, instead of I-just-swallowed-six-buckets-of-gravel deep.

“She loved James too,” she assures, and the confidence she says that with allows him to breathe, like someone has let go of his lungs. “It is possible to love more than one person at the same time. She loved your father with the type of love that’s – that was like a shooting star, burning and bright and touching everyone around them. Her love for Severus was different, and in the end it wasn’t the type of love either of them could handle.”

You’re better at it now then many people are after leaving a full apprenticeship, and you’ve only had a year of lessons a couple of times a week instead of years of intensive study. Do you know why that is?” “Luck?” he offers weakly. For some reason, he doesn’t like the direction this is going in. “No,” she says. “To be good at healing, the way you are, the way I am, you need a certain combination of things. Intelligence, power, control, but more than that. Stubbornness, a tricky balance of flexibility and inflexibility, and a constant, brutal assessment over your own skills. And something else.” “A propensity towards poor life choices?” he suggests. Poppy shakes her head, not taking the bait. “No. You have to care. You have to care about everyone, even people you dislike, and you have to care so much that if feels like it’s killing you, you have to care and that care has to hurt, until the only thing that hurts worse than caring is not caring. To be good at this, you have to let it hurt you.”

“You two shouldn’t have bothered dressing formally for Albus, he’s a bitch.” Harry doesn’t have any idea what’s going on, but he’s loving it.  

“It was on the syllabus,” Zuko whispered conspiratorially to his mother. Sokka gasped. “You know I don’t read those!” “This is your own fault then.” “I like to be surprised. The procrastination keeps me humble.”

sometimes you remind me of the stars youre gorgeous and happy and can always brighten me on the darkest days and even when youre dampened you can guide me home

“imagine you are the only person who loves to play chess more than anything but nobody else in the world has ever heard about chess. and then you see a person holding a chessboard. it’s like your whole world was reborn”

"I wanted to be a stripper in middle school," Izuku said. Yup, that's a good cover.

What you’re asking for isn’t fair or right. You can’t ask a person for more than they’re willing to give

In Mei’s words, “You have about five minutes of ‘fuck that one thing in particular.’ Make them count.”

“Mei, let me introduce your new best friend. This is Momo. She has a Quirk that lets her make anything as long as she knows its composition inside and out. All you have to do is buy her dinner,“ Izuku said,

The cameras were looped. The bots were hacked. It was a good day to be a villain.

“None. The alarm never left the building.” “Really? Why is that?” “Mei finished first and decided to do you a favor. However, you've got the fire alarm just starting to go off and that's on a different circuit. Take a fast way down.” “Understood,” Hitoshi drawled. A moment later he was looking back at the crew. “Ladies and Frenchman. We take the express.”

Quinn is talking like that actually answers his question when it really, really doesn’t. “If you don’t start making sense, I’ll cry.”

“You’re one of my best students,” ze says. “You should understand the importance of timing. Speaking of, you’re late for your next class.”

Fuck, he totally is. “Thank you for that very confusing answer. I’ll think of you while crying myself to sleep.”

He’d wondered if that was what bravery was, to be quiet even when you were hurting so much you wanted to scream.

maybe bravery was also running screaming at the thing that nearly killed you, to keep it from killing someone else.

“Apologies are not difficult. Good apologies revolve around three basic points. One, I acknowledge what I did was wrong. Two, I regret that you were harmed. Three, this is how I plan to make sure it does not happen again. That’s all. Apologies are easy.” Then she’d glanced at them all again, evaluating. “And if you become very, very good at your job... they will be the absolute hardest thing you ever do.”

“Even though we’re a bunch of migraine-inducing hellions who are smart enough to know when something is a bad idea and stupid enough to still do it?”

“You’re like the nice china that Al only brings out for Christmas. Except Bruce just realised that I stole it, and chipped it. Maybe it’s time I give it back before I shatter all the pieces.”

she won’t co-parent my perfectly reasonable and well-behaved children.” Clark snorts. “Damian’s trying to stab Tim, right now.”

"Oh, my knight in shining armour. What would I do without you?" the teen droned, placing a dramatic hand on her head. 

"I think you mean 'knight in shining leather', M'Lady. And without me, you would be left alone in this kingdom of lies.”

"It's a kingdom, alright. It'll topple sooner or later." "That's the spirit!" Adrien laughed.

Here’s something that a harbinger of tragedy would never find the courage to admit: there are moments in between the bitter self-hatred and the visceral, tangible consequences of your sins in which you almost think you’re worthy of forgiveness; of second chances; of a life beyond your greatest regrets. It’s a unique brand of pain,

“Go directly to horny jail. Do not pass go. Do not collect $200.”

“You can’t wait around for him to be sorry,” Izuku says. He’s quiet now. This isn’t something that’s meant to be shouted. “Maybe he’ll never be sorry. Maybe he doesn’t know he did anything wrong, or he doesn’t care. It doesn’t matter.” Cautiously he takes a step forward. “You can’t depend on the people who hurt you to be the ones to make it better, or it’s never going to get better. They’ll only disappoint you, or hurt you even worse, and then they’ll be gone and you’ll be waiting forever.”

Midoriya may be strong as hell, but that just means looking out for him has to be a team effort.

How would his new adoring fans react if they knew he raised a villain? He's no All-Might. His pillar's made of toothpicks, and it's not gonna take much to crack it.”

Tensei approaches Rei, “Okay, this plan is childish, unprofessional, and a discourtesy to this school's reputation. That being said, when do we nail the little twat?

Hinata is dead. Deceased. Passed away, laid to rest with a headstone that reads Here Lies Hinata Shouyou, Killed By A Wink And A Blown Kiss.

It’s dangerous to be a bad father when you have life insurance

[morganamysticblog]

ROYAL ROMANCE – BOOK 2 – FANFIC PART 3 –

The waiter quietly approaches Heather’s table, sliding a check onto the table along with a few napkins.

Heather – Merci.

Waiter – You appeared to need them.  Let me know when you are ready to pay.

Heather – I’m ready now.  Do you happen to know a good hotel nearby?  One that accepts pets?

Waiter – The Pullman is not far.  It has magnifique view of La Tour Eiffel.

Heather – Thank you so much.  I’m ready to pay.

She pulls out enough Euros to cover the check and a decent tip.  Jackson perks up at the news they are heading off again.  Heather stands up and heads down the street toward the hotel.

AT THE HOTEL PULLMAN –

Heather checks into a suite overlooking the Eiffel Tower.  Jackson runs around the room checking out all the new smells and finally plops down in front of the large window watching the sites outside.

Heather flops down on the soft queen size bed. It had been about two hours since she sent her messages to her friends, but no one had called her or messaged her back.

Heather – Well, that was a huge waste of time apparently.  I wonder how much alcohol is in the mini fridge.  Never too early to start day drinking.  It’s 5:00 somewhere, right?  Maybe room service can bring more.  Obviously I’m going to need it.  I thought I mattered to them.  Hell, I even half expected Liam to try to contact me to apologize.  But nothing.  That’s a major ego killer.  Well, Jackson, it’s just you and me, I guess.

Jackson lets out a quiet “woof” from his happy spot in front of the warm windows.

Heather checks the mini fridge and finds 3 shot-size bottles.  She opens one and downs it.  It burns her throat a bit, but she opens another and downs it before the burn can subside.  The third one is quickly gone.

Heather – Jackson, what are we going to do? Where are we going to go?  I feel so lost, so alone.  Oh no!!!  Shazam. I left her in Cordonia.  How am I going to get her back?  Where am I going to take her?  The only place I have left is the ranch in Dallas.  I mean, technically it is mine.  It has been since I was 16.  But, do I want the responsibility that comes with going back?  I’d be expected to start working at the office. Trying to learn the oil business. But, that is why I took all those business and marketing classes in college, right?  Heh…the big wigs at the office would be a whole lot easier to deal with than the people in the Royal Court.  At least they say what they mean, and even if they don’t, you can see them getting ready to stab you in the back, instead of them sneaking around like the royals.  What do you think Jackson?  Do you want to go to Texas?

Jackson – Woof.

Heather – I’m not sure if that’s a yes or no.  I guess we need to think about it some more.

Heather stares out the window at the Eiffel Tower. Tears start streaming down her face again.

Heather – I don’t know what to do.  I feel like such an idiot.  I am a naïve, trusting moron.  At least Daniel at the bar in New York was truthful with me.  My life was so normal back then.  Apparently Hana had a class on “The art of pretending to be a friend.” And Maxwell, he was able to keep Savannah’s secret for a year, apparently he is a lot better at deception than I thought.  But Drake. I thought I would have at least heard from Drake by now.  I can just picture them all sitting around sipping their Chardonnay, playing my messages to each of them, and laughing hysterically at my expense.  God, my life sucks.  

Heather calls room service and requests as many bottles of whiskey they can provide.  A few minutes later, a knock on the door provides 30 shot-size bottles of whiskey.  10 minutes later, 20 of them are empty.  Heather lays back on the bed and slowly falls asleep to the sound of birds chirping and Jackson’s quiet snore.

----

Liam wanders around the streets of Paris aimlessly. He finally finds a small café and sits down at one of the outdoor tables.  A waiter comes out to take his order.

Liam – Coffee and a croissant please.

Waiter – That must be a popular order.  You are the second person to order that this morning.

Liam – Really?  

Waiter – Yes, a lovely girl with a fluffy dog ordered the same thing just an hour ago.

Liam – A girl with a dog?  Did she have blond hair, beautiful blue eyes?

Waiter – Oui monsieur.

Liam – You wouldn’t happen to know where she went do you?

Waiter – Oui.  I believe she went to the Pullman hotel.

Liam – You are the absolute best monsieur. Merci!!

Liam starts getting up from the table.

Waiter – Monsieur, did you still want to place your order?

Liam – Sorry, no.  I must go.  Thank you again.

Liam walks quickly, almost running, down the street to the Pullman hotel. Heather was still in Paris.  He had to see her.  She would probably smack him, then slam the door in his face, but he still had to take the chance.  After what feels like an eternity he reaches the lobby of the Pullman hotel.

Liam – Excuse me, could you tell me what room Heather Riley is in?  I am King Liam of Cordonia and I have important business to discuss with her.

Receptionist – My apologies monsieur, but we cannot provide information to outsiders about our guests.  Not even to a king.

Liam – Can you call her room and tell her to come down here?

Receptionist – No monsieur, I cannot.  The privacy of our guests is our utmost priority.  We do not disturb our guests once they have arrived unless they specifically advise us that they are expecting someone.

Liam – I see.  Well, thank you anyway.

Liam slowly walks away from the reception desk and out the door.  He heads over to the park by the Eiffel Tower and sits down on a bench.  He picks up his phone, staring blankly at the picture of Heather on his home screen.

---- 

10:00 Heather is woken up by the sound of her phone ringing.  She groggily reaches for the phone.  It’s a number she doesn’t recognize.

Heather – Hello?

Queen Regina – Lady Heather?  This is Queen Mother Regina.

Heather – Oh.  Hello your majesty.

Queen Regina – I apologize for disturbing you. Madeleine told me that Liam was not quite himself this morning at their meeting with the Ambassador, and that he left quite abruptly.  I was hoping he might be with you.  I wanted to speak with him briefly.

Heather – No.  He’s not with me.  I’m probably the last person he needs to be with right now.

Queen Regina – Oh.  I’m sorry to hear that.  Have you spoken with him?

Heather – No.  Regina, no offense to you because you have actually been really nice to me since I came to Cordonia, but your husband and your step-son need some serious lessons in people skills.

Queen Regina – Excuse me?

Heather – The way the treat people.  I can see why their enemies are swarming them. They need to learn how to treat people with respect, not like pawns.

Queen Regina – Lady Heather, I don’t know what has happened, but I will speak with them.  Again, I apologize for disturbing you.  I wish you well, Lady Heather.

Heather – Thank you ma’am.  (hangs up the phone)

Heather – Well, that was interesting.  Almost four hours and the only person who calls is Queen Regina.  Wow. Ok then.  Jackson, do you want to go for a walk?  I see a park across the street where you can run out some energy.

Jackson – Aroof!

Heather – Alright, let’s go.

Heather walks out of the hotel with Jackson on his leash.  When they round the corner toward the park Jackson starts pulling hard on his leash. Heather has to pull him back when he tries to cross the street and almost gets hit by an oncoming car.

Heather – Jackson!  What’s gotten into you?  You can be patient for another minute until the light turns green.  

Jackson stares across the road at a bench in the park and barks over and over.

Heather – Jackson!  That’s enough!  I will take you back inside if you don’t stop.

Jackson lets out one soft bark, but then stops. The light turns green and they cross the road to the park.  On the other side of the street, Jackson starts pulling on his leash again, almost dragging Heather and making her walk much faster just to keep up with him.  

Heather – Jackson!  Dammit!  What…

She breaks off when she sees who Jackson is running to.  Liam sits on a bench not far from them, scrolling through pictures on his phone. Heather accidentally drops Jackson’s leash and Jackson runs to Liam, barking and jumping on Liam’s legs for attention.

Liam – Oh!  Well hello there.  Jackson? Is that you boy?

Jackson – Woof!

Liam – If you’re here…

Liam looks up and sees Heather coming toward him. He tries to wipe his eyes before she can see how much he has been crying.

Liam – Heather…

Heather – Hello.  I apologize for Jackson disturbing you.

Liam – No, he’s not disturbing me.  I’m happy to see him.  And you.

Heather – What are you doing here?  Shouldn’t you be at some meeting or function or something? Wasn’t there some fancy tea party coming up?

Liam – I skipped it.  I couldn’t deal with pretending to be someone I’m not right now.

Heather – Ha.  I thought you were pretty good at pretending to be someone you’re not.

Liam – I deserve that, and much more from you. Nothing you say or do at this point could be worse than the shame and hatred I feel for myself for hurting you. I know there is probably nothing I could ever say or do to convince you of how much I care for you.  The times with you, us alone, have been the only thing real in my entire life.  

Heather – How long have you been out here?  How did you even know I was here?  Have you been stalking me?  Having your guards follow me?

Liam – No.  I stopped at the café down the street after my meeting this morning. Apparently you and I have the same taste in breakfast.  The waiter told me about a girl ordering the same thing earlier.  I described you to him and he confirmed that it was you.  I asked him if he knew where you went and he told me the hotel.  I tried to get the person at the front desk to let me talk to you, but she wouldn’t even confirm if you were there.  So, I came here, just to be alone, away from everyone.

Heather – Oh.

Liam – I assumed Drake would be with you.  I didn’t want to disturb you.

Heather – Ha.  Yeah, there’s the joke of the day.  The only person that has contacted me since I left this morning is Regina. And she was only looking for you.

Liam – I…I don’t understand.  When Drake left this morning, I assumed he came to be with you. Maxwell, Hana, none of them have contacted you?

Heather – No.  And at this point, I’m done with everybody.  Lesson definitely learned.  From this point on my heart is locked up in Fort Knox.  Look out for number one, isn’t that the American motto? Well, today taught me I’m all on my own.

Liam – My father really messed everything up didn’t he?

Heather – Not just your father.  You went along with it too.  And obviously everyone else was in on it.  Well, apparently except Regina.  Which was rather surprising.

Liam – No one else knew, Heather.  Well, except Bastien, obviously.  

Heather – I find that hard to believe.  I imagined you all sitting around having a great laugh about how stupid I’ve been this whole time.

Liam – I would never do that, Heather.  I know you don’t believe me, but I do care about you. No, more than that.  I love you.  I never stopped.  I meant what I said to you the night of the coronation.  I wanted to propose to you that night.  I wanted to spend my life with you.

Heather – Why should I believe you?  You knew your father wanted to get rid of me, wanted you to marry Madeleine.  You let me run around like a fool chasing leads on some imaginary investigation. You could have stopped it by telling the truth at any time.  But you didn’t.

Liam – You’re right.  I should have told you.  Even if I did, what good would it have done?  I would still have been engaged to Madeleine.  We still would have been hiding behind closed doors.  I couldn’t clear your name, refute the pictures on my own without severely damaging my father’s reputation, the entire royal family’s reputation.  The trust of the people of Cordonia would be lost in an instant.  

Heather – So, it was all for totally selfish reasons. I see.

Liam – No, not just that.  I was protecting my family, yes.  But I have also been secretly been looking for Tariq.  If I could find Tariq, he is the missing piece to clear everything.  

Heather – So, in a way, you have been helping.

Liam – Of course.  I know I have hurt you deeply.  I was only trying to protect you.

Heather – Well, you still should have told me. (phone buzzes)  Hang on a second.

Heather looks at her phone.  It’s Drake.

Liam – If you need to take that, I’ll leave.

Heather – No, he can wait.  He’s made me wait this long.  Look, Liam, I’m not saying I actually believe anything you’re saying. I want to, but you are very good at being deceptive and saying what people want to hear to make yourself look better.

Liam – Please tell me what I can do to prove myself to you.  A press conference?  A giant billboard with my picture announcing that I messed up or publicly declaring my love for you?  Abdicating my throne?  I’ll do anything you ask.

Heather – I do have one thing that I need you to do.

Liam – Anything.

Heather – Can you send Shazam to Dallas, Texas? I can give you the address to send her to.

Liam – Of course.  She will have luxury accommodations, I promise.  Just tell me when and I will make the arrangements.

Heather – Thank you.

Liam – Is that where you’re heading to next?

Heather – I don’t know yet.  I haven’t figured that part out yet.  I just know that’s the only place I have for her.

Liam – It’s not the only place.  I am more than happy to take care of her at the palace for you for as long as you like.  

Heather – Under the circumstances, I think it’s best if I clear out from Cordonia. Start fresh.

Liam – For what it’s worth, you will always have a home in Cordonia as long as I am king.

Heather – I don’t even know what to say.  I need to think.

Liam – I completely understand.  I don’t leave for Shanghai until tomorrow morning.  I am supposed to go to the opera later this afternoon, but I can skip it. I just want to be available for you.  And no matter where I am, I am always just a phone call away.

Heather – I think I just need to be alone right now. I appreciate the offer.  

Liam – Take your time.  I will wait for you forever if that’s how long it takes.

Heather – Liam, I know you’re trying here.  I just…I’m not saying I forgive you or whether I even believe you right now.  And honestly, with the mood I’m in right now, pushing me is not a good idea.  You may end up with another black eye to match the one you already have.  How did you get that, by the way?

Liam – Drake.

Heather – What?!?

Liam – When we all received your messages this morning, he yelled at me and punched me.  Which, I deserved.  How bad is it?  I haven’t looked in a mirror since I got dressed this morning.

Heather – It’s starting to darken up nicely.

Liam – I shall wear it as my badge of shame for all the trouble I’ve caused you.

Heather – Liam, I need some time to think.  I’m going to head back in.  Actually, I may head down the street for some lunch.  I saw a McDonald’s and I’m dying for some good greasy fast food.

Liam – Would you like some company?

Heather – No.  Like I said, I need to be by myself for a while.  I have a lot to think about.  I…I’m glad we talked, Liam.

Liam – As am I.  Would you mind if I remained here for a while?  It’s peaceful.

Heather – Uh, sure.  It’s a public park.  Not like I can force you to leave.

Liam – Actually, a word from you and I would leave immediately if you wanted me to.

Heather – Oh.  Well, you can stay, I guess.  If you want.

Liam – Thank you.  I hope we get a chance to speak again.  I am here any time you need me, Heather.

Heather – Thanks Liam.  See ya around, maybe.

Heather walks away with Jackson in tow heading down to McDonald’s.  Liam brings his phone back out and begins scrolling through photos again, reminiscing about all the wonderful times with Heather over the past few months.

----

After putting Jackson back in the hotel room, Heather walks to McDonald’s for some lunch.  After ordering and getting her food, she sits down at a booth in the back and pulls out her phone.  There’s a voice mail from Drake.

Heather – Do I really want to hear this? Probably not, but might as well get it over with.  I don’t think this day could get much worse.

Voice Mail from Drake – Riley.  Hey, it’s Drake.  Look, I, uh, we need to talk.  I’m at Savannah’s if you want to meet me, or call me.  Whatever.  Ok. So, call me.

Heather – Ok, cryptic much?  I am not dealing with this right now.  

________________________________________________________________

Drake – Ok Bartie…let’s see what kind of advice you have.

Bartie – Gah?

Drake – So what did you think of Heather last time we were here?  She’s nice, right?

Bartie – Gah.

Drake – Just between you and me, she’s a good kisser too.

Bartie – Ooooh.

Drake – Ha ha.  Yeah.  So why haven’t I called her yet?  Your mom’s too smart for her own good, you know that?  Making me think about all this.

Bartie – Ah.

Drake – I mean we’ve spent some decent time alone with each other, but the only reason we were even together was to hide out from the drama at Court.  I mean, she’s gorgeous, smart, funny, just amazing.  So what’s holding me back?

Bartie – Gah?

Drake – I don’t know either.  My own insecurities thinking I don’t deserve somebody as amazing as her.  And even after everything we’ve been through, a part of me still thinks she’s going to end up with Liam.  She should end up with him.  He loves her. He screwed up big time, but he loves her.  He can literally give her the world.  All I can give her is smores and a bottle of whiskey.  Not much of a comparison.

Bartie – Gah ah.

Drake – I’ve held myself back so much, trying not to get too close.  And even after pushing her away as much as I could, she still said she loves me.  I don’t understand how.  I’m nothing, just a simple guy with nothing to show for my life. And yet somehow, she saw something in me.  I just don’t understand it little guy.

Bartie – Goo ah.

Drake – So do you think I should try to call her? I don’t know.  I keep thinking I’m just the rebound guy, you know?  Second choice by default.  I mean, seriously, it was me or your Uncle Maxwell.  Which one of us would you choose?  Wait, don’t answer that.  You’d probably pick Maxwell cause he’s more fun.  Ugh…who knew I was the one with self-esteem issues.  

Bartie lays his head against Drake’s shoulder giving him a baby hug.

Drake – Thanks buddy.  I needed that.

Savannah walks back into the room.

Savannah – Looks like you two are bonding pretty well.

Drake – You were right.  He’s a great listener.

Savannah – So, did he help you make any decisions?

Drake – Yeah, he helped me to decide I’m really bad at making decisions.

Savannah – Ha ha ha.  Wow.  Well, here’s a decision for you.  Call her.

Drake – What if…?

Savannah – No second guessing, no more procrastinating, just call her!

Drake – Wow, demanding.  Yes sis.

Drake picks up his phone and pushes the button for Heather’s number.  After one ring it goes to voice mail.

Drake – Riley.  Hey, it’s Drake.  Look, I, uh, we need to talk.  I’m at Savannah’s if you want to meet me, or call me.  Whatever.  Ok. So, call me.

[crazyrapunzel]

New fanfic: Alicia Doreen and the werewolf professor

Hi peeps!

I just wrote a new fanfiction with RemusxOC. Read the first chapter here and the rest here. 

Chapter 1: first impressions

Remus John Lupin was incredibly nervous for his first class as a teacher of Defence Against the Dark Arts. Well technically this wasn’t his first, because earlier that morning he had started with the second years of Hogwarts school of Witchcraft and Wizardry, but that seemed to go by so quickly and easily. He wondered whether the young students were so quiet because of his teaching skills or because of the scars that decorated his face. Hardly a day went by without someone staring at him.

No, but he counted the second period of the first day of the schoolyear as his first class, because he needed to teach the seventh years next. It was quite the switch in subject matter and level of expertise from the impressionable second years to the rebellious and clever seventh years.

He woke up from his trance when the door opened and the students entered the room. He stood to say a polite ‘good morning’ here and there, waiting for them all to settle down. He already heard the first whispers mentioning his scars and placing bets to how he got them. The students had the idea that they were discreet and quiet enough, but they didn’t know that Remus Lupin had a heightened sense of hearing. However those words didn’t bother him. Soon enough the initial shock of his physique would die down and they would have to listen to his teaching.

When the last student closed the door he took out a parchment and started scanning the names. ‘Good afternoon class. My name is Professor Remus John Lupin. I will be your Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher for this year and hopefully many to come. I would like to start by checking the attendance sheet first. William Boot?’ After a ‘here’ from William and a couple of others he grew confident that his class was all present, until he heard a pause after asking for ‘Alicia Doreen?’

‘She isn’t here yet professor,’ a girl in the back replied. Remus looked up from the list, as if to hope that the missing girl would suddenly appear. ‘Well do you know where Miss Doreen is?’ The girl with the raven black hair was about to open her mouth, when the door slammed open. Remus looked up to see a seventeen-year-old girl standing in the opening, her hair tangled and wild, her chest heaving from running up the stairs. She leaned in the doorpost with her hands and her legs stood wide with her toes facing inward. The sight was so comical Remus nearly forgot he was supposed to be the adult in the room. He forced down his chuckles and cleared his throat.

‘Sorry I’m late professor. There was an incident I had to deal with,’ the girl replied. She started to walk towards the empty seat next to the raven haired Ravenclaw. Remus sniffed the air, and smelled something unpleasant. He looked the newest arrival over again and realised that her hair wasn’t just tangled, but also scorched. He smelled burnt hair.

‘An incident? Is that why your hair is smouldering?’ He asked. The class seemed surprised by his reaction. Sure enough some teachers would call bullshit and straight up deduct house points. The girl was suddenly aware of her hair and started running her fingers through the scorched parts. ‘Whoops. Thank you for telling me professor.’ Once again, Remus had trouble containing his smile.

Alicia hoped she didn’t miss any of her hair still smouldering away. Suddenly she noticed the smell and apologized to Michelle sitting next to her. Her friend looked half-amused half-annoyed at her silly friend and patted out a small burn mark in her robes.

‘What did I miss?’ Alicia asked. Michelle shrugged. ‘Nothing. He literally just asked where you were and then you stormed in like a lunatic.’ Alicia chuckled. ‘You know I like dramatic entrances.’

Professor Lupin continued down the list and once he was done, he addressed the class once more.

‘Well, now that we are all here,’ Alicia noticed the professors green eyes looking at her for a second ‘we can start the class. I understand that last year went quite different than usual. Your professor, Mister Lockhart was send to St Mungo’s and your exams were cancelled due to the Chamber of Secrets being opened. So am I to understand that you are a bit behind?’

Half the class started talking at the mentions of last year. When professor Lupin had shushed them he chose a Ravenclaw to inform him. ‘The exams being cancelled was a blessing. Professor Lockhart was a complete fraud. He taught us nothing all year.’ There were noises of agreement from the class and the professor pressed him on. ‘So we might need more than a little extra aid to catch up with the material from last year.’

The professor sighed. ‘I was afraid the situation was regrettable, but to catch up on an entire year…well don’t worry. I’ll work on a new schedule. For now I want to catch up on the nonverbal spells. Have you practiced those last year at least?’ Some people nodded. ‘Alright then. I’ll talk them over for half an hour and after that we will practice them. Sounds good?’

The excited noises from the students seemed to lift the professors spirit. Alicia watched the curious new professor. He wasn’t like any of the other teachers. They were all so strict, so…inhuman and distant. But this man, he seemed a lot closer to the students. He felt for them, having a moron for a teacher the year before they graduated. He seemed to want to be liked, because he looked for confirmation of his lesson plans. And lastly, he hadn’t said anything about house points or detention to Alicia. For that alone, she felt already in his dept.  

‘What do you think?’ Alicia asked Michelle as everyone was getting out their books. Michelle looked up with a questionable look. ‘What you mean the professor? I guess he is okay so far.’

In front of the two Ravenclaw girls sat two more Ravenclaw girls. Elena, the ever bubbly and naïve friend, turned around to join in. ‘He looks weird though. Those scars. What do you think did that?’

Alicia sat back in her chair and started ticking off her fingers. ‘Dragon, Wampus cat, pixies, werewolf, regular wolf, cat, bowtruckle-‘ she gained a giggle at that last one from Elena. ‘All plausible options. More options possible depending on where he travelled. Or maybe the most dangerous one of all…a crazy ex-girlfriend.’ She added a dramatic look for effect and successfully made all three girls laugh.

After the lecture the tables and benches were moved aside so they had place to stand around in pairs and practice their non-verbal spell work. Alicia didn’t have too much trouble when performing them, but she did have trouble aiming at her friend. She tried to aim for her legs as she used the Jelly-Legs Curse, but they kept ending in her face. Elena looked more and more distraught at the wild flying curses and jinxes. ‘Come on Alicia. Aim for the legs.’ Alicia sighed in frustration. ‘I am! Look.’ She aimed once more at Elena’s legs but at the last moment she was distracted by a moving figure. Her curse went wide again but instead of hitting Elena, she hit someone in the back of the head.

Of course it had to be the professor.

‘I am soooo sorry about that!’ Alicia exclaimed, her hands covering her face. Professor Lupin turned around slowly, rubbing the back of his head. ‘Are you trying to get detention today, Miss Doreen?’ he said. It was supposed to sound threatening, but she couldn’t help but notice some amusement in his tone. Nevertheless she dropped her eyes to the floor. ‘No professor. I am just bad at aiming.’ She dared to look up to see him looking with a curious expression. ‘Well I guess that would be your first task to master then.’ The girl nodded quickly and the professor moved on to the next pair.

Elena shook her hand as if it had been burned. ‘That was close Nessie. I think he really likes you to go so easy on you.’ Alicia shook her head at the nickname. In her fourth year she saved a fellow student from being drowned by an overgrown kelpie and now she had a reputation and a nickname around the school. It wasn’t the real Loch Ness monster though, mind you. ‘Shut it. It’s your turn.’

The class was about to end, the furniture back in place, when Alicia heard her name being spoken. She looked up at her new DADA professor. ‘If you wouldn’t mind staying for a moment,’ he said shortly. Michelle, Elena and Sophia waved her goodbye as they left for lunch in the Great Hall. Soon everyone had gone except the new teacher and the student that was late to class on her first day.

She looked down at him sitting behind his desk. It suddenly felt weird being alone in the room with him. She did actually look at the scars on his face properly for the first time and decided that whatever did that, it were deep wounds when inflicted. His sandy-brown hair fell over his forehead in a feeble attempt to hide a part of his scar. There was light stubble on his face. His wizarding robes looked old but recently refreshed. A dull shine came from his buttons and the small tears in the fabric of his sleeves were darned with a secure hand.

He leaned forward on his desk and looked directly in Alicia’s eyes. ‘I would like to know why you were late today.’ It was a simple request. It made sense. However, Alicia’s mind had already found herself thinking he was going to ask something way more personal. Why would he do that you idiot? She reprimanded her own thoughts.

She exhaled with a shaky laugh. ‘Well, you noticed the scorch marks, right?’ He nodded and his eyes flickered to her long blonde hair before returning to meet her gaze. ‘Uhm…there was an incident in the dungeons near the Slytherin common room. Somehow a fire crab had gotten inside the castle and it was wildly attacking students and sending fireballs from it’s a-rear,’ she confessed.

The professor’s face froze in place. ‘There was a fire crab in the dungeons.’

‘Yep,’ she said, plopping the P.

He stared at her for a moment, maybe expecting her to say more, but she was really distracted by this man. He shook his head and chuckled. The sound of his laughter made Alicia feel warm inside. Wow girl, get your act together will you? ‘And obviously when a fire crab enters the dungeon, you have to deal with it. Is that right?’ Alicia blinked out of her daydream and realised why he found this so peculiar. ‘Ah, right! I forgot to mention a bit about me. You see, professor, I have a passion for magical creatures. I seem pretty good at taming and handling them. This is something the entire school knows because of the famous Leprechaun invasion,’ she noticed his incredulous look but simply replied with, ‘not important. So anyway, the answer is yes. When the Slytherins faced this problem they asked me to deal with it. So I did.’

‘You did?’ he asked, even more surprised than he already was.

‘Yes. Brought it to Hagrid. He knows what to do with them. He might even be featured in his Care of Magical Creatures lessons. Hagrid is so excited to be a teacher this year. The fire crab had quite a temperament though, maybe not so safe after all.’ That last sentence was added as an afterthought.

The professor stared her down for a moment longer before deflating a bit in his chair. Now he really couldn’t stop the smile on his face as he recalled how ridiculous this school could be. ‘Well I guess you were actually quite quick then. You were found by a Slytherin, brought to the dungeons, dealt with the beast and brought it to Hagrid, and in the end you were mere minutes late to class.’

‘It happened during our previous free hour,’ she replied simply.

‘Of course it did,’ the professor said just above a whisper.

Alicia raised an eyebrow. ‘Are you calling me a liar professor? I have many witnesses that can tell you the truth.’

‘No! No I wasn’t implying that. I just think…you are incredible.’

Alicia started blushing at that remark. She cleared her throat and shuffled her shoes. ‘Thank you, Professor Lupin.’

He didn’t seem to realise what he had said. ‘Okay, well thank you for telling me. I will remember it. Next time I face something interesting I will call for you.’ Alicia chuckled at that and looked at the professor again. With that dashing smile on his face she suddenly realised that she found the professor attractive. Oh no. ‘You should. I will be there!’

The professor chuckled once more and started collecting some papers on his desk. ‘Alright, you are dismissed. You should get some lunch.’ Alicia turned to leave. When she walked past his desk, she noticed a book on top. It attracted her attention because it was familiar. ‘Oh this is a good one! I didn’t think it was on the recommended reading list for this year,’ Alicia said.

The professor looked up from his papers to see the girl hovering over his current read. ‘It isn’t. I’m reading it now. Did you read it?’ Alicia turned to see the bookmark already halfway. ‘Yes I did and there are some great plot twists yet to come for you. But chapter five was my favourite part, I see you already read that. When you finish it you should tell me and we can discuss it. There are some holes in the story that I would like to talk with someone about. I want to see how someone else interpreted it.’

The professor looked at her for a moment before replying. ‘I will. That is the second time in our first meeting that you astonish and surprise me.’ His gaze didn’t leave the Ravenclaw girl. Despite her warm cheeks she tried to reply lightly with a joke. ‘Always here to surprise you,’ she said while making a theatrical bow. After another moment of eye contact that send warm shivers down Alicia’s spine she turned to leave the classroom.

[seenashwrite]

There But For The Grace

Word Count: 3.3K Category: One-shot; Introspection; Mystery; Choices; Life journeys; Redemption Rating: Teen & Up Character(s): Dean, Michael, Reader/O.C. Female, and… just read the story. Pairing(s): Read. The. Story. Stop wanting the endings at the starts, impatient young'uns Warnings: None Faux-Warning: There’s no banging, so now that I’ve lost 80% of you… Author’s Note(s):  *This is a re-post minus tags & links in an effort to get it to show up in searches*; I’m told you’re not a true fanfic writer unless you’ve done a coffee shop meet-up fic - kindly let me know if I got it right; more post-story Overall Summary: An archangel takes a break from his reconnaissance.

The list grew by the minute, and he had to admit to himself that the mundane task of collecting all his reasons was turning delightful.

The other world hadn’t progressed to this level of corruption; likely it would’ve, had it not been for the brimstone, but that was neither here nor there. The worlds were identical, he’d learned, at least in the ways that mattered. Time nor space made a difference. Humans were, to be sure, utterly predictable.

Case in point: his most favorite time period from recent past had unfolded in precisely the same manner in both places, so much so he came as near to astonishment as he’d ever been. The roaring twenties were rife with sin, the pompous prohibitionists and the lust-filled liquor vendors, the mobsters with their massacres, and the bankers with their bloated greed. His distaste aside, it was beautiful. It was art, the way they crafted their depravity. Granted, it was nothing compared to his favorite time of all, but this was understandable; little could live up to Sodom and Gomorrah.

See there, hunter? I’m a salt-and-burn aficionado.

He’d successfully lulled the man whose body he’d snatched - no, that’s not right. He did not steal. Theft is sin. The hunter had agreed to act as a vessel, it was witnessed, and while there was deception involved, one in his position must think of the greater good. And it should be noted that he did exercise benevolence. Angelic vessels did not fare well, exponentially so for archangel vessels, and it was poor form to run through them quickly.  

He knew firsthand how his brothers handled their hosts. Raphael would woo the humans with promises of a glorious afterlife, then promptly expel their souls the moment he got a foothold. Gabriel would talk them into giving up the ghost voluntarily (as Gabriel could talk practically anyone into anything), in an effort to keep himself guilt-free. And as the fall crept closer, Lucifer took to keeping them wide awake, poking, prodding, picking, til slowly but surely the glow faded to embers, finally snuffing them out upon growing bored.

But not him. He was the best of them all, no sense in being humble. He was different, so he did things differently. He pushed the hunter to the farthest reaches of the mind they shared, threats to family quelling the belligerence surprisingly easily.

Are you plotting? he’d asked early on, receiving no answer; they both knew it was rhetorical.

As their time together grew, he’d talk to the hunter on occasion - not aloud, of course - when he marveled at the things he observed, breathing it all in. It had been ages since he’d walked the earth peacefully. It was wonder he felt, and he knew it, and it bothered him. He had been tasked with protecting them, once upon a time, and it was easier then, they were more readily awed, or maybe just malleable. He’d begun to consider if subtlety and manipulation might be ideal this go-round, effective as plagues and floods and annihilation had been, albeit temporarily.

He’d been raised by a vengeful God, the new redemptive version that came with the birth of the prophet never quite sitting right with him, but he was an obedient son, absence or no. He was his Father’s first son, he who was of God, the first angel there ever was, no matter what differing legends over the millennia might’ve said. The offenses the rest of the children, celestial-born and earth-bound alike, committed upon God’s creation wouldn’t have been tolerated back then.

Before. Before it all changed, right under his supposed watchful eye. Before he’d laid waste, in heaven and on earth. Before he’d gotten wrapped up in his plans, let his guard down. Before he lost all three of his beloved brothers in one way or another. Before he’d started paying attention again.

He wouldn’t miss anything else.

And so it was that on his fact-gathering strolls, more and more he found himself slowing his pace, pausing, coming to a halt, damn near freezing in place when something would catch his eye, or touch his ear, or invade his nose, the latter of which stopped him cold this evening, just as twilight eased across the buildings around him, and streetlights flickered on, up and down a nondescript street in a nondescript town on one nondescript walk amongst many.

He went further down the sidewalk, and up the block, and continued around a corner, and there it was, the answer to the question of what heavenly smell had wafted his way.

.

Hallowed Grounds French and Italian Coffees est. 1922

.

In his experience, the fates were indeed fickle. On the other hand, he’d done enough surveillance that week to allow for brief relaxation, be someone else for a spell. Seemed the rough-and-tumble hunter had smoothed edges made ragged from eons spent on another plane, made him fractionally more flexible. Teaching lessons could wait one more night, he told himself.

Meant to be, don’t you think?

There wasn’t need for food or drink, but the hunter was practically a junkie on both fronts, and the palate was wide. This body was stronger than most, better equipped for him, as tailor-made things are, of course, but he had not anticipated how demanding it could be, how it would crave indulgence. Undisciplined. Annoying. Distracting. It was for that last reason he’d give in, keep bites small and sips slow, and the moment there was a sense of satiation, off he - they - would go, back on mission.

African coffee was the best, this was not merely a belief but a fact; French he’d always found bland, somehow; Italian was tolerable. He ordered an espresso, tipped well, and the barista behind the former bar said they had servers milling about, one would be by to check in, see if he needed anything else. And despite knowing he’d swallow less than a quarter of the brew, he took a seat at a table, back to people-watching. Not a one was interesting in the least.

He’d noted the woman carrying the steaming metal carafe walking briskly in the direction where he sat, but had already let his eyes roam away by the time she’d gone behind him, and she only had cause to cross his mind when a loud CLANK hit the air, and the sensation of a third-degree burn called out from his lower right leg and ankle. Several gasps erupted from close-by patrons, someone moaned “Oooooh!” in sympathy, and then came the babbling.

It was the woman, the server, and she was alternating under-breath curses with self-deprecation - Such a stupid klutz! - Why’d I take this fucking job? There wasn’t an apology to be found, not a lick of repentance.

She had his attention.

As she made her way around, the carafe - retrieved, now dented and empty - was plunked on his table, causing the espresso to slosh, and she surveyed the mess on the floor, closed her eyes, rubbed them, took a deep breath, then exhaled it far too quickly for it to have been of any use. Her eyes popped open. They instantly lit on his soaked trouser cuff.

“Jesus,” she muttered, flat forehead going to a frown in a nanosecond.

And he frowned, too. Not that he’d been particularly impressed by or had much use for the prophet, nor had he bought into all the trinity talk - he’d found it offensive that any would be placed by the Father as an equal of sorts - but this was in the ballpark of blasphemy. Well, then. Another sinner joins the collection.

Now she’d dropped, and he arched an eyebrow as his head tilted down, feeling her rubbing - aggressively - on his shoe, sopping up the spilt coffee with a rag she’d had tucked in her apron’s waistband.

“That pot was still hot as hell, it didn’t get you, did it?” she asked, looking up at him from her kneeling position.

“No,” he lied.

“Oh, thank God. I’d have been… if you’d been burnt, I would’ve… I am so sorry, sir.”

Penitence looked lovely on her.

“You seem anxious, why don’t you sit, rest for a moment,” he suggested, and gestured to the empty chair across from him.

He kept his eyes locked onto hers; she gave him an odd look in return, but didn’t have time to answer. Another table called out to her, so she broke the stare, told him she’d check on him again later, see if he wanted a refill - anything he wanted, on the house, she added - before rising and leaving his side.

He took her up on it. He paid for the one that followed. And he waited until the patrons had nearly cleared and the lights were being dimmed and the brooms were coming out. Someone else was sent to collect the fee for the still-full third.

Take a hint.

He followed the advisement - whether it was the hunter’s or some sort of self-prompting, he couldn’t say - and exited, though he didn’t carry on with his reconnaissance, instead going down the tiny alley that led to the back of the building, leaning against a telephone pole that was partially in the shadows, settling in, keeping an eye on the side door of the coffee shop.

The hunter spoke up.

You suck at this.

Pray tell?

Trying to pick up a chick, get laid.

Orgasms are insufficient reasons for risking the creation of another abomination.

Go comb through my greatest hits, then we’ll talk about risks and rewards.

It took a half-hour of darkened silence before he began to grow irritable, and he stood from his lean, was straightening his overcoat when the door opened. She spotted him, pretended like she didn’t, so he took a few steps in her direction. He was just about to speak when she whipped around, jerking something from her pocket. She immediately squirted a caustic fluid onto him, which did nothing, save prompting a confused expression to come across his now damp face.

Oh, for crying out—-

Hush.

She coughed several times as a breeze carried the mist her way, though a subtle wave of his hand served to make it disappear, and soothed her stinging eyes and scratchy throat. He pulled out his handkerchief and blotted the moisture coating his cheeks. She watched, not moving an inch, her mouth hanging open ever-so-slightly.

“I didn’t mean to startle you,” he said. “Please forgive me.”

“That’s the strongest mace on the market,” she muttered. She looked at the tiny tube, sneered, then tossed it down the alley, where it hop-skipped out of sight. Turning her head back to him, she spoke again, this time warily. “You need money or something? You’re not dressed like you need money.”

He returned the handkerchief to his pocket, met her eye. “You think I waited here to rob you?”

“I don’t… well why are you here?”

“I enjoyed your company and hoped to extend our time together.” A pause, then he added, “I have no desire to have sex with you.”

“Gee, thanks?”

He began to respond, hesitated, then opted to go with, “I’m told I’m not… not very good at… this.”

“Making friends?”

“Mmmm.”

“Well, it’s… it’s late.”

He glanced at his watch. “So it is.”

“And I don’t even know your name.”

“Michael.”

“Michael. Okay. I have a brother named Michael. Mikey, if I want to piss him off.”

“Were your parents religious?”

“What?!” she exclaimed, though she chased it with an amused grin. “You ask the strangest questions. Um, no. Not really.”

“And your name?”

“I, uh… don’t give out my name to strangers.”

“Wise. But I need to call you something.”

“Hmmm… I don’t really…”

He waited.

She snapped her fingers. "My family nicknamed me Grace. The way they talk, I’ve been clumsy since the womb.” She rolled her eyes.

“That sounds cruel.”

She laughed, but it was short, clipped. “Nah. Annoying, maybe. But they didn’t mean anything by it. Your family not have a nickname for you?”

He shook his head. “No. They called one of my brothers the star. He… shone a little too brightly.”

She nodded. “I have a friend like that. Drama queen. Sucks up all the air in a room, as my mother would say.”

“May I call you Grace?”

She laughed again, the full version this time, and said, “I ruined your pants, so I owe you. Yeah, sure. Go for it.”

He walked her to her car, but they kept chatting - the coffee shop began as a speakeasy, he informed her, and a two-way mirror once hung over the bar so as to keep an eye out for the police. And the conversation drifted with them as they meandered down the street, ended up in a park, sitting in swings sandwiched between a slide and a sandbox, lazily letting their feet trail through gravel, him allowing her to think he was a history buff, her telling him how she’d been born in another nondescript town in another nondescript state. How as the years passed, it had started to feel like another world.

And when it was her turn to ask about the past, it called up from within him the desire to lie to her - protect her - for the second time that night. So he chose his words carefully.

“I had assignments. One that was the most… I was supposed to guard people. Defend them, when needed. And… and I did a good job for quite awhile. My commander was pleased. But then things… happened. I let an enemy invade. I wasn’t strong enough. Not enough to stop him.”

“You don’t have to go into detail if you don’t want to,” Grace said quietly. She laid a hand over his.

“People died.”

“Oh.”

“They saw me as a protector. There was a time when some practically worshiped me, thought I was worthy of it.” He made a scoffing sound. “I started to believe I was.”

He’d never had a single regret, never let himself fall into the abyss of memories. But even he could be brought - broken, more accurately - out of his routine. And the most immediate period of his existence had done just that, making times of calm a desire, while in the same moment making times of silence an irritant.

He looked down at their hands, flipped his, threaded his fingers through hers, and she didn’t stop him.

They sat, unmoved, no words, for several minutes; three-point-two-one-six, in fact, because he counted them. His mind never rested, even when the hunter’s did, but he liked how she didn’t feel the need to fill the emptiness with idle talk. Made for a touch of calm. Even with the silence.

It held a bit of irony - he was the silent type, everyone said so. He’d found it often communicated intent better than any words could’ve. And more descriptions piled on: Imposing. Intimidating. Towering. Threatening. Some had called him “Beast” long before it had been applied to their once-adored morning star.

So there it was - there’d already been a second lie, and he hadn’t even noticed.

“I don’t mean to frighten you,” he told her, staring at her intently, but this time she didn’t look away.

“You said that already,” she replied, a solemn smile on her lips, not too wide, not too thin, just the right sort, and he hoped he reciprocated in kind. She gave his hand a gentle squeeze, saying, “Michael… I mean, my Michael —–”

The hunter’s belly stirred.

“—– you know, my brother, he’s in the service. He’s a Ranger. He doesn’t tell our family a lot of stories from when he fought, but he’s told me some. So if it’s anything like that, then… I can understand. I can try, I mean.”

“I led the entirety of our legion.”

“You’re… you seem a little young to be… what would it be, a general, I guess? Or do you mean you led your division? Or squadron? I know some of the terminology, you don’t have to dumb it down for me.”

“I’ve offended you.”

“No, it’s… don’t worry about it, it doesn’t matter.”

“It very much matters. How people treat one another. People can be vile, sadistic, horrible creatures.”

She raised her eyebrows. “I guess. But we’re the only ones here. And I’m not horrible, and you’re not horrible, soooo…”

“You’re right,” he lied for the third time, and with one of the hunter’s brightest smiles.

Which made Grace shine.

Go.

The hunter did as he was commanded.

Michael thought she tasted like sin.

“Okay. Tomorrow. I’m off work, but we can meet at the coffee shop, figure out what to do from there… around noon sound good?”

He nodded. “That sounds perfect. Thank you, Grace.”

She nodded in return, got in her car, and gave him a little wave as she pulled away.

Is this your plan, hunter? How you think you’ll undo me? Making me more like you?

Hey, I haven’t been driving for awhile now. Ass.

Hmmm.

You kissed her.

What makes you say that?

When you let me leave the bad boy corner, I could tell. Or else you’re putting strawberry lip balm on my—-

Apple.

Huh?

It’s apple.

He waited at her apartment, this time deep in the shadows where he wouldn’t be spotted, made sure she got inside safely, listened for the click that told him she’d locked the door. He began to leave, then thought better of it, decided to play guardian for old times’ sake, placed warding here and there to keep any would-be harm away. And back to walking he went, considering how to kill the hours til they met again.

May as well strike up a conversation.

Now that we’ve spent some time together, tell me - Why didn’t we do this sooner? What’s it been for you, about a decade?

You’re a douche.

Fine. But comparatively?

There’s not a douche scale, dick.

So I’m altogether irredeemable?

Uh - is there some universe where you aren’t?

Perhaps.

So prove it! Let me go! And LEAVE ME ALONE.

Fair enough.

If he were to put a not-so-fine point on his reasoning for not meeting her the next day, that about summed it up. He’d disappoint her, she’d disappoint him, and if she didn’t, that was no good. Probably worse. Better to keep unattached when it came to what the future… what he… would likely bring.

Even so, he found himself once more standing apart, likely imposing, always watching, this time through a window, across hallowed grounds, looking for his grace. He spotted her at the very table he’d been at when they met, scrolling through her phone, occasionally sipping on a latte. Then there’d be a sigh, a glance to the large clock on the opposite wall as five, then ten, then fifteen minutes passed by.

What say after this, we head to the cage, check on that counterpart of mine?

This time, he received an unusually placid response.

Why?

To ensure he’s paying for what he’s done.

Like you haven’t been thinking of nuking this world. You’re still jonesing for your apocalypse. You know you want a do-over.

The world could use some cleansing, true. There’s reasons. But, no. That’s not why.

Then what?! How many times are you planning on dragging me over there, making sure he hasn’t popped the lock so you can keep up your stupid act? They’re gonna figure it out soon, Cas or Sam—-

I thought of all people, you’d understand.

Understand WHAT? It’s payback? ‘Cause the first thing *he* did was make a beeline to take you out?

He killed my brother. With my own sword, no less. And that above all, Dean, I will not abide.

Grace picked up her bag, left a few bills on the table, and as she walked out the door, placed a phone call.

“Yeah, he stood me up… no, no, I’m not… Seriously! I’m not mad, I’m just, you know… yeah. I thought he was different… No, you’re right, and I’m sure he had a good reason, and I told you he didn’t have a phone with him, right? So it’s not like he could’ve…. oh God, no he wasn’t lying, why do you assume every dude…. Anyway, maybe I’ll see him again. I think that’d be nice…”

Well, then. Not so predictable, after all. Not this one. At least, for now.

Teaching the world a lesson could wait for just one more day.

.

Author’s Note #2: Per request, there’s a walkthrough on the inspiration for the title/plot points, the theology droppings, and the “clues” for the ending twist-a-roo, if you’re interested! Just look for this story on my Master Post (see below) and it’s linked at the bottom of the story.

Want more stories? My Master Post is linked in my profile, and it tells you about getting on the Tag List, too! If for whatever reason it gives you trouble, don’t hesitate to send an Ask and I’ll link you.

Re-blogs and feedback are fuel for a writer’s soul - please do let me know if you enjoyed. 😘

[multimxsings]

The Price for Great Powers

Inspired by @chachacharlieco, who makes by far the best and most precious kh fanarts I ever saw. More specifically this and this.

But now that I really know who draw all these precious arts, I don’t think my fanfic is worthy enough anymore. But I guess here it is. Rip it apart all you want, ‘cause I know it’s not as good as their arts or other fanfics who might use Soranort. Even though I technically didn’t use Soranort.

It even has a lame end, hehe...

Also on Ao3 and ff.net

The Price for Great Powers

Sora’s been acting...strange lately. Kairi had no idea what it was, but something about Sora was different. He’s getting into fights with everyone, especially all the guys in school. It felt like she wasn’t ‘allowed’ to talk with other guys. He even attacked Riku verbally.

The only time she heard him talk with a gentle voice when he talked with her. To her, he was still the caring and slightly overprotective guy she loved, always telling her he’ll keep her save even though the big battle with Xehanort was long over.

“Kairi.” Said redhead turned to her best friend calling her. “Riku?” The older boy put a hand on her back and guided her somewhere. “We need to talk.”

“About Sora?” He just nodded as an answer and Kairi let him bring to a place where they could talk in private. “So, you noticed, too.” It wasn’t a question. “Of course. I know Sora's protective of me, but this is too much now...”

“That’s not him being protective anymore, Kairi. That’s possessiveness.” That’s not really the word she’d use, but it hit closer to the truth. “When did all this start?” Kairi thought for a while, trying to remember when she noticed the first change in him. “I guess...A few days after we returned.” Riku hummed and leaned against the wall.

“It could be a side effect of him using the power of waking to track down your heart.” He mumbled thoughtfully and unknowingly made her feel bad. “You mean it’s my fault he’s like this now?”

“No! No, god no, of course not.” He said quickly, trying to make her feel better. “Sora wanted to do it and he knew he’s abusing his powers. Mickey said he might not come back...” Kairi tried to make sense of his words. “What do you mean?”

“Hey!” Before Riku could explain it to her a familiar voice was calling them. And he sounded very angry. The two friends turned to the source of the voice and saw Sora glaring at them. “What are you doing here?!” He yelled, coming closer to them. “Sora, we just—“ Kairi tried to explain, but he just pushed her away gently and glared at Riku. “I asked you something!”

Riku frowned, but still talked as normal as ever. “We talked.” Soras glare darkened. She’s never seen him like this before...It was kinda scary. ”Oh, is that so?” He took a step closer and grabbed Riku’s collar. “And why did you drag her out here to ‘talk’?” Kairi couldn’t take it anymore, she had to defuse this situation.

She quickly barged in between the boys, looking at Sora’s furious face still glaring at Riku. “Sora!” She immediately got his attention and his face softened again. “Don’t be like this. Riku just wanted to talk with me.” The younger boy went silent at that, but eventually stepped back after glaring at Riku a last time.

Just as she thought everything’s fine, Riku began to talk. “Do you realize what you’re doing?” He earned himself another glare from Sora. “You’re trying to control Kairi. You keep her away from everyone. I’m her best friend in case you forgot.”

Before Sora could snap at him, Kairi grabbed his arm and pulled him away from Riku. “Come on, Sora! The next lesson starts soon!” Sora let her pull him along, but she saw him glaring at Riku one last time.

“Why are you so angry? It’s not like Riku and I are dating or something.” Sora looked at her apologetical, his expression softened again. “I know. Sorry.”

“Tell that to Riku.” He went silent at this, all the way till they’re in class. Sometime during class, Riku began to text her.

[Riku]: You see what I mean?

[Kairi]: Yeah. So what do you think is wrong with him?

[Riku]: My theories are that this is not Sora at all

[Riku]: or he came back as something else...

[Riku]: Don’t you feel it? The darkness?

[Kairi]: I do, but...I hoped I’m wrong.

[Riku]: Not just you

“Hey, who are you texting with?” Kairi jumped, when she heard Soras hushed voice against her ear. Of course he’d eventually notice her texting with someone. “Oh, uh Riku.” His expression became slightly darker and it made her shudder. “I see.”

Kairi knew he wanted to say more, but he decided not to. And she had more to tell him, too, but they had to wait till school’s over. Which was soon, but it felt like years.

When the last lesson was over, Kairi could tell that he wanted to leave as soon as possible. Since he didn’t tell her anything she took her time as always, but as soon as they’re both ready to go he grabbed her hand and lead her out of the school. “Wait.” Sora didn’t listen to her though and kept walking. “Wait, Sora!”

The redhead stopped and so did he. He looked at her, asking her silently why she stopped. “We should wait for Riku.” She could see that he didn’t like the idea, no matter how much he tried to hide this fact. “To be honest, I...wanted to do something with you. Alone.”

Kairi tilted her head to the side. She wasn’t quite sure if that’s a lie or if he really planned a day just for them. After all they really didn’t have much alone time since they returned. “Okay. Let’s go then.” Sora grinned brightly and it made Kairi think she just imagined the darkness in him.

When he’s with her he’s the same as always. Maybe he reacted the way he did because he’s afraid he’ll lose her again? Or he’s jealous? Even though Kairi never expected him to be the jealous type. But they both did change over the years, it could be a possibility.

Sora brought her to the beach and suggested to go to the play island. Of course she agreed, but she did feel bad that Sora brought them there in one boat and refusing to accept any help from her. “You’re a princess, you don’t have to work.” The redhead blushed at his words. “Don't say that, I'm still the same.” Then she took her phone to tell Riku why they didn't wait for him.

[Kairi]: Sorry we didn't wait. Sora and I are going to the play island

[Riku]: Take care

Kairi wasn't really sure what he meant with this. After all Sora was always very sweet to her and wouldn't ever hurt her. “What are you doing?” Asked Sora and Kairi quickly made up a lie to not make him angry again. “I, uh, I'm just telling my mom we're here.” Sora accepted her answer and before she knew it they already arrived at the little island.

Kairi was watching Sora the whole time they're on the play island. But he was the same for the rest of the day. It's like as if the argument with Riku a few hours ago never happened. Even the weird darkness on him was gone. Or at least shrunk down to the 'normal' size every person had.

“Let's train!” Suggested Kairi at some point, while Sora looked at her shocked. “Huh?” The redhead summoned her keyblade and took a few steps away from him. “Come on! You need to stay in shape. Or I'll become a keyblade master before you.” She wanted to tease him, egg him on to get off his lazy ass and fight with her, but he just smiled. “I wouldn't mind. For me you already are a master.”

“But not a real one!” Kairi pouted. “Come on. Whoever's got hit first wins. Okay?” He kept staring at her and Kairi couldn't help but blush at the loving gaze he gave her. “Okay.” He eventually gave in and summoned his own keyblade. Smiling triumphantly, she got ready for the upcoming battle. “After you, princess.”

It's weird that he kept calling her 'princess', but he surely just wanted to tease her back with this. “Don't hold back.” She said, before running to him and attacked him head-on. As expected he blocked the attack with his keyblade, but it was just a ruse to attack from another side.

Which he parried as well. Actually it didn't matter how she attacked, it's like he knew exactly what she planned and either dodged or blocked her attacks. In the end she was exhausted and he looked like he could do this for hours. “You’re not taking this seriously.” Kairi huffed, trying to catch her breath. “What do you mean?”

“All you do is avoiding my attacks. You haven’t attacked me once.” The spikey haired boy tilted his head to the side. “You want me to attack you?” Kairi nodded and barely blocked his fast attack. And man, he’s strong. She almost fell on her knees when their keyblades clashed. Using all her remaining strength, she pushed him back.

“Good.” His compliment didn’t really help her, though. “Look out.” Kairi looked up at his words and saw his keyblade rushing towards her. She dodged his attack, but he didn’t give her time to compose herself as he kept attacking her. He was fast, too, but maybe it’s because Kairi was doing all the work till now and was exhausted...

Once she had a second, she used a healing spell on herself and felt her strength returning. And now it was slightly easier fighting Sora. But what irritated her the most was that Sora kept warning her when he attacked. Something Axel never did during training.

Yeah, she knew Sora didn’t want to hurt her and went easy on her because she wasn’t as good as him yet, but how was she supposed to learn if he fought like this? It kinda made her wish to train with Axel again, since he actually took things seriously and they actually landed a few hits on one another.

After dodging another attack, Kairi wanted to start a counter attack but was faced with the tip of Soras keyblade. She froze, wondering what he’s gonna do, but then it just touched her cheek gently. “I won.” He announced and grinned at her. Huffing again, she admitted her defeat and sat down on the sand.

Sora sat down next to her and put a hand on her shoulder. “You okay?” Kairi nodded and sighed. “Yeah, fine.” The boy frowned and looked at her concerned. “Are you hurt?”

“I’m fine, Sora.” She answered, giving him a smile. He was quick to return it and as they both stared at the sea, Sora did something quite unexpected. He leaned his head on her shoulder. And it was quite a bold move for him, since he wasn’t exactly the type to initiate these things. But it did make her happy. But his next words caught her off-guard again. “You smell good.”

“Eeeh? Don’t be ridiculous, I reek of sweat!” Kairi leaned away from him, but he was quick to wrap an arm around her waist and pull her back to him. Sora rubbed his face against her shoulder like a cat. Now he’s weird again...Before she could ask him what’s wrong she suddenly found herself lying on her back with Sora hovering on top of her.

Kairi blushed a deep red that could match her hair, as she stared up at him. “You’re beautiful, Kairi.” All she could do was staring up at him. They knew each other’s feelings. They’ve both seen the drawings in the secret place and they did share a real paopu, but they haven’t really talked about it yet. If it was because they didn’t get the courage to do so yet or if they understood each other without words, she wasn’t sure.

So hearing him actually say anything was...great. And warmed her heart. “So—“ The boy quickly silenced her with his lips against hers. Her body froze at the sudden contact, having not expected this at all, but she eventually melted into the kiss. Maybe it wasn’t perfect, as many first kisses were, but it was for her. She’s dreamed of this for so long...

But something wasn’t right...She just didn’t know what it was. And with him kissing her, she wasn’t really able to think straight. Not even when his lips left hers. Not wanting this to stop yet, she grabbed the front of his shirt and pulled him back down without thinking. Sora obeyed and kept kissing her.

Kairi only let him go when they’re both very breathless. They stared into each other’s eyes as Sora leaned his forehead against hers and said the words she always wanted to hear from him. “I love you.” Kairis heart swelled with joy and she could feel herself tearing up. Before she knew it a tear escaped her eyes, but Sora was quick to wipe it away. And the next tear was just kissed away.

“You okay?” Kairi was unable to talk and just nodded. Then he scattered little kisses all over her face. She’s never felt so loved before and it was amazing. Giggling, the redhead wrapped her arms around Soras neck and pulled him down to hug him.

“I love you, too, Sora.” She whispered in his ear and felt him hugging her back tighter. They stayed like that for a while. Actually Kairi lost track of time by now, but she didn’t care. For all she cared they could stay like this for hours. Just lying on the sand and cuddling.

But they had to go back eventually and the sunset reminded her of this fact. “Let’s go back.” Said Kairi eventually, having stalled this moment as long as possible. But Sora just shook his head against her shoulder. “Don’t wanna.” They couldn’t stay there the whole night though and so Kairi reluctantly sat up. “We need to go.”

Before she could get up, though, Sora grabbed her shoulder and pushed her back down roughly. Kairi looked at him in shock and could swear that something flickered in Soras eyes for a second. He glared at her, but as fast as this came from it vanished and he looked at her apologetical. “S-sorry.”

The brunette let her go then. They both got up and went silently back to Soras boat. Kairi had no idea what she should say, this roughness towards her still shocked her. He’s never been like this before. There was really something wrong with him.

Once their back on the main island Sora brought her home. They still didn’t talk to each other, the atmosphere around then was extremely tense. Then they eventually arrived at her home and just as she wanted to say good-bye to Sora, he beat her to it. “Sorry about before. I-Idon’t know what came over me.” Kairi studied his face and saw that he was genuinely sorry about this. “It’s okay. See you tomorrow then.”

Kairi smiled at him, but he didn’t return it this time. “It’s not okay. I could’ve hurt you. Maybe I did. You can’t just forgive me like that. I understand if you’re angry and wanna scream at me, really. I deserve it.” To ease his mind at least a little bit, she pulled him into a hug. “I’m not mad. You said you’re sorry and I believe you. Stop thinking about it. See you tomorrow, okay?”

Sora nodded and hugged her for a while longer, before letting her go. They parted ways and once Sora was out of sight, she texted Riku.

[Kairi]: Something weird happened

And it didn’t take long for Riku to reply.

[Riku]: Tell me everything

It stayed weird for days. Sora kept attacking every guy she’s talking to, even Riku, and tried everything to keep her for himself. He was still sorry about what happened on the play island, she could feel it and even though no accidents like this happened anymore, he was still aggressive towards everyone else.

Maybe Riku was right. Maybe he did come back as ‘something else’. With every fight Sora got himself into with others she felt the darkness inside him growing. But when they’re alone it’s like none of this ever happened.

The whole team of keyblade wielders still kept in touch with each other and since Kairi and Axel became real good friends during their training she asked him to come over and help them. Roxas joined him of course, since he’s a part of Sora. Actually Xion and Isa wanted to come, too, but they sadly couldn’t find the time.

So when the ‘destiny trio’ went to the play island to meet their friends, Soras mood dropped constantly. And when Kairi went to hug Axel he snapped. “Okay, that’s enough!” The brunette yelled and pulled Kairi away from him. Before she could ask what’s wrong with him, he pulled her into a tight hug, as if he wanted to protect her from everyone.

“Okay, this is weird.” Commented Axel, while the blonde nodded in agreement. “Told ya.” Sora glared at Axel, Roxas and Riku, holding her even tighter against him. “What are you talking about?!” The guys just stared at him as if he’s grown a second head. “Maybe you’re right, Riku...”

Kairis eyes widened at the blondes words. If Roxas and Axel could see the difference in such a short time...Was the darkness really spreading in Soras heart? After having glared some big holes into their friends Sora turned away, practically dragging her with him. “Come on, Kairi, let’s get out of here.” But he stopped at Axels next words. “How about you let her decide what she wants to do.”

“How about you shut your mouth?” Quickly, Kairi ducked under his arm and stepped away from him, standing between him and their friends. “Stop that! Why are you always so angry? They’re our friends.” Sora frowned as he looked at the guys behind her. “I don’t know.” Seeing that he began to calm down again, Kairi went back to him.

“Maybe you need some rest.” Sora just nodded and as Kairi led him back to the boats, she looked over her shoulder to the guys. They nodded at her, telling her silently that they’ll try to figure out what’s wrong with him after having seen him.

They thought something like this might happen and they all agreed that if he happened to snap at them that Kairi will bring him away and calm him down. The couple went to Soras place and he was definitely calmer by now.

“What’s wrong with you?” They sat on his bed and Sora’s leaned his head on her shoulder. “Don’t know.” He mumbled and cuddled closer to her. At some point he fell asleep and Kairi used the time to write with the guys.

[Riku]: How’s he?

[Axel]: Back to normal?

[Kairi]: Yep. As if nothing happened. Any ideas?

[Roxas]: Something’s definitely wrong with him and you seem to be the major key

[Axel] Maybe Kai’s light’s preventing from the darkness to spread?

[Riku]: Could be

[Kairi]: But this can’t keep going on like this. Is there anything we can do to help him?

[Riku]: If there’s anyone who can help it’s you. You are the princess of heart

Kairi sighed and put her phone away. Then she absentmindedly run her fingers through Soras spikey hair that lay on her lap. “You can have my light, Sora. Just don’t let the darkness consume you.”

Days passed, but Kairi still didn’t know how to help Sora. His behavior became worse, especially when Kairi wanted to hang out with Riku and Axel. Roxas had to go back to Twilight Town, but they kept him updated.

“You’re not leaving!” Yelled Sora at her and it was the first time he ever did. He was extremely clingy at this point and to be honest, it’s slowly getting on her nerves. “I’m just gonna train with Axel.” They wanted to meet at the play island, but Sora wouldn’t let her get in her little boat.

“I-I’ll train with you! Okay? Come on!” To prove his point, he summoned his keyblade but she wouldn’t just play along today. “No.” Just as she wanted to go, he held her chin and moved her head to look at him. “Don’t go, princess.” What’s up with the ‘princess’ thing though?

“Don’t call me that.” She sighed. “But you are a princess. You’re my princess.” Sora mumbled, face coming closer to hers. “Sora...” Not letting her protest, he silenced her with a kiss. Yep, the darkness clearly made him bold. But also aggressive...She’d rather have her awkward, too-nervous-to-act Sora back.

He knew exactly what to do to make her stop thinking, though and she was almost about to ditch Axel, till said man approached them. “Kairi.” Sora pulled away and glared at Axel for interrupting them. The redhead in question looked quite neutral, despite seeing them kiss like that. “You coming?”

“Ye—“

“She has other plans.” Interrupted Sora, still holding her close to him. “I can’t remember asking you.” Soras glare darkened at that. He looked kinda creepy. “I guess we need to train another time.” The girl frowned, thinking he let Sora have his way, but he looked way too serious. He must’ve planned something. Or just...acting on instinct like he always did.

“The darkness is spreading too fast. Go get Riku.” She couldn’t move, though, as Sora tightened her grip on her. “Are you really believing him, Kairi?” Asked Sora, having noticed that she wanted to leave. “Do you really believe your kidnapper?” That was ages ago and Sora knew they’re friends now! “He’s lying!”

Kairi could clearly hear the slight difference in his voice and also feel the darkness in him becoming bigger and bigger. It was obviously feeding on his —she didn’t dare to say it— jealousy and his normal, not possessive, way of protectiveness over her and turned it into something horrible. This really wasn’t her Sora anymore...

And so she pushed him away, using the moment she caught him off-guard to run to Axel. He stepped in front of her to prevent Sora from grabbing her. “Go, Kairi. I’ll hold him off.” Nodding, she ran off to Rikus place. Yeah, she could’ve just called him, but she couldn’t think straight. Also she needed to get away from Sora for now.

“Give her back, Axel!” She heard Sora yell, before two keyblades clashed together. Trying to ignore the sounds behind her, she ran as fast as she could.

“Riku!” She called desperately, banging on the door the second she arrived. “Riku!” Kairi almost punched him when he opened the door, but he caught her fist. “What’s wrong?”

“Sora! The-the darkness! Axel...!” The silver haired boy nodded, apparently understanding her gibberish. “Are you saying they’re fighting?” The redhead nodded and then they’re both running back to the beach. “It happened faster than I expected.”

“You knew this would happen?” Riku nodded. “Eventually, yes. But I hoped we have more time to figure out what to do before the darkness grew too strong...” Kairi felt tears forming in her eyes. It was all her fault. Was her light not enough? If only she realized this sooner...If only she could fight better...She should’ve tried to defend herself better against Xemnas and Xehanort...

A gentle pat on her shoulder brought her back to reality. Looking up, she saw Rikus worried but determined face, silently telling her that it’s not her fault and that they’ll save Sora. It was hard to believe him, though. At least the first part. Kairi nodded back and wiped the tears away. They will save Sora. They had to.

Back at the beach they saw the two fighting, but that wasn’t even the worst part. There was now darkness surrounding Sora. The tears came back, but now wasn’t the time for that. They had to save him. “That’s...worse than I thought.” Mumbled Riku and Kairi just agreed with a nod. “We should take this fight away from innocent people.”

Kairi was surprised when her best friend suddenly kneeled down, his back facing her. “Hop on. I’ll get us to the play island.” Doing as she’s told, she climbed on Rikus back and held onto him tightly, as he got up again and ran to the shore. “Hold him off till we’re there!” He called to Axel, who’s still fighting Sora. “What do you think I’m doing this whole time?!”

Now Sora saw them. “Kairi!” The redhead glanced back at him, noticing that his hair became...paler? His eyes weren’t the same blue either. But she couldn’t look at him better, because Riku suddenly leaped into the air. Kairi squealed and held onto Riku tighter. He must’ve used aero magic to do this.

When they landed again moments later and Kairi slowly slid off his back, she felt dizzy. That was surely a weird experience, but something she wanted to learn. They didn’t have the time to make a plan, though, because Sora showed up moments later. Now that he’s closer than before, she could see his hair slowly turning silver-ish and his eyes were yellow. “Release her! Right now!”

That was indeed a terrible sight...”Stay back, Kairi.” Said Riku, as he stepped in front of her to shield from anything Sora might throw at them. But Kairi wasn’t really satisfied with his decision. She was a keyblade wielder too! But there wasn’t really much she could do...She lost to Sora and he held himself back, how would things be if he’s serious?

But would he even attack her? She couldn’t tell Riku her idea, though, since Sora began to attack him. Riku blocked his attack and threw him right back, before launching a counterattack. It was really horrible seeing them fight like this. They were both serious, she could tell and she was afraid they’ll hurt each other.

She gritted her teeth as she watched them fight, before finally snapping. “Stop it, you two!” But Kairi instantly regretted it. She did get Rikus attention, but Sora used this moment to attack. Seconds later Riku was thrown back against the rocky wall by the little waterfall. “Riku!”

Kairi was about to run to him, but an arm around her waist prevented her from doing so. She felt a chill going down her spine at the cold feeling of darkness on him. Sora’s other arm wrapped around her waist, too and pulled her against his chest. Then he put his head on her shoulder, now white hair sticking out in every direction.

“Sora...” She mumbled still staring at Riku lying unconscious in the water with teary eyes. There was no time to cry! She had to do something! “Why are you doing all this?”

“I wanna be with you, princess. Forever.” To be honest Kairi had no idea how to feel about this. She wanted to be with him, too, of course but not like this. Not with so much darkness in him. She wanted her Sora back! “Give up already.” Said Sora with a light distorted voice angrily.

The redhead blinked the tears away to clear her vision and saw Riku standing up and ready for round two. Before she could do anything —jeez why was she so slow?— Sora picked her up bridal style. “Back off! She’s mine!” He practically growled at Riku. “What do you want from her?” Sora gritted his teeth angrily, the darkness growing.

“Sora, stop that!” She yelled at him, putting a hand on his chest. Then her hand suddenly began to glow and Sora let out a painful gasp. He let go of her, but instead of falling on the sand aero magic broke her fall. The spikey haired boy fell to his knees, gripping the shirt near his heart tightly. Kairi saw the blue returning to his eyes, but just for a second before it’s yellow again.

Reacting fast for once, Kairi summoned her keyblade and held it up just in time to block Soras. “What did you do?!” No matter how much strength she used to withstand him, she was being pushed down, till she’s lying on the sand. He was hovering above her, still pushing his keyblade against hers.

And then he was gone and on his place stuck Rikus keyblade. Kairi sat up and took Rikus offering hand to stand. The older boy pulled his keyblade out of the sand, eyes staying on their mutual best friend. “Whatever you did, you should do it again.”

“But I don’t know what—“

“He needs your light, Kairi.” Riku interrupted, glancing at her. “You can do it.” He patted her shoulder and Kairi definitely felt more confident now. “Yo!” Axel joined them in the island. He looked exhausted and had quite a few cuts and bruises all over him, but he still looked ready to fight more. “Need some help?”

“Axel, are you okay?” Said redhead grinned at her. “Sure. What did you expect?” Kairi gave him a quick smile, before they turned their attention back to Sora. He was glaring at all three of them and Kairi guessed that maybe this time he’d fight her, too. The darkness surely took full control of him now.

“We need to make an opening for Kairi.” Said Riku, while Axel nodded, grinning. “Let’s do it, then.” The boys went to attack Sora from different angles, while Sora threw a dark ball at Riku and blocked Axels attack with his keyblade. Riku destroyed the dark ball with his weapon and continued his attack, making Sora back away from him.

Axel used the chance and hit him in his stomach, sending him flying. Then he made way for Kairi, who ran past him and tried to get closer to him. But Sora was no fool and landed on his feet and when he did their keyblades clashed. Kairi could feel herself being pushed backwards, the sand wasn’t really helping her to stand her ground.

“You can still switch sides, princess.” The redhead wasn’t backing down and pushed against his weapon. “Funny. I wanted to tell you the same.” She said provokingly, watching as his eyes darkened with anger. No, she wasn’t afraid of him, he was still Sora. Somewhere...deep down. She may be close enough, but there’s no way she could hold him back with just one hand.

He seemed to be perfectly capable of doing it, though, as one hand let go of the weapon and reached to her. Kairi couldn’t move, so he took this opportunity to caress her check, obviously trying with another method to get to her. His eyes softened, turning slightly blue-ish again and it made her tear up again. That’s just a trick from the darkness, she told herself over and over again.

Then he was suddenly frozen solid. But not for too long, since the ice already began to crumble. Once he was free and wanted to attack her again, his arms were held back by Axel and Riku. “Kairi, now!”

Kairi took a step back and raised her keyblade, pointing at his heart. Maybe she could focus her light on her weapon and free him that way? Well, it was worth a shot. She may have never done this again, but she did just shot light out of her hand minutes ago without realizing what she did.

“Okay...” She mumbled, trying to focus all her magic, all her light, all her love for Sora to free him from this terrible darkness. She could practically feel all her energy flowing to her keyblade. “I love you, Sora.” Said Kairi loud enough for him to hear, before shutting her eyes tightly and shot a powerful beam of light straight into his heart. She tried to ignore his painful screaming, after all she’s just doing this to help him.

Just when it stopped, she opened her eyes again. Sora writhed in pain, while Riku and Axel kept holding his arms back. It was terrible seeing him in so much pain...but the darkness —or at least the dangerous part that possessed him— needed to get out of his heart. And that's what it did. Some agonizing minutes later, a big darkness left Soras body and formed its own.

And of course it looked like Soras shadow. After a lot of protest from Sora, he and Riku once told her that the younger boy could use so called 'Drive Forms'. One of those forms made him look like a shadow creature, called Anti-Form. It just happened at the most desperate moments. Was that the part that took control of him?

The creatures eyes glowed bright yellow and were fixed on her. Of course it was. If it behaved like a heartless then she was the most obvious target due to her heart of pure light. She got ready to fight it and it chose this moment to run on all fours to her. It jumped up, ready to slash her with its claws.

Kairi tried to do the same as before, focusing as much light on her weapon as possible. But instead of a beam the keyblade itself glowed brightly and forming a blade of light. Once the creature was close enough, Kairi let out a battle cry and slashed it instead. The blade cut right through it, destroying it in an instant.

The creature and the darkness around it dissolved, leaving nothing behind. Sighing Kairi fell to her knees, spent. She may not have fought as much as Axel and Riku, but using so much energy for two big attacks left her exhausted.

Then she eventually looked to the boys. All three of them were staring at her amazed and awestruck. And the best thing was, Sora seemed to be alright! Riku and Axel were still holding his arms, but more like to steady him. His hair turned back to its brown color and he's staring at her with those deep blue eyes she fell in love with. “Jeez...Remind me to never get on her bad side again.” Mumbled Axel to the guys that were still unable to talk.

“Sora, are you okay?” She asked somewhat hesitant. His only reply were some noises. “He's back to normal.” Riku confirmed, looking quite proud. Despite her tiredness, Kairi was quickly back on her feet and jumped into Soras arms, hugging him as tight as she could.

“You're alright...!” She said more to convince herself. Kairi felt herself crying for the umpteenth time that day, especially when he hugged her back and buried his face in her hair. “Kairi...I-I'm sorry for everything I did. I was horrible to you. Riku's right, I tried to control you. And then I tried to kill you...Gosh, I'm so sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sor—“

Now it was Kairi who silenced him with a kiss. He was so surprised when she suddenly pulled away that she took advantage of it. When they parted and the redhead saw him staring at her in shock and blushed a deep red, the tears she tried to hold back glided down her cheeks.

Pulling him back into a tight hug, Kairi cried and laughed at the same time. “I'm sorry...that I haven't seen this sooner. I should've realized sooner that you're not yourself.” Sora shook his head against hers. “Don't you dare take the blame. You haven't done anything wrong.”

“But I let Xemnas take me and—“

“Stop it right there!” Interrupted Sora, sounding angry again. “There was noting you could've done. If anything I should apologize for not taking better care of you.” Before she could protest more a cough interrupted her. The couple immediately looked to Axel. “You guys know you're going round in circles, right? It doesn't matter who might be to blame for this or not, fact is everything's fine again so let's celebrate this damn victory with some ice cream.”

The trio laughed at their comrade's words. “Typical Axel.” Said Kairi. “But maybe you're right. At least we were able to save Sora.” Riku shook his head, earning a confused look from the redhead. “You did this all alone, Kairi. Axel and I just gave you some time.”

“Yeah. This time the princess saved the knight.” Agreed Axel and grinned at the couple. Giggling lightly, Kairi hit his arm gently. He knew she didn't like being called princess, since he kept teasing her with it a lot during training. But maybe this time a little nudge was more deserved than magic.

“Let's go back.” Suggested Riku and led the way to the docks. Axel followed silently and the girl guessed it must be their way to give her and Sora a little private time before getting their 'reward'.

“Kairi. Thank you.” Said Sora, once the guys were out of earshot. “If you didn't use your light like that —by the way that was really amazing— I might have turned into something worse. I don't know what I'd do without you...”

“You'd be completely hopeless.”

“That's one way to put it.” Sora chuckled, it was kinda unbelievable that not even ten minutes ago he was consumed by darkness and wanted to destroy them all. Then he surprised her with a kiss on his cheek. And she wouldn't trade this shyness of him for anything in the world. He shot her a bright grin and took her hand in hers, leading the way to the others. “Let's get some ice cream then!”

[pickalilywrites]

Happy SnK Positivity Week! I read the prompts over again and just realized a suggestion for Content Creator Appreciation Day was to write a fanfic for a fanart you enjoyed and I really liked the art that @attack-on-social-skills drew for a YOI AU created with @tsuki-no-ura 💕 I hope this is okay 🙏💖

The Dance of the Sexy Pork Cutlet Bowl

Springles. Yuri on Ice AU.

2728 words. 

“So,” he says, a wide grin on his face. It’s too wide, too bright, too expectant. “What do you have for me?”

Nothing. She has absolutely nothing for him, but it’s not like she can say this to her idol. Her idol, Connie Springer, the most talked about figure skater in the world, who is standing right in front of her and asking her to perform a short program for her. He should be in Russia practicing his quad lutzs and quad loops, not standing here and waiting for him to slip and fall on the ice right in front of him. So why is he here?

She should be over the moon that she finally gets to meet her idol after so many years of watching him on screen and behind the scenes during skating competitions because she didn’t have the courage to talk to him. She should be marveling at how unexpectedly tall he is – much taller than he looked on television – and how gray his hair is for someone as young as himself. She should be wondering if it’s naturally gray or if he’s dyed it that color. She should be gushing about how much she loves his work, his dedication, his talent, not standing in front of him and stammering because she can hardly string two words together in front of him.

There’s a giggle in the corner of the ice rink and Sasha turns to glare at the little kids hanging out, watching the world-famous ice skater hanging out in the very same place that they practice. As expected, there is a phone amongst them and they elbow each other, fighting over who should hold it as they record Connie Springer and rack up more likes on their YouTube page. How did seven-year-olds have YouTube pages now? Didn’t they have age limits to those things?

Sasha sighs.

That’s what started it all. A video recorded by those little troublemakers while she was just fooling around in the rink after returning home from a competition where she failed to place yet again. It was just practice. She had just put on Stravinsky’s Firebird Suite. It’s  “Infernal Dance Of All Of Kaschei’s Subjects,” the same movement that Connie Springer had skated to when he won his first Grand Prix medal. Some people believe that his last Olympic performance was his best, but his performance at the Grand Prix back when he was still new is still one of Sasha’s favorites.

She was just standing in the middle of the rink, her eyes closed as she soaked in the magnificent horns and drums of the Stravinsky. The plan was just to practice her toe flips, her spins, her jumps, but she was caught up in the music, reimagining that performance she had watched on the television years ago. It was what had really sold her into the world of ice skating. Before she was just fooling around. After watching Connie Springer, she wanted to really skate, to dance on the ice like he did.

Before she knew it, she was envisioning what it was like to be like him, to move so elegantly across the ice. She began to glide across the ice, mimicking the graceful movements of his arms that she had seen so long ago. She had watched the video clip so many times after that that she had practically memorized the choreography. Sasha knows every spin he did as the music swelled, knows when he punctuates each phrase with the perfect jump, and remembers all the intricate footwork to his step sequences. And she does it all one by one, probably not as perfectly as him – she can’t do the same jumps he can and she’s not nearly as graceful as he is - but it feels thrilling to skate the steps he did because it gives her a feeling of what it feels like to be him.  

So this is what it must feel like to be magnificent, she thinks when the piece finally comes to an end, breathing heavily.

Unfortunately, other people didn’t think it wasn’t close to magnificent. Reiner, her friend whose parents owned the rink, had his little and their friends come over often for skating lessons. Sasha had always known the kids were addicted to technology and the various social media apps that have become popular over the years, but she never thought they would feel the need to capture her on camera and post a video of her dancing to Firebird Suite on YouTube. She didn’t even know about it until her dad barged in her room, telling her that her skating abilities had improved so much since she was a little kid.

She was mortified, but Reiner only laughed when she came running to him. It was giving her recognition, and isn’t that what she wanted? It was, but not like this. She didn’t want people comparing her to Connie Springer or accusing her of wanting to be like him when she could never be on his level. She didn’t want people giving her pity praise, telling her that her technique is good and that in time she would become even better than she already was. And she most certainly did not want Connie Springer to fly all the way over from Russia and ask her to skate for him after watching the video.

He doesn’t seem angry at her, which is what she’s most grateful for, but she can’t say that she’s exactly happy he’s here either. There are some idols that get incredibly angry if they see a fan mimic them, screaming about how originality is dead and that the younger generation will never live up to the old stars. Connie doesn’t seem like that at all though. He looks like he genuinely wants to watch her skate for him up close and personal. It’s just that it’s too up close and personal for her.

“Well, you see,” Sasha mumbles. She twirls a lock of her hair nervously around her finger. “I don’t really…have anything. I was planning on taking a break from this season of skating, you know. I don’t have anything choreographed and my programs from last season…they weren’t any good.”

He looks so surprised when she says that. “Really? But I thought they were impressive,” he says. His eyebrows are knitted in confusion.  “But what about that last one you did? The one in the video, I mean. It was magnificent. Do you think you could skate that one just a little bit? It seems like you know it quite well.”

Sasha’s sure that he’s mocking her now. He says it as if she’s the one who originated the program, the one who had skated it first, but he must know that he was the one to do that. It was his first gold Grand Prix performance, how can he not?

She’s about to open her mouth to refuse him when she hears another giggle where the children are. Unable to deal with both the children and her figure skating hero, she shoots a glare at Gabi and her friends and growls, “Scram!”

The children all scream and scamper away, Falco nearly dropping the phone. The door slams shut behind them, but even then, Sasha only feels a little calmer.

“Sorry,” Sasha mumbles. She looks down at her skates, wondering why she had even bothered to put them on. “They just…like to hang around here and watch me skate a lot.”

“No worries,” Connie says cheerfully. “I like kids. If they’re making you too nervous, though, maybe we could talk to them later.”

She doesn’t want there to be a later. She wants this to be over now, but it seems like he won’t leave until he’s seen her skate once.

Fumbling with her phone, she finds Firebird Suite and hands it her idol. When he sees the piece she’s chosen, he gives her an excited grin.

Right from the start, she knows it’s a failure. She can hardly hear the music over the thumping of her heartbeat. She’s off by a beat, two beats, an entire bar of music. Her movements are unsure, clumsy rather than graceful. Instead of gliding over the ice, her skates scrap across them. She’s not dancing the way she should be; her spins are all over the place, her jumps sloppy, and her step sequences are nervous stomps across the ice. She should have never put on her skates. She should have never put on this song. She should have never thought she could skate the way he could – even for a little bit – because it’s clear now that that will never happen.

She doesn’t even notice that she’s tripped over herself until she hits the ice. It’s a hard and fast fall, one she doesn’t feel until she stumbles up. She rubs at her cheek, numb from the ice and sure to turn purple the very next day. It doesn’t really hurt though. It just feels cold.

“Hey, are you okay?” a voice asks quietly. When she looks up, Connie is there with a hand outstretched and a worried look on his face.

“Yeah, I just,” Sasha mumbles, swallowing hard. Damn, she really wishes he weren’t here. She feels how tender her cheek is again, wincing at the pain after touching it so lightly. She hadn’t fallen like that since she was a kid. “I guess it’s not really my day.”

Connie shrugs, helping her up. “Bad days are more common than you think. I’ve had my own fair share of those.”

“Sure,” she says bitterly. “I’m sure you have.”

“It’s true,” he says, eyebrows raised. “Some days are so bad that I just feel like quitting, you know. But I never have.”

“Why not?”

He blinks. “Why not what?”

“Well, why haven’t you quit?” she asks him.

“Oh! Huh. I guess because I have things I like. Things that inspire me to skate more,” Connie says, shrugging. He tilts his head, thinking of examples. “My parents, you know. The people in the village I was brought up in. They’ve never had someone like me representing them before, so I guess I’m kind of a big deal. And the kids I meet, the ones that say they want to skate just like me.”

For a guy that’s won numerous world championships, he’s pretty humble. It makes Sasha like him even more, but it also makes her even more upset that he’s seen her slip and fall. Years of skating practice and she can’t even prove that she’s capable of skating better than a child. He must be so disappointed that he’s come all this way here only to be let down.

“What about you?” he asks.

“What about me what?”

“What did you think about when you were skating in that video?” he asks.

“Absolutely nothing,” she lies immediately. She was thinking of him, how graceful and magnificent he was, but she can’t admit that to his face. That’s too embarrassing and she’s already so flustered already. “My body just moved on its own. You know how it is sometimes.”

“Is that so? I guess that happens sometimes,” he says, laughing. She’s not sure that he believes her entirely, but he doesn’t press on. “Well, next time you skate, maybe think of something that inspires you or motivates you. Don’t think about people watching. I find that only makes you nervous.”

“Right,” Sasha says quietly. She reaches for her phone which Connie holds out to her in an outstretched hand, but she hesitates. Firebird Suite is still on her phone and she could easily just switch her phone off, pocket it, and be on her merry way. Then he could go back to Russia and forget all about her, but it seems like such a shame. He came all the way to see her and all she gave him was an embarrassingly terribly performance. He didn’t even laugh at her once, only smiled and given her this advice, and she’s not sure she’s ready to let him leave like this. This isn’t the way she wants him to remember her if he remembers her at all.

So she presses “play,” skating to the center of the rink once more as she listens to the sound of horns blare from her phone. She chances another glance at Connie to gauge his expression – confused, elated, surprised. Good. She’ll surprise him even more by the end of this piece.

Think of something that inspires you.

Katsudon. Her mind immediately goes to katsudon, her go-to comfort food once she comes home from a competition. She likes to sit in the Japanese restaurant at the corner of the street, soak in the quiet and comforting atmosphere as she sits and waits for her pork cutlet rice bowl. She doesn’t even have to ask for it. She just sits and the chef immediately begins making it in the kitchen, the dish appearing before her.

As the music begins again, she lifts her arms as if to mimic the warm and inviting atmosphere that her favorite dish brings, and she begins. Although it’s the same choreography that she had done in the video, the same movements that Connie had used in his stunning Grand Prix performance, it’s not the same either. Those movements were far more fluid, graceful. Now, she moves with more strength and power. It is not the grace of the firebird that she dances with, but its energy and vigor because it is the same with katsudon.

She twirls as she thinks about the captivating aroma of the delicious dish, how it envelops her right as the pork cutlet begins to fry in the pan. She jumps as she imagines the seductive pork cutlets, juicy and full of flavor from the fried crust. She thinks of the absolute satisfaction of finishing the entire dish – the fresh scallions used for garnish, the mouth-watery eggs cooked in a sweet and salty broth, the savory and tender meat of the pork cutlet underneath its crispy fried crust, and the fluffy white rice underneath – and feels the same satisfaction when she finishes the program, arms extended towards Connie who is clapping enthusiastically as if she’s won a gold medal already.

“Did you see that? It was incredible!” Sasha asks him excitedly, skating towards him recklessly and jumping into his arms.

“I did! I saw the whole thing and you were magnificent,” he laughs, twirling her about.

Magnificent. The word people use to describe him on the ice, the word that pops into her head whenever she thinks of him, and now the word he chooses to describe her skate.

It takes her a second to realize that she’s still holding onto him and she lets go immediately, thinking it must be strange for her to hug him when she’s only just barely met him, but Connie doesn’t look as if he’s bothered by it.

“It really worked, you know,” she says, her cheeks flushed from hearing the compliment he had given her earlier. “I was skating to katsudon.”

“Katsudon?” Connie repeats. He doesn’t laugh at her, but there’s an amused smile on his face. “That’s that pork dish, right? The pork cutlet bowl?”

“Yeah,” Sasha mumbles, feeling a little silly now. It’s not often that she feels self-conscious, but she feels that way now. It would help if he stopped smiling at her so much.

He has a charming smile. That’s what judges and competitors always say. No matter how many years pass, his smile remains boyish and charming. In the end, that smile he flashes at the crowd is what ultimately makes people fall in love with him and his programs. Sasha thought it was just something they said, an embellishment that created in order to play him up whenever he was on the screen, but she understands what they mean now that she’s able to see his smile up close.

“What is it?” Sasha asks nervously, tugging at a lock of her hair that has fallen out of her ponytail. He’s been staring at her for quite some time now.

“Nothing,” Connie says, grin growing wider. “It’s just that I’ve never seen a pork cutlet bowl that was so…alluring.”

Her face flushes again but for a different reason this time. She’s probably a brilliant red now, bright as a firebird.

[katelides]

One Shot 6

"Sweetheart, what did you bury in the garden?" Beca asks her 15 year old daughter. “Nothing momma, nothing at all.” The young girl puts up a beautiful smile, that’s how she normally gets away with anything… at least with Beca. “Don’t lie to me Em, you’ve been digging ever since you came home from school. Also why were you back so early, mommy drives you home on Friday’s?” Emily shrugs. “Teachers had a meeting so some classes got off early.”

“Why didn’t you call me to pick you up?” Beca asks. “Because on Fridays you stay home, work on your mixes and order pizza around this time so that when mommy and I are home everything is ready.” Beca smiles at her smart little girl. “I’m never too busy to pick you up sweetheart, you know that.” Emily nods her head. “I know momma but I wanted to be alone for a while.” Beca raises her brow. “Is everything alright? Did something happen in school?”

“No momma, nothing happened. I just needed some time to think.” Emily kisses her mother’s cheek and strolls out of the kitchen. “I’m off to do my homework, give me a shout when pizza’s here.” She shouts while running up the stairs. Beca smiles to herself and rolls her eyes in process. “She’s the only teenager I’ll ever meet who makes her homework on a Friday.” The brunette mutters to herself before picking up the phone to call the pizza place. Her beautiful wife should be coming home at any moment and would be caving a pizza and a family movie.

*Phone Call*

Giovanni’s: “Da Giovanni’s, how can I help you?”

Beca: ”Hi Carmen, the usual for me.”

Carmen: “Oh hi Beca, I should have known you would call soon.”

Beca: “You the tradition, we’ve been doing this for the past 16 years.”

Carmen: “Yes, every Friday around 5pm you order 1 large vegetarian pizza, 1 pizza with bacon, a bottle of wine and an iced tea.”

Beca: “Yes, that’s me.” She says with a chuckle.

Carmen: “You are our most loyal customers, you even made it on the wall.”

Beca: “We’re the first family to make it up there.”

Carmen: “Also you’re the first person to make it up there twice.”

Beca: “I’m special.” She jokes.

Carmen: “You sure are DJMitch, you sure are. You’re order will be ready soon, hear you next week.””

Beca: Till next week Carmen, say hi to Johnny for me.”

Carmen: “Will do, bye.”

Beca: “Bye.”

*End Phone Call*

Beca puts her phone in her pocket, takes a water bottle from the fridge and goes to her home studio to get some more work done until Chloe comes home. Time seems to go by really slowly and no inspiration wants to hit the DJ. Her mind keep wandering to the object that her daughter buried in the garden.

With a heavy sigh Beca gets up and makes her way to the living room when she hear a key turning in the front door. “Hi baby, how was your day?” The brunette asks making her way to her beautiful redhead wife. “Exhausting, I’m thrilled that it’s the weekend.” Beca takes Chloe’s bag and coat to hang up before taking her wife’s shoulders in her hands to massage them gently. A soft moan escapes Chloe who turns her head so she can kiss her wife.

“Where’s Emily?” Chloe asks when she pulls away. “She’s in her room, doing homework.” Chloe looks at her wife with a knowing look. “What happened?” Beca shrugs. “I don’t know, she won’t talk to me and I’m not sure what to do.” Chloe turns around so she can wrap her arms around the brunette. “What did she do?” With a sigh Beca wraps her arms around the redhead’s waist. “She buried something in the garden and when I asked her about it she denied it even though I saw her doing it. She also didn’t call me to pick her up because apparently I’m too busy?”

“Oh babe, don’t worry about that. She knows that you’ll drop whatever you’re doing to pick her up or anything else. You’ve proved that over the years.” Beca smiles at the memory when she dropped an important meeting in LA to go back to New York because Emily had fallen with her bike and scraped her knees. Everyone knows that Chloe and Emily had Beca wrapped around their finger, whatever, whenever and Beca would do it. She loves them so much and doesn’t care that other people call her whipped.

“Did you see anything strange when she came home?” Chloe asks with a slight hint of concern in her voice. “She didn’t come into the studio today to say hi like she always does. I didn’t think anything of it until I saw her digging in the garden.” Chloe nuzzles her nose into the crook of Beca’s neck. “Maybe something happened in school, I will talk to her after dinner… Speaking of which, did you…”

‘Yes I did, one large vegetarian for you and Em plus a bacon one for me.” Beca squeezes Chloe who returns the gesture. “It’s interesting that you love to eat steaks and stuff but you don’t want meat on your pizza.” Chloe lets out a warm laugh. “If I’m going to eat something unhealthy I want to at least pretend that I took the healthiest version of it.” Beca kisses the top of Chloe’s head before letting her go. “Do you want to snuggle on co…” *DING DONG*

“Maybe later, now we’re going to have some dinner.” Chloe takes out her wallet from her purse so she can pay the delivery guy. “Delivery for The Mitchells?” It’s a new boy so when he see Beca he almost starts hyperventilating. It takes the two mothers a few minutes to get him to calm down before he can accept the money and be on his way back.

“Emily, pizza’s here!” Beca shouts up the stairs before following Chloe into the living room. The redhead spread out the pizza boxes and took two wine glasses out. “So, what movie are we watching tonight babe?” Beca looks through the DVD section in their bookcase waiting for an answer. “How about Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, Emily loves that movie.” Beca hums in agreement.

“Hey mommy, I didn’t hear you come home.” Emily gives Chloe a quick kiss on her cheek before plopping down on the couch. “What are we watching today?” Beca motions in Emily’s direction to Chloe. “Your favorite but what I want to know first is how your day was?” Emily shrugs leaning forward to spread out some napkins. “The usual.” Chloe raises her brow at the short response but doesn’t react to it. “Ok? Uhm Becs is the DVD set?”

“Let’s get this movie night started.” Even though she still hates movies her wife and daughter make it bearable. Halfway through the movie Beca nudges Chloe softly and points at Emily. The young girl had barely touched her pizza and it concerned the two mothers. Chloe takes the remote and pauses the movie but Emily doesn’t even notice, her mind is someplace completely different. “Emily, is everything alright?” Chloe sits up straight looking at her daughter.

Emily looks up and sees both her parents stare at her. “I’m fine, what’s up with you guys today?” Emily was never one to give an attitude so this really surprised the two mothers. Beca catching on to something though, wraps an arm around her teenager and pulls her into a hug. The minutes Emily’s head touches Beca’s chest she breaks down. “Everything will be fine baby girl, whatever it is we’ll get through it.” Beca whispers into the young girl’s hair.

Chloe puts an around both of them and they sit there for as long as it takes for Emily to calm down. Beca rubs soothing circles on her back and surely after a while Emily calms down. “Do you want to talk?” Beca feels Emily nod in her arms. It takes Emily another few minutes before she speak again, Beca and Chloe waiting patiently.

“Some kids have been calling me names.” Chloe gasps loudly. “How long has this been going on?” Beca asks in between gritted teeth. “A-a few weeks.” Chloe can see the rage building in Beca’s eyes so in attempt to calm her down she takes her hand in hers. “Why didn’t you say anything to us?” Emily shakes her head. “I couldn’t.” Beca runs her fingers from her free hand through her hair. “Em, sweetie, what did they say?” Beca’s voice is unusually calm and it kind of scares Chloe.

“They uhm they called me a bastard child and they were saying bad things about you and mommy.” Chloe shakes her head in shock. “Why didn’t you tell us sweetheart? We could have helped, you should have told us.” Chloe’s voice is trembling and new tears form in Emily’s eyes. “They said they would hurt us if I said anything.” Beca scoffs. “Someone’s going to get hurt but it ain’t us.”

“Beca what are you doing?” Beca reaches for her phone dialing a number. “Hey Lilly, I need your help on something. Could you leave me a message when you’re free? Thank you.” Chloe’s eyes widen. “Why are you calling Lilly?” Beca puts on a smirk. “If anyone knows how to protect or at least teach us how to protect someone it’s Lilly.” Lilly is also Beca’s bodyguard, she doesn’t often need one but for big events Lilly is the only one Beca trusts with her life.  Emily looks between her moms in confusion. “Are you talking about Lilly from the Bellas?” Chloe nods her head. “Oh, she uhm she came by last week. Somehow she knew about my problem and we had a talk.”

“She taught you some martial arts didn’t she?” Chloe’s now full on confused. “How do you even know that?” Beca takes a deep breath. “Because I asked Lilly for some lessons a few years back and I asked her to teach Emily when she was ready.” Emily smiles at her mom. “Why wasn’t I informed about this?” Chloe asks a bit offended. “Because you would have said no.” Chloe wants to argue against it but closes her mouth when she decides against it.

“We can discuss why you needed lessons later, now I want to know who is threatening my baby.” Chloe crosses her arms with a look that showed that no discussion would be tolerated. “It’s just some kids in school mom, nothing big.” A mother knows when her kid is lying and right now Emily is lying through her teeth. “Please don’t lie to us sweety. We only want to protect you.”

“I know mom but I don’t want to talk about it, I can handle this on my own.” Emily gets up and runs off to her room. Beca gets up with a sigh. “Where are you going?” Chloe asks her wife. “Let me handle this, I know what she’s going through.” With a sad smile Beca’s on her way to their daughter’s room. Chloe can just watch her leave. She knows Beca didn’t have the best childhood and that school was rough but never really got any stories out. Maybe much more went on than what she let on.

Chloe shoots up and follows Beca up to listen in through the door and maybe shed some light on the situation. Chloe can hear the soft sniffles of her daughter and it breaks her heart.

-,-,-,-,-,-

“Who was is Em, I’m not going to be mad but I have to know.” Emily shakes her head wildly. “No, why should I tell you anyway. It’s not that you know what I’m going through.” It not like Emily to lash out at her moms but right now Beca couldn’t care less. “Actually I do, I was in the same situation when I went to high school.” Emily wearily looks up at her mom. “You do?” Beca takes a deep breath. “What I’m about to tell you not even your mom knows and honestly I would like to keep it that way. Can we do that?” Emily slowly nods her head.

“My dad left when I was 8 and it broke me and my mom. Everything kept going downhill and it sucked… When I was 11 I talked to my mom about me not really liking buys the way I liked girls. I was confused and she just told me it was a phase so I pushed the thought out of my head. When I started high school my feelings started to become stronger towards girls and it freaked me out.” Beca takes a short break to see if Emily was still ok with listening.

“I dated different guys for a few years until I realized that I really wasn’t attracted to them. Some people started to notice and called me out on it. I went back home one day and talked to my mom about it again. She smashed a glass against the wall and shouted at me: ‘I will not have a dyke as a daughter so I hope for your sake you fix this!’. I didn’t know what to feel at that moment and went to my room.” A single tear escapes Beca’s eye which she quickly wipes away.

“In school people started treating me differently, they started calling me names and girls would stop hanging out with me. I had no one. When I was 16 I started working in a music shop and was introduced to mixing. I put all of my emotions into my mixes and it was the only thing keeping me sane through the day. At school it became worse and worse every day. I was getting threatened but no one ever did anything until…” Emily sees her mom struggling so she takes her hand and squeezes it gently.

“In my senior year some guys and girls followed me home through the park and cornered me. The called me names but I didn’t care, it was nothing I hadn’t heard before. When they saw it had no effect on me one of the guys said a good beating would set me ‘straight’. The grabbed me and beat me up. My mom didn’t care and told me that after graduation I would be my dad’s responsibility, that’s how I got to Barden. I didn’t want too, I wanted to go to LA and become a producer but he made me try one year.”

A soft smile creeps up on Beca’s face. “That’s how I met your mom, before we ever gave it  shot I dated Jesse.” Emily raises her brow. “Uncle Jesse? Like the one that married Aunty Bree?”  Beca chuckles. “Yes, he had a crush on me and I was trying to push down my true feelings so I kissed him at the end of our ICCA final. I realized that I didn’t like him in that way the second it happened and he knew it too. He told me to go get her and I knew what he meant.” Emily smiles brightly at the ending if the story.

“Because endings are the best part.” Emily says with a laugh. “That’s what he said, have I told you this before?” Beca asks with a joking voice. “You might have mentioned the ending once or twice.” Beca bumps her shoulder with Emily’s. “So, are you going to tell me who’s bothering you?” The young girl’s smile falters and gets replaced by a frown. “Jake Carter, he’s in my year and has been bothering me for a while now.” Beca runs her fingers through her hair. “What did he do?”

“He is saying a lot of nasty things about our family and lately he’s been saying that no one would care if we would be dead because no one cares about lesbians.” Emily breaks down in tears so Beca wraps her arms around her. “Don’t listen to him Em, he doesn’t know what he’s talking about.” Emily shakes her head. “He also found my songbook and hung up pictures of my songs in the hallway.” Beca pulls away from the hug to look at her daughter in shock.

“You write music? How did I not-why didn’t you tell me?” Emily wipes away her tears with a shrug. “Because I don’t think they’re good enough and I’m terrified that everyone will hate them.” Beca shakes her head with a sad look. “First of all I can’t believe he did that, songs are something personal. Second, your two number one fans are right here at home. We can help you make them better, make you better.”

Emily smiles softly but the fear is still visible in her eyes. “Em can I ask you something?” A smug little grin forms on the young girl’s face. “Technically you already did.” Beca narrows her eyes and attacks Emily with her fingers, tickling her. A loud shriek erupts from Emily followed by laughter. “O-o-ok, f-fi-hine. Ask your quest- ION!” Beca releases her grip with a victorious smile. “What did you burry in the garden?”

Beca’s tone went from cheery to serious really quick and Emily let her eyes fall down to her lap with a sigh. “My songbook, I wanted to get rid of it but not in a place people could find it.” Beca slowly gets up from the bed and holds out her hand for Emily to take. “Come on, we’re going to dig it out. Your writing is my mixing, don’t give up on it.” Emily takes her mom’s hand who pulls her out of the bed. Before Beca can open the door she feels a little tug at her arm. “Mom?” She turns around to face Emily with a soft smile. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, now let’s go find us some shovels. We have some digging to do.” Beca yanks open the door and jumps up when she sees Chloe standing on the other side. “Hey Em, why don’t you go ahead?” Emily looks between her moms but doesn’t argue. The two watch their daughter descend down the stairs.

“How much did you hear?” Beca asks dreading the answer to her own question. “Everything?” It wasn’t supposed to come out as a question but it did. “Is that why I never met your mom?” Beca nods. “She was there… at the ICCA’s I mean. She saw me kiss Jesse and then run off to kiss you. I’ve never seen her so angry.” Chloe’s eyes widen. “That’s why you were so weird on the bus ride back.” Chloe exclaims when the realization hit her. “Yes, she stopped me when I stepped outside. You were all already on the bus celebrating when I went back because I forgot my…”

“Because you forgot your jacket.” Beca nods. “She scolded me for letting a perfect man go and slapped me across the face. I told her that if she didn’t accept me as I was that she should stay out of my life. I haven’t seen her since that day.” Chloe throws her arms around Beca and squeezes her tight. “Please talk to me about things like that, you should not go though it alone.” Beca wants to say something but get interrupted by the doorbell.

“Are we expecting someone?” She asks the redhead who’s still holding her. “I might have texted Aubrey to come over with Jesse and James.” Beca rolls her eyes but smiles instantly when she sees the adorable smile that she loves so much. “Great, but you will have to let me go if you want us to open the door.”

-,-,-,-,-,-

The Swansons and the Mitchells are sitting in the living room all staring at Emily. She just sang a part of one of her songs and they were shocked. Beca is the first one to speak up, working in the business help with star struck moments. “Em that was amazing, you really wrote that?” The young girl can only nod. “I knew the lyrics were good but your voice? Just wow…” Chloe takes a side look at James (Aubrey and Jesse’s son) with a smile. The boy has had a crush on Emily for a while and vice versa. They are sadly the only two clueless about the other.

“Wait a second, you have read her songs?” Beca asks visibly surprised or shocked even? “That’s beside the point, right Beca?” Aubrey says with a stern but yet soft tone. “Emily who is bullying you at school?” Jesse, Beca and Chloe see James ball his fists. This was the first time he got any news about that and he is furious. “I-it’s Jake, Jake Carter.”

“That moron from you science class?” James gets up from his and wants to get out of the room when Emily stops him. “He’s not worth it James, please don’t do anything stupid?” The parents can only watch how James slowly turns around with a sigh. “He hurt you Em, no one hurt the people I lo-care about.” Emily sets her songbook down and walks up to James. The parents all watch in anticipation of what’s about to happen next.

Emily wraps her arms around James’s neck and pulls him down so she can softly place a kiss on his lips. When the initial shock wears off James puts his arms around Emily and kisses her back. A soft ‘ahum’ breaks them apart and of course it had to be Beca. “I don’t care if you’re my best friend’s son, you’re one year older and a boy… if you ever hurt my little girl I will hurt you.” Jesse and Aubrey share concerned looks. They know that Beca means business when it comes to Chloe and Emily and a moment like this proves how much of a father and mother figure Beca can be at the same time.

“Yes ma’am.” Emily tries to hide a chuckle by hiding in the crook of James’ neck. “FYI, bedroom doors must be open at all times here or at casa Swanson…” Aubrey and Jesse quickly agree knowing that if they don’t they’re about to lose a huge argument to their tiny friend. “Alright Becs, I think we got the point. Now can we agree on going to the principal’s office tomorrow to sort out this bully?”

“I already took care of that.” Everyone jumps up since they never noticed Lilly enter the room or even the house. “Dude we talked about this, use the doorbell.” Beca clutches her heart. “What do you mean by you took care of it?” Chloe asks confused. Lilly takes out her tablet and pulls up a video of Jake admitting that he’s a bully and what he did to Emily. The video was already sent to the principal. “I’m going to have a long day on Monday.” Beca laughs at Chloe who punches her in the arm.

“20 years of abuse, how long will you keep it up?” Beca asks with mockery evident in her voice. “Until you start behaving like an adult.” Chloe shoots back.

Emily smiles at the weird banter between her parents and Aubrey asking Jesse to stay out of it while James hugs her tight. Her family is strange in so many ways but in the end it’s all she’ll ever need.  

I DO NOT OWN PITCH PERFECT!

FOLLOW ME ON TUMBLR FOR SNEEK PEAKS FOR UPCOMING CHAPTERS –katelides

Let me know what you think, feedback is always fun to have :D

[yourplasticlittlespastic]

ᴏᴜʀ ᴡᴇʙ ᴏꜰ ʟᴏᴠᴇ – Peter Parker fanfic (4/of many)

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3

"I told you I never saw her coming out of the building!" I flutter my eyes hearing Happy's altered voice

"Then where the fricking fork is her?" my dad shouts back

I walk to the living room where the shouts were coming from and scratch my eyes, the drowsy feeling makes me stumble with my own feet

"What time is it?" I say between yawns

"wha... hey! where were you, missy?"  my dad comes running at me

"on the I+D floor, working but I obviously fall asleep there, my back is killing me," I say without opening my eyes "now if you don't mind, I need my bed"  I slowly stroll my way to my room and shut the door behind me

"She's going to become you" Happy whispers at the other side of the door before I doze off again

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

I quickly run downstairs, I take a donut and head to the lift

"what about your lunch?!!"  my mom snorts surprised it's the first time I stayed asleep

"I'm running late, I'll buy something there!" I shout back and get inside the lift

When I find Happy at the street I nudge him and he starts driving to Midtown, I almost choked with the donut but survived. I close the door behind me and wave goodbye, I quickly walk to my locker and see that the guy from yesterday was trying to open it, I just stop some meters away from him.

"mmm hi!"  I raise a little my voice for him to listen  "what are you doing? huh?"

He turns at me and smiles "oh hey! it's you! well... I'm trying to open it but I think it's stuck" he continues to force the lock

"well..."  I step closer  "maybe because it's my locker?"

He squints his eyes making a confused face "what? no, they even wrote me down the number... look"  he hands me a paper and I look at it

"yeah... mine is 896 and maybe if we turn this paper the other way... we have... 968... here"  I give back the paper and he looks at it and sighs in embarrassment

He touches his messy hair "well, this is awkward... I almost ruin your locker... and mine is just across from yours..." he points to the other wall with lockers

"oh well, what a coincidence, go and break that lock...go on"  I laugh

I open my locker and watch as he opens his and laughs, I take out my books and someone pokes my shoulder, the boy is now beside me.

"Hello again"  he mutters  "my name is-"  but he was interrupted by Morita

"Classes are beginning! come on everyone! with energy!" he cheerfully claps and I look at the boy who rolls his eyes and then looks at me

"Need to go, running late"  he smiles and starts walking away

"hey! what year are you in?!!"  I shout at him

"JUNIOR!!!" he shouts opening the door of his classroom

Mmmm junior, he is 16...I stop the thoughts and walk to English. All the class was boring, just a debate about if love is the main topic in Romeo and Juliet, I avoid talking and so as Peter. Next was Biology with Harrington which consisted of a freaking show of plants and a talk about dinosaurs where most of the boys allow their inner child out. Then at Chemistry, I'm dangerous, I know that. Because I love to experiment with everything I can. I was beside Flash much to my disappointment so we started working but one of the Petri glasses fall so I spin to grab it and spot Peter experimenting with some mysterious liquids, he notices me eyeing the weird mix and he hardly gulps stopping everything and nervously smiled at me.

"what's that?" I whisper pointing at the weird mixture

"it's just ummm, nothing actually. I was bored" he whispers back

"hey! Penis Parker just close your mouth" Flash turns to him and whispers

"something you want to share Eugene?" Cobbwell raise his voice, making us turn and do our work

In the end, I see Peter running quickly the other way. So I ramble to the cafeteria, I'm starving. When I step there, all eyes were on me, but the look everyone was giving me it wasn't a look of good attention... it was resentment, angry looks, I knew it was about Sokovia, the topic it's kinda fresh. I walk to the food counters and start picking what I wanted, the cafeteria was now more silent than ever but eh, can't please everyone, it's not my fault, it's not my fault. Then someone pokes my left shoulder so I sigh and turn around, preparing to hear a speech of hate but it was that boy from earlier.

"Hey, you"  He smiles with a tray of food in his hands

"hey," I happily say and shake the serious face  "how were your first classes?"

"I loved them, I really like school, to be honest"  he shrugs  "so umm, I have nowhere to sit and people here already have friends so... would you like to sit with me?"

"ReallY' Oh, best decision you could ever make... I... yeah sure, let's go I have a good place for us"

I walk in front of him leading the way. Before I could open the doors I turn my face and see a bunch of girls sitting around a crying girl... oh... it's Natalie Spencer, sister of Charlie Spencer... a casualty of the Sokovia accident, from what I heard... he was building sustainable houses there.

I gulp, a sting of sadness outpours me. It's not my fault, it's not my fault.

The cool air hits my face, I walk across the damp grass and slump in the benches in front of the field, my usual spot.

"What a view!" he examines all around and sits beside me  "it's like we are VIP" He grabs his burger and starts eating, not questioning me why I'm not presenting him to other people  "I never told you my name by the way..."

"you look like amm a... Stephen?" I start eating my pizza

"am I a joke to you?" he touches his heart"

"all right! tell me your name then"

"I'm Harley Keener but Harley is ok"  he kindly smiles

"nice to meet you Harley...pizza?" I offer and he nods

"maybe half a slice..."  he cuts the pizza "you never told me your name... you want some fries?"

"Tannie, my name is Tannie and yes, I was staring at your fries..." I snort

"never heard that name before, I like it"

All the recess we talked about ourselves and what we like, my sense of humour was complemented with his, with so little time we already began a fight of witty comments, we laughed too hard that I even think that now I just have a six-pack like Steve now. We walk back, he has Chemistry, and I have music.

"So Rose Hill, Tennessee, that was a big change huh?" I ask feeling a Deja-vu, I heard that name before...

"It was, but I'm happy here now. It's just my sister, my mom and me so..." he steps in front of his classroom  "see you later maybe?"

"of course! bye, Harley!" I wave goodbye and walk to music

When I enter the classroom I see everyone already holding their respective instruments, I see Peter with his flute and I internally laugh, he's so bad that I need to tell him...

"Hey Tannie!" he flashes a thin smile and I lower myself

"You're holding your flute so wrong Peter" I gently snatch it from his hands and demonstrate him the proper way "like this, see?"

"oh, uh... I've been doing it so wrong... thanks! I suck at this" he stutters and I squeeze his shoulder

"It's the first time someone touches your flute, Parker??!!!" Flash mockingly shouts from the other corner of the classroom and I almost choke when I hear his double sense so I turn to him and fulminate Flash with my stare

"oh! I didn't see you there Tannie...umm you are not... touching... umm Peter's flute of course..." he nervously says, trying to fix it but making it worse

I snort and turn to look at Peter who's ears are red and cheeks are blushed. I just hand him his flute without saying anything. Music and Art were bearable enough, then I head to Robotics and sigh when the only decent person skipped the club, again... so now I have to socialize. Minutes later I begin designing the official blueprints of the EMMA project, my concentration was broken when someone pokes my shoulder. So I spin.

"well, are you stalking me?" I quirk my brow at Harley who's carrying a bunch of papers

"You wish, you are the one stalking me!" he replies slumping beside me

"here, let me help you"  I stand up and grab some papers that were almost falling  "maybe you need a binder?"

"Probably but my kind of organization is disorganization" He shrugs and all those papers fly all over my desk

"Harley, this is cool" I grab one of his blueprints and raise it  "I like how you fusion this part with this one"  I point out

"really?" He leans to look at the paper  "I like it too! you know, I got this inspiration since I was little, a friend of mine help me with super-advanced tools and yeah..."

"What a friend" I answer listening to his story "You know, if you ever need to work with more super-advanced tools, you can come to my place"  I absentmindedly say

"Thanks, Tannie!" he then starts collecting all his papers and begin working

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

"and then I just ran to the river, the bees were all over me and my adrenaline was over the top" Harvey walks with me to the entrance

"and never got stung?"

"never! but I learned my lesson, not eating honey outside" he scratches his neck, I see Happy and wave at him

"that's me" I point to the car

he laughs "so the desperate driver is your desperate driver?"

"that's the one" I huff "you need a ride?"

"oh no! I just walk don't worry, thanks though"

"come onnnn!! I insist" and I insisted too much because grab his backpack frogmarching Harvey to the car and Happy's expression is priceless  "Hey!"

"Hello Miss" Happy pretends to professional, he grabs his dark glasses and puts them on, I know he's staring at Harley  "hello Mr....?"

"Keener but please call me Harley" he smiles at Happy shifting his backpack to his lap

Harley told me he lives in Queens near Highland Park so we were heading there, all the drive we were joking and talking about our robotics ideas.

"Sorry to interrupt but Cooper Ave and local streets are closed because of an accident" Happy announces

"well... what about if we go to my place?" I offer "maybe streets will open in some hours?"

"I don't want to be a burden," Harley says

"good..." Happy whispers but I manage to listen to that

"come on, I can show you everything I have for building robotic things" I throw my hands in the air and he chuckles

"just a for a little while then..." he nods and Happy grunts driving to the tower

When we arrive at the tower I see three trucks of U-haul full of boxes and furniture, the moving was faster than dad told me. I step inside waving at the daytime workers inside and Harley is eyeing everything in awe, when we enter the complex it was almost empty, I stroll to the kitchen and Harley behind me.

"want something? there are frozen vegetables, a weird dish that says paprikash and waffles..." I close the fridge  "or take out?"

"last option sounds more appealing," he says leaving his stuff at the counter

We start talking, Harley is trying his best not to blurt a bunch of questions about my home. Then, I hear someone coming in, it's my dad that jogs directly to the bar and pours himself a glass of something, he looks up sensing a pair of eyes watching him and he smirks at me.

"Hey kiddo" he approaches me and instantly catches Harley at the other end of the kitchen "and hello male kiddo..." he says the last thing awkwardly

I see how the face of Harley changes to a surprise one, he totally knows who is Tony Stark and then I notice my dad's face changing as well and he covers his mouth.

"wait there..." my dad points at Harley

"Tony The mechanic!!" Harley shouts sliding from the high bench

"kid Keener!" my dad also shouts "I thought you were throwing potatoes at Rose Hill?" he excitedly palms the back of Harley and I just watch the scene quietly and confused

"still a hobby but after what you did for me... I improved my stuff"

"Can someone explain to me what is happening?" I finally speak and both turn to me

"well, honey... wait how you are here... with her?" my dad points between us waiting for an answer

"He just transferred to Midtown and we just met" I explain and my dad nods

"and Rogers was right, it's a small world after all" he mutters

"so you are his daughter?" Harley talks to me

"Better and improved" I proudly nod making y dad laugh "so... how you two met?"

"You know the story, about your mom's weird ex"

"Killian..."

"and the fact that I had to fake my death for a while"

"yeah... I was pretty traumatized..."

"while doing so, this fine kid or teenager I must say now... gave me asylum in his garage"

"he is the friend I told you who gave me those fancy super-advanced tools" Harley now speaks

"well, I wasn't expecting that" I honestly say while scratching my nose

"but hey! you grew up!" my dad turns to Harley

"yeah that is life ya know,"  Harley remarks making me laugh

"Are we still connected??"  my dad touches his heart and makes a funny face

"shut up," Harley says and my dad laughs even harder, I'm feeling like the third wheel here

"is this lady offered you something?" my dad then points at me "you want a drink?" he says bringing his drink to his lips and I quirk my brow at him  "I mean...like Minute Maid or a Capri Sun?"

"it's fine, we just order some take out"  Harley sits beside me and my dad approaches us

"T, watch out for this kid, he's a pain in the a-"

"dad!!!!" I interrupt him

"Do you still have panic attacks?"  Harley asks suppressing a smile making my dad spin to me

"I'm telling you T, a pain in the private parts"  he grabs his glass and walks to his office  "I'll be there if you need me. Not throwing potatoes please!" he shouts and closes his office door

"well... that was so bizarre" I finally add

The take out came and we ate at my room, we really had a great time laughing, joking and we begin designing a prototype of a machine, he was really smart and witty, a weird sense of humour. The highlight of the day was his face lighting up when he saw the robotics lab at the tower so we stayed there some minutes but in the end, it wasn't minutes, we were there for three hours. Finally, it was time for him to go so I told Happy if he could drive him and he refused but I blackmailed him with a video I took at the summer of him dancing to the Backstreet Boys so he reluctantly drove Harley.

From my room, I spot Uncle Rhodey walking to my dad. Nat, Steve, and Vision following him minutes later. Everyone with a tired face... no Scrabble today I see, so I decided the only thing to do is homework. I went to bed drooling all over the pillow

---I totally know it's a Peter Parker Fanfic but PATIENCE MIDGARDIANS! some drama and confusion is necessary---

A/N: hope you liked it! Also available in Wattpad! https://my.w.tt/sw2CZNdCv1

[paperbackcat]

Hues (Sasodei fanfic)

Set in an alternate universe where the characters are college students, Deidara finds himself stuck in a rut, having to team up with the most infuriating piece of work, in the entire universe. (Okay, maybe he’s over-exaggerating but) Of all people, he had to partner up with the least liked student in the entire class.

(A/N: Was supposed to be a one-shot but welp)

First quarter

Second quarter

Third Quarter

Words: 8,749

FRIDAY

Fiery, sizzling hot. Scorching hot scarlet and maroons. Bold berry red, a dash of maroon.

There was a twist and a flick.

Never be afraid of the rage that is fire.

A splatter of paint.

Fire burns hot and dies fast.

Bright vivid soaked brushes laid scattered around the empty dorm room.

Steel blue eyes narrowed.

It was vexing. Uncannily, what he felt was almost not human, the way it twisted and distorted itself inside his body. It burned so bad like fire lacing his veins, creeping up his spine. His pale skin was sore, drenched in puddles of burgundy. He felt intoxicated with an emotion he had no intention of ever feeling so much of. The acidity of it, residing in his belly, waiting to be spat out in foul vulgar strings of incomprehensible words. He wanted to screech them with every living ounce of breath that dwelled in his lungs.

He really did.

But what he entered to was a just an empty greyscale room: sitting the middle of which was the painting. That very painting that brought him so much distraught. That was his breaking point.

Blinded by rage with not a soul to take out on, he decided the next best thing was the painting itself. It was preposterous. He knew it, internally shrieking at himself to stop but in his moment of anger, the warped logic in his mind took control of the bold strokes that now littered the painting.

Before, it stood rigid and grey, fluffy clouds saturated in amounts of pearl white that sloped around the edges of the canvas. The hills etched in a dreary dark concrete colour, grained with small stones of beige. A hint of perhaps azure in the distance but too small, too insignificant to notice.

Deidara watched, enthralled as the deep claret sank into the paper, creating soft swirls in mixture with the misty grey. Almost like flickering flames, he realised, dying out in the cool grey.

After such an inferno, watch the ashes fall into place.

The sudden discernment hit him.

For nothing fights the frost than the flames.

He dropped the brushes, fingertips trembling, coated in a dance of colours.

Be schooled by the flame so that you never know the torment of the ice.

It’s beautiful. He thought, gasping in euphoria.

The painting sat now, covered in a calamiform of bright shapes and colours, harlequin in a multifarious enflamed greys and whites. There lay scored shadows of dark purple, creating soft blurred outlined of the hills. It was strange how interwoven the bright reds and the dull greys were with the astonishing bold blushes of cinnabar that stood distinctively, catching the eye of Deidara.

Light streaming from the window panes fell upon the shadows of the painting, the straw-coloured hair boy beaming at his handiwork. It was luck as well, that lent a hand, for Sasori was nowhere to be seen. Deidara gallivanted around the room, letting out a whoop of exhilaration, whatever it had aggravated him was feckless now.

Primarily, the blonde’s mission was to barge in to give Sasori a livid earful of insults.

After managing to break the door down – Deidara noted inwardly about how weak the dorm doors were – he stormed in, ready to hurl vulgarities at the red-head but was greeted with a none other than bare room. Since it was vacant of any living being except for himself, the blonde decided to screw with Sasori’s “perfect artwork” but ended up creating a stunning mess of paint. So much for being mad and screwing with the latter.

“I can’t believe I skipped class for this.” The blonde snorted to himself.

Perhaps Sasori was still having lessons, judging by the unoccupied grey space.

Deidara gazed dreamily at the painting, with his own contribution, it looked more like a mixture of two artists working together. Well, at least, somewhat.

There was a pause.

He couldn’t just leave it here. Sasori’s bound to destroy it somehow, knowing that his greyscale masterpiece was ruined – if anything the red-head would probably try to ‘save’ his artwork. Now that the painting exactly looked decent, Deidara was definitely going to keep it. Hand it up. Proudly proclaim that he saved their work with his ingeniousness.

A thin grim line set on his face.

He had to steal his own painting.

He had to.

Kakuzu had settled himself deftly into the folds of Deidara’s bottom bunk, his jewel green orbs squinted at the sight of the blonde and his giant obstruction of a painting. He watched with mild amusement as the flaxen-haired male tried to hide his work of art behind his rickety looking easel.

“Deidara.” He greeted calmly, ignoring the snigger that came from the top bunk.

“What are you doing?” Hidan immediately stopped sniggering when the blonde covered the painting with the white-hair teen’s towel. “Why are you using my towel?”

Looking flustered, Deidara pressed a finger on his lip.

“Shut up. It’s my business.” He grumbled, examining the smirk that formed on Kakuzu’s face. “You,” he pointed a finger to the raven haired male, eyes fixed on him like a hawk on its prey.

“I’ll pay you twenty and not a word about this to Sasori.” The blonde dug his pocket and fished out a twenty dollar note, striding forward and slamming it onto Kakuzu’s open hand. How obliging, he thought darkly, glaring at the smile that graced the raven haired male’s face.

The older male dipped his head mockingly and pocketed the cash.

“You know he’s going to be furious.” He commented dryly before turning back to his sketchbook, outlining what seemed to be a tree.

Deidara scoffed, rolling his eyes. Of course he knows. Sasori’s going to lose his shit when he realises the painting’s missing. If his ego’s as big as Deidara presumed, he’s not going to come running for help; in fact, there’s a high probability that the red-head is just going to start work on another piece.

“I won’t be bunking in this weekend either, by the by.” Hidan remarked, peering down.

The blonde froze.

“Wait what?” He blinked, confused. “I’m not planning to stay here either!” Hastily, he pointed at the hidden painting.

“I can’t leave this here unguarded! Someone has to keep an eye on it so that Sasori doesn’t see it.”

Hidan chuckled.

“It’s your business.” The sly voice echoed, grinning sweetly. “B'sides,” Hidan gestured to Kakuzu, “I’m going to sleepover at his place to finish our work this weekend.”

Deidara paced back and forth, hands clenching his golden locks as he fought to figure out a way.

“I’m not staying over again, god knows Sasori might come in and stab me in my sleep!” He shuddered, brushing away that thought.

“You’ll have to take the terrible duty of protecting your ego- I mean art work.” Hidan purred, his lavender pools lit up with a glint of anticipation. “It’s really the only way to hand up your handiwork.”

Rubbing his face in exhaustion, the blonde couldn’t help but wonder if he had made a mistake improving the art work that was Sasori’s. Then again, he glanced furtively at the towel draped unceremoniously on his easel, then again, it only became much better after he had opportunely slapped along some colour to it.

“I don’t wish to pry into your business.” Kakuzu’s deep voice broke his thoughts, “But is all this silly fighting truly necessary?”

Deidara frowned before turning his steely gaze to him, nodding quite curtly.

“Then I wish you the best in your future endeavours.”

He might’ve heard a hint of pity in Kakuzu’s voice, but Hidan’s loud hyena cackle drowned it out before he could even confirm it.

“I’m not the one at fault here.” Deidara muttered, looking at his stained hands, still inked with faded splashes of colour. “I’m right. I know I am. I’m right and he won’t listen. I could explain all damn day and he still won’t get it.”

He shoved his hands in his pockets, imaging Sasori’s half lidded eyes staring back at him.

“I try to work with him but in his warped logic, my incapability means he’s right. Every stride I take, every breath I make, he’s mocking me.”

Deidara let out a groan of exasperation.

There was a pause.

“What if he’s just not good with words?” Hidan asked quietly, sounding oddly mature, “He’s never been vocal about anything except his own art tantrums.”

Kakuzu snorted in agreement.

“I just want this project to be done and over with.” The blonde growled, kicking a stray piece of paper on the floor.

“Believe me,” The older man chipped in from the bottom bunk, “I bet the feeling’s mutual.”

There was a short pause.

“You do deserve some form of congratulatory compliment.” Kakuzu added hastily, “I’ve never seen someone actually manage to stay in the same room with him for more than an hour.”

Deidara rolled his eyes.

“He’s lucky he looks like a serial killer, no one dares to approach him with that surly attitude of his. It’s akin to his paintings!” He pointed viciously at the hidden portrait piece, “Grey, grey, grey! Have you seen anything else as boring as that?”

At that, Hidan let out a roar of laughter, slapping his thighs, his giggles shaking the double bunk bed.

Kakuzu snorted once more.

“Truth to be told, not really.”

His green eyes danced with a strange sort of fire within them.

“This is the first time I’ve seen him paint something like this.”

Evening dusted the sky, the magenta rays of the last sun shrouding the quiet room with a strange sort of calm, the snow drifting down onto the ground was mesmerising, like an old nostalgic video tape looping over and over again. Sepia soon coloured Deidara’s shared dorm before the inky glow of the night seeped through the curtains.

It was noiseless.

It wasn’t Hidan’s lack of presence that struck the blonde’s sudden fear.

It was Sasori.

He did not appear screaming like a maniac, slamming down and digging through Deidara’s room for his lost project. Neither did he pop by to give a cynical quote that probably to insult him. It was oddly quiet. Technically, the red-head didn’t talk much but it was definitely peculiar that he hadn’t dropped by to give a snip or a snap.

He did consider to attempt to give a little jest.

He however, value his life, so he pushed that thought back into his mind.

The silence was deafening.

“It’s fine.” Deidara tried to placate himself, huddling into his comforters, “It’s all fine.” He snuggled himself into the corner of his bed before hearing a crinkle that struck his heart cold.

Heart in his mouth, he turned around hesitantly, eyes desperately searching the bed for the noise before finally stopping onto the 20 dollar note that he had originally gave Kakuzu.

There was no way that man would’ve accidentally left money on the bed.

That could only mean one thing.

It was almost midnight when he found himself standing once again in front of Sasori’s dorm. The letters 303 seemed to mock him now, jeering at the fact that he actually felt guilty enough to come running back, tail between his legs. By now, Deidara had familiarized all the cracks and dents on the dark oak door, and was just assembling up some sort of courage to lift his arm to knock on the door.

The dormitory hallways now devoid of students, stayed grey and silent, watchful.

“Sasori.” The blonde managed to muster up, urgently whispering to no one in particular. “Are you there?”

Perhaps he made a mistake and Sasori actually went home for the weekends. That seemed highly impossible considering that the red-head never headed home for the weekends – something about living alone or some sort. Deidara never truly paid attention.

“Sasori.” He undertoned once more.

There was no reply.

Right.

Fine.

Deidara turned away from the door, twiddling his thumbs worriedly. Did Kakuzu tell Sasori about the painting? If so, the red-head should be furiously hacking at the blonde’s room right this moment, however, it seemed as if the school was dead silent and no one else remained in school except for him.

He decided to check the dormitory’s front yard for any signs for life.

With the warm bronze sunlight swallowed by the horizon, the scintillating moon hovered in the cold night, lustrous dancing stars glinting the sky. Deidara huddled in his jumper, rubbing his gloved hands in the wintry air as he trekked down the path to the front yard of the dorm. From the end of the dorm’s gate, there was the flicker of the school’s overhead lamp lights, breathing in a glow of orange in the dusty ink black.

A shuffle of movement caught his attention.

In the soft silvery moon beam, the familiar sight of red was strangely reliving, it coiled its flowing tendrils upon the dark maroon pullover that Sasori was donning, dipping him in a radiant, almost hypnotic glow. The red-head glanced up, his pale face showered in the moon light, casting shadows that bathed in its intrinsic charm. But then, in a trice, the frown appeared on the male’s face, mercilessly tearing the illusion of beauty, leaving Deidara feeling suddenly austere, miserable and dark.

His mouth went dry, suddenly unable to speak.

There was a crunch of footsteps on the snowy ground as Sasori moved towards the blonde.

Dediara didn’t say anything – he didn’t know what to say, conscious of the glare that was being sent his way, he dipped his head down quickly, staring at his boots.

Another pair of boots stopped right next to his.

With the excruciating silence hovering between them like a heavy fog, Deidara found himself squeaking a soft greeting that sounded awfully like a grunt.

Sasori did not reply.

Deidara glanced up, suddenly aware that the latter was standing rather close to him.

“The painting is gone.” Sasori announced coldly.

The blonde tried not to look guilty.

“Oh.” He managed to mutter, scratching the back of his head innocently.

“I know you took it.” The red-head continued.

Deidara bit his tongue.

Great.

“Oh.” He slapped himself mentally.

“I’m glad.” Sasori added after a pause.

That took Deidara by surprise as he glanced curiously at the red-head, who was observing the snowflakes falling onto the ground.

“You’re glad.” He echoed, blinking. “You’re glad?”

Sasori sounded strangely hollow.

“Grey like the colour of the window curtains that I have spent hours behind, watching.” He whispered into the night, “Like the serenity that flows from the crevice of the same lips that cause the ground to crumble and break. The colour of the duvets that stop me from shaking, the grey of mind, trying to forget my miserable life.”

The blonde raised a brow.

“Grey like your eyes.”

Deidara froze.

“I’m glad it’s gone. It was a stupid painting anyway.”

With that he left.

He should be mad.

Sasori was insulting him just a day before.

He should be furious.

Yet, Deidara felt peculiarly disappointed. There wasn’t a word to describe how he was feeling, but if anything it felt like the music of a great orchestra. At times it was quiet, and it allowed him to remain passive towards what had happened. And suddenly, the violins would play and he would feel oddly sad, then it would rise to a crescendo and a fiery rage would burst from his chest in a vicious confused anguish.

He stood, stock still, unmoving.

No prizes guessing who prompted that poetic response.

Grey like your eyes.

The blonde sighed, snuffing the snowy ground with his boots.

“Grey like your eyes.” He murmured.

Hidan was definitely wrong about Sasori not being with words.

And Deidara was definitely digging his own grave when he found himself knocking violently at dorm 303’s door, the towel-covered art piece standing unwisely at his side. He wasn’t trying to tease the red-head by bringing the stolen (albeit it was their painting anyway he couldn’t really steal it) painting back – he just wanted to make it clear that he didn’t destroy it. Well – at least not physically maul it.

There was a loud sigh behind the door.

“Please leave me alone.”

Deidara slammed his fists against the wooden frame.

“It’s not gone or destroyed,” He tried to explain, “It’s here. It’s here.”

He motioned wildly at the hidden painting, knowing well that Sasori probably couldn’t see what he was doing.

Once more, the sigh escaped from behind the door.

“You have no idea what I meant by saying 'I’m glad that it’s gone’, haven’t you?”

“The painting.” Deidara declared loudly.

“Please leave me alone, Deidara.” Sasori sounded tired.

The blonde frowned.

“Fine.” He gave the door a final slam with his fist. “But I’m leaving the painting here.”

Twirling around, the blonde left, storming across the corridors and heading down the stairs back to the shared dormitory bathroom, hoping that a hot shower of some sort would fix his messy head.

He stepped into the shower, toes flinching as they touched the chilled ceramic floor. His mind was in shreds, torn between viciously jubilant at Sasori’s sudden melancholy and guilty for seemingly being the one who caused it. He turned the dial, old and metallic, lukewarm water drops dampening his hair, trickling down his back as he closed his eyes, feeling the warm splash of water wash away his confusion. The water poured down, drip, dripping down his fingertips as his minds fades into dullness, stilling the time to a stop. The sensation of steamy water calming his nerves, his mind swirling, standing under an everlasting waterfall.

Irritation gnawed on his skin.

Having Sasori acting like a forlorn puppy didn’t help his annoyance.

Deidara towelled his hair dry with Hidan’s towel.

What would the red-head gain from acting like a miserable sack of potatoes? He could’ve barged in, shrieked at Deidara for 'stealing’ the painting or perhaps even rebuke the fact that the blonde was truly someone he hated with a malice but he didn’t – in fact he stated that it made him glad?

And what about that cryptic prose – what about grey colours and his eyes – Deidara rubbed his temples, trying to figure Sasori out was harder than trying to finish a damn Sudoku puzzle. He dragged himself back into his empty cold dorm room and dumped himself onto the warm comfort of his duvets.

Grey duvets.

He huddled beneath it, a sudden memory of the first time Sasori had huddled in beside him and shared friendly conversations about their life on the first day of the project work, merely just a week ago. What did Sasori say about his grey duvets? Something about shielding him from shaking or some sort.

Grey like the colour of the curtains.

Deidara’s eyes fell onto his own curtains.

Grey like your eyes.

The blonde’s heart skipped a beat.

Hold on.

Kakuzu did mention how it was the first time Sasori had decided to go all greyscale on a painting and it was definitely odd how he kept it a single colour, even with hues of concrete. After all, art was a way to express something – an idea, an emotion. Could it be that the red-head had become fond of Deidara?

The blonde shook his head.

No way.

Impossible. If anything Sasori probably had already plotted 50 different ways to murder the blonde.

Then what did he mean by being glad that the painting was gone? Was that he eager to throw his handiwork? He didn’t sound any happier, Deidara noted quietly, tugging his duvet closer to himself, if fact, he sounded awfully miserable.

The blonde tried to piece the puzzle that was his partner with the permanent scowl, curling his toes deeper into his bed covers and eventually falling asleep.

SATURDAY

Nightmares plagued his sleep. Vivid images of Sasori repeatedly stabbing him with a paint brush woke the blonde up with a start. Steely blue eyes shot open like wide saucers, hands and feet tangled in a mess of cotton and slate grey. Deidara glanced about, half of him hoping that the red-head had actually sneaked into his dorm in the middle of the night.

He shook his head.

This is a guy who called you a fag.

Still, the blonde unravelled himself from his sheets, tiptoeing around his dorm, slowly picking up pieces of paper that had decided to plant themselves all over the floor. Probably his biology homework, he thought as he shifted around when a folded sheet of parchment caught his eye. Jammed halfway through his door, the parchment looked nothing like his and Hidan’s homework sheets and he made a quick grab for it.

Speak of the devil.

He recognised that scribbled handwriting anywhere. Addressed to him was a short note that came from none other than Sasori. Hurriedly unfolding it, Deidara peered at the scrawls, trying to figure out what beautiful insult the red-head had crafted for him – instead what met him was a few lines.

'Anger is useful only to a certain point. After that, it becomes rage, and rage will make you careless. I apologise, I’m sorry you had to hear that. I did not mean it.’

Deidara blinked owlishly.

Nothing about the painting?

He stopped gawking at the piece of carefully worded paper.

It gave him an idea.

The blonde wasn’t a fan of note-passing, but this will have to do. Scrunching up the piece of paper, he slotted it carefully under Sasori’s dorm door and sat there, waiting patiently. It was about 10am in the morning and he was pretty sure the red-head was an early bird.

He glanced accusingly at the painting that sat outside of the Sasori’s dorm, not moved an inch since yesterday night.

The almost noiseless crinkle of paper was heard as Deidara’s note disappeared from under the door. There was a pause and a grunt of annoyance before the paper was once more shoved out, landing in front of the blonde’s toes. Excitedly, he grabbed the note and opened it up.

Scrawled on top was his own handiwork of “You will only be forgiven if you promise to answer my question.”

Below was a hastily written reply of “fine.”

He grinned, penned down his question and shoved it back through the tiny gap of the dorm’s wooden door.

Once more, the paper was slickly pulled from the inside.

The blonde waited.

And waited.

There was a sigh from behind the door.

“I’m not answering that.”

Deidara was about to hurl a fairly timed insult when there was a click of the door being unlocked and being pushed open. Behind the opening crack of the door frame, stood Sasori, bed head and all. Clad in a thick fluffy looking jumper and pastel burgundy socks, the red-head peered out, his eyes weary. He blinked in surprise when he saw the blonde on the ground, huddled in a grey duvet.

“Hey.” Deidara greeted softly.

Sasori’s mouth twitched, as if he was about to spit out a sardonic remark but decided hastily against it.

“How long have you been -” He gestured at the clump of duvet on the ground, searching for a word to describe the chaotic mess that was Deidara, “Camping here?”

“Just a bit.” The blonde muttered, struggling to get up. “So did you see it?”

As if on cue, Sasori’s eyes flickered over to the canvas on the easel, standing stoically outside of his dorm.

“I told you; I’m not answering that.”

His face, however, spoke volumes.

Sasori’s face was definitely pale.

Not that his face was already as pale as milk, but the second the red-head’s eyes landed on the painting Deidara called a masterpieces, the blonde could see the fiery hot cinders of disenchantment, disgust and rage form like a thundercloud.

Deidara took it as a yes.

Yes, Sasori had seen it.

Yes Sasori despises it.

“We need to talk,” Deidara concluded, hurriedly moving to stand up, almost tripping over his duvet in haste. “We are adults, we should act like it.”

It was the most ironic thing that left his lips, but this – whatever this was – war between the two of them had gone on too long. It was a never ending tug of war, directionless and making the blonde baffled beyond belief.

Sasori kept mum but pushed the door wider, signalling the blonde to enter his abode. What met the blonde’s eye was appalling. Instead of the clean neat space that was originally Sasori’s room was now covered in ink splatter and torn paper, shredded across the floorboards. Paintbrushes lolled on the ground, dried up colours of blue and red splattered on his chairs.

“What on earth happened here? A tornado?”

“A tornado of emotions.” Came the quip.

Sasori sighed.

Deidara side stepped into the room, tiptoeing over the discarded papers and strewn paintbrushes, worriedly eyeing the red-head with mild concern. Scrutinizing the mess, the blonde noticed that Sasori had been trying to recreate his – their – Deidara corrected himself - art piece with a bunch of new bright colours, but had ended up ripping whatever he had twisted into life, finally left scattered onto the grayscale ground like party confetti.

Squinting his slate grey eyes, the blonde exchanged a perplexed peer over to the dorm’s owner.

“You heard.” He spoke, breaking the awkward silence.

The blonde tilted his head in curiosity; what did he mea- oh. Oh. Right. That fateful night he heard the disingenuous word that made his lungs shudder, the toxicity of the way Sasori had put it had made the blonde contemplate murder, even. Right, that he heard – yes. Deidara bit his tongue from spitting out an equally poisonous remark. There was no point in fighting, after all, Sasori looked as if he had been utterly defeated.

“Yeah.” Deidara scratched his head sheepishly. “It’s okay. I’ve been called that.”

“Kakuzu told me.” Sasori begun, running his hands down his messy locks. “Look, Deidara, I know we didn’t get off on a good start-” (“Try me.” The blonde snorted.)

“But I’ve been arrogant, yes.” The red-head shoved his hands in his grey slacks, eyes downcast, “I did not show you any respect and yet I demanded you to give me all of yours. I don’t know if an apology will suffice, but I am sorry.”

Biting his bottom lip, Deidara shook his head.

“I’m sorry too – but this is kinda the third,” He lifted his three fingers up, “or fourth time we’ve apologised to each other?”

He gestured to the mess.

“And it always ends up like this.”

Sasori pursed his lips in silent agreement.

There was a long pregnant pause.

“What now then?” The red-head broke the ice, examining the demolition of his dorm with crestfallen look on his face.

Deidara regarded the cast-aside painting with an expectant expression on his face, wriggling his eyebrows keenly at the red-head.

Sasori retorted back with a threatening glare.

The blonde took it as a no.

“We have to come to some sort of agreement.” The red-head assented, reaching down onto the ground and picking up a paintbrush from a stack of torn paper confetti.

“I concur.” The blonde picked up a paintbrush as well, twirling it around his fingers. “I still say we paint the sky.”

Sasori narrowed his amber eyes but nodded nonetheless.

“I think,” Deidara licked his lips, waving the paintbrush now and narrowing his eyebrows in deep thought, “I think, the reason why we didn’t come to a consensus is because we didn’t take any time to understand each other.”

Sasori looked bemused.

“Properly, that is.” The blonded added hastily. “Look, do you know what’s my favourite colour?”

The red-head rolled his eyes.

“Any colour that’s ablaze with phosphorescent it causes anyone in the vicinity a headache?” He suggested, watching Deidara’s face contort into an irritated scowl.

“No.” The blonde huffed.

“And knowing the colours you like will help us get along?” Sasori snorted with disbelief.

“It’s not about knowing the colours,” Deidara stabbed the paintbrush towards Sasori’s direction, “It’s about knowing the other person, how they think, how they act – how they,” The blonde gallivanted about, waving the paintbrush once more, “Feel.”

“Cheesy.” The red-head wasn’t impressed.

Deidara ignored the other, too deep in his own thoughts.

“I like the colour red.” The blonde declared. “Deep, picturesque with streaks of flashes of carnelian and patches of cerise. Russet rich blare, burning like fire! It’s wild, weaving into the alabaster of the gloomy dreary world. It’s captivating and elysian in a unstable way, ephemeral murmurs of vermilion – it hypnotizes me.”

“You should be a poet.” Sasori commented dully.

Deidara grinned.

“Eunoia.” The red-head commented, a small smile on his.

“Eunoia?” The blonde blinked.

Sasori shook his head, brushing Deidara off.

“Why? Why the idea of captivating through dazzling colours? Why the need for so much,” Sasori jabbed a thumb and tilted it down at the blonde, “Attention?”

The blonde froze, dropping his paintbrush.

A quiet flash of memory resurfaced through the oceans of his mind, the blonde teenager holding on his first art piece, being brushed aside by his parents – others laughing and mocking his emblazoned canvas within his arms – leaving one by one. Ablaze of fiery persimmon red washed over him, fury, wretchedness slowly dissolving into splattered paint.

He blinked the thought away.

Speechless, he shrugged. Maybe. Maybe it was the constant discouragement, maybe it was the laughter – maybe it was the fact that no one ever believed he was an artist. His splashes of colours were nothing but a mess to them – they called him a mess. A clutter of cluelessness, a chaotic thunderstorm. Litter. Trash. Useless.

But that mess they called – it meant so much more to him.

It meant dreams emerging from a part of ourselves, a way to communicate with the deeper self of both artist and audience. Each piece invokes different emotions, sculpted by the artist in a mosaic of colours that invites the curiosity of the mind.

“I just like to paint what I feel.” Deidara dusting himself, pocketing his hands, eyes downcast, a swell of lonesome aching in his chest. “It’s not a mess. It’s me. No one understands that.”

Sasori raised a brow.

“And what makes you think I don’t do that as well?”

Deidara blew a raspberry and snorted.

“Grey? Grey. And more grey.” He pointed at the red-head. “Don’t tell me that all you feel all day is grey?”

Sasori’s face fell and the blonde felt a sudden surge of guilt. Did he say something wrong again?

“Perhaps.” The red-head drawled, turning away. “Unlike you, I have no such experience with bright colours that are associated with anything – anything good that is.”

There was a long quiet pause.

“Yellow lemon meringue was that of the bright lights of the car in the deep absolute night, obsidian sheets and blaring sirens, flashing red and blue.” Sasori murmured quietly, “The rumble of thunder in the white four walled room, smelt of medicine and felt of misery.”

Deidara kept mum.

Sasori glanced at the window, his eyes distant now.

“Persimmon, the colour of their casket, lowering into the cocoa brown soil.” He folded his arms, refusing to look at the blonde now and Deidara could see his arms tremble at the recollection of coloured memories. “All these colours, they only remind me how empty I feel. How alone I am.”

Deidara wanted to reach out to say something – anything but he remained sedated. There are times where your brain fries up and stops working, it’s no excuse, he knows: he owns his own behaviour. He wanted to help, maybe try to be good and then a trigger is flicked. Emotions run cold, fearful anxious and he backs away, flees – Deidara didn’t know what to do, but remain noiseless and impassive.

All this time, Sasori’s thoughts were a strange ocean to him.

“I – I’m sorry.” The blonde’s eyes widened, shaking his head.

There was silence that clouded the dorm room before Sasori let out a soft snort.

“Looks like we’re both a mess huh?”

A lightbulb went off in Deidara’s head.

A mess.

“I have an idea.”

The room was finally cleaned out.

Sasori’s bed of stripped pine and rough canvas mattress now visible. Empty, the greyscale room looked cavernous, perhaps with its stone floor and corniced ceiling, it might even seem quite grand if not for the dust grey colour that bled through the dorm.

In the middle stood an empty canvas, backed up with the easel, with both Deidara and Sasori hovering over the biscuit white sheet.

“This might be a bad idea.” Sasori muttered, tapping his face with a finger sceptically. “I’m not used to disorder.”

He raised his paintbrush, now dipped in a splatter of carmine, a dubious look on his face.

“I’m also not used to bright colours.”

“Just go with it.” Deidara rebuked firmly, raising his own paintbrush, covered in dusty grey with fervour. “I’ll be the puppet, and you be the puppet master.”

The red-head shook his head.

“The most enduring battle is between head and heart,” The blonde coaxed, “What would be efficient and logical is nearly always triumphed by what is messy and illogical.”

Sasori flashed Deidara a glare.

“What do I do again?” He scanned the biscuit white canvas with anxious tight lipped frown on his face.

“Make a mess. Paint yourself.” Deidara gesticulated wildly. “Think of fireworks, think of your messy hair. You keep your feelings all bottled up in here,” He pointed at his chest, “And I well, I let too much flow – that breeds antagonism, lots of it.”

He let out a snort.

“We’ve got to learn how to be each other’s messes.”

Sasori’s face went a bold red.

“I do not.” He lied through his teeth.

“Paint.” Deidara commanded.

And so Sasori did.

It started as a splatter. Sasori’s fingers were too precise, the stiffness of his brushstrokes reflected his unwillingness to make a single mistake. The boldness of the bright maroon was contrasting against the bone white canvas, and all the red-head was doing was dipping small outlines on the edges of the paper, afraid – petrified to make longer, bigger harmonized movements.

Deidara shook his head.

The muted strokes were light, barely flushing across the canvas, a dramatic contrast to the negative space of white – and the blonde could tell the red-head was still mentally calculating the measurements of the sky and clouds in his mind.

“Stop, stop, stop.” The blonde grabbed the red-head’s hands, dragging it away from the easel.

Sasori seemed defeated.

“I tried.” He deadpanned, knitting his brows in frustration.

The blonde gritted his teeth – desperate times called for desperate measures.

Swooping under Sasori’s arm and earning a nonplussed (and distressed) 'what?’ from the red-head, Deidara’s left arm wrapped around the other’s shoulders and right arm coiled round Sasori’s – the blonde’s fingers clenched tightly on the red-head’s wrist – it was a terribly awkward position to be in.

Especially since he could feel the red-head’s burgundy eyes burning a mammoth hole at the back of his head.

“Paint.” Deidara forced Sasori’s hand onto the paper, watching the blood red ink dash across, wildly creating a lash that made the red-head try to wriggle away.

“Stop, stop!” Sasori yelped, shaking his head, trying his best to jerk away, “It’s dreadful!”

The blonde couldn’t help but snigger. Watching the normally cool-headed Sasori squirm in distress was rather oddly fascinating. Once more, Deidara firmly tugged on Sasori’s wrist, smudging the spill of crimson and watching the colour fade into saffron – a patchy tawny tangerine like the evening sky. The alarmed expression etched on the red-head made the blonde giggle in triumph.

“The sky is capricious,” Deidara steered the red-head’s, reciting the words that Sasori had once told him, “unstable, volatile. It’s unpredictable.” Once more, their hands moved enchantingly in bold dramatic strokes, “Kinda like you.”

There was a pause.

“Kinda like me.”

“Inconstant but elegant.” Sasori whispered under his breath.

Deidara nodded, mesmerised by the bright splatter of red.

His reverie was broken when Sasori’s hair brushed against his cheek.

The blonde drew in a long breath.

He had his arms draped around the petite sized painter, close enough to smell the comforting scent of pine and musk. Heart pounding in his chest, the blonde’s face flushed a rosy claret. He examined the heavy lidden eyes of the red-head, a nebulous gaze that raked the canvas as the paint brush glided through paper. The colour of burnt sienna and dashes of umber feathered like ripples in the ocean as Sasori anchored his attention from paper to the blonde.

The mild surprise on his face didn’t turn into the glare of unnerving thoroughness that Deidara had expected. Long lashes swept up as he blinked owlishly, fixing the blonde with a thoughtful expression.

Deidara felt his throat run dry.

Hurriedly, he swung his restless gaze back onto the painting, loosening his grip on the other’s wrist. An odd sensation stretched throughout his entire body – flames dancing around his chest, heart constricted as if there wasn’t any oxygen left in his lungs.

Mesmerised by the bright splatter of red.

The blonde internally blanched.

He felt suffocated.

Throwing his hands up in the air and side stepping aside from the red-head, who watched furtively in bemusement, the blonde hurriedly jammed his hands into his front pockets, lowering his head away in hopes that the strange sensation in his chest would stop.

The red-head let out a soft scoff.

Why didn’t he spit out a scornful quip? Deidara inspected his fingers, trying to feign his impassivity. Or shrink from the touch? His browns knitted in bafflement. Sasori didn’t seem to be livid.

Above all, Sasori didn’t seem at all bothered.

“Sorry,” The blonde muttered under his breath, meekly glancing up to see the copper pools staring back.

The red-head gave a dismissive wave.

“So,” Deidara cleared his throat, “You’ve um, got to just paint how you feel.”

Like a storm cloud thundering through his entire body, tinsel coloured strobes of slate echoed in Deidara’s mind. He couldn’t comprehend the disorder of his head, the pounding in his chest so awfully loud, he was sure Sasori could hear it as well.

The red-head continued on, dabbing gently on the easel with different bold strokes of rose to cerise, ruby to rust. He was still too careful, Deidara noted, watching with apprehension, almost as if he was unsure. Red, the colour of blood, and of fire – the rage, malice, wrath, radiance and determination of the wielder of the paintbrush – seemed meek, hesitant when Sasori weaved through the artic white canvas, each smooth stroke was a shy pat on the paper.

It took roughly ten minutes before the red-head slammed the paintbrush back onto the edge of the easel, exhaling with exhaustion.

“This is aeviternal. I can’t picture what you see.” Sasori grumbled, folding his arms and stepping back to view his work.

A frown materialized on his face.

Deidara found himself sulking as well, it didn’t bode well for either of them. The painting looked none like how either visualised, and in place stood an amateurish work that even Hidan would better excel at.

Sasori arched an eyebrow at the blonde.

“Any other bright ideas?” He scowled darkly, picking up a piece of cloth and wiping his hands. Amaranth smeared across the beige cloth and the blonde’s eyes widened in realisation.

“Soup!” Deidara gasped.

“Soup.” Sasori deadpanned.

Saturdays were meant for soups.

At least, that what Deidara thought.

Both the blonde and red-head found themselves strolling through the nearby street for a café that wasn’t too crowded on a weekend. A wide variety of shops lined the street – from antiques and art stalls, the silvery melody of bells that tinkled as people sauntered in and out of different stores.

Deidara had considered making instant soup back at the dormitory but he felt that it was essential that Sasori escaped the greys of his room. The lunch crowds dissipated through the late afternoons, and the blonde managed to find a quaint tiny café, huddled despondent among the tall shophouses.

Washed out under the overcast sky, it hunched in itself, fighting against the mizzle of snowflakes.

Sasori remained silent and stoic through the walk, and Deidara wasn’t about to ruin the mood with a wisecrack about how boring the red-head was. Instead, he hurried to the café’s entrance and pushed the mahogany door with fervour.

A welcoming blast of coffee wafted through the air, and the blonde sighed in content. Furnished in wooden picnic tables and chairs, the café was relatively empty, the buzz of machines whirring in the background over the quiet conversations from the corner.

“Go on,” Deidara nudged Sasori, who shot him a dirty glare. “Sit anywhere.”

The door swung closed behind them as the red-head made his way to a corner seat next to the open glass windows, looking as dull as the dusty skies outside.

The blonde pouted.

Really now, no one but Sasori seemed to relish the idea of staying indoors instead of having tea at a quaint polished café.

Sighing, Deidara found his seat in front of the red-head, ignoring the sulk on his lunch companion and decided to stare at the display racks near the counter. From the chocolate drizzled cakes, to the sugar lace pastries, the blueberry muffins and steaming puffs, everything was a feast to the eyes.

Just as he was internally drooling at the sandwiches on display, a waitress teetered over in beige and forest green uniform with a small notepad in her hand.

Deidara blinked, noticing at the warm smile on her face.

The blonde managed a lopsided grin back.

She pulled up a pencil from her back pocket, going through the routine questions she probably asks every customer that visited the café.

“Soup of the day.” He glanced at Sasori.

The red-head frowned.

“Two of it.” Deidara ordered, flashing what he hoped was a suave smirk.

Sasori sighed deeply.

“A warm latte, please.” He added, turning away to stare at the snowflakes drifting from the window.

The waitress nodded before sauntering over to the counter.

The blonde closed his eyes, inhaling the smell of vanilla and coffee beans. It was a comforting scent, something that Deidara had missed, a warm hug from the cold winter days. He opened his eyes once more, observing the plants positioned around the racks of the windows, their leaves casting elegant shadows in the muted lighting. Pine wood panels cover the bottom half of the wall, the tan colour on the top half of the walls a shade darker than the pine, tying the pine panels to the dark shades of the ceiling.

He tilted his head up, watching the ceiling fan spin leisurely, moving just enough to keep the aroma of coffee and baked goods circulating throughout the room. The whirring of the coffee grinder, the gurgling of the coffee brewing and bubbling of the steamer warming the milk created a relaxing symphony of sounds, and Deidara found his eyelids getting heavier, the serenity of the comfy café eloping him like a warm duvet.

He let out a soft jubilant hum.

“Ain’t this just picturesque?” He murmured to no one in particular.

“Passable.” Sasori answered disinterestedly. “At least it’s not Starbucks.”

Deidara whipped his head back down to glower at the red-head.

“Gee thanks, way to ruin the mood.” He grunted, folding his arms.

Sasori rolled his eyes.

The waitress waltzed over with wooden bowls and placed the auburn coloured liquid gently on the table top. A dash of terra cotta surrounded by burnt umber greeted Deidara’s eyes and he grimaced slightly. Why the colour red? He was hoping for the colour of autumnal vegetable gardens in the deepest greens

“It’s red pepper cauliflower soup.” The waitress assured, dusting her spruce uniform. “I’ll be back with your latte.”

She strode away, hips swaying.

The burnished soup stood in view. It smelt of tangy piquant, the hues of the soup softened just a bit with the addition of cream and cheese. Even though he was rather bothered by the shade of crimson, he ladled in the wooden spoon, dipping it as if he were plummeting paintbrush into paint.

He sipped on it and let out a contented hum of approval.

The rich aroma of the red pepper wafted around and Deidara couldn’t help but whip up delightful sensations from inside his memory; it was comforting to say the least, even was Sasori glowering darkly opposite from him.

Picking up the fresh, warm bread that was beside the soup, it smelled rich – almost as if promising a scrumptious taste. He dipped the spongy white bread into the red pepper broth, ripping off a chunk and stuffing the piece into his mouth. The pleasant smoothness of the warm bread blended perfectly with the bitter-sweet taste of the soup.

Deep in his own thoughts, Deidara didn’t even notice when the waitress brought over Sasori’s latte until he smelled the aroma of coffee wafting heavily through, piercing through the foggy veil of his dream-like state with the smooth, rich scent of roasted beans. The invigorating odour drew Deidara’s eyes onto the ivory black mug and he looked up expectantly at the red-head.

As if on cue, Sasori rolled his eyes once more and pushed his mug over to the blonde.

The smooth brown milk created a striking contrast against the mug. The lustrous texture of foam was topped with chocolate crumbles, the smell bringing up images of Deidara curled up with a warm fire place, cosied up on the couch. He took a small taste.

It was exotic, bitter-sweet and earthy.

He wrapped his fingers around the mug, enjoying the heat that spread through his heads. Taking another sip, he let the warm liquid sit on his tongue for longer. Once accustomed to the bitterness, the flavour steps forth shyly. It is the undertone that is so apparent in the aroma – one can’t smell the bitterness of it.

Sasori was staring.

Deidara blinked, swiftly pushing back the mug to its rightful owner and adjusting on his jacket lapels in embarrassment.

“It’s good.” The blonde spluttered out, spooning his soup once more.

The arched eyebrow was a reply.

They remained in mutual silence as they ladled their soups, sipping it carefully.

It was calming, the blonde realised. Dull, but comforting. Like the colour grey.

The steam that had risen from the coffee when the waitress first placed it on the table was quite gone. The top bore tell-tale signs of a skin forming, yet Sasori sat there with his hands clasped around it, as if he liked the idea of drinking it but lacked the will power to lift it to his lips.

“The word 'eunoia’ means beautiful thinking.” Sasori muttered, eyes still latched onto the snow fall from the window pane.

Deidara glanced up from his soup.

“What?”

He dropped his spoon back onto his almost empty bowl.

“Classy.” The red-head snorted.

“When you described your paintings.” He clutched the mug tightly “It’s eunoia to me.”

The blonde held back a mighty grin.

“I wish,” Sasori fixated a stare at the soup in front of him, still half full, “That I could imagine the colours of red like how you do so.”

Deidara forced himself not to clap out loud and guffaw at the sight of Sasori. The arrogant prick was finally asking for help! He forced himself to smile gently – he probably looked like a fool, grinning from ear to ear – because Sasori had decided to glare hotly through the pools hidden under heavy lidden eyelids.

Brushing the dispassionate glower that was sent his way, the flaxen haired boy crossed his fingers together, leaning forward and nudging his chin towards the half-emptied soup bowl that sat in front of the red-head.

“The soup is comforting no?” Deidara explained, “So my soul resonates with the colour red as something reassuring. I feel at home.”

“I feel nothing but misery.” Sasori bit back, eyes like daggers, narrowed into slits.

The blonde frowned.

“C'mn now, Sasori. If you told me that the colour of onyx fuels the misery in your heart, I would understand.” He grumbled, shaking his head.

“And what do you feel about the colour black?” The red-head enquired softly.

Deidara thought for a moment.

“It seems aphotic. Dark, cold, lonely.” He rested his chin on his entwined fingers, “Like an ebon hue that’s nothing but a void of velvet dusk. It is the absence of colour but with the mist of visible silvers, or azuline outlines, it stands ablaze against the silhouettes created by obsidian. Like a backdrop for trees, stills as an oil painting and darker than the ravens.”

Sasori blinked.

“Without black, no colour has any depth. But,” Deidara grinned, “If you mix black with everything, there’s a shadow – no, not just a shadow, but fullness.”

The red-head pursed his lips.

“It surprises me how euphonious you make things sound,” Sasori snorted, bemused. “Even as crude as you are.”

The blonde arched a brow, unsure whether he felt insulted.

There was a beat.

“My memories taint how I view vivid colours.” The red-head murmured, his grip on his mug loosening. “I watched my parents die in front of me. Red. It was everywhere.”

Deidara’s eyes widened.

“I see red as the blush of blooming pools of blood, and it reminds me that I lost them – that I wasn’t able to do anything to save them.” Sasori’s fingers were trembling now. “I feel empty.”

The blonde felt his heart drop.

“If I choose to paint with my heart, it would be incomprehensible.” The Sasori sighed. “Perhaps I’m a coward for electing not to feel any sort of misery again. Perhaps I’m afraid to feel mirthful. I don’t want to get excited about cubes and geometry, contrasting shapes and colours. It takes too much out of me, I can’t be bothered. Art should be pretty, end of story.”

The red-head sipped his drink.

“The pain seeps out through the colours of red, and it hurts to see them, to feel them.”

Deidara inhaled deeply, feeling the dull ache in his chest.

“You know you are in endless pain when you wake up one morning and realize that you’re the only one left, the rest dead, buried and forgotten – left to nothing but memories.” Sasori rubbed his face tiredly, before glancing up, almost shyly, back at the blonde.

“Don’t give me that look.” His face contorted into something of antipathy.

“I’m not!” Deidara snapped abruptly, his mind now clanging on a single thought.

“Why not make new memories?”

He pointed at the soup.

“Look, we’re having a pleasant time here, drinking red pepper soup in a quaint cozy café on a Saturday afternoon. The smells, the sights, the sounds – take it in – and create a promising memory of it!”

Sasori scrunched his face.

“With, -” He paused. “You?”

“You did mention how my grey eyes made you feel some sort of comfort, didn’t you?” The blonde tilted his head curiously, still wondering why the red-head even said that in the first place.

Sasori lowered his head immediately, staring at his lap.

There was a pregnant pause.

“I suppose.” He muffled, almost inaudible.

Deidara nodded.

“Look man,” He bit his lip, unsure if he should placate his companion. “I’m really sorry about your parents.” The blonde moved back, leaning against his seat and watching the other bristle slightly at his remark.

However, Sasori’s gaze remained passive as he continued to observe his own lap.

“The absence of someone who was once there, like the colour of black. You got to be willing to mix black into your palette if you want to create something that’s real.” Deidara whispered, eyes drifting over to the window pane before he finally fixated a stare on Sasori.

He had strange eyes – a clear, pale brown, like amber from the tall forests across the sea.

Sasori held his gaze for moment.

“Thank you.” He murmured back kindly and Deidara found his face heating up once more.

The blonde gave Sasori a lopsided grin.

“Hey, how 'bout we take a little walk after this? We can make new memories and attach them to the colours we see.” The blonde tapped his finger on the table thoughtfully.

“I know it sounds really childish (Sasori snorted at that) but maybe, just maybe –” Deidara glanced at the snowy terrain outside.

“Maybe it’ll work out.”

[evxlynxxh]

Hues (Sasodei fanfic)

Set in an alternate universe where the characters are college students, Deidara finds himself stuck in a rut, having to team up with the most infuriating piece of work, in the entire universe. (Okay, maybe he’s over-exaggerating but) Of all people, he had to partner up with the least liked student in the entire class. (A/N: Was supposed to be a one-shot but welp)

Chapter 1: First quarter (HERE)

Chapter 2: Second quarter (HERE)

Chapter 3: Third quarter 

FRIDAY

Fiery, sizzling hot. Scorching hot scarlet and maroons. Bold berry red, a dash of maroon.

There was a twist and a flick.

Never be afraid of the rage that is fire.

A splatter of paint.

Fire burns hot and dies fast.

Bright vivid soaked brushes laid scattered around the empty dorm room.

Steel blue eyes narrowed.

It was vexing. Uncannily, what he felt was almost not human, the way it twisted and distorted itself inside his body. It burned so bad like fire lacing his veins, creeping up his spine. His pale skin was sore, drenched in puddles of burgundy. He felt intoxicated with an emotion he had no intention of ever feeling so much of. The acidity of it, residing in his belly, waiting to be spat out in foul vulgar strings of incomprehensible words. He wanted to screech them with every living ounce of breath that dwelled in his lungs.

He really did.

But what he entered to was a just an empty greyscale room: sitting the middle of which was the painting. That very painting that brought him so much distraught. That was his breaking point.

Blinded by rage with not a soul to take out on, he decided the next best thing was the painting itself. It was preposterous. He knew it, internally shrieking at himself to stop but in his moment of anger, the warped logic in his mind took control of the bold strokes that now littered the painting.

Before, it stood rigid and grey, fluffy clouds saturated in amounts of pearl white that sloped around the edges of the canvas. The hills etched in a dreary dark concrete colour, grained with small stones of beige. A hint of perhaps azure in the distance but too small, too insignificant to notice.

Deidara watched, enthralled as the deep claret sank into the paper, creating soft swirls in mixture with the misty grey. Almost like flickering flames, he realised, dying out in the cool grey.

After such an inferno, watch the ashes fall into place.

The sudden discernment hit him.

For nothing fights the frost than the flames.

He dropped the brushes, fingertips trembling, coated in a dance of colours.

Be schooled by the flame so that you never know the torment of the ice.

It's beautiful. He thought, gasping in euphoria.

The painting sat now, covered in a calamiform of bright shapes and colours, harlequin in a multifarious enflamed greys and whites. There lay scored shadows of dark purple, creating soft blurred outlined of the hills. It was strange how interwoven the bright reds and the dull greys were with the astonishing bold blushes of cinnabar that stood distinctively, catching the eye of Deidara.

Light streaming from the window panes fell upon the shadows of the painting, the straw-coloured hair boy beaming at his handiwork. It was luck as well, that lent a hand, for Sasori was nowhere to be seen. Deidara gallivanted around the room, letting out a whoop of exhilaration, whatever it had aggravated him was feckless now.

Primarily, the blonde's mission was to barge in to give Sasori a livid earful of insults.

After managing to break the door down – Deidara noted inwardly about how weak the dorm doors were – he stormed in, ready to hurl vulgarities at the red-head but was greeted with a none other than bare room. Since it was vacant of any living being except for himself, the blonde decided to screw with Sasori's "perfect artwork" but ended up creating a stunning mess of paint. So much for being mad and screwing with the latter.

"I can't believe I skipped class for this." The blonde snorted to himself.

Perhaps Sasori was still having lessons, judging by the unoccupied grey space.

Deidara gazed dreamily at the painting, with his own contribution, it looked more like a mixture of two artists working together. Well, at least, somewhat.

There was a pause.

He couldn't just leave it here. Sasori's bound to destroy it somehow, knowing that his greyscale masterpiece was ruined – if anything the red-head would probably try to 'save' his artwork. Now that the painting exactly looked decent, Deidara was definitely going to keep it. Hand it up. Proudly proclaim that he saved their work with his ingeniousness.

A thin grim line set on his face.

He had to steal his own painting.

He had to.

Kakuzu had settled himself deftly into the folds of Deidara's bottom bunk, his jewel green orbs squinted at the sight of the blonde and his giant obstruction of a painting. He watched with mild amusement as the flaxen-haired male tried to hide his work of art behind his rickety looking easel.

"Deidara." He greeted calmly, ignoring the snigger that came from the top bunk.

"What are you doing?" Hidan immediately stopped sniggering when the blonde covered the painting with the white-hair teen's towel. "Why are you using my towel?"

Looking flustered, Deidara pressed a finger on his lip.

"Shut up. It's my business." He grumbled, examining the smirk that formed on Kakuzu's face. "You," he pointed a finger to the raven haired male, eyes fixed on him like a hawk on its prey.

"I'll pay you twenty and not a word about this to Sasori." The blonde dug his pocket and fished out a twenty dollar note, striding forward and slamming it onto Kakuzu's open hand. How obliging, he thought darkly, glaring at the smile that graced the raven haired male's face.

The older male dipped his head mockingly and pocketed the cash.

"You know he's going to be furious." He commented dryly before turning back to his sketchbook, outlining what seemed to be a tree.

Deidara scoffed, rolling his eyes. Of course he knows. Sasori's going to lose his shit when he realises the painting's missing. If his ego's as big as Deidara presumed, he's not going to come running for help; in fact, there's a high probability that the red-head is just going to start work on another piece.

"I won't be bunking in this weekend either, by the by." Hidan remarked, peering down.

The blonde froze.

"Wait what?" He blinked, confused. "I'm not planning to stay here either!" Hastily, he pointed at the hidden painting.

"I can't leave this here unguarded! Someone has to keep an eye on it so that Sasori doesn't see it."

Hidan chuckled.

"It's your business." The sly voice echoed, grinning sweetly. "B'sides," Hidan gestured to Kakuzu, "I'm going to sleepover at his place to finish our work this weekend."

Deidara paced back and forth, hands clenching his golden locks as he fought to figure out a way.

"I'm not staying over again, god knows Sasori might come in and stab me in my sleep!" He shuddered, brushing away that thought.

"You'll have to take the terrible duty of protecting your ego- I mean art work." Hidan purred, his lavender pools lit up with a glint of anticipation. "It's really the only way to hand up your handiwork."

Rubbing his face in exhaustion, the blonde couldn't help but wonder if he had made a mistake improving the art work that was Sasori's. Then again, he glanced furtively at the towel draped unceremoniously on his easel, then again, it only became much better after he had opportunely slapped along some colour to it.

"I don't wish to pry into your business." Kakuzu's deep voice broke his thoughts, "But is all this silly fighting truly necessary?"

Deidara frowned before turning his steely gaze to him, nodding quite curtly.

"Then I wish you the best in your future endeavours."

He might've heard a hint of pity in Kakuzu's voice, but Hidan's loud hyena cackle drowned it out before he could even confirm it.

"I'm not the one at fault here." Deidara muttered, looking at his stained hands, still inked with faded splashes of colour. "I'm right. I know I am. I'm right and he won't listen. I could explain all damn day and he still won't get it."

He shoved his hands in his pockets, imaging Sasori's half lidded eyes staring back at him.

"I try to work with him but in his warped logic, my incapability means he's right. Every stride I take, every breath I make, he's mocking me."

Deidara let out a groan of exasperation.

There was a pause.

"What if he's just not good with words?" Hidan asked quietly, sounding oddly mature, "He's never been vocal about anything except his own art tantrums."

Kakuzu snorted in agreement.

"I just want this project to be done and over with." The blonde growled, kicking a stray piece of paper on the floor.

"Believe me," The older man chipped in from the bottom bunk, "I bet the feeling's mutual."

There was a short pause.

"You do deserve some form of congratulatory compliment." Kakuzu added hastily, "I've never seen someone actually manage to stay in the same room with him for more than an hour."

Deidara rolled his eyes.

"He's lucky he looks like a serial killer, no one dares to approach him with that surly attitude of his. It's akin to his paintings!" He pointed viciously at the hidden portrait piece, "Grey, grey, grey! Have you seen anything else as boring as that?"

At that, Hidan let out a roar of laughter, slapping his thighs, his giggles shaking the double bunk bed.

Kakuzu snorted once more.

"Truth to be told, not really."

His green eyes danced with a strange sort of fire within them.

"This is the first time I've seen him paint something like this."

Evening dusted the sky, the magenta rays of the last sun shrouding the quiet room with a strange sort of calm, the snow drifting down onto the ground was mesmerising, like an old nostalgic video tape looping over and over again. Sepia soon coloured Deidara's shared dorm before the inky glow of the night seeped through the curtains.

It was noiseless.

It wasn't Hidan's lack of presence that struck the blonde's sudden fear.

It was Sasori.

He did not appear screaming like a maniac, slamming down and digging through Deidara's room for his lost project. Neither did he pop by to give a cynical quote that probably to insult him. It was oddly quiet. Technically, the red-head didn't talk much but it was definitely peculiar that he hadn't dropped by to give a snip or a snap.

He did consider to attempt to give a little jest.

He however, value his life, so he pushed that thought back into his mind.

The silence was deafening.

"It's fine." Deidara tried to placate himself, huddling into his comforters, "It's all fine." He snuggled himself into the corner of his bed before hearing a crinkle that struck his heart cold.

Heart in his mouth, he turned around hesitantly, eyes desperately searching the bed for the noise before finally stopping onto the 20 dollar note that he had originally gave Kakuzu.

There was no way that man would've accidentally left money on the bed.

That could only mean one thing.

It was almost midnight when he found himself standing once again in front of Sasori's dorm. The letters 303 seemed to mock him now, jeering at the fact that he actually felt guilty enough to come running back, tail between his legs. By now, Deidara had familiarized all the cracks and dents on the dark oak door, and was just assembling up some sort of courage to lift his arm to knock on the door.

The dormitory hallways now devoid of students, stayed grey and silent, watchful.

"Sasori." The blonde managed to muster up, urgently whispering to no one in particular. "Are you there?"

Perhaps he made a mistake and Sasori actually went home for the weekends. That seemed highly impossible considering that the red-head never headed home for the weekends – something about living alone or some sort. Deidara never truly paid attention.

"Sasori." He undertoned once more.

There was no reply.

Right.

Fine.

Deidara turned away from the door, twiddling his thumbs worriedly. Did Kakuzu tell Sasori about the painting? If so, the red-head should be furiously hacking at the blonde's room right this moment, however, it seemed as if the school was dead silent and no one else remained in school except for him.

He decided to check the dormitory's front yard for any signs for life.

With the warm bronze sunlight swallowed by the horizon, the scintillating moon hovered in the cold night, lustrous dancing stars glinting the sky. Deidara huddled in his jumper, rubbing his gloved hands in the wintry air as he trekked down the path to the front yard of the dorm. From the end of the dorm's gate, there was the flicker of the school's overhead lamp lights, breathing in a glow of orange in the dusty ink black.

A shuffle of movement caught his attention.

In the soft silvery moon beam, the familiar sight of red was strangely reliving, it coiled its flowing tendrils upon the dark maroon pullover that Sasori was donning, dipping him in a radiant, almost hypnotic glow. The red-head glanced up, his pale face showered in the moon light, casting shadows that bathed in its intrinsic charm. But then, in a trice, the frown appeared on the male's face, mercilessly tearing the illusion of beauty, leaving Deidara feeling suddenly austere, miserable and dark.

His mouth went dry, suddenly unable to speak.

There was a crunch of footsteps on the snowy ground as Sasori moved towards the blonde.

Dediara didn't say anything – he didn't know what to say, conscious of the glare that was being sent his way, he dipped his head down quickly, staring at his boots.

Another pair of boots stopped right next to his.

With the excruciating silence hovering between them like a heavy fog, Deidara found himself squeaking a soft greeting that sounded awfully like a grunt.

Sasori did not reply.

Deidara glanced up, suddenly aware that the latter was standing rather close to him.

"The painting is gone." Sasori announced coldly.

The blonde tried not to look guilty.

"Oh." He managed to mutter, scratching the back of his head innocently.

"I know you took it." The red-head continued.

Deidara bit his tongue.

Great.

"Oh." He slapped himself mentally.

"I'm glad." Sasori added after a pause.

That took Deidara by surprise as he glanced curiously at the red-head, who was observing the snowflakes falling onto the ground.

"You're glad." He echoed, blinking. "You're glad?"

Sasori sounded strangely hollow.

"Grey like the colour of the window curtains that I have spent hours behind, watching." He whispered into the night, "Like the serenity that flows from the crevice of the same lips that cause the ground to crumble and break. The colour of the duvets that stop me from shaking, the grey of mind, trying to forget my miserable life."

The blonde raised a brow.

"Grey like your eyes."

Deidara froze.

"I'm glad it's gone. It was a stupid painting anyway."

With that he left.

He should be mad.

Sasori was insulting him just a day before.

He should be furious.

Yet, Deidara felt peculiarly disappointed. There wasn't a word to describe how he was feeling, but if anything it felt like the music of a great orchestra. At times it was quiet, and it allowed him to remain passive towards what had happened. And suddenly, the violins would play and he would feel oddly sad, then it would rise to a crescendo and a fiery rage would burst from his chest in a vicious confused anguish.

He stood, stock still, unmoving.

No prizes guessing who prompted that poetic response.

Grey like your eyes.

The blonde sighed, snuffing the snowy ground with his boots.

"Grey like your eyes." He murmured.

Hidan was definitely wrong about Sasori not being with words.

And Deidara was definitely digging his own grave when he found himself knocking violently at dorm 303's door, the towel-covered art piece standing unwisely at his side. He wasn't trying to tease the red-head by bringing the stolen (albeit it was their painting anyway he couldn't really steal it) painting back – he just wanted to make it clear that he didn't destroy it. Well – at least not physically maul it.

There was a loud sigh behind the door.

"Please leave me alone."

Deidara slammed his fists against the wooden frame.

"It's not gone or destroyed," He tried to explain, "It's here. It's here."

He motioned wildly at the hidden painting, knowing well that Sasori probably couldn't see what he was doing.

Once more, the sigh escaped from behind the door.

"You have no idea what I meant by saying 'I'm glad that it's gone', haven't you?"

"The painting." Deidara declared loudly.

"Please leave me alone, Deidara." Sasori sounded tired.

The blonde frowned.

"Fine." He gave the door a final slam with his fist. "But I'm leaving the painting here."

Twirling around, the blonde left, storming across the corridors and heading down the stairs back to the shared dormitory bathroom, hoping that a hot shower of some sort would fix his messy head.

He stepped into the shower, toes flinching as they touched the chilled ceramic floor. His mind was in shreds, torn between viciously jubilant at Sasori's sudden melancholy and guilty for seemingly being the one who caused it. He turned the dial, old and metallic, lukewarm water drops dampening his hair, trickling down his back as he closed his eyes, feeling the warm splash of water wash away his confusion. The water poured down, drip, dripping down his fingertips as his minds fades into dullness, stilling the time to a stop. The sensation of steamy water calming his nerves, his mind swirling, standing under an everlasting waterfall.

Irritation gnawed on his skin.

Having Sasori acting like a forlorn puppy didn't help his annoyance.

Deidara towelled his hair dry with Hidan's towel.

What would the red-head gain from acting like a miserable sack of potatoes? He could've barged in, shrieked at Deidara for 'stealing' the painting or perhaps even rebuke the fact that the blonde was truly someone he hated with a malice but he didn't – in fact he stated that it made him glad?

And what about that cryptic prose – what about grey colours and his eyes – Deidara rubbed his temples, trying to figure Sasori out was harder than trying to finish a damn Sudoku puzzle. He dragged himself back into his empty cold dorm room and dumped himself onto the warm comfort of his duvets.

Grey duvets.

He huddled beneath it, a sudden memory of the first time Sasori had huddled in beside him and shared friendly conversations about their life on the first day of the project work, merely just a week ago. What did Sasori say about his grey duvets? Something about shielding him from shaking or some sort.

Grey like the colour of the curtains.

Deidara's eyes fell onto his own curtains.

Grey like your eyes.

The blonde's heart skipped a beat.

Hold on.

Kakuzu did mention how it was the first time Sasori had decided to go all greyscale on a painting and it was definitely odd how he kept it a single colour, even with hues of concrete. After all, art was a way to express something – an idea, an emotion. Could it be that the red-head had become fond of Deidara?

The blonde shook his head.

No way.

Impossible. If anything Sasori probably had already plotted 50 different ways to murder the blonde.

Then what did he mean by being glad that the painting was gone? Was that he eager to throw his handiwork? He didn't sound any happier, Deidara noted quietly, tugging his duvet closer to himself, if fact, he sounded awfully miserable.

The blonde tried to piece the puzzle that was his partner with the permanent scowl, curling his toes deeper into his bed covers and eventually falling asleep.

SATURDAY

Nightmares plagued his sleep. Vivid images of Sasori repeatedly stabbing him with a paint brush woke the blonde up with a start. Steely blue eyes shot open like wide saucers, hands and feet tangled in a mess of cotton and slate grey. Deidara glanced about, half of him hoping that the red-head had actually sneaked into his dorm in the middle of the night.

He shook his head.

This is a guy who called you a fag.

Still, the blonde unravelled himself from his sheets, tiptoeing around his dorm, slowly picking up pieces of paper that had decided to plant themselves all over the floor. Probably his biology homework, he thought as he shifted around when a folded sheet of parchment caught his eye. Jammed halfway through his door, the parchment looked nothing like his and Hidan's homework sheets and he made a quick grab for it.

Speak of the devil.

He recognised that scribbled handwriting anywhere. Addressed to him was a short note that came from none other than Sasori. Hurriedly unfolding it, Deidara peered at the scrawls, trying to figure out what beautiful insult the red-head had crafted for him – instead what met him was a few lines.

'Anger is useful only to a certain point. After that, it becomes rage, and rage will make you careless. I apologise, I'm sorry you had to hear that. I did not mean it.'

Deidara blinked owlishly.

Nothing about the painting?

He stopped gawking at the piece of carefully worded paper.

It gave him an idea.

The blonde wasn't a fan of note-passing, but this will have to do. Scrunching up the piece of paper, he slotted it carefully under Sasori's dorm door and sat there, waiting patiently. It was about 10am in the morning and he was pretty sure the red-head was an early bird.

He glanced accusingly at the painting that sat outside of the Sasori's dorm, not moved an inch since yesterday night.

The almost noiseless crinkle of paper was heard as Deidara's note disappeared from under the door. There was a pause and a grunt of annoyance before the paper was once more shoved out, landing in front of the blonde's toes. Excitedly, he grabbed the note and opened it up.

Scrawled on top was his own handiwork of "You will only be forgiven if you promise to answer my question."

Below was a hastily written reply of "fine."

He grinned, penned down his question and shoved it back through the tiny gap of the dorm's wooden door.

Once more, the paper was slickly pulled from the inside.

The blonde waited.

And waited.

There was a sigh from behind the door.

"I'm not answering that."

Deidara was about to hurl a fairly timed insult when there was a click of the door being unlocked and being pushed open. Behind the opening crack of the door frame, stood Sasori, bed head and all. Clad in a thick fluffy looking jumper and pastel burgundy socks, the red-head peered out, his eyes weary. He blinked in surprise when he saw the blonde on the ground, huddled in a grey duvet.

"Hey." Deidara greeted softly.

Sasori's mouth twitched, as if he was about to spit out a sardonic remark but decided hastily against it.

"How long have you been -" He gestured at the clump of duvet on the ground, searching for a word to describe the chaotic mess that was Deidara, "Camping here?"

"Just a bit." The blonde muttered, struggling to get up. "So did you see it?"

As if on cue, Sasori's eyes flickered over to the canvas on the easel, standing stoically outside of his dorm.

"I told you; I'm not answering that."

His face, however, spoke volumes.

Sasori's face was definitely pale.

Not that his face was already as pale as milk, but the second the red-head's eyes landed on the painting Deidara called a masterpieces, the blonde could see the fiery hot cinders of disenchantment, disgust and rage form like a thundercloud.

Deidara took it as a yes.

Yes, Sasori had seen it.

Yes Sasori despises it.

"We need to talk," Deidara concluded, hurriedly moving to stand up, almost tripping over his duvet in haste. "We are adults, we should act like it."

It was the most ironic thing that left his lips, but this – whatever this was – war between the two of them had gone on too long. It was a never ending tug of war, directionless and making the blonde baffled beyond belief.

Sasori kept mum but pushed the door wider, signalling the blonde to enter his abode. What met the blonde's eye was appalling. Instead of the clean neat space that was originally Sasori's room was now covered in ink splatter and torn paper, shredded across the floorboards. Paintbrushes lolled on the ground, dried up colours of blue and red splattered on his chairs.

"What on earth happened here? A tornado?"

"A tornado of emotions." Came the quip.

Sasori sighed.

Deidara side stepped into the room, tiptoeing over the discarded papers and strewn paintbrushes, worriedly eyeing the red-head with mild concern. Scrutinizing the mess, the blonde noticed that Sasori had been trying to recreate his – their – Deidara corrected himself - art piece with a bunch of new bright colours, but had ended up ripping whatever he had twisted into life, finally left scattered onto the grayscale ground like party confetti.

Squinting his slate grey eyes, the blonde exchanged a perplexed peer over to the dorm's owner.

"You heard." He spoke, breaking the awkward silence.

The blonde tilted his head in curiosity; what did he mea- oh. Oh. Right. That fateful night he heard the disingenuous word that made his lungs shudder, the toxicity of the way Sasori had put it had made the blonde contemplate murder, even. Right, that he heard – yes. Deidara bit his tongue from spitting out an equally poisonous remark. There was no point in fighting, after all, Sasori looked as if he had been utterly defeated.

"Yeah." Deidara scratched his head sheepishly. "It's okay. I've been called that."

"Kakuzu told me." Sasori begun, running his hands down his messy locks. "Look, Deidara, I know we didn't get off on a good start-" ("Try me." The blonde snorted.)

"But I've been arrogant, yes." The red-head shoved his hands in his grey slacks, eyes downcast, "I did not show you any respect and yet I demanded you to give me all of yours. I don't know if an apology will suffice, but I am sorry."

Biting his bottom lip, Deidara shook his head.

"I'm sorry too – but this is kinda the third," He lifted his three fingers up, "or fourth time we've apologised to each other?"

He gestured to the mess.

"And it always ends up like this."

Sasori pursed his lips in silent agreement.

There was a long pregnant pause.

"What now then?" The red-head broke the ice, examining the demolition of his dorm with crestfallen look on his face.

Deidara regarded the cast-aside painting with an expectant expression on his face, wriggling his eyebrows keenly at the red-head.

Sasori retorted back with a threatening glare.

The blonde took it as a no.

"We have to come to some sort of agreement." The red-head assented, reaching down onto the ground and picking up a paintbrush from a stack of torn paper confetti.

"I concur." The blonde picked up a paintbrush as well, twirling it around his fingers. "I still say we paint the sky."

Sasori narrowed his amber eyes but nodded nonetheless.

"I think," Deidara licked his lips, waving the paintbrush now and narrowing his eyebrows in deep thought, "I think, the reason why we didn't come to a consensus is because we didn't take any time to understand each other."

Sasori looked bemused.

"Properly, that is." The blonded added hastily. "Look, do you know what's my favourite colour?"

The red-head rolled his eyes.

"Any colour that's ablaze with phosphorescent it causes anyone in the vicinity a headache?" He suggested, watching Deidara's face contort into an irritated scowl.

"No." The blonde huffed.

"And knowing the colours you like will help us get along?" Sasori snorted with disbelief.

"It's not about knowing the colours," Deidara stabbed the paintbrush towards Sasori's direction, "It's about knowing the other person, how they think, how they act – how they," The blonde gallivanted about, waving the paintbrush once more, "Feel."

"Cheesy." The red-head wasn't impressed.

Deidara ignored the other, too deep in his own thoughts.

"I like the colour red." The blonde declared. "Deep, picturesque with streaks of flashes of carnelian and patches of cerise. Russet rich blare, burning like fire! It's wild, weaving into the alabaster of the gloomy dreary world. It's captivating and elysian in a unstable way, ephemeral murmurs of vermilion – it hypnotizes me."

"You should be a poet." Sasori commented dully.

Deidara grinned.

"Eunoia." The red-head commented, a small smile on his.

"Eunoia?" The blonde blinked.

Sasori shook his head, brushing Deidara off.

"Why? Why the idea of captivating through dazzling colours? Why the need for so much," Sasori jabbed a thumb and tilted it down at the blonde, "Attention?"

The blonde froze, dropping his paintbrush.

A quiet flash of memory resurfaced through the oceans of his mind, the blonde teenager holding on his first art piece, being brushed aside by his parents – others laughing and mocking his emblazoned canvas within his arms – leaving one by one. Ablaze of fiery persimmon red washed over him, fury, wretchedness slowly dissolving into splattered paint.

He blinked the thought away.

Speechless, he shrugged. Maybe. Maybe it was the constant discouragement, maybe it was the laughter – maybe it was the fact that no one ever believed he was an artist. His splashes of colours were nothing but a mess to them – they called him a mess. A clutter of cluelessness, a chaotic thunderstorm. Litter. Trash. Useless.

But that mess they called – it meant so much more to him.

It meant dreams emerging from a part of ourselves, a way to communicate with the deeper self of both artist and audience. Each piece invokes different emotions, sculpted by the artist in a mosaic of colours that invites the curiosity of the mind.

"I just like to paint what I feel." Deidara dusting himself, pocketing his hands, eyes downcast, a swell of lonesome aching in his chest. "It's not a mess. It's me. No one understands that."

Sasori raised a brow.

"And what makes you think I don't do that as well?"

Deidara blew a raspberry and snorted.

"Grey? Grey. And more grey." He pointed at the red-head. "Don't tell me that all you feel all day is grey?"

Sasori's face fell and the blonde felt a sudden surge of guilt. Did he say something wrong again?

"Perhaps." The red-head drawled, turning away. "Unlike you, I have no such experience with bright colours that are associated with anything – anything good that is."

There was a long quiet pause.

"Yellow lemon meringue was that of the bright lights of the car in the deep absolute night, obsidian sheets and blaring sirens, flashing red and blue." Sasori murmured quietly, "The rumble of thunder in the white four walled room, smelt of medicine and felt of misery."

Deidara kept mum.

Sasori glanced at the window, his eyes distant now.

"Persimmon, the colour of their casket, lowering into the cocoa brown soil." He folded his arms, refusing to look at the blonde now and Deidara could see his arms tremble at the recollection of coloured memories. "All these colours, they only remind me how empty I feel. How alone I am."

Deidara wanted to reach out to say something – anything but he remained sedated. There are times where your brain fries up and stops working, it's no excuse, he knows: he owns his own behaviour. He wanted to help, maybe try to be good and then a trigger is flicked. Emotions run cold, fearful anxious and he backs away, flees – Deidara didn't know what to do, but remain noiseless and impassive.

All this time, Sasori's thoughts were a strange ocean to him.

"I – I'm sorry." The blonde's eyes widened, shaking his head.

There was silence that clouded the dorm room before Sasori let out a soft snort.

"Looks like we're both a mess huh?"

A lightbulb went off in Deidara's head.

A mess.

"I have an idea."

The room was finally cleaned out.

Sasori's bed of stripped pine and rough canvas mattress now visible. Empty, the greyscale room looked cavernous, perhaps with its stone floor and corniced ceiling, it might even seem quite grand if not for the dust grey colour that bled through the dorm.

In the middle stood an empty canvas, backed up with the easel, with both Deidara and Sasori hovering over the biscuit white sheet.

"This might be a bad idea." Sasori muttered, tapping his face with a finger sceptically. "I'm not used to disorder."

He raised his paintbrush, now dipped in a splatter of carmine, a dubious look on his face.

"I'm also not used to bright colours."

"Just go with it." Deidara rebuked firmly, raising his own paintbrush, covered in dusty grey with fervour. "I'll be the puppet, and you be the puppet master."

The red-head shook his head.

"The most enduring battle is between head and heart," The blonde coaxed, "What would be efficient and logical is nearly always triumphed by what is messy and illogical."

Sasori flashed Deidara a glare.

"What do I do again?" He scanned the biscuit white canvas with anxious tight lipped frown on his face.

"Make a mess. Paint yourself." Deidara gesticulated wildly. "Think of fireworks, think of your messy hair. You keep your feelings all bottled up in here," He pointed at his chest, "And I well, I let too much flow – that breeds antagonism, lots of it."

He let out a snort.

"We've got to learn how to be each other's messes."

Sasori's face went a bold red.

"I do not." He lied through his teeth.

"Paint." Deidara commanded.

And so Sasori did.

It started as a splatter. Sasori's fingers were too precise, the stiffness of his brushstrokes reflected his unwillingness to make a single mistake. The boldness of the bright maroon was contrasting against the bone white canvas, and all the red-head was doing was dipping small outlines on the edges of the paper, afraid – petrified to make longer, bigger harmonized movements.

Deidara shook his head.

The muted strokes were light, barely flushing across the canvas, a dramatic contrast to the negative space of white – and the blonde could tell the red-head was still mentally calculating the measurements of the sky and clouds in his mind.

"Stop, stop, stop." The blonde grabbed the red-head's hands, dragging it away from the easel.

Sasori seemed defeated.

"I tried." He deadpanned, knitting his brows in frustration.

The blonde gritted his teeth – desperate times called for desperate measures.

Swooping under Sasori's arm and earning a nonplussed (and distressed) 'what?' from the red-head, Deidara's left arm wrapped around the other's shoulders and right arm coiled round Sasori's – the blonde's fingers clenched tightly on the red-head's wrist – it was a terribly awkward position to be in.

Especially since he could feel the red-head's burgundy eyes burning a mammoth hole at the back of his head.

"Paint." Deidara forced Sasori's hand onto the paper, watching the blood red ink dash across, wildly creating a lash that made the red-head try to wriggle away.

"Stop, stop!" Sasori yelped, shaking his head, trying his best to jerk away, "It's dreadful!"

The blonde couldn't help but snigger. Watching the normally cool-headed Sasori squirm in distress was rather oddly fascinating. Once more, Deidara firmly tugged on Sasori's wrist, smudging the spill of crimson and watching the colour fade into saffron – a patchy tawny tangerine like the evening sky. The alarmed expression etched on the red-head made the blonde giggle in triumph.

"The sky is capricious," Deidara steered the red-head's, reciting the words that Sasori had once told him, "unstable, volatile. It's unpredictable." Once more, their hands moved enchantingly in bold dramatic strokes, "Kinda like you."

There was a pause.

"Kinda like me."

"Inconstant but elegant." Sasori whispered under his breath.

Deidara nodded, mesmerised by the bright splatter of red.

His reverie was broken when Sasori's hair brushed against his cheek.

The blonde drew in a long breath.

He had his arms draped around the petite sized painter, close enough to smell the comforting scent of pine and musk. Heart pounding in his chest, the blonde's face flushed a rosy claret. He examined the heavy lidden eyes of the red-head, a nebulous gaze that raked the canvas as the paint brush glided through paper. The colour of burnt sienna and dashes of umber feathered like ripples in the ocean as Sasori anchored his attention from paper to the blonde.

The mild surprise on his face didn't turn into the glare of unnerving thoroughness that Deidara had expected. Long lashes swept up as he blinked owlishly, fixing the blonde with a thoughtful expression.

Deidara felt his throat run dry.

Hurriedly, he swung his restless gaze back onto the painting, loosening his grip on the other's wrist. An odd sensation stretched throughout his entire body – flames dancing around his chest, heart constricted as if there wasn't any oxygen left in his lungs.

Mesmerised by the bright splatter of red.

The blonde internally blanched.

He felt suffocated.

Throwing his hands up in the air and side stepping aside from the red-head, who watched furtively in bemusement, the blonde hurriedly jammed his hands into his front pockets, lowering his head away in hopes that the strange sensation in his chest would stop.

The red-head let out a soft scoff.

Why didn't he spit out a scornful quip? Deidara inspected his fingers, trying to feign his impassivity. Or shrink from the touch? His browns knitted in bafflement. Sasori didn't seem to be livid.

Above all, Sasori didn't seem at all bothered.

"Sorry," The blonde muttered under his breath, meekly glancing up to see the copper pools staring back.

The red-head gave a dismissive wave.

"So," Deidara cleared his throat, "You've um, got to just paint how you feel."

Like a storm cloud thundering through his entire body, tinsel coloured strobes of slate echoed in Deidara's mind. He couldn't comprehend the disorder of his head, the pounding in his chest so awfully loud, he was sure Sasori could hear it as well.

The red-head continued on, dabbing gently on the easel with different bold strokes of rose to cerise, ruby to rust. He was still too careful, Deidara noted, watching with apprehension, almost as if he was unsure. Red, the colour of blood, and of fire – the rage, malice, wrath, radiance and determination of the wielder of the paintbrush – seemed meek, hesitant when Sasori weaved through the artic white canvas, each smooth stroke was a shy pat on the paper.

It took roughly ten minutes before the red-head slammed the paintbrush back onto the edge of the easel, exhaling with exhaustion.

"This is aeviternal. I can't picture what you see." Sasori grumbled, folding his arms and stepping back to view his work.

A frown materialized on his face.

Deidara found himself sulking as well, it didn't bode well for either of them. The painting looked none like how either visualised, and in place stood an amateurish work that even Hidan would better excel at.

Sasori arched an eyebrow at the blonde.

"Any other bright ideas?" He scowled darkly, picking up a piece of cloth and wiping his hands. Amaranth smeared across the beige cloth and the blonde's eyes widened in realisation.

"Soup!" Deidara gasped.

"Soup." Sasori deadpanned.

Saturdays were meant for soups.

At least, that what Deidara thought.

Both the blonde and red-head found themselves strolling through the nearby street for a café that wasn't too crowded on a weekend. A wide variety of shops lined the street – from antiques and art stalls, the silvery melody of bells that tinkled as people sauntered in and out of different stores.

Deidara had considered making instant soup back at the dormitory but he felt that it was essential that Sasori escaped the greys of his room. The lunch crowds dissipated through the late afternoons, and the blonde managed to find a quaint tiny café, huddled despondent among the tall shophouses.

Washed out under the overcast sky, it hunched in itself, fighting against the mizzle of snowflakes.

Sasori remained silent and stoic through the walk, and Deidara wasn't about to ruin the mood with a wisecrack about how boring the red-head was. Instead, he hurried to the café's entrance and pushed the mahogany door with fervour.

A welcoming blast of coffee wafted through the air, and the blonde sighed in content. Furnished in wooden picnic tables and chairs, the café was relatively empty, the buzz of machines whirring in the background over the quiet conversations from the corner.

"Go on," Deidara nudged Sasori, who shot him a dirty glare. "Sit anywhere."

The door swung closed behind them as the red-head made his way to a corner seat next to the open glass windows, looking as dull as the dusty skies outside.

The blonde pouted.

Really now, no one but Sasori seemed to relish the idea of staying indoors instead of having tea at a quaint polished café.

Sighing, Deidara found his seat in front of the red-head, ignoring the sulk on his lunch companion and decided to stare at the display racks near the counter. From the chocolate drizzled cakes, to the sugar lace pastries, the blueberry muffins and steaming puffs, everything was a feast to the eyes.

Just as he was internally drooling at the sandwiches on display, a waitress teetered over in beige and forest green uniform with a small notepad in her hand.

Deidara blinked, noticing at the warm smile on her face.

The blonde managed a lopsided grin back.

She pulled up a pencil from her back pocket, going through the routine questions she probably asks every customer that visited the café.

"Soup of the day." He glanced at Sasori.

The red-head frowned.

"Two of it." Deidara ordered, flashing what he hoped was a suave smirk.

Sasori sighed deeply.

"A warm latte, please." He added, turning away to stare at the snowflakes drifting from the window.

The waitress nodded before sauntering over to the counter.

The blonde closed his eyes, inhaling the smell of vanilla and coffee beans. It was a comforting scent, something that Deidara had missed, a warm hug from the cold winter days. He opened his eyes once more, observing the plants positioned around the racks of the windows, their leaves casting elegant shadows in the muted lighting. Pine wood panels cover the bottom half of the wall, the tan colour on the top half of the walls a shade darker than the pine, tying the pine panels to the dark shades of the ceiling.

He tilted his head up, watching the ceiling fan spin leisurely, moving just enough to keep the aroma of coffee and baked goods circulating throughout the room. The whirring of the coffee grinder, the gurgling of the coffee brewing and bubbling of the steamer warming the milk created a relaxing symphony of sounds, and Deidara found his eyelids getting heavier, the serenity of the comfy café eloping him like a warm duvet.

He let out a soft jubilant hum.

"Ain't this just picturesque?" He murmured to no one in particular.

"Passable." Sasori answered disinterestedly. "At least it's not Starbucks."

Deidara whipped his head back down to glower at the red-head.

"Gee thanks, way to ruin the mood." He grunted, folding his arms.

Sasori rolled his eyes.

The waitress waltzed over with wooden bowls and placed the auburn coloured liquid gently on the table top. A dash of terra cotta surrounded by burnt umber greeted Deidara's eyes and he grimaced slightly. Why the colour red? He was hoping for the colour of autumnal vegetable gardens in the deepest greens

"It's red pepper cauliflower soup." The waitress assured, dusting her spruce uniform. "I'll be back with your latte."

She strode away, hips swaying.

The burnished soup stood in view. It smelt of tangy piquant, the hues of the soup softened just a bit with the addition of cream and cheese. Even though he was rather bothered by the shade of crimson, he ladled in the wooden spoon, dipping it as if he were plummeting paintbrush into paint.

He sipped on it and let out a contented hum of approval.

The rich aroma of the red pepper wafted around and Deidara couldn't help but whip up delightful sensations from inside his memory; it was comforting to say the least, even was Sasori glowering darkly opposite from him.

Picking up the fresh, warm bread that was beside the soup, it smelled rich – almost as if promising a scrumptious taste. He dipped the spongy white bread into the red pepper broth, ripping off a chunk and stuffing the piece into his mouth. The pleasant smoothness of the warm bread blended perfectly with the bitter-sweet taste of the soup.

Deep in his own thoughts, Deidara didn't even notice when the waitress brought over Sasori's latte until he smelled the aroma of coffee wafting heavily through, piercing through the foggy veil of his dream-like state with the smooth, rich scent of roasted beans. The invigorating odour drew Deidara's eyes onto the ivory black mug and he looked up expectantly at the red-head.

As if on cue, Sasori rolled his eyes once more and pushed his mug over to the blonde.

The smooth brown milk created a striking contrast against the mug. The lustrous texture of foam was topped with chocolate crumbles, the smell bringing up images of Deidara curled up with a warm fire place, cosied up on the couch. He took a small taste.

It was exotic, bitter-sweet and earthy.

He wrapped his fingers around the mug, enjoying the heat that spread through his heads. Taking another sip, he let the warm liquid sit on his tongue for longer. Once accustomed to the bitterness, the flavour steps forth shyly. It is the undertone that is so apparent in the aroma – one can't smell the bitterness of it.

Sasori was staring.

Deidara blinked, swiftly pushing back the mug to its rightful owner and adjusting on his jacket lapels in embarrassment.

"It's good." The blonde spluttered out, spooning his soup once more.

The arched eyebrow was a reply.

They remained in mutual silence as they ladled their soups, sipping it carefully.

It was calming, the blonde realised. Dull, but comforting. Like the colour grey.

The steam that had risen from the coffee when the waitress first placed it on the table was quite gone. The top bore tell-tale signs of a skin forming, yet Sasori sat there with his hands clasped around it, as if he liked the idea of drinking it but lacked the will power to lift it to his lips.

"The word 'eunoia' means beautiful thinking." Sasori muttered, eyes still latched onto the snow fall from the window pane.

Deidara glanced up from his soup.

"What?"

He dropped his spoon back onto his almost empty bowl.

"Classy." The red-head snorted.

"When you described your paintings." He clutched the mug tightly "It's eunoia to me."

The blonde held back a mighty grin.

"I wish," Sasori fixated a stare at the soup in front of him, still half full, "That I could imagine the colours of red like how you do so."

Deidara forced himself not to clap out loud and guffaw at the sight of Sasori. The arrogant prick was finally asking for help! He forced himself to smile gently – he probably looked like a fool, grinning from ear to ear – because Sasori had decided to glare hotly through the pools hidden under heavy lidden eyelids.

Brushing the dispassionate glower that was sent his way, the flaxen haired boy crossed his fingers together, leaning forward and nudging his chin towards the half-emptied soup bowl that sat in front of the red-head.

"The soup is comforting no?" Deidara explained, "So my soul resonates with the colour red as something reassuring. I feel at home."

"I feel nothing but misery." Sasori bit back, eyes like daggers, narrowed into slits.

The blonde frowned.

"C'mn now, Sasori. If you told me that the colour of onyx fuels the misery in your heart, I would understand." He grumbled, shaking his head.

"And what do you feel about the colour black?" The red-head enquired softly.

Deidara thought for a moment.

"It seems aphotic. Dark, cold, lonely." He rested his chin on his entwined fingers, "Like an ebon hue that's nothing but a void of velvet dusk. It is the absence of colour but with the mist of visible silvers, or azuline outlines, it stands ablaze against the silhouettes created by obsidian. Like a backdrop for trees, stills as an oil painting and darker than the ravens."

Sasori blinked.

"Without black, no colour has any depth. But," Deidara grinned, "If you mix black with everything, there's a shadow – no, not just a shadow, but fullness."

The red-head pursed his lips.

"It surprises me how euphonious you make things sound," Sasori snorted, bemused. "Even as crude as you are."

The blonde arched a brow, unsure whether he felt insulted.

There was a beat.

"My memories taint how I view vivid colours." The red-head murmured, his grip on his mug loosening. "I watched my parents die in front of me. Red. It was everywhere."

Deidara's eyes widened.

"I see red as the blush of blooming pools of blood, and it reminds me that I lost them – that I wasn't able to do anything to save them." Sasori's fingers were trembling now. "I feel empty."

The blonde felt his heart drop.

"If I choose to paint with my heart, it would be incomprehensible." The Sasori sighed. "Perhaps I'm a coward for electing not to feel any sort of misery again. Perhaps I'm afraid to feel mirthful. I don't want to get excited about cubes and geometry, contrasting shapes and colours. It takes too much out of me, I can't be bothered. Art should be pretty, end of story."

The red-head sipped his drink.

"The pain seeps out through the colours of red, and it hurts to see them, to feel them."

Deidara inhaled deeply, feeling the dull ache in his chest.

"You know you are in endless pain when you wake up one morning and realize that you're the only one left, the rest dead, buried and forgotten – left to nothing but memories." Sasori rubbed his face tiredly, before glancing up, almost shyly, back at the blonde.

"Don't give me that look." His face contorted into something of antipathy.

"I'm not!" Deidara snapped abruptly, his mind now clanging on a single thought.

"Why not make new memories?"

He pointed at the soup.

"Look, we're having a pleasant time here, drinking red pepper soup in a quaint cozy café on a Saturday afternoon. The smells, the sights, the sounds – take it in – and create a promising memory of it!"

Sasori scrunched his face.

"With, -" He paused. "You?"

"You did mention how my grey eyes made you feel some sort of comfort, didn't you?" The blonde tilted his head curiously, still wondering why the red-head even said that in the first place.

Sasori lowered his head immediately, staring at his lap.

There was a pregnant pause.

"I suppose." He muffled, almost inaudible.

Deidara nodded.

"Look man," He bit his lip, unsure if he should placate his companion. "I'm really sorry about your parents." The blonde moved back, leaning against his seat and watching the other bristle slightly at his remark.

However, Sasori's gaze remained passive as he continued to observe his own lap.

"The absence of someone who was once there, like the colour of black. You got to be willing to mix black into your palette if you want to create something that's real." Deidara whispered, eyes drifting over to the window pane before he finally fixated a stare on Sasori.

He had strange eyes – a clear, pale brown, like amber from the tall forests across the sea.

Sasori held his gaze for moment.

"Thank you." He murmured back kindly and Deidara found his face heating up once more.

The blonde gave Sasori a lopsided grin.

"Hey, how 'bout we take a little walk after this? We can make new memories and attach them to the colours we see." The blonde tapped his finger on the table thoughtfully.

"I know it sounds really childish (Sasori snorted at that) but maybe, just maybe –" Deidara glanced at the snowy terrain outside.

"Maybe it'll work out."

[goonlalagoon]

Lessons in Falling || Leagues and Legends

Currently on a binge of writing fanfic for @ink-splotch‘s Leagues and Legends series, and decided to dust off something I wrote back in November but didn’t get around to posting...so here’s the Red/Leaf Modern Martial Arts!AU absolutely nobody asked for and I wrote anyway in a combination of NaNoWriMo “whatever it never needs to see the light of day” and grading stress...no real spoilers for Beanstalk or Echoes, and definitely none for RtD. A few lines are directly quoted from Beanstalk.

(Read on Ao3)

“Falling’s the bravest thing I’ve ever heard of.” - Liam Jones

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

White (grey)

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

“The first thing to learn in any combat,” Red says calmly at the first session, “is how to take a fall.” He smiles at them, a little sharp. “So, are you ready to learn to fall?” Leaf nods in puzzled agreement, and doesn’t think I already have. In the future he will - corny jokes and self-deprecating rolled eyes, remembering the way his heart had maybe skipped a little bit of a beat when the other boy had handed him a flier with a passing glance at his fading black eye.

But for now, he nods in puzzled agreement and tries to focus on what the red-belt is saying. He hadn’t managed to catch the boy’s name when the instructor rattled off a list of names and assigned someone to taking care of Leaf and Jack for their first session, so just mentally labelled the boy as Red, because of his belt colour.

Jack had insisted on coming along to at least the first session, an unspoken agreement that this could just be some elaborate trap, and Leaf is glad for the company. They’d been in and out of fights throughout the previous term, dealing with bullies and the kind of people who thought ‘I was drunk’ meant they could throw a punch at anyone who annoyed them, rather than ‘hey, maybe I should stop after three pints and not break someone’s nose for breathing too loud’. They’d also gotten into a few over hissed slurs and supposedly funny stereotypes, sharing resigned glances at Halloween and putting up with far too many ‘Juan’ jokes. It wasn’t entirely unthinkable that someone was trying to lure Leaf into a situation where he’d be without Jack to lend a hand, even if it seemed like an over the top ploy. The fact that they’d only managed to find any information about this particular martial art after hours of Googling hadn’t boded well, but they but they both had reasonable confidence in Jack’s ability to bodily throw someone across a room by this point.

Red falls forwards as though pushed by a ghost, tucking into a roll that makes him a blur of brown skin and red and white cloth, winding up on his feet with barely a whisper. Leaf feels his eyebrows shoot up, impressed. Red looks at them calmly. “See? A good fall saves you from getting injured and puts you back on your feet.”

Jack smiles, small and sharp, and falls - much more dramatically, but with the same careless ease he brings to everything except the one riding lesson he’d tried at Leaf’s insistence. Leaf swallows hard, and trades glances with the scrawny kid with a belt that had at one point been white who had trailed across the room after Red. The kid pulls a face. “I hate it when they’re a natural.” Leaf privately agrees. “I’m Grey. Better get this over with.” The boy drops into a much more ungainly roll, stumbling as he stands up and shrugging absently as though he really doesn’t care. He tugs his belt back around into place with a huff, and Leaf wonders what happened to the belt to get it quite that far from white.

Leaf crouches, feeling like a fool, and tries to roll with the same fluidity as Jack and Red. His head thumps against the ground, then his spine hits every vertebrae on the way past until he reaches the point when he thinks he should be magically on his feet, and instead lies staring up at the fluorescent light. Jack’s face appears in his field of vision, and he grins tiredly, already feeling that this is going to be a regular theme. “Guess I need to practice falling, huh?” Red nudges Jack out of the way with a hint of a scowl. “You and Grey run through a few more rolls. I’ll take Leaf through step by step - you were supposed to wait for me to take you through it.” Jack looks a little sheepish, while Leaf tries not to feel too foolish at having gotten carried away rather than waiting to be taught. As the other two obediently wander off, Jack chattering away happily, Red inspects Leaf for any sign of injury. “You okay? There’s a trick to it, like everything. C’mon, I’ll show you.” He pulls Leaf to his feet, and if his hand feels a little warmer in Leaf’s than he would have expected - well, they have been exercising, it’s only to be expected.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Green

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Leaf knows he’s got it wrong as soon as his balance tips past the point of no return. He is falling, just as he’s supposed to, but he realises too late that he’s trying to put the wrong shoulder forwards. He grits his teeth, and feels the impact roll flat along his back rather than shoulder to hip, noisy and ungainly. At least his head doesn’t thump against the ground, but that isn’t much consolation. He stumbles to his feet, hoping his blush isn’t noticeable but knowing it will be, and tries to act like he isn’t fazed. He can’t bring himself to glance over to where Red is watching the grading, and the only person he can see is Laney, one of the purple belts who’s partnering someone from a different dojo for their grading, and Laney has an absolutely unreadable poker face.

He tries telling himself it didn’t matter, but it does. Falling is the most important thing to get right. If you can fall without hurting yourself, you can get back to your feet and try again. He knows a grading isn’t the end of the world, that this is just a hobby, but it feels important. He wants to be good at this, and he wants all of Red’s efforts to teach him to mean something. Jack bumps his shoulder gently as they move to put the mats away, knowing him well enough to guess what he’s thinking. “You did fine.” Leaf shoots him a doubtful look, resigned to being told he’s failed. “Seriously, Leaf, for a white belt the roll was fine, and everything else was good.” Leaf grimaces. “You’re a white belt too, and your roll was way out of my league.” Jack grins and shrugs, slinging an arm around his shoulders. “I fell over a lot when I was younger, I’ve had a lot of practice.”

The examiner agrees with Jack, it seems, because the next session Leaf is told he’d passed. Red hands him a slightly faded green belt with a grin. “Here. New ones are ridiculously pricey, and they get dye all over your dogi unless you’re careful. May as well recycle mine, yeah?” Leaf beams, running his fingers over it gently, and ties it in a precise knot. Jack has produced a belt from his bag, declaring a friend had given it to him when they heard he was grading, ‘...thanks anyway Rupe’. It’s even more faded than Red’s, but Jack doesn’t seem to care that it’s tatty at one end.

The post-training trip to the local fish and chip shop feels like more of a celebration than the friendly post-grading drink had. Tucked into a booth between Jack and Red, Leaf thinks perhaps he just feels like there was something to celebrate, rather than just the fact that he’d made it through the grading in one piece, bar a few bruises. He also admits to himself, quietly, that perhaps it’s also because Red doesn’t have to run off home to finish an essay this time, then shies away from the thought.

While Leaf goes to fetch more chips from the counter, someone in the group decides to start up the karaoke machine in the corner. Jack and Red are deep in what is probably a fascinating conversation about the history of martial arts in different countries, but someone shoves the microphone in Leaf’s hands and puts his favourite song on, so he shoves the basket of chips on the table and joins in. Somewhere in the middle of the fourth song, he glances round to find that Jack and Red’s conversation has come to a lull. Jack is investigating the different sauces available, while Red watches in fascinated horror at what he’s prepared to try eating chips with. Leaf laughs and waves a spare microphone at Red. He knows the other boy will refuse, as he has every time anyone has asked him to join the singing, so turns back to the screen to pick up his cue.

He almost drops the microphone when an unfamiliar singing voice joins in, glancing to his side to find Red, looking slightly self-conscious. Leaf grins, and Red shrugs. He has a decent singing voice, low and warm, and Leaf wonders why he always refuses to join in. Three songs later, they’re both starting to sound raspy, so Leaf grabs Red’s wrist and drags him over to the counter to get a drink.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Blue

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ After a few months, Leaf has started to simply assume he will be working with Red. When they pair up for stretching, the other boy is always to his right in the lineup and already turning to him; when senior grades are assigned to coach the lower belts, Red is somehow in charge of whichever group Leaf is in more often than not. Jack is rarely working with him, nowadays. It was clear from the start that Jack knew what he was doing with the basics and the fundamentals, though no one is quite certain how or why. Jack tends to work with Rupert and Laney, learning techniques a belt or two above the green belts’ syllabus and giving blithe answers that don’t really explain anything but sound like they do when asked where he learnt it all.

Some days, Leaf is jealous, just a little. This does not come easily to him, no matter how much he wishes it would. His body doesn’t seem to understand what he’s asking of it, and he knows even his best techniques are formulaic, blocky, and horribly unreliable. On other days, Leaf doesn’t mind in the slightest, because it tends to be just him and Red, and all of Red’s careful attention is on him. Leaf long ago gave up on telling himself the excessive warmth of Red’s hands and the flush in his own cheeks was simply the result of exercise. He feels his heart skip a beat when he gets one of Red’s rare smiles, and hopes it isn’t obvious that he feels like a lovesick puppy.

It was not an easy realisation. Red is calm, collected, and a finalist; Leaf thinks he’s not about to be interested in getting into a relationship with an excitable first year, if he’s interested in a relationship with another boy at all. Leaf feels a little adrift, a little scared, and a little guilty. It’s a physical sport, and he catches himself craving brief contact and stolen moments of attention, and worries about whether acknowledging he likes the way Red’s hand feels when it’s wrapped around his for balance when they do warm up kicks is somehow unfair to the other boy. He hates that he feels jealous when the red belts train together, or when Red looks after Grey and the few new beginners, white belts already less than pristine and turning grubby grey, and someone else gets the approving nod Leaf judges his progress by.

But in the end, he can’t help his own feelings. He just looks forward to training and wishes it was more than three times a week, and reminds himself that Red doesn’t owe him anything, not even his attention.

Still, he is glad when Red and Rupert casually invite him to join their study table in the library over the break, provided he’s quiet and contained. They’ll delight in his exuberance elsewhere, Red explains, but not when they’ve got an essay to finish in under two hours, thank you very much. Rupert is, as always, more polite about it, simply stressing that they take regular coffee breaks to stretch their legs and talk without disrupting the quiet of the library. Leaf jokingly avoids speaking at all the first time he joins them, but it backfires when they proceed to communicate only by note for the next three study sessions. Rupert smiles politely as though there’s nothing at all amiss about writing a note to ask Leaf to pass him a sheet of paper, but Red’s eyes gleam with humour and Leaf is certain that at least one bathroom break is so he can go crack up at the joke.

Eventually Rupert sighs heavily, and whispers “My pen is out of ink. Could you pass me an ink cartridge, please? I keep a stock of them in that cubby hole” and even though it isn’t that funny both Leaf and Red collapse into laughter, and the librarian throws them out. Rupert follows soon after, still sighing, with their bags and books. Leaf knows him well enough by now to know the quirk of his eyebrows means he’s laughing too. He’s just better at keeping a calm face. Red drags them both off to a coffee shop he knows that tends to be quiet and has enough plug sockets.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Purple

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

As the ground rushes towards him, Leaf knows he’s falling wrong again. He is weightless, flying, and the ground is coming towards him too fast, and he knows, he knows before he hits the floor, that this is going to be bad. The impact is almost a relief, the moments before stretching into infinity, mere seconds lengthened by dread. He tries to roll, arms bending to take the impact, angling to roll from shoulder to hip as Red has tried and tried and tried to teach him, but he doesn’t manage it. He thinks that he feels each vertebrae hit the hard-packed ground, a new point of pain marking his progress from falling to fallen across his back, and then he stares at the sky, winded.

He can’t breathe. It’s panic-inducing, all the air in his lungs gone and gasping, gasping like a fish out of water, but not being able to fill them again, and his back hurts, but his arm is worse, so much worse, and he can’t breathe. There’s no one to pick him up, either - no Jack to haul him up, no Rupert with friendly concern, no Laney with a hint of impatience and a barely perceptible appraisal, no Red to offer a hand and a quiet correction. There are no concerned faces to peer down, just empty blue sky.

It’s Laney who finds him, somehow. Idly, Leaf wonders how. Later he realises that this part of the path is her favourite walk back from lectures, but when she kneels next to him with a worried frown, phone already halfway to her ear, he’s too deep in shock to think. He thinks she actually looks shaken, but he puts it down to shock when he remembers - no one has ever seen Laney Jones shaken by anything, and he can’t imagine that someone who’s taken a bad fall would throw her.

An hour later, they’re told his wrist is broken from the fall, and he’s got a few new bruises that didn’t come from the dojo. Someone kicked him the ribs at some point, and he vaguely remembers it getting even harder to breathe while he was on the ground, staring at the sky. The impact itself he can’t quite recall. His head is aching, but the doctor orders him not to sleep. Laney pinches him sharply every time his eyes start to drop shut until a nurse declares he’s okay to doze off.

When he wakes up, for a confused moment he thinks he’s in the dojo after all. It seems as though everyone is there. Jack is folded into a chair, brick red hair on end where he’s run frantic fingers through it. Grey is reading a book, but glances over the top at Leaf and gives him a little nod of quiet acknowledgement, then looks back at the page without saying anything to give him time to come around before answering questions. Laney and Rupert are reading the doctor’s notes, while Heather and Gloria exchange furious whispers about what on earth happened.

Red isn’t there, and Leaf feels…betrayed, even though he has no reason to. He is not owed this boy’s attention, or his care.

Jack notices he is awake, and is gabbling out apologies before Leaf can even smile at his friend. Leaf isn’t quite certain what for, until he finally realises that Jack thinks he should have been there. Leaf coughs when he tries to laugh, but eventually manages a weak smile. “Hey, shut up, Farris. Like even you can do anything about my terrible rolls.” Something flickers at the back of Jack’s eyes that Leaf hasn’t seen before, a seriousness he doesn’t associate with his permanently smiling friend. Jack shrugs. “I’d’ve kept you from falling.” It sounds something like a promise, and something entirely else like a plea, so Leaf just grins and says he knows he would. As she’s leaving, Laney thumps Leaf’s leg, something a little sad in her expression. “My brother always said falling was the bravest thing you could do. Don’t let this scare you out of trying again, alright? Only cowards never fall.” There’s a twist to her tone on the last few words that makes Leaf think she’s quoting something, or someone.

She’s gone before he can say the thought hadn’t occurred to him, or to say he’d never realised she has a brother. He doesn’t quite let himself think he’s already fallen as hard as he ever could, with both feet firmly on the ground, but only because he’s still trying a little not to let himself realise quite how far he’s fallen for Red.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Red

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

“They didn’t call me.” It’s the first thing Red says when Leaf opens the door, before he’s really registered who was knocking. Red is flustered, dark cheeks darker still with exertion, and he’s actually leaning against the door frame for support. “I had an exam and they didn’t call me.” He’s actually gasping for breath, and Leaf can’t remember seeing him this - this dishevelled, even after a two hour training session. It dawns on him that Red lives on the other side of the city, and apparently ran all the way over to the university dorms.

A knot of something bitter and sad loosens in his chest. Jack peers to see who he’s talking to, then grabs a book off his bedside table and nudges Leaf out of the way. “Excellent, I need to return this to pipsqueak this evening before it gets too late but didn’t want to leave the walking wounded alone. Make sure Leaf eats something, alright, Red?” He’s gone before either of them can protest. Watching his friend stride away, barefoot, Leaf can’t help but feel that just maybe he’s being set up. Red looks at him, anxious. “Haven’t you eaten anything?”

Leaf rolls his eyes, embarrassed. “We got back like twenty minutes ago.” Red nods and glances at his phone, and Leaf stares. “Wait, Jack only texted you when we got - you ran here in twenty minutes? Sit down before you collapse.” Red shuffles inside obediently, looking a little embarrassed. Leaf pointedly extracts a Tupperware of soup from the bag Rupert had passed to Jack, full of healthy food and a few of Leaf’s favourite snacks. Leaf still isn’t quite certain how Rupert knows everyone’s favourite and least favourite foods, but he’s gotten used to being passed his favourite kind of cereal bar on the coach home whenever they go to a training seminar, along with a stern reminder to drink plenty of water and rehydrate. Red watches like a hawk until Leaf has eaten half of the microwaved soup, before relaxing a little. Leaf curls up and nods at the foot of his bed, hoping he doesn’t look as awkward as he feels. “Y’know, that desk chair is super uncomfortable.” Red smiles a little in agreement, and moves to sit on the bed, a precise, careful two feet between them. Leaf concentrates on eating his soup without spilling it on his duvet. More for something to do than because he’s hungry, he reaches into the bag to see what else the blue-belt packed for him.

For a brief, surprised moment he thinks that Rupert may actually have forgotten that Leaf absolutely cannot stand flapjack with raisins in it, before he remembers that it’s Red’s favourite for some twisted reason Leaf will never stop mocking him for. He holds the box out with a grin, and Red flops dramatically back on the bed with his arm over his face, laughing. Leaf thinks it might be the most relaxed he’s ever seen his friend. “Those - the - ugh, why am I friends with these people?” Leaf laughs, a bubble of happiness that everyone seems to have just assumed that Red would…that Red would run across the city to check he was okay. And he had. Leaf tells himself firmly that he’d have done it for any of them, but it’s hard to believe it when Red is either blushing or somehow still flushed from his run.

“Right, I should go, and you should sleep. Don’t - don’t scare us like that again, alright? I thought I was going to have a heart attack when I got Jack’s text.” Leaf smiles wryly. He hadn’t exactly intended to wind up in hospital in the first place. Red grimaces a little, and shuffles his feet as though uncertain what to say next. “Anyway, I’ll drop by again sometime to see how you’re doing. And once you’re back at training, you’re going to learn how to fall.” He doesn’t seem to be thinking when he leans over and presses a kiss to Leaf’s forehead, because he freezes, eyes widening with panic. “Uh - I -” Leaf grins, heart skipping a beat. He feels weightless again, but this time the ground isn’t rushing towards him. This, he thinks, is what a fall feels like when you know you’re going to roll and it isn’t going to hurt, or maybe just when you suspect there’s no landing, no impact, or at least none worth worrying about now. “I already have.” He mutters, shy, and kisses Red before he loses his nerve.

[kinosternon]

(CW: abstract discussions of abuse, several heaping spoonfuls of new-adult angst. Also, length—this is like 2,000 words lol)

This particular story, such as it is, starts with me chatting with a very close friend of mine over Skype, and looking through my email at the same time. (Me and this friend are the type of close where we Skype once a week and they play video games or code while I browse the Internet and watch whatever they’re up to, so a certain amount of multitasking is par for the course.) I’m a big fan of StoryBundle and related stuff, so when I came across their Write Stuff 2017 bundle (https://storybundle.com/writing), I remember that I’d bought a similar bundle of theirs last year, and went to check it out.

It actually wasn’t the first time I’d looked it over. I’ve been trying to give up writing for the past several months, and been through a similar cycle several times: get fed up with the pressure of writing, decide to give up on writing altogether, feel a lot better, start thinking about writing again—without so much as opening a document or a notebook. Reading the descriptions for the bundle got me thinking about the whole pattern, and I said out loud to my friend, “Reading about writing feels like looking through an ex’s Facebook.”

Then I stopped and thought about what I’d said, because it did. That was exactly what it felt like. So I started to wonder why.

~

As a white, male, able-bodied 20-something in the United States who attended a liberal arts college and tries to be at least politically aware, if not politically active, I find the narrative of abuse survival to be one that’s ineffectual to apply to myself. Have I been in some shitty situations with people? 

…Yeah. I have. 

Have I caused some shitty situations? Without a shadow of a doubt, though I’m pretty hopeful about the idea that I’ve never been outright abusive. Certainly I’ve never been so intentionally, but intention can only get a person so far.  

I struggled for a long time with the idea that I may have experienced abusive situations in my childhood and beyond, and now I’m more or less at peace with the idea that abuse is a narrative that I don’t feel comfortable applying to my life experiences so far. I heard a lot about abuse growing up—which is good, it’s absolutely vital to spread that knowledge—but not a lot about what to do and how to go forward when a relationship is just shit, and that left me stuck for a while. It really wasn’t fun.

Still, eventually, I figured out an answer to the latter question I’m comfortable with. I don’t need to be able to prove, to myself or anyone else, that a relationship is abusive for me to want to leave it. I think more people out there need to remember that, especially because the myth of needing proof is often used by abusers themselves.

To believe and be properly sympathetic to people who had undergone abuse, I had to understand that their concerns were not my concerns—that I am not, in my head, part of the “survivors of abuse” identity group. Anything else was harmful to me, and both disrespectful and detrimental to the people I might encounter during my attempts to be a good ally.

Abuse, at the moment, isn’t a helpful way for me to frame my relationships. Negativity and toxicity, on the other hand, absolutely are. I started feeling a lot less anxious when I started applying more shades of subtlety to my emotions and experiences.

~

Time and circumstance can change relationship dynamics a lot. Lately, I’ve reconnected with a friend whom I’d labeled “toxic” pretty vibrantly in my head, and whom I’ve got a complicated history with. I turned the idea over in my head for months, dismissing it as a bad idea with more and more reluctance each time. In the end, fairly sure of the reasonableness of the idea, I followed through on the impulse to contact them online. Turns out the friend was not only still happy to hear from me, they were in a much better place than they’d been back when I cut off contact. And I’m in a better place now, too. They don’t test my boundaries anymore, and even if they did, I’d feel much more sure about enforcing them.

Having this friend back in my life has been enjoyable and enriching. Another source of support in life is always welcome.

I’ve made some new friends, too, and both reconnecting with sour friendships and making new ones that I’m okay with require a certain amount of emotional resilience. I’ve been trying to cultivate a strong sense of self-worth, agency, and self-reliability independent of those friendships, and it’s been helping.  

I’m not quite sure what to call the more welcoming side of those efforts, though. Tolerance, forgiveness, and patience all have different undertones. I think it’s somewhere between the three, and I’m still testing out the way those nuances shift depending on the specific circumstance. And they all start with an awareness of my own limits, and the feeling that I’m always allowed to stop and walk away.

~

Anyway, this was a story about writing. Setting boundaries for yourself is important, I thought, as I considered where the thought of “writing as shitty ex” had come from. If I kept shying away from writing all this time, then maybe it really was a toxic relationship.

The problem is, writing isn’t a person. I don’t ascribe very hard to any one particular class of thought or pedagogy when it comes to writing, either, so as far as I can tell that isn’t the difficulty. It’s still possible that outside influences are building up and forming an unpleasant imagined persona, like an unwelcoming audience. But for a little while now, I’ve been trying to curtail instances of random exposure to the displeasure of strangers, and by now that influence has noticeably lessened. So what was going on?

When I thought about it in those terms, it wasn’t too hard to reach a perplexing conclusion: I’m in a bad relationship with writing, and I’m the only person in that relationship.

I’m all the moving parts. Just me. Which led me to wonder, what am I doing to myself that I haven’t consciously realized?

~

I recently started tutoring a couple of kids in creative writing through Skype call. (Someone thought it was a good idea to put an advertisement on a freelancing website, instead of a tutoring-specific one, but that’s another story, and one that I know very little about.) The first couple of lessons were a little bit awkward, until one of the parents clued me in to the idea of working through prompts in class, instead of assigning things and providing feedback. Then a couple of online resources mentioned the idea of working along with the kids on exercises, so I tried that, too.

I would’ve figured it was a bad idea, putting them on the spot or accidentally showing off, but so far both strategies seem to be working. It’s been good to show that even a teacher can’t think of everything on a tight schedule, that what I come up with is imperfect or incomplete. And better still, I’ve gotten into the habit of waiting a little longer for answers, continuing to ask prompt past the first, dubious or hesitant response. I’ve been asking a lot of “Why?”, and making games out of brainstorming. It’s been fun, and I’d like to think I’m not the only one learning.

I think I’ve forgotten how important patience is in writing, as in many other things.

~

One summer, between semesters of college, I tried living with friends. It was a lot of fun, but there were parts that were very stressful—specifically, the coming-up-with-rent part. I managed to land a decent ghostwriting job, but it wasn’t enough to keep up with bills, not by a long shot. (I was extremely privileged to have parents that were willing to come up with some of the difference, without which I would have been very ill-advised even to try.) So I tried to balance an internship or two alongside it, which ultimately led to me keeping abreast of chores and stressing instead of working on everything else.

Near the end of the summer, desperately trying to make up a huge word deficit on a ghostwriting project, I set myself a goal: 24,000 words in 24 hours. A quota of 1,000 words an hour, with permission to do whatever I wanted each hour, after hitting that point.

I managed it, almost getting to the end of the piece. I don’t think I so much as opened the document for eight weeks afterward. I blew far past the intended deadline, and in the meantime, my client moved on to greener writing pastures. I was never paid for that project.

I didn’t realize until years later that ever since then, something related to the writing part of me has felt injured—that it feels like something got sprained inside.

~

People talk about their inner editors. Whatever that particular force in my head is, I’m not sure it counts as just an editor anymore.

My editorial sense is just fine when it comes to other people. I like providing developmental edits. I’m good at line-editing and formatting. I’ve interned at a literary agency, and, as mentioned above, worked as a ghostwriter before that. I occasionally beta-read fanfic and/or critique friends’ work for fun. I like fixing other people’s writing, and I like meeting them where they are in their efforts to improve their technique.

Moreover, I’m pretty confident of my technical writing ability. I know how to put together a sentence. I’m as susceptible to typos as the next person, but otherwise my error rate is pretty low. I’ve got a working sense of structure, pacing, and style. I actually know how to format dialogue correctly, how to use a long dash and a semicolon, and the difference between a too-long sentence and a run-on.

That doesn’t mean I don’t still have a long way to go—that’s the nature of writing. (See: I write long sentences even when I shouldn’t, and I’m far too fond of italics.) But I’m not all that self-conscious about any of that, really. It doesn’t bug me.

No, I’m just completely certain of my inability to have ideas. Or, having miraculously had an idea that I didn’t immediately tear to pieces, to actually sit down and start. Or, having started, to muddle through the middle, let alone finish. Or, having somehow finished, to have the self-discipline to do any revision whatsoever.

I “know” these things just won’t ever happen—that I “can,” but that I won’t. And I “know” that I shouldn’t give up on one of my most-developed skills. But when I finally gave myself permission to give up—to move on to something I haven’t built up to be so utterly wraught—I felt a lot better. And thus the cycle began.

Even getting to that point—feeling like I deserved a chance to walk away—was in itself a kind of growth. But I think I’m ready to try moving beyond it. I’m just not sure what direction “beyond” will be in.

~

I’m slowly circling around a choice. Like water spiraling around a drain, or one of those pennies in a black-hole model at the mall. (Anyone else remember those?) I could try to break free—I’m fairly certain that I can, to whatever degree I want, though there would be parts of it that would hurt. But I don’t think I want to.

I’m not going to let writer-me take over my life again anytime soon. I don’t want to give him any power, because or the past few years he’s done the opposite of earn it. But I might be willing to get back together with him, for a bit of a trial run. The equivalent of a re-friending on Facebook and maybe catching up over coffee.

I find myself curious as to how it might go.

[seenashwrite]

There But For The Grace

Status: Complete Word Count: 3.3K Category: One-shot; Introspection; Mystery; Choices; Life journeys; Redemption  Rating: Teen & Up Character(s): Dean, Michael, Reader/O.C. Female, and... just read the story. Pairing(s): Read. The. Story. Stop wanting the endings at the starts, impatient young'uns Warnings: None Faux-Warning: There's no banging, so now that I've lost 80% of you... Author’s Note(s):  I'm told you're not a true fanfic writer unless you've done a coffee shop meet-up fic - kindly let me know if I got it right; more post-story Overall Summary: An archangel takes a break from his reconnaissance.

* ETA: FYI - Do NOT look at the comments before you read this, there’s been some spoilery stuff given away there! * 😉

. The list grew by the minute, and he had to admit to himself that the mundane task of collecting all his reasons was turning delightful.

The other world hadn't progressed to this level of corruption; likely it would've, had it not been for the brimstone, but that was neither here nor there. The worlds were identical, he'd learned, at least in the ways that mattered. Time nor space made a difference. Humans were, to be sure, utterly predictable.

Case in point: his most favorite time period from recent past had unfolded in precisely the same manner in both places, so much so he came as near to astonishment as he'd ever been. The roaring twenties were rife with sin, the pompous prohibitionists and the lust-filled liquor vendors, the mobsters with their massacres, and the bankers with their bloated greed. His distaste aside, it was beautiful. It was art, the way they crafted their depravity. Granted, it was nothing compared to his favorite time of all, but this was understandable; little could live up to Sodom and Gomorrah.

See there, hunter? I'm a salt-and-burn aficionado.

He'd successfully lulled the man whose body he'd snatched - no, that's not right. He did not steal. Theft is sin. The hunter had agreed to act as a vessel, it was witnessed, and while there was deception involved, one in his position must think of the greater good. And it should be noted that he did exercise benevolence. Angelic vessels did not fare well, exponentially so for archangel vessels, and it was poor form to run through them quickly.  

He knew firsthand how his brothers handled their hosts. Raphael would woo the humans with promises of a glorious afterlife, then promptly expel their souls the moment he got a foothold. Gabriel would talk them into giving up the ghost voluntarily (as Gabriel could talk practically anyone into anything), in an effort to keep himself guilt-free. And as the fall crept closer, Lucifer took to keeping them wide awake, poking, prodding, picking, til slowly but surely the glow faded to embers, finally snuffing them out upon growing bored.

But not him. He was the best of them all, no sense in being humble. He was different, so he did things differently. He pushed the hunter to the farthest reaches of the mind they shared, threats to family quelling the belligerence surprisingly easily.

Are you plotting? he'd asked early on, receiving no answer; they both knew it was rhetorical.

As their time together grew, he'd talk to the hunter on occasion - not aloud, of course - when he marveled at the things he observed, breathing it all in. It had been ages since he'd walked the earth peacefully. It was wonder he felt, and he knew it, and it bothered him. He had been tasked with protecting them, once upon a time, and it was easier then, they were more readily awed, or maybe just malleable. He'd begun to consider if subtlety and manipulation might be ideal this go-round, effective as plagues and floods and annihilation had been, albeit temporarily.

He'd been raised by a vengeful God, the new redemptive version that came with the birth of the prophet never quite sitting right with him, but he was an obedient son, absence or no. He was his Father's first son, he who was of God, the first angel there ever was, no matter what differing legends over the millennia might've said. The offenses the rest of the children, celestial-born and earth-bound alike, committed upon God's creation wouldn't have been tolerated back then.

Before. Before it all changed, right under his supposed watchful eye. Before he'd laid waste, in heaven and on earth. Before he'd gotten wrapped up in his plans, let his guard down. Before he lost all three of his beloved brothers in one way or another. Before he'd started paying attention again.

He wouldn't miss anything else.

And so it was that on his fact-gathering strolls, more and more he found himself slowing his pace, pausing, coming to a halt, damn near freezing in place when something would catch his eye, or touch his ear, or invade his nose, the latter of which stopped him cold this evening, just as twilight eased across the buildings around him, and streetlights flickered on, up and down a nondescript street in a nondescript town on one nondescript walk amongst many.

He went further down the sidewalk, and up the block, and continued around a corner, and there it was, the answer to the question of what heavenly smell had wafted his way.

.

Hallowed Grounds French and Italian Coffees est. 1922

.

In his experience, the fates were indeed fickle. On the other hand, he'd done enough surveillance that week to allow for brief relaxation, be someone else for a spell. Seemed the rough-and-tumble hunter had smoothed edges made ragged from eons spent on another plane, made him fractionally more flexible. Teaching lessons could wait one more night, he told himself.

Meant to be, don't you think?

There wasn't need for food or drink, but the hunter was practically a junkie on both fronts, and the palate was wide. This body was stronger than most, better equipped for him, as tailor-made things are, of course, but he had not anticipated how demanding it could be, how it would crave indulgence. Undisciplined. Annoying. Distracting. It was for that last reason he'd give in, keep bites small and sips slow, and the moment there was a sense of satiation, off he - they - would go, back on mission.

African coffee was the best, this was not merely a belief but a fact; French he'd always found bland, somehow; Italian was tolerable. He ordered an espresso, tipped well, and the barista behind the former bar said they had servers milling about, one would be by to check in, see if he needed anything else. And despite knowing he'd swallow less than a quarter of the brew, he took a seat at a table, back to people-watching. Not a one was interesting in the least.

He'd noted the woman carrying the steaming metal carafe walking briskly in the direction where he sat, but had already let his eyes roam away by the time she'd gone behind him, and she only had cause to cross his mind when a loud CLANK hit the air, and the sensation of a third-degree burn called out from his lower right leg and ankle. Several gasps erupted from close-by patrons, someone moaned "Oooooh!" in sympathy, and then came the babbling. 

It was the woman, the server, and she was alternating under-breath curses with self-deprecation - Such a stupid klutz! - Why'd I take this fucking job? There wasn't an apology to be found, not a lick of repentance.

She had his attention.

As she made her way around, the carafe - retrieved, now dented and empty - was plunked on his table, causing the espresso to slosh, and she surveyed the mess on the floor, closed her eyes, rubbed them, took a deep breath, then exhaled it far too quickly for it to have been of any use. Her eyes popped open. They instantly lit on his soaked trouser cuff.

"Jesus," she muttered, flat forehead going to a frown in a nanosecond.

And he frowned, too. Not that he'd been particularly impressed by or had much use for the prophet, nor had he bought into all the trinity talk - he'd found it offensive that any would be placed by the Father as an equal of sorts - but this was in the ballpark of blasphemy. Well, then. Another sinner joins the collection.

Now she'd dropped, and he arched an eyebrow as his head tilted down, feeling her rubbing - aggressively - on his shoe, sopping up the spilt coffee with a rag she'd had tucked in her apron's waistband.

"That pot was still hot as hell, it didn't get you, did it?" she asked, looking up at him from her kneeling position.

"No," he lied.

"Oh, thank God. I'd have been... if you'd been burnt, I would've... I am so sorry, sir."

Penitence looked lovely on her.

"You seem anxious, why don't you sit, rest for a moment," he suggested, and gestured to the empty chair across from him.

He kept his eyes locked onto hers; she gave him an odd look in return, but didn't have time to answer. Another table called out to her, so she broke the stare, told him she'd check on him again later, see if he wanted a refill - anything he wanted, on the house, she added - before rising and leaving his side.

He took her up on it. He paid for the one that followed. And he waited until the patrons had nearly cleared and the lights were being dimmed and the brooms were coming out. Someone else was sent to collect the fee for the still-full third.

Take a hint.

He followed the advisement - whether it was the hunter's or some sort of self-prompting, he couldn't say - and exited, though he didn't carry on with his reconnaissance, instead going down the tiny alley that led to the back of the building, leaning against a telephone pole that was partially in the shadows, settling in, keeping an eye on the side door of the coffee shop.

The hunter spoke up.

You suck at this.

Pray tell?

Trying to pick up a chick, get laid.

Orgasms are insufficient reasons for risking the creation of another abomination.

Go comb through my greatest hits, then we’ll talk about risks and rewards.

It took a half-hour of darkened silence before he began to grow irritable, and he stood from his lean, was straightening his overcoat when the door opened. She spotted him, pretended like she didn't, so he took a few steps in her direction. He was just about to speak when she whipped around, jerking something from her pocket. She immediately squirted a caustic fluid onto him, which did nothing, save prompting a confused expression to come across his now damp face.

Oh, for crying out----

Hush.

She coughed several times as a breeze carried the mist her way, though a subtle wave of his hand served to make it disappear, and soothed her stinging eyes and scratchy throat. He pulled out his handkerchief and blotted the moisture coating his cheeks. She watched, not moving an inch, her mouth hanging open ever-so-slightly.

"I didn't mean to startle you," he said. "Please forgive me."

"That's the strongest mace on the market," she muttered. She looked at the tiny tube, sneered, then tossed it down the alley, where it hop-skipped out of sight. Turning her head back to him, she spoke again, this time warily. "You need money or something? You're not dressed like you need money."

He returned the handkerchief to his pocket, met her eye. "You think I waited here to rob you?"

"I don't... well why are you here?"

"I enjoyed your company and hoped to extend our time together." A pause, then he added, "I have no desire to have sex with you."

"Gee, thanks?"

He began to respond, hesitated, then opted to go with, "I'm told I'm not... not very good at... this."

"Making friends?"

"Mmmm."

"Well, it's... it's late."

He glanced at his watch. "So it is."

"And I don't even know your name."

"Michael."

"Michael. Okay. I have a brother named Michael. Mikey, if I want to piss him off."

"Were your parents religious?"

"What?!" she exclaimed, though she chased it with an amused grin. "You ask the strangest questions. Um, no. Not really."

"And your name?"

"I, uh... don't give out my name to strangers."

"Wise. But I need to call you something."

"Hmmm... I don’t really...”

He waited. 

She snapped her fingers. "My family nicknamed me Grace. The way they talk, I've been clumsy since the womb." She rolled her eyes.

"That sounds cruel."

She laughed, but it was short, clipped. "Nah. Annoying, maybe. But they didn't mean anything by it. Your family not have a nickname for you?"

He shook his head. "No. They called one of my brothers the star. He... shone a little too brightly."

She nodded. "I have a friend like that. Drama queen. Sucks up all the air in a room, as my mother would say."

"May I call you Grace?"

She laughed again, the full version this time, and said, "I ruined your pants, so I owe you. Yeah, sure. Go for it."

He walked her to her car, but they kept chatting - the coffee shop began as a speakeasy, he informed her, and a two-way mirror once hung over the bar so as to keep an eye out for the police. And the conversation drifted with them as they meandered down the street, ended up in a park, sitting in swings sandwiched between a slide and a sandbox, lazily letting their feet trail through gravel, him allowing her to think he was a history buff, her telling him how she'd been born in another nondescript town in another nondescript state. How as the years passed, it had started to feel like another world.

And when it was her turn to ask about the past, it called up from within him the desire to lie to her - protect her - for the second time that night. So he chose his words carefully.

"I had assignments. One that was the most... I was supposed to guard people. Defend them, when needed. And... and I did a good job for quite awhile. My commander was pleased. But then things... happened. I let an enemy invade. I wasn't strong enough. Not enough to stop him."

"You don't have to go into detail if you don't want to," Grace said quietly. She laid a hand over his.

"People died."

"Oh."

"They saw me as a protector. There was a time when some practically worshiped me, thought I was worthy of it." He made a scoffing sound. "I started to believe I was."

He'd never had a single regret, never let himself fall into the abyss of memories. But even he could be brought - broken, more accurately - out of his routine. And the most immediate period of his existence had done just that, making times of calm a desire, while in the same moment making times of silence an irritant.

He looked down at their hands, flipped his, threaded his fingers through hers, and she didn't stop him.

They sat, unmoved, no words, for several minutes; three-point-two-one-six, in fact, because he counted them. His mind never rested, even when the hunter's did, but he liked how she didn't feel the need to fill the emptiness with idle talk. Made for a touch of calm. Even with the silence.

It held a bit of irony - he was the silent type, everyone said so. He'd found it often communicated intent better than any words could've. And more descriptions piled on: Imposing. Intimidating. Towering. Threatening. Some had called him "Beast" long before it had been applied to their once-adored morning star.

So there it was - there’d already been a second lie, and he hadn't even noticed.

"I don't mean to frighten you," he told her, staring at her intently, but this time she didn't look away.

"You said that already," she replied, a solemn smile on her lips, not too wide, not too thin, just the right sort, and he hoped he reciprocated in kind. She gave his hand a gentle squeeze, saying, "Michael... I mean, my Michael -----"

The hunter's belly stirred.

"----- you know, my brother, he's in the service. He's a Ranger. He doesn't tell our family a lot of stories from when he fought, but he's told me some. So if it's anything like that, then... I can understand. I can try, I mean."

"I led the entirety of our legion."

"You're... you seem a little young to be... what would it be, a general, I guess? Or do you mean you led your division? Or squadron? I know some of the terminology, you don't have to dumb it down for me."

"I've offended you."

"No, it's... don't worry about it, it doesn't matter."

"It very much matters. How people treat one another. People can be vile, sadistic, horrible creatures."

She raised her eyebrows. "I guess. But we're the only ones here. And I'm not horrible, and you're not horrible, soooo..."

"You're right," he lied for the third time, and with one of the hunter's brightest smiles.

Which made Grace shine.

Go.

The hunter did as he was commanded.

Michael thought she tasted like sin.

"Okay. Tomorrow. I'm off work, but we can meet at the coffee shop, figure out what to do from there... around noon sound good?"

He nodded. "That sounds perfect. Thank you, Grace."

She nodded in return, got in her car, and gave him a little wave as she pulled away.

Is this your plan, hunter? How you think you'll undo me? Making me more like you?

Hey, I haven't been driving for awhile now. Ass.

Hmmm.

You kissed her.

What makes you say that?

When you let me leave the bad boy corner, I could tell. Or else you're putting strawberry lip balm on my----

Apple.

Huh?

It's apple.

He waited at her apartment, this time deep in the shadows where he wouldn't be spotted, made sure she got inside safely, listened for the click that told him she'd locked the door. He began to leave, then thought better of it, decided to play guardian for old times' sake, placed warding here and there to keep any would-be harm away. And back to walking he went, considering how to kill the hours til they met again.

May as well strike up a conversation.

Now that we've spent some time together, tell me - Why didn't we do this sooner? What’s it been for you, about a decade?

You're a douche.

Fine. But comparatively?

There's not a douche scale, dick.

So I'm altogether irredeemable?

Uh - is there some universe where you aren't?

Perhaps.

So prove it! Let me go! And LEAVE ME ALONE.

Fair enough.

If he were to put a not-so-fine point on his reasoning for not meeting her the next day, that about summed it up. He'd disappoint her, she'd disappoint him, and if she didn't, that was no good. Probably worse. Better to keep unattached when it came to what the future... what he... would likely bring.

Even so, he found himself once more standing apart, likely imposing, always watching, this time through a window, across hallowed grounds, looking for his grace. He spotted her at the very table he'd been at when they met, scrolling through her phone, occasionally sipping on a latte. Then there'd be a sigh, a glance to the large clock on the opposite wall as five, then ten, then fifteen minutes passed by.

What say after this, we head to the cage, check on that counterpart of mine?

This time, he received an unusually placid response.

Why?

To ensure he's paying for what he's done.

Like you haven't been thinking of nuking this world. You're still jonesing for your apocalypse. You know you want a do-over.

The world could use some cleansing, true. There's reasons. But, no. That's not why.

Then what?! How many times are you planning on dragging me over there, making sure he hasn't popped the lock so you can keep up your stupid act? They’re gonna figure it out soon, Cas or Sam—-

I thought of all people, you'd understand.

Understand WHAT? It's payback? 'Cause the first thing *he* did was make a beeline to take you out?

He killed my brother. With my own sword, no less. And that above all, Dean, I will not abide.

Grace picked up her bag, left a few bills on the table, and as she walked out the door, placed a phone call.

"Yeah, he stood me up... no, no, I'm not... Seriously! I'm not mad, I'm just, you know... yeah. I thought he was different... No, you're right, and I'm sure he had a good reason, and I told you he didn't have a phone with him, right? So it's not like he could've.... oh God, no he wasn't lying, why do you assume every dude.... Anyway, maybe I'll see him again. I think that'd be nice..."

Well, then. Not so predictable, after all. Not this one. At least, for now.

Teaching the world a lesson could wait for just one more day.

.

Author’s Note #2: Here’s a walkthrough on the inspiration for the title/plot points, the theology droppings, and the “clues” for the ending twist-a-roo, if you’re interested!

Author’s Note #3: This was gonna be snarky & involve a continued barrage of insults on the infamous freeze-that-shall-not-be-named-frame, but the gif  turned out too lovely & I'd feel guilty using it for nefarious purposes.

See Nash Write : Master  /  See Nash Write : Mobile

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