#he is so bright he is so heroic he is so depressed and tired | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

pearl-blue-musings · 3 years

Text

Not Alone Shinsou x fem!reader x Kaminari

This is incredibly self indulgent and absolutely terrible in terms of my writing because i was really going through it (still am but we’re not gonna talk about it)

However I must say, as someone who has anxiety, depression, and body image issues you’re not alone. I know I’m awful at talking about my own feelings, but please feel free to open up to a friend, me, or anyone you trust. This stuff is disheartening to go through alone and I’m with you.

Pairing: Prohero!Shinsou Hitoshi x fem!reader x Prohero!Kaminari Denki

Warnings: anxiety, depression, body dysmorphia, body image issues, feeling overwhelmed, shitty writing

As always minors dni

It was later than you had expected when you returned to your apartment. You quietly shut the door behind you as you remove your shoes, as to not wake up or disturb your roommates. It’s not every day you get to share an apartment with two well known heroes. You were aware of their crazy and sometimes unpredictable schedules, but shockingly they both had today off. And since you’re their respectful roommate, you wanted them to rest as much as they could.

You could have sworn the two of them were dating with how close they acted, but that didn’t prevent you from crushing on the both of them. You did your best to hide your feelings from them to the point you were just hurting yourself so they could be happy and blissfully unaware. It was better that way, you were just their civilian roommate who made their own apartment less expensive. That’s all you were.

So it didn’t matter that you came back from your high school reunion in tears and full of shame.

Shinsou knew you were going to be coming back late but wasn’t aware how late. He did offer to join you, knowing how those kind of events can be to keep you company. Not just because he’s your roommate, but somehow he had grown to care for you; and he picked up on his first roommate catching feels for you too.

They were a strange pair, Shinsou had to admit. He didn’t think he’d be rooming with the eclectic blond but here he his. Personally, Shinsou thinks his higher ranked friend fell for you first; love at first sight most likely. Denki will deny it to the purple eyed man whenever you’re not around, but Shinsou knows better. They’ve been friends for years, roommates for over a year so he’s fairly sure he knows Denki well enough. However, one thing was abundantly clear to the pair of friends, things haven’t been the same between them since you moved in.

Maybe it was petty jealousy between the two men when it came to you, but they would always try their best around you. So when you had told them you were going to a high school reunion of sorts the both of them offered to accompany you. You had turned them down, opting to go alone considering you knew it was their day off. You couldn’t do that to them. Your rejection had hurt them in a way they didn’t think was possible. Once you were gone they had a brief conversation about it.

“Shinsou we’ve been friends a long time and I just wanna say-“

“I have feelings for her too.”

Denki blinks at him, words and breath stolen from him. “Well, yeah I could tell! So why don’t you just go for it,” the blond adds on as his voice tapers off.

Shinsou rolls his eyes. “Idiot, I know you like her too. That’s why I haven’t done anything.”

A hearty laugh leaves the blonds lips as he shakes his head. “Look at the two of us, falling for the same girl. Who would have guessed?”

The look in his bright gold eyes stirs something in Shinsou that he’s acknowledging for the first time. Is this the way you see Denki? He would never admit it, but there’s something about the dynamic between the three of you that just works. You’re not only a great roommate, but an incredible friend. You always listen to their hero woes and they lend an ear to issues with your profession. Groceries, chores, everything was always evenly divided; everyone helped everyone. It all just fit.

“I guess we both just have good taste.”

The two of them spent the day lazing around, playing video games, and put on a movie until you got back. Both males were eager to talk to you upon your return and did their best to stay up for you. Unfortunately, both men fell asleep in Shinsou’s room watching a movie, the blond resting on the other’s shoulder.

Denki woke up to the sound of shuffling around the apartment. He noticed Shinsou was still sleeping and the look of peace on his face made Denki’s heart race. He slowly removes himself from the sleep deprived man and decides to go greet you.

He slowly walks out of the room and heads toward the living room where he thinks you are, but all he sees are your purse and coat dropped on the couch haphazardly. That’s very unlike you. If you went to your room he would have heard you, where could you be?

That’s when he hears it.

You were confident your two heroic and very attractive roommates were asleep when you rushed into the bathroom sobbing. The words and looks your former friends wouldn’t stop swimming and swirling around in your mind. You did your best to shut out their slander and lies but it was no use.

You were too ugly.

Your body had changed for the worst.

No one will love you.

You were lucky to have been with someone in high school.

It all wouldn’t stop. You knew were taking a risk wearing your confident and favorite outfit, but that was torn to shreds from their sharp tongues. Your eyes meet yours in the mirror as your body morphs right in front of your eyes. Gone was the confident woman from five hours ago. All that’s left is a broken lonely nobody who even her roommates wouldn’t want to look at.

Sobs racked your body as you grip the sink for leverage. Tears fall freely, messing up your make up –what’s the point really?- as your body shakes with your cries. You want to punch the mirror in front of you, rip off the clothes and burn them, pick and scratch at yourself until you become the desirable person you want to be. You want it all to stop, why can’t you look better? Why do you look the way you do ?Why aren’t you prettier? Why, why, why why –

“(Y/n)! Hey, hey it’s me!”

Your eyes shoot open as you look in the mirror and see your blond roommate staring at you. You feel your heart drop at the sight of him and his shocked expression. He reaches out but you brush him off. “Don’t touch me,” your voice betraying you as it cracks. You try to push past him, but he’s unmovable.

“Sunshine, what happened? I’ve never seen you like this, talk to me! Don’t make me wake up Shinsou.”

Your lip trembles at his empty but truthful threat. Your flight or fight kicks in as your mind racks up new thoughts.

He’s just saying that.

He doesn’t actually care.

Neither of them do.

You’re just their ugly roommate.

You do a slight combination of both. You attempt to escape the bathroom while pushing through Denki. He grabs onto your arms lightly to hold you in place, causing the two of you to bump into the door frame.

You shake out, “let me go.”

He only holds on tighter. “Not an option! I’m not letting you go until you stop crying.”

“Denki,” you almost wail, fresh tears falling, “let me pass! Please!”

The way you said please struck something in the blond, and he hesitantly lets you go. Only for you to ram into Shinsou’s chest.

You look up into his lavender eyes and close yours tight. “No please not you too.”

Shinsou glances between you and Denki, trying to get a read on the situation. “What exactly is going on?” Looking at Denki he squints his eyes. “What did you do?”

“Me?! I found her like this! Why would I make her cry?”

“Because you’re impulsive,” Shinsou deadpans. He ignores the blonds scoff and turns his focus to you. With your arms crossed, your nails are digging into your skin. He calmly places a hand on your shoulder and leaves it there despite your tiny flinch. He guides the two of you to sit against the wall adjacent to the bathroom door. “What happened, kitty cat? I need you to uncross your arms and breathe, okay?”

You reluctantly agree and unfold your arms. This gives both guys a better look at you and your frazzled state. Denki sits to your right, taking your hand in his and he begins to rub calming circles on the back of your hand. You want to pull back but it feels too comforting. Shinsou stays in front of you, making sure that you’re breathing slower. Your voice cracks as you begin to speak.

“I shouldn’t have gone to the reunion. I, I had those thoughts again but they were so much worse and I just,” you couldn’t finish your sentence as you began to cry again, tired and defeated. You feel Denki squeeze your hand and pull your head to lay on his shoulder while Shinsou rubs your knees affectionately. The soft and caring touches calms you down to regulate your breathing. This isn’t the first time your anxiety and body dysmorphia decided to work in tandem but it’s the first time it’s gotten to this low. And whenever it would get to the point of you shaking, either one of them would be nearby to help you. Having them both here was something you didn’t realize you had been needing. It was nice, it was ideal.

The blond next to you nudges your side and makes you look at him directly. “I know you struggle with your image. But you should know, I think you’re one of the most beautiful people I’ve ever met. Shinsou thinks so too!”

You spare a glance at your other roommate who’s holding his neck now, visibly embarrassed. His deep purple eyes meet yours and you already know that Denki is telling the truth. A truth you didn’t think would be possible and struggle to believe, but a truth nonetheless. You crack a smile at your roommates and your heart warms, if only for a moment. This doesn’t solve everything, but it does help in the present.

Shinsou returns to caressing your legs carefully before starting to get up. “C’mon kitten, take my hand. I think it’s time we go to bed.”

“Uh, we?”

You feel Denki nod as he pulls you to stand up. “Yes we,” he says soothingly, “you should know Shinsou here is a great cuddler.”

That makes your heart sink as you take their hands. The blond is quick to see your demeanor change and switches holding your hand to holding your cheek. “What did you just think? And I know it wasn’t anything good.”

You can’t help but lean into his touch, but the anxiety at what you’re about to say begins to overwhelm you. So you were torn at opening up right now, but brave it anyways; gotta start somewhere. “The, the two of you. I don’t wanna interrupt anything you have going on. I’d be a bother – “

Your words are silenced as you feel a warm pair lips on yours. When your eyes open you are met with sharp golden ones staring into your very being. “(Y/n) listen to me. Well first, we’re not dating, I mean not yet anyways.” He pauses to grin at the two of you and you catch Shinsou roll his eyes. “But we both want to be with you. We both care about you and want to always be there for you on your down days. Being strong every day is hard and we’ve seen it! Just, we want you to see you the way we see you!”

His excitable aura is infectious as a genuine smile adorns your face. You meet his gaze and his face is beaming. The electric blond goes to hold your hand again but his hand is pushed away by his friend. “What gives? I just wanna hold her hand, you can’t have both!”

Shinsou rumbles out, “you’ve already kissed her. I at least want a turn.” He cups your face and presses a chaste kiss on your lips. He pulls away almost hesitantly before he continues. “And a chance to say that we discussed some stuff after Denki was jealous you wanted to go on your own.”

“You were jealous and upset too!”

“Minor details,” Shinsou scoffs out, “but we both have strong and genuine feelings for you. And strangely enough it turns out the feelings between all three of us are mutual.”

You place a hand over your heart at the proclamation. The both of them? All three of you? It was peculiar, yes but maybe this is just what you needed.

You swallow the lump in your throat as you take a hand from the both of them in yours. “This is a lot to process,” you admit, “but could we talk about it in the morning? I just want to go to sleep.”

“Of course, Kitten.”

“Absolutely, beautiful!”

Both men had responded to you at the same time, making you laugh heartedly. You miss the smiles that come to their faces at your laugh as you walk slowly down the hallway. You had a feeling you were headed toward Shinsou’s room considering he had the bigger bed than you and the blond. You squeeze their hands tightly as you eagerly await the cuddle session and sleep you’ll get with these two. You’re certain that it’ll be some of the best sleep of your life.

The three of you had much to discuss in the morning, but for right now you’re content being in the middle of your cuddle pile as they wipe away any stray tears that fall from your eyes. You know the two heroes aren’t going to solve your problems, but they became a lot easier to handle whenever they would act up in the future.

~~~~~~~~~~

#shinsou hitoshi #denki kaminari #shinsou x reader #shinsou x y/n #kaminari x reader #kaminari denki x reader #denki x reader #denki x y/n #shindenki x reader #shinsou x reader x kaminari #my writing #i did the thing #self indulgent #this is so shitty #minors dni #shinsou x female reader #denki x female reader #shindenki x female reader

120 notes · View notes

vannahfanfics · 3 years

Text

I’ve Got These Scars, But I Think They’re Pretty

Category: Angst, General Fluff

Fandom: My Hero Academia

Characters: Dabi

Additional Tags: Role Swap AU

The bright white waiting room hummed with hushed conversations of waiting patients, worried family, and chatting nurses. Dabi sat hunched in a chair, leg bouncing and hands clasped tight, but not because he was awaiting treatment. His aquamarine eyes scanned the room to observe the comings and goings, the brightly-colored spandex suits and the fluttering capes as the local heroes made their rounds visiting the various tenants of the pediatric intensive care ward.

By all rights, Dabi should be among them— but he didn’t exactly fit the mold of hero , even if he was a member of a bonafide agency. With a quiet sigh, he sat up to observe the dark purple scars and silver staples adorning his marred skin. No, children shrieked and cried at the sight of him and his scarred body. He’d only undo the optimism the other heroes were instilling in the ailing children if he strutted around pretending like he wasn’t some kind of patchwork monster.

Sighing heavily, Dabi leaned forward to cradle his head in his hands.

It was times like this that he loathed his father the most. So easily, Dabi could have turned to the path of vengeance and brought retribution in the form of a fiery inferno, but he hadn’t. He’d persevered; he’d endured the trauma and abuse and his own goddamn skin melting off his bones as he lived in his own circle of Hell until Shoto came around. He’d overcome all the urges and temptations to become a hero— but he still couldn’t be normal . They always wondered in the back of their minds if he was unhinged or a villain spy because of these scars he was forced to bear.

Dabi clenched his teeth and curled his fingers into his hair, fingernails scoring into his scalp as he struggled to reign his volatile emotions back in. Oh, how he hated Endeavor, but he hated himself more for slipping back into these spirals of thought time and time again. Frustrated tears pricked at the corners of his eyes as he seethed in self-loathing and resentment and struggled not to let the negative feelings swallow him whole.

I shouldn’t be here.

“Hey, mister, are you here to get treatment?”

Dabi jerked up with a small gasp as a sweet little voice yanked him out of his depressive spiral. He blinked rapidly, his teary eyes blurring his vision into hazy watercolors for a few seconds, until the form of a small child materialized into view. Her eyes were bright and wide as she regarded him curiously, a half-eaten chocolate bar in one hand and the other bundled to her chest in a thick cast. Gauze covered two-thirds of her body, making her seem like a little baby mummy standing before him.

He straightened up in the chair and rubbed his sweaty palms across the fabric of his ripped jeans.

“Oh, um… No.”

“Are you visiting someone?” she asked, chomping down on the chocolate bar. Dabi grimaced slightly as she kept her stare fixed upon him while chewing open-mouthed on the sweet confection. It was a little unsettling, as he was so used to the wrong kind of stares; the little girl didn’t seem to register his scars at all, just gazing unblinkingly at him out of nothing but pure curiosity.

“Um… Sort of. I’m with the hero agency visiting today,” he explained. The girl cocked her head to the side with a slow blink.

“Then what’re you doin’ sittin’ out here? Are you tired?”

Somebody come get this kid! Dabi thought as he shifted uncomfortably. Though he’d deeply desired for a kid to be able to converse openly with him like this, now that it was happening, it was such a foreign sensation that it was deeply unnerving. He cleared his throat awkwardly and glanced around to find someone who could serve as a decent excuse. Unfortunately, all the heroes were busy in patient rooms— leaving Dabi to fend for himself.

“Look, kid, aren’t you supposed to be in a room somewhere?” he evaded. The little girl shrugged and took another bite of the chocolate. The piece broke off with a loud snap before she chewed avidly on it.

“Yeah, but I wanted some candy, so I took some of my allowance and went to one of the vending machines. I don’t remember what room I’m s’posed to be in, though, so now I’m lost.”

Dabi had to snicker at her completely emotionless analysis of the situation. The tyke reminded him of Shoto, almost, with that dispassionate disposition and monotone voice. Dabi’s head lolled on his neck as he took another look around. The nurses and doctors were nowhere to be found now, either. Well, he thought as he pushed himself out of the chair, I guess I should do the “heroic” thing and escort her back to her room.

“What’s your name, squirt?”

“Katsumi.”

“All right, Katsumi. Let’s go find your room, huh?” he said as he strode off. The girl obediently trotted to keep up, continuing to munch on her chocolate bar and smearing it a little across her lips. The ICU of the children’s hospital was the largest of the facility, so realistically, it could take a considerable amount of time for Dabi to find Katsumi’s room in the sea of beds. He slipped his hands in his pockets as he strolled along, icy blue eyes flicking between the name placards adorning the closed doors. Dabi was more than content to tread along in total silence, but the little girl— not so much.

“Hey, mister, where’d you get those scars?”

Dabi glanced down to see her gaping at the purple patchwork decorating the visible parts of his body. However, what startled him and stuttered his steps was the look on Katsumi’s face; rather than disgust, fascination adorned her features, and there was a strange sparkle in her eyes. He stood frozen as she tucked the chocolate bar under her armpit so she could run her fingers over the wrinkled, stitched skin of his forearm.

“They’re burn scars, aren’t they?”

Dabi’s expression softened as Katsumi’s eyes grew lidded. She ran her fingers over the marred areas a few more times, then reached back to claw at the bandages swathing half her body. “So when I’m all better, will I look like this?”

Dabi’s throat closed up as he felt the oddest sense of shame washing over him. I shouldn’t be here, he thought again. What was he supposed to say? What was he supposed to do as Katsumi studied his injuries and envisioned herself like him— barely held together by staples and prayers? He bit down on his lip as it grew hard to breathe, and once again, the hate began to well up inside of him, a geyser threatening to explode and arch into the sky in frightening brilliance.

“Your scars are so pretty.”

Dabi almost fell over.

“Do— do what ?” he cried as he looked down at her in shock. Katsumi gave him a sweet, innocent smile as if what she’d just uttered wasn’t insanely weird. She shyly rocked her hips back and forth as she placed her hand on his arm again.

“Purple is my favorite color!” she explained with a giddy laugh. Dabi’s face wasn’t sure what kind of expression to make, but it made something. He sagged in disbelief— and a whole lot of relief — as Katsumi continued to admire the disfigured skin painting his forearm. Her eyes were lidded again, but this time in a childlike hopefulness.

“That’s what happened to me, y’know. A house fire,” she said and raised her arm as much as she could in the cast. Dabi refrained from contradicting her; it was easier for her to believe something simple like a house fire and not years on years of pushing his Quirk beyond his body’s physical limits. “The nurses and doctors are all super nice, but… I hear them talking about how it’s such a shame that I’ll be scarred for life, a pretty girl like me.” When she looked back up at him, tears bubbled in her eyes before rolling down her plump cheeks, rosy with life and pain. “I’ll still be pretty even with these scars, right? Right ? Just because I have them, people can still love me, can’t they ?”

Dabi breathed sharply through his nose as he ran a hand through his dyed hair. Of all the things he’d thought would come of today, comforting a crying child in the middle of a hallway wasn’t one of them. Yet he couldn’t help but feel glad for it. This little girl echoed the same things he’d felt after his incident.

At least, unlike Dabi, Katsumi had someone to put her fears to rest.

“Of course they can,” he said as he crouched down. His coat brushed against the white tiled floor as he kneeled beside Katsumi and rested a hand atop her head to ruffle her hair. “If anything, the scars’ll make you even prettier. They’re a sign that you overcame everything and came out still standing, yeah?” Dabi was never the best with words, so he hoped that Katsumi understood.

She stared at him for a moment, still sniffling petulantly. However, little by little, a smile wormed its way onto her face.

“Really?”

Dabi’s smile broadened and gave her hair another ruffle, making her giggle.

“Really. Don’t listen to what those nurses say. Anybody who has any sense’ll know that those scars don’t make you anything less.”

“Thanks, mister,” she preened, and Dabi swore the smile she gave him was brighter than the sun itself. As he stood, she lunged forward to take his hand and lace their fingers, still probably feeling a little emotionally vulnerable. Dabi didn’t make any move to rebuke her, only tugged on her slim arm so they could resume walking down the hall. Soon she was swinging his arm back and forth as she pranced along, much more animated and happy that she had been previously.

Dabi felt a sense of pride welling up inside him, knowing that just a few words of encouragement had illuminated Katsumi so brightly.

Suddenly, he was very glad he came.

Eventually, they located Katsumi’s room. The nurse nearly bowled Dabi over when they meandered up, screeching at him about kidnapping and not listening to a damn word he had to say. Though Katsumi brightly attempted to explain that Dabi was a kind hero who had led her back, the nurse was about to call the authorities on him until Hawks sauntered up and slapped his gloved hands on Dabi’s shoulders to give her a brilliant grin.

“It seems there’s been a big understanding. Ma’am, this is one of the heroes working at my agency, so I would appreciate it if you didn’t call the authorities on him.”

The nurse dropped the phone with a series of confused sputters, pointing at Dabi as if that was all the evidence she needed. Dabi sagged into the bird-man’s grip, irritation bubbling up inside him. For a moment, he had forgotten how much of a ruffian he looked to the general populace. Hawks continued to diffuse the situation with practiced grace.

“I know he looks like a thug, but I promise, Dabi here is a bonafide hero! He even brought your little lost dove back, yeah~?”

“Yep! We had a great talk,” Katsumi chirped as she clambered back into her hospital bed. She finally remembered her chocolate bar and removed it from her armpit, frowning when she discovered that it was half-melted and squished. After scrutinizing it for a moment, she shrugged and chomped down on it. Dabi smirked as he watched her, very entertained.

Hawks’ honeyed words had placated the nurse, who begrudgingly offered Dabi a half-hearted and wary apology. He shrugged her off and walked over to Katsumi, who was enjoying the remains of her chocolate bar.

“All right, squirt. I’m off. Got lots of important hero business to attend to and all.”

“Will you come back and see me?” she asked, looking up at him with a chocolate-smeared pout. Dabi snorted and pushed her head a little, making her laugh giddily.

“Of course. I’ll see ya next week.”

“Okay! Bring some chocolate bars!”

“You got it,” he waved as he strolled out of the hospital room. Hawks followed suit after cheerfully bidding farewell to the nurse. They both sighed deeply as he closed the door behind him.

“Well,” Hawks smiled as he strode up beside Dabi and nudged him with an elbow. “Lookit you, gettin’ friendly with the kiddos. I didn’t know you had it in ya, Dabs.”

“Shut up, you great big chicken wing,” Dabi growled and flashed him a scowl. Hawks laughed good-naturedly, feathers ruffling in mirth.

“Oh, come on now! It’s progress!” Hawks insisted. Dabi left him standing there with his arms held up like the great big winged moron he was. Hawks pouted and whined after him, but he continued off to the vending machines, suddenly craving chocolate. As the wrapped candy bar thunked down into the receptacle and he leaned down to retrieve it, a serene smile decorated his face as he caught the reflection of his scars in the glass.

“Yeah, I’ve got scars, but I think they’re pretty!” He could just hear Katsumi bleating to the ignorant nurses. As he straightened back up with the chocolate bar in hand, he rolled up the long sleeves of his coat, exposing more of the purple patchwork skin to the cold air of the hospital.

“Yeah. Me too, kid.”

As he walked out of the hospital into the sunshine, he glanced up at the sky and smiled.

I’m glad I came.

Enjoy this oneshot? Feel free to peruse my Table of Contents!

#dabi #touya todoroki #my hero academia #mha #boku no hero academia #bnha

16 notes · View notes

jealousmaude · 4 years

Text

Stories with Strangers

Ezra (Prospect, 2018) x OC (sorta)

Prompt: Ezra makes up an heroic story about losing his arm in order to impress a pretty lady at the local watering hole

A/N: The above prompt was given to me by @ifalltheyearwereplayingholidays when I was bored and wanted to write something. It was meant to be a short drabble but my hand slipped and whoops it’s 3.9k words. Only my second Prospect fic and Ezra talks A LOT. I hope I did him justice. I’m always down to talk about Ezra more, feel free to drop me a line!

Warnings: None I think. A bit of vaguely described gore?

Tagged: @lalablue0 Thanks for the gentle nudging and encouragement as always

When Ezra walked into the bar he knew he’d picked the right one. He was in a fringe city, on a fringe planet, looking for fringe work. It usually paid the best. But tonight he was just looking for a quiet drink in a dive bar where no one would look twice at him. And this was that bar. A dark and dirty bar with dark and dirty patrons. There were two men hunched over a table talking conspiratorially who looked up at him when he entered, but quickly went back to their hushed conversation when they deemed him no threat. There was a man lounging in a booth with two women he had no doubt paid to fawn over him. Another booth housed a couple of thugs surrounded by an excessive amount of empty bottles and glasses, having an animated and at times violent conversation. At the end of the bar was another working girl chatting up a depressed man who seemed far more interested in his drink than the girl, but she was determined. The shabbily dressed barman was leaning against the bench behind the bar, cleaning a beer glass with a filthy rag in the most stereotypical barman fashion ever, while ogling the young woman.

This was the right place indeed.

Ezra smiled to himself and approached the bar. The barman heaved himself upright, clunked the glass down, tossed the rag beside it and ambled over to Ezra as if it was most inconvenient of him to want service.

“Amber. Top shelf. Neat." He knew in a place like this the alcohol wasn’t going to be of the highest quality so he figured he’d improve his chances of something drinkable if he aimed high. The barman grunted in acknowledgement and hauled himself around. He reached up to the highest shelf of bottles, revealing his unsightly underarm stains. He took a bottle of dark amber liquid, sloshed it into a smudged glass and plonked it unceremoniously in front of Ezra.

“You’re a prince among men,” Ezra said with barely concealed sarcasm as he tossed some credits on the bar. The barman grunted again as he collected the payment and returned to wiping not very clean glasses with not very clean rags.

Drink in hand, he turned to survey the bar again. He enjoyed people watching. The longer you observed a person for the better you got at judging their behaviour. That came in handy in Ezra’s line of work. And if he couldn’t quietly watch them, then he would talk as much as he could to them. At them, it usually ended up being. He could tell a lot about people based on how they responded to his stories and that helped him down the line when he needed to know who he could trust if - or when - things went south.

Out of the corner of his eye something bright caught his attention. He turned to see a woman sitting at the end of the bar by herself. She had a shock of bright red curly hair covered by a hood, which would explain why Ezra had missed her on his way in, but that now stood out like a neon sign. She had a drink and a book open in front of her. He watched her reading for a moment and while she appeared to not want, or need, company, he couldn’t resist the opportunity to talk to someone who may have an interesting story to tell. He had lost count of the days since he had conversed meaningfully with another person.

He approached her and sat at the other angle of the bar next to her. Her eyes flicked up to him for a second, then back to her book.

“Forgive the intrusion, but you have piqued my curiosity by reading a book at a bar when there are so many interesting beings here to observe. I must know what it is that is so engrossing.” Not his best opening line, but he’s used worse.

The woman slowly raised her head to meet Ezra’s eyes. She studied him for a moment, her eyes wandering down to his right shoulder, then back up to his face. Ezra was used to people being distracted by the missing limb. It usually got surreptitious, side-ways glances. More often than not, it was left unaddressed. Which suited him just fine. Recounting the story was not something he enjoyed doing.

The woman continued to gaze at him, as if she was waiting for him to continue. He cleared his throat, “my name is Ezra,” he said and pressed his hand to his chest by way of introduction, hoping it would spur the woman on to talk. She didn’t, though she looked thoughtful, as if she was carefully considering her response. After a moment's further silence, Ezra decided she was a lost cause and moved to excuse himself. “I have clearly interrupted you, I’ll leave you to your book.” He went to stand when the woman spoke:

“I’ll tell you my name… if you tell me how you lost your arm.” she said plainly.

Ezra tried to hide how taken aback he was. But her candid approach was refreshing and he felt compelled to tell her… almost…

“Oooooh, this is a story of great heroics on my part,” he said gesturing to his missing arm. “Many people are alive today thanks to my heroic actions.”

A small smile played on her lips and she leaned forward with interest. “A story of heroics? I would never have guessed!” Ezra noted the sarcasm but continued nonetheless.

“Indeed. Though I try to stay humble, of course.” He might as well go all in and play up to the woman’s expectations.

She huffed out a small laugh, humouring him. “Of course.”

“I was on Kapria-1, a dull little planet with no culture to speak of but spectacular deposits of an ore that is highly sought after in the outer systems. Terribly valuable stuff due in no small part to it being a tough bastard of a thing to extract. Time consuming, complicated and requiring specialty tools that are themselves, complicated to use. But the rewards far outweigh the tedious chore of obtaining it.” He paused for effect and to see if the woman would refute any of his story so far. She didn’t. He continued.

“The only other thing Kapria-1 is known for is the wildlife. Namely, a vicious creature called a Fanger.”

“A Fanger?” She replied, not bothering to hide her utter disbelief.

“A Fanger,” Ezra confirmed in all seriousness. He wasn’t proud of the name he’d just made up, but he was thinking on the fly and went with the first name that came to him, regardless of how ridiculous it sounded. But he was committed to this story now so continued unabated. “Like I said, they are vicious. The locals call them hell-hounds. On all fours they stand as tall as a man’s shoulders. Eyes that burn bright red and a mouth full of the sharpest teeth you’ve ever seen. A beast not to be reckoned with. They will attack anything in their sights and tear a man limb from limb in seconds. However, they are nocturnal creatures, so provided you are sheltered safely and securely after dark they should be no cause for concern."

Despite herself, the woman seemed genuinely engrossed in the story now. As Ezra paused again she took a sip of her drink and said "I gather the next part involves you getting stranded out after dark."

"You anticipate correctly!"

"Go on then," she said encouragingly.

"Well. I found myself working with a fairly green group of diggers. Had only done a few rotations on the planet previously, but they were an enthusiastic lot. Our time keeper misjudged how long we were in the tunnels for and when we emerged we were just in time to see the sun sinking below the horizon. We argued about whether it would be best to stay in the tunnels for the night, or risk the journey back to camp. Nights of Kapria are cold and we had no provisions. And despite the tunnels running deep, there was nothing to prevent a determined Fanger from sniffing us out. So it was decided we would make the journey back to safety. We had no weapons to speak of, but armed ourselves with the heaviest and sharpest tools we had at our disposal. I chose a small but hefty pickaxe. We took off with as much haste as we could muster, trying to keep quiet and not draw attention to ourselves. But the beasts have aural and olfactory capabilities that far eclipse our own, so it was only a matter of time. Just as our camp came into sight, we heard it. A distinctive snarl that stopped us in our tracks. Before we could even run we saw it looming. A giant figure stalked towards us, jaws slung with bloody slaver, eyes lit by the fires of Hades’ eternal damned Kingdom. It picked up pace and we knew we had no chance of outrunning it so I did the only thing I could do; I ran directly at it. If I could take its attention myself then maybe the rest of my crew could escape.”

Ezra felt a twinge of guilt at this point. He’d never done anything so selfless in all his life! It hardly mattered at this point, as he neared the end of his outlandish story. The woman, for her part, appeared genuinely interested in the story now. Which was not entirely surprising, Ezra knew he had skill when telling a story, no matter how unbelievable. Still. Her hand still rested on her open book, marking her place as though she was not entirely committed to this conversation, and was ready to return to reading as soon as she tired of his outrageous claims. She raised an expectant eyebrow, “...And?”

“Well it worked. The beast lunged at me and sunk its fangs right into my arm as I tried to shield myself. It pinned me to the ground with one of it’s massive paws, claws digging into my flesh. In a vain effort to save myself I smashed the pickaxe into the side of it’s head as hard as I could. I kept hitting it, over and over, all the while I could feel it’s teeth shredding my flesh and bone. I must have made some impact because it decided I wasn’t worth the trouble of a head injury and bounded away into the night. The rest of my team dragged me the short distance back to camp, but my arm was too damaged to save. Luckily we had a few members with medic experience and, with our limited supplies, they managed to remove the damaged limb and patch me up. Not the prettiest job, but it did the trick, and I owe my life to them. I hitched a ride off the planet the next day and never looked back.” He downed what drink remained in his glass, punctuating the end of his story. He was quietly rather proud of spinning such fine fiction on the fly.

“Well. That is an impressive tale of bravery and loss.” The woman remarked.

“And I believe it has earned your name.”

A sly smile appeared on her lips. “Holly Golightly, pleased to meet you.”

Ezra tilted his head to the side and narrowed his eyes. “Now I may be just a floater from the Fringes, but I have read a book or two in my time and I know when I’m given a name taken straight from the pages of classic literature.”

She smiled more broadly. “Fake stories get you fake names, Ezra. If you’d care to tell me the real story, you might earn yourself my real name.” As if to signify her seriousness, she closed her book and folded her hands on it, awaiting his response.

Ezra considered for a moment. He didn’t particularly enjoy thinking about the events that led to losing his arm, let alone telling the tale to a stranger in a bar. But the woman intrigued him with her flame red hair and her forthright questions and he was curious to get to know more about her. Starting with her name. He signalled the barman and jiggled his empty glass at him indicating a refill was desired. He’d need more alcohol for this. They both waited in patient silence while the barman sloshed more amber liquid into his glass. When Ezra had taken a large gulp, he was ready.

“I was on Bakhroma Green,” he started. The woman sucked a breath in through her teeth. If people knew of it, they knew it was a dangerous place. Not just because of the toxic spores, but because the people who typically made the journey there these days were desperate and toxic themselves. She clearly knew of the moon’s reputation so Ezra did not need to go into details. “While the rush was over long ago, I figured I’d try my luck, see what was still left down there. If you’re lucky, it’s worth the risk of a visit. Unfortunately, owing to a dispute with my crew, I was left crewless, shipless and stranded. My only hope of getting off that rock was to find passage with another crew. Unfortunately there aren’t a lot of other harvesters willing to make space. Lotta trust issues. A case of Aurelac can make a man do desperate things. I thought my luck had run out, but then I stumbled across a father and his teenage daughter. I’ve never seen a girl so young down there. When I couldn’t bargain my way on to their pod, we struck a deal. The man was on his way to meet some mercenaries who claimed they’d found the Queen’s Lair - a most sought after, yet hitherto undiscovered deposit of the gem. Regrettably, greed got the better of him before we reached our destination and he attempted to relieve me of my own hard-earned case. A firefight ensued, leaving him and my partner dead, and his daughter fleeing back to their pod. I figured the girl was still my best hope of getting off the planet so I set out to find her. I eventually caught up with her, only to find her pod incapacitated and smoking and when I attempted to breach the entrance, I took a thrower bolt to the shoulder. She was feisty, I’ll give her that…”

Ezra smiled and the memory of his and Cee’s first meeting. While at the time he was in pain and exasperated with her, he admired her tenacity and cool-headed negotiation skills. He’d never seen a girl in the green at all, but he’d never met a girl like Cee, period. The woman’s expression had changed from one of mild amusement to genuine interest. She waited intently for Ezra to continue, her brow knitted slightly in concentration.

“She gave me a field kit to patch up my shoulder and we got to finding a mutually beneficial agreement to get us both off the moon. She could have taken me out then and there as recompense for my hand in her father’s death, but fortunately for me, she concluded I was her best bet at getting off the planet alive. We reached an accord wherein she would lead me to the mercenaries, and I would act as harvester in order for us to bargain our way onto their ship. Seemed a straightforward enough plan. However after walking for some time, it became apparent the toxic dust had made its way into my shoulder wound causing it to suppurate. By chance, we stumbled across a lone Sater who led us to his camp. We didn’t have much to trade, and Sater are notoriously difficult to deal with, but I didn’t have much choice; I could feel infection taking hold. I offered what little we had in exchange for medical supplies to treat my wound, but they had other plans. Their leader offered medical supplies and a great deal of Aurelac… in exchange for the girl.”

The woman’s eyebrows shot up, her eyes wide. She was genuinely invested in the story now. "So what did you do?" she asked in awe.

"Well, I knew that no matter how much Aurelac I had, if I couldn't get off that planet, I'd have no chance to make use of its value. And since the girl was my only way to find the mercs and my last shot at getting on a ship, I couldn't make that deal. The idea of what those religious zealots would do to her made my stomach turn. As I was buying time to come up with a counter offer, my young friend made other plans. She took off running as quick as she could. She was fast enough that she was out of sight before they managed to catch her. I cannot fault her for her actions though. She had no reason to believe I wouldn't sell her out. To her I was just a thief and a murderer using her to get a ride home. In truth, I was growing quite fond of her and had no intentions of allowing harm to befall her. Without her though, I was useless to the Sater and they ejected me from their camp with nothing. I staggered through the thick forest of the planet, filter spent, arm septic and painful, until I came to an abandoned prospecting camp. With what little supplies that were left I attempted to excise the infected flesh, but I only made it worse. My options were two: die painfully and slowly as the infection spread, or amputate the affected limb before it got into my blood.”

The woman now looked somewhat horrified. Her eyes moved down to his shoulder again, then back up to his eyes. Mixed in with the horror was something else: pity. Another reason Ezra didn’t like telling the story, or even talking about it, really. People ended up feeling sorry for him and he hated it. An heroic story of sacrificing his arm to a giant, fanged beast in order to save his crew garnered him much less pity, even if it was obviously a fabrication. But there it was in her eyes, unmistakable. “So… how did you do it?” she asked, with some trepidation.

“I knew I could not manage it on my own, so in desperation I put a call out on the radio hoping that someone in the vicinity would hear me. I cycled through all the channels just hoping I would reach anyone, as risky as it was to broadcast my location in a place where most people's intentions are justifiably self-preservatory. Just as I began to lose hope, I heard someone approach. Weak as I was, I waited by the door of the tent to surprise them should I judge them dangerous at first glance. The tent unzipped and a blaster poked through first, which I grabbed before tugging it’s owner into the tent and shoving them to the floor. You cannot imagine my surprise when I saw who it was: the young girl. Filter spent and near starving. I had no idea if she would help; she still had no reason to trust me, though when she asked if I would have left her to the Sater I told her truthfully I would not have. She must have believed me because she agreed to help. With nothing but a syrette of anaesthetic for me and a small e-scalpel for her, she got the job done. Didn’t wince, didn’t flinch. Cool, calm and collected, the whole time.” He shook his head and smiled, remembering just how levelheaded Cee had been. He’d been so impressed. “I, on the other hand, was a babbling mess.” He chuckled.

The woman held up a hand to interject. “Do you mean to tell me that a teenage girl cut off your arm in a dirty tent with only a scalpel and a single injection of pain relief?”

“That is the truth, yes.”

“Well, first of all, this story is way more interesting than some tale of beasts and heroics!”

Ezra chuckled. He knew it was, but that didn’t ease his discomfort in telling it. The woman shook her head in astonishment. “So… what happened? Did you find the mercs? Did you find the Aurelac deposit??”

Ezra nodded. “We did. We finally located them and after some hard bargaining we secured passage on their ship in return for harvesting the Aurelac they’d found. It was indeed a bountiful site.” Ezra knew he was seriously skipping over some details of the final part of the story, but she had asked how he had lost his arm, not about the scar on his chest, that still, to this day, ached in the cold. He rubbed at the scar absently as he thought about the last, few, horrifying events on the moon before they finally escaped. This woman did not need to know that he couldn’t harvest one-handed. That they had had to resort to shooting their way out. That he had received a stab wound to the chest and then used a scalpel to the throat in bloody retaliation. That he had watched Cee run into the darkness after he insisted she get off the moon while she still could, only to have her return to him and save his life. Again. The sadness and relief he felt when he saw her and she sprayed his wound with the cream and helped him to the ship. No. She didn’t need to know these details. They were for Ezra alone.

As it was, the woman’s mouth hung open in awe. “And… what happened to the girl?”

Ezra downed the last of his drink and smiled sadly. He missed Cee. He had grown accustomed to her presence in his life and enjoyed being her guardian, as surprised as he was by this. The woman took this response to mean the worst.

“Kevva, I’m so sorry, I--”

Ezra shook his head adamantly and held up his hand, “no, no. She’s fine. She attends a boarding school back in Central. Brightest in her year. We exchange correspondence every week, her missives filled with stories and details of her life and school, far more interesting and colourful than the stories I’ve told tonight. I think she’ll publish a book before she’s even graduated.” He couldn’t hide how proud he was of her.

The woman smiled and it was the first genuine smile Ezra had seen from her all night. It lit up her face and made her eyes sparkle. Eyes that were now filled not with pity, or doubt as they had earlier, but with understanding and kindness. She held out her left hand to better shake his. “Ezra, I’m Ida.”

Ezra took her hand. “Ida. It is a pleasure to meet you. Now, do you have any harrowing tales you would like to recount in return?”

She let out a loud laugh and tossed her head back, her flaming hair swishing under her hood. “Let’s have another drink and see where the night takes us.” She flagged down the barman.

Ezra figured that if he thought about it, there was a lesson to be learned here about the benefits that honesty and discomfort brings, but for now he was happy just to enjoy Ida’s company a while longer.

#Prospect 2018 #ezra prospect #fanfic #pedro pascal #pedro pascal fic

17 notes · View notes

daring-elm · 4 years

Text

untitled

characters: patton sanders

words: 854

warnings: depression

———

patton was tired. he couldn't say why; he couldn't explain why it seemed like the world had gone grey despite the bright colours shining down on him from his walls, from the beautiful postcards his friends left him, from the army of plushies on his bed. patton was surrounded by evidence that he was cared for, cared about, loved, and he still felt so, so alone.

patton was tired. the world was a weight on his shoulders; another brick piled onto an enormous stack of things he heard and gathered until the worry crushed him like a bug under an uncaring heel. there was so much pain in the world. there was so much pain that patton tried to alleviate—with each sweet word he hoped that kindness would spread, that he even had a chance at approaching all the hurt the people around him held and that he had a chance to fix them.

patton was tired. he loved his friends, his family—he loved them so much he felt his heart might explode, stuffed to the brim with memories and gifts and kind words and inside jokes that never seemed to stick. patton felt horribly selfish even thinking it, but he felt that there was more love he sent out than would ever return to him. it should be enough for him; it should have been enough for him to see a soft smile on roman's face after soothing his insecurities; it should have been enough to see the light in logan's eyes after he listened and did his best to understand (and even when he didn't understand, he pretended to—he would rather die than let logan know he couldn't follow the things he said); it should have been enough to watch virgil get closer to him, to them. it should have been enough of a reward to get to care for them so deeply.

patton wrote poetry sometimes. he never shared it—why, he didn't know. he didn't expect rejection; he didn't expect criticism—but he did expect everyone to silently compare it to roman's masterpieces and see it fall flat. it was hard to be creative when one of your closest friends was better than you at everything you even attempted. it was hard not to feel detached—writing helped, it helped patton work through the emotions he had been pushing down for too long; the ones he didn't let himself feel. his poetry was raw, was frankly depressing and often could barely even be considered a poem, but it helped.

but patton was tired. he couldn't write his way out of this one—he couldn't try, not when he knew that he would hide it or tear it up and still secretly hope that someone, anyone would find it, someone would understand. patton was empty. he had the world resting on his shoulders, and even though he had put it there himself (he couldn't help but put it there himself and try to fix it blindly, try to help in any way possible) he was wilting under the pressure. patton was empty and so, so tired.

the world was grey. it had been like that for a while, now—patton did what he could to fill it with colour, with laughter and light and hope, but if he looked closely he could see the corners of the room lose colour, the bleakness creeping in on him, slowly but surely, knowing he couldn't keep up the fight. often, he didn't fight it—he let it take him; let the hopelessness drag him under, let himself drown in the grey.

it wasn't even darkness. it wasn't a pitch black evil you could heroically overcome—there was nothing especially cruel about the grey. it wasn't good, and it wasn't evil. it just was, and sometimes, it didn't hurt to lose control. sometimes it was okay to feel numb, to see the room around him fade until nothing felt real.

the others had their demons to fight in battles worth telling stories about, battles against the demons their minds created, battles that left them scarred, yes, but also stronger to show for it. patton was there, had always been there to help them, to be a shoulder to cry on when they couldn't keep going, to guide them until they could brandish their weapon and defeat anything in their way.

patton had no such war to fight. he just had the deep, sad grey that wrapped around him like a blanket and held him in place like a cage. patton had long accepted it—he didn't need a glorious tale, a campfire story to tell. for him, there was no light at the end of the tunnel—it had never gone dark. his story wasn't one you told, and that was okay.

patton was tired, just tired. one day, the world would be less grey again, and one day, he would fight tooth and nail to prevent it from losing colour again. one day, he would have forgotten what it felt like to live in a world without colour.

today was not that day. today, patton was tired and today the grey welcomed him.

#patton angst #sanders sides #patton sanders #fics #angst #casey's writing #casey's oneshots #behold: my stuff #casey's notes #i'm sorry for this my creativity is just not doing so well right now #but to be fair neither is any other part of me #long post #depression #depression tw

45 notes · View notes

charliejrogers · 4 years

Text

Gone With the Wind (Or, Why are we still talking about this?)

Beyond the second Godfather, Titanic, Avengers: Endgame, The Irishman, and Tarantino at his most indulgent (The Hateful 8) my experience with films over the 180-min mark is rather paltry. I haven’t seen many of those epic “classics” of days past, not because of disinterest, just lack of time. I’ll get to you yet, Doctor Zhivago! But that’s not the case for Gone With the Wind: I just never had any interest. Though I love Titanic, I never had interest in watching a four-hour love story from the 1930s. And for all it’s praise, I never knew anyone who had seen it, nor did I hear a lot of praise about it on online forums/websites. Perhaps because the internet tends to dominated by male voices who would rather tout gangster films than the passionate drama I was led to believe this film was. In sum, I just sort of took it for granted that Gone With the Wind was some all-time classic, but one which I would just never get around to seeing, and I was ok with that.

That changed in 2018, when Spike Lee used a scene from the film to start his own movie BlacKkKlansmen. Before this, I had never known there was ever any controversy surrounding a move that was supposedly as good if not better than Casablanca. Lee used the scene from Gone With the Wind (in addition to a scene from The Birth of a Nation) to criticize the way Hollywood has long served as a bastion for white supremacy, giving voice and platform to hateful speech and thoughts. In the case of Gone With the Wind, that means a work which embodies those hateful thoughts, and yet has been celebrated and praised despite doing so ad nauseum for 80+ years. At that point, I lost even more interest in the film, now not wanting to watch a racist movie.

Fast-forward to 2020 in the wake of George Floyd’s murder (among many other Black people killed by police recently and throughout American history) when HBO is under severe controversy for first putting Gone With the Wind on its streaming service, and then subsequently under more controversy for taking it down. A debate took place about censorship, free speech, and the other bullshit conservatives use to sustain their own beliefs while hypocritically arguing against when things don’t go their way. Regardless, for myself, in order to enter into the debate informed I felt like I wanted to know what the hubbub was all about. Frankly, I was curious to see why a movie that was so obviously racist was so adored.

Three hours and forty-five minutes later, I’m not really that sure. On the one hand, putting myself in the shoes of an audience member in 1939, the first half would have blown me away, with the drama taking place in Georgia at the very start of the Civil War up through its grand destruction under General Sherman. The colors and cinematography capturing the landscape of Georgia are just downright beautiful , unlike anything that had been in films prior. Yes, it’s not the first movie to be shot in color (nor was the Wizard of Oz which came out just 4 months prior), but I can’t imagine films before this were as devastatingly beautiful. Everything from the colors of the women’s dresses to the multiple picture-perfect sunsets pops out and catches your eye, and not in the fairytale, bubblegum way of Wizard of Oz. Gone With the Wind captures the natural beauty and colors of our world, and put it on display in a grand way. The cinematography really deserves every praise it gets.

The recurrent motif of characters’ shadows being casted onto the wall behind them during key emotional scenes was one I never tired of. Not only are the shadows beautifully captured by the camera, but, especially in a movie where every character seems to have a secret passion they refuse to express, the shadows strip away all our external beauties (make-up, facial features, dresses, and all the stuff this film has in spades), leaving us with figures that are still obviously human and whose feelings are immediately understood. All that is needed to convey grief is to see two shadows with the heads hung low.

The other positives of this film? Clark Gable is a handsome fucking man. He walks the fine line of confidence and smug so well that few others than, say, Brad Pitt could have ever performed the role of Rhett Butler so well. I particularly loved how he portrayed his relationship with his daughter, and the genuine love he showers upon her. Yes, he obviously spoils the child, but he’s so charming and so sincere that rarely have I seen such devoting love from father to daughter on screen, even 80 years later. As one character says, “there must be a great deal of good in a man who would love a child so much.”

But Rhett’s also kind of a despicable human being. He’s a brutish MAN, who loves his daughter because she is someone he can finally “completely own,” (an interesting choice of words said by a Southerner just after the Civil War) which is indicative of his philosophy towards love. Yes, love should be reciprocal, but his idea that his wife should exist in strict subservient, obedient love to him is ridiculous, yet he pursues it like it’s his right. He is otherwise prone to petty jealousy and drunkenness, and he is emotionally abuse toward his wife, Scarlett O’Hara (Vivien Leigh). It’s uncomfortable today to watch these scenes of abuse, like where he threatens to crush her skull to get the thoughts of another man out of her head, or where, after O’Hara makes abundantly clear that she never wants sex with Butler again, he in a drunken fit picks her up in order to carry her to bed, saying essentially “I know you said you didn’t want to but I’m going to fuck you.” After such deplorable behavior in a movie today, there would at least be ambiguity about Butler’s character or morality. Nope, not here. We see O’Hara the next morning essentially elated by the burst of passion that just a few hours earlier she was dreading and resisting. Throughout everything, Butler is held up as one of the film’s main heroes, growing from the film’s start as a noble rapscallion who values money too much and gradually evolves into a war hero who earns his people’s respect by protecting his people (and we’ll for argument’s sake just ignore that “protecting his people” means protecting men accused of doling out vigilante, lynch-mob justice which we can only assume implies the KKK). In sum, he’s a complex and charismatic character played wonderfully by Gable, but a character nevertheless that is problematic and would have been better served by a film as willing to highlight these problems as they are willing to highlight them in the film’s protagonist Scarlett O’Hara.

Yes, I’m a thousand words in, and I haven’t even started talking about the actual main character. The movie, for as much as it is discussed as being a love story between O’Hara and Butler or an ode to the Old South, is more a coming-of-age tale (in its first half) and a character study (in its second) focused on O’Hara. She starts the film out a vain, self-indulgent belle of the ball, but faced with the horrors of war and subsequent poverty, she becomes an embodiment of the rotten side of the American Dream: greedy, self-indulgent, and out-of-touch with the world she came from. I suppose that at the end of the film, abandoned by her husband, having lost both of her children, as well as her best friend, O’Hara’s revelation that she should return home to her family’s plantation is supposed to be suggest that she will seek redemption and give up her excesses. That’s fine with me, but I’m not sure the film deserves to just end it there and not allow us to see if she actually earns that redemption. I’m not saying I want MORE Gone With the Wind, just that the story feels incomplete in telling O’Hara’s full story arc.

Still, I can’t say I didn’t enjoy watching O’Hara’s tale unfold. It is always somewhat refreshing to watch film from decades’ past that refuse to present stories that are morally simple (not that I think people in the 30’s were incapable of complex morality, just that movies at the time tend to reflect more simple black-and-white values). To that extent, O’Hara is not a simple character, and is actually quite fascinating. She’s a ruthless capitalist and opportunist, much in the vain of her male counterpart, Butler. I’m curious to know how, for a country just starting to crawl its way out of the Depression and which in just a few short years would see the rise of Rosie the Riveter women, how O’Hara’s devotion to never be in poverty ever again (even if she has to “lie, steal, cheat, or kill”!) was perceived by audiences. Specifically, released at a time when gender norms were all but fixed, I wonder how men thought of her taking advantage of, and almost weaponizing, her femininity for her advantage, marrying three times not out of love but to better herself and survive. Yet, hypocritically she clings to the ideals of femininity of the past. Her use of her femininity to survive she accepts, yet she abhors the film’s stereotypical heart-of-gold prostitute for her moral licentiousness despite her good nature.

Throughout the film, especially in the later half, it was unclear to me how much we as the audience were supposed to like or dislike O’Hara. Yes, she’s hard-working, resilient, and acts heroically multiple times in the film. But she’s also kind of a child til the very end, obscenely jealous, while also cold and calculating, counting down the days til her best friend dies so that she can sleep with her husband. I liked that ambiguity. It made her feel like a real person. To some degree Leigh’s performance as O’Hara is undercut by histrionics and bouts of “hysteria” that were more common in film performances from that time, but which seem a little annoying and grating today. But damn if it isn’t a great performance, display the full emotional range in this film, from buoyantly bright and cheery, to desperate and despaired.

So yeah, I guess I do get why it’s considered a classic, or at least why it made such a splash in 1939. There was nothing like it! The cinematography is great, its characters are fascinating, complex, and engrossing, and the performances (by Gable in particular) are wonderful. But the elephant in the room, then but especially now, is that… damn… this movie is racist, like in its DNA. They double down on this at the VERY START! The fourth shot of the movie (FOURTH!), after first showing a sign announcing the studio who produced the film, then a look at the plantation-like building bearing the studio’s name, and finally some clouds at daybreak, is of slaves tending to crops. The image is set to a triumphant score while the overlaying text tells us that the movie will be based on Margaret Mitchell’s “Story of the Old South.” This is not done ironically. With the beautiful landscape and music, we as audience are to think, “Wow, what a great time this was.” At the end of the opening credits, the prologue text tells us that the antebellum South was the last in a long line of great lands. It’s the last time “gallantry” would exist, and “the last ever to be seen of Knights and their Ladies Fair, or Master and of Slave.” Holy Shit. As if “Master and Slave” is something to celebrate?! “Those damn Yankees would destroy such a beautiful world!” the film argues. Again… not presented ironically. It’s pretty jarring.

That said, I do want to say that to a minimal degree that film is right when it just presents War (with a capital W) in general as a destructive force that either destroys lives outright, or destroys enough property to send lives to ruin. That’s a truth propagated by media as far back as the Iliad, and is sometimes shown effectively here, such as the oft-discussed slow-pan show of the countless Confederate bodies lying dead on the ground mid-way through the film. It’s a depressing sight on an apolitical human level. But, at the same time, the movie’s inability and refusal to address the reason those bodies are there in the first place (racist need to continue slavery), and instead obliquely suggest that the Antebellum South was without any suffering until those damn Yankees brought them ruin is, frankly, insulting and disgusting. It outright ignores the suffering of Black people in favor of highlighting the suffering of whites. A tale unfortunately told ab aeterno in America.

I know others can, have, and will say more about the treatment of Black characters within the film and how they serve only to reinforce negative stereotypes. Mammy, despite being wonderfully acted by Hattie McDaniel, and other house slaves are presented as being eternally grateful to have been enslaved to their white masters, so much so that even after the war they continue to serve them --- because why would they ever want to do differently?! (the film seemingly asks and answers). After the war, Scarlett is more than willing to accept that her lumber mill should be worked by convicts who will be paid less than other workers and suffer harsh treatment, arguing that it is no different than slavery and that has always been ok. WHAT?! And Prissy, the slave who reassures Scarlett that she knows everything about birthing babies, up until the point where her knowledge is needed and she turns out to be nothing more than an airheaded twit, has to be one of the ugliest depictions of a slave I have seen. Particularly, she serves little more than really bad comic relief… with the joke seemingly just being “wow look at how stupid and annoying slaves were.”

This is more than I intended to write, so I won’t go on, but I think everything I had to say has been said. It’s a beautifully shot film, with rich, deep, and complex characters that would be even better served in a movie more willing to dive into the moral ambiguity of their characters, and for Butler in particular not bend over backwards to make him look like a good guy. And I get why it made such an impact 80 years ago, especially in that first half where there’s all the excitement of war and some notable action set-pieces. But even taking out the significant problems the movie has with race, it’s hard for me to understand anyone considers this essential viewing for anyone today besides those with an interest in cinematography, film history, or interested in how race is presented on screen. Its proto-feminist Scarlett O’Hara and her role within an evolving economy and evolving societal ideas of what “love” is are interesting, but they certainly not things that are worth the average viewer’s nearly four hours’ worth of time. It’s a museum piece, one that captured the spirit of a time (and the decades beyond it) where Hollywood felt it was completely OK to romanticize life under slavery, and bemoan its destruction by Yankees. If you want to see this museum piece, go ahead, but don’t let anyone convince you it’s one of the all-time greats.

***/ (Three and a half out of four stars)

Capsule Review: Long movie with great performances and beautiful cinematography... also racist to its core.

#gone with the wind #clark gable #vivien leigh #this movie is racist

4 notes · View notes

themilky-way · 5 years

Text

Different Colors {p.p}

gif credit: mentioned above!

pairing: peter parker x stark!reader

summary: you and peter develop a friendship as you help each other cope with the aftermath of Endgame.

warnings: some angst?? and there are some minor hints of depression and I am not trying to romanticize it so please, if you notice some errors and mistakes w how I wrote it, let me know so I can fix! and this contains some endgame spoilers so if you haven't seen it, I recommend you don’t read this and skip it! this doesn’t contain ffh spoilers so no need to worry!

author’s note: this is more platonic than romantic so I wanted to try out something new! also I'm in my peter parker feels bc this hoe watched far from home so request some peter stuff folks. additionally, does the “keep reading” thing work for ya’ll? its being a b to me on my laptop but it works on my phone so lemme know

----------

life after the final war was difficult. smiling and pushing forward was hard enough on its own. you felt numb and weak, despite putting on a mask of strength for your family and everyone around you. your father, one of the most important figures in your life and in the entire universe, had left. bright images adorned every street you walked through, framed family portraits roamed every corridor in your home, your supposed safe haven.

you tried your very best to keep going, to put in your mind the fact that tony stark died heroically and to save the universe. at the start of every new day, you told yourself these exact words so you would move on. but, nonetheless, you simply couldn’t. it was at these points in your life where you envied your sister’s youth. morgan was too young to fully comprehend the death of her father and, thus, didn’t grieve as deeply as the others did.

you eventually started disappearing to the rest of the avenger’s, who were now dispersed mentally amongst themselves, but still lived at the headquarters. your visits would be less frequent and when you did go, it was only to deliver some personal drawings morgan would make of them in school. sometimes, if the group was lucky, you would actually come inside for a quick chat.

back home wasn't any different either. pepper would notice the full plates of food in the fridge you refused to eat, using the lame excuse of “I’m just not hungry tonight.” your bedroom lights were now always off and replaced with a candle you lit 24/7 next to a picture of tony. the house was quiet. everything that had to do with your persona was now excruciatingly quiet.

worried for her daughter’s wellbeing, pepper found herself dialing a number she never would have called. her shaking, skinny fingers pressed each digit on the phone screen and finally hit the call button. she pressed it against her ear and prayed, on everything that has ever been sacred, that the child on the other end would pick up. and when they finally did, their voice audibly breaking as yours now always did, things began to change.

you, the daughter of a famous billionaire and hero to the universe, met peter parker a month after tony’s funeral. you opened the door to your dim-lighted room to come face to face with your mom, a young boy who looked about your age, and your sister, morgan.

pepper’s eyes looked red from crying and so did the boy’s, whilst morgan’s were confused and worrisome. your eyes, however, were tired and dark circles now adorned your once soft features. you were scared that something had happened, senses toppling with one another as you tried to register any other dangers to your family.

“mom, what’s going on? are you alright, did anything happen? mo, are you sick?” your voice was hoarse and came out in strangled vowels as your eyes questioned everyone there.

“we’re doing alright, bub, no need to worry. is it alright if we come in to talk to you?” pepper asked. you agreed, and stepped aside so everyone could pass through.

as everyone made their way into your room, you sat down crisscross on one side as pepper and morgan sat in front of you. the boy, unlike your mother and sister, stood awkwardly at the end of your bed.

“(y/n), this is peter parker, the one with the stark internship. peter, you can come closer if you’d like,” pepper said as she motioned to peter. the boy obliged, inching a few steps forward with his hands in the pockets of his black jeans.

“um, hey peter, I guess?” your hands fiddled with each other in your lap as you said so, but you managed to look up at peter, who in turn looked away in a shy manner. flicking your eyes back to pepper’s, before asking her what this was all about.

“well, honey, ever since your father passed away, you’ve been distant and I understand we’re all still coping with it. but I-we-have noticed that you’re isolating yourself and have completely lost communication with us.” your mom’s hands reached over to cover yours, which were nervously shaking. “(y/n), we all miss him. we all loved him. but if we don’t let the pain from our past go, we can’t heal.”

amidst your mom’s speech, you couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment where you had let your emotions get the best of you. you felt the salty taste of your tears run down your lips and neck as you made no effort in wiping them away. you needed to get it out.

that’s when peter and morgan handed you a tissue and you looked up to see their outstretched hands holding the thin material towards you. you took the tissue from both of them, using one to wipe your eyes and the other to blow your nose. peter, who was still in an awkward position, stepped in.

“it’s y/n), right?” he paused as you gave him a nod. “I know we don’t know each other at all but your mom asked me to come check on you. I agreed because I figured we both lost a father, and we could help each other as best we could.”

“my dad talked about you a lot. after the snap, he would always dedicate his evenings to finding out a solution. he really did love you as a son. morgan and I just never got a chance to meet you,” you recited. peter was listening intently as you spoke with his arms crossed over his chest, eyes beginning to fill with tears at your words.

pepper was quiet amongst your first interaction with peter. this is what she wanted. she wanted to know what and how you felt, your thoughts that have been running through your head since her husband’s sacrifice. and she knew she didn't make a mistake when you began to open up.

pepper motioned to morgan to give you and peter some time to talk and morgan happily obeyed her mom. they both got up from the bed which caused you to face them with a confused expression.

your mother acknowledged your confusion and spoke with a calm and quiet tone, “we’re gonna let you guys talk for a while, is that okay, honey? peter?”

“I-uh-um yeah that's fine, mom,” you said. you shifted to face peter to find an answer and for a few seconds his gaze switched between you and pepper. “yeah that's totally fine. there’s things that I need to get out of my chest, too.”

your mom smiled lightly and took Morgan’s tiny hand in her own as she walked out of the room. before closing the door completely, morgan’s free hand raised to give you a small wave and you returned it, a genuine smile crossing your features for the first time in a while. the door shut, the light that was once in your room leaving alongside the two people you loved.

you leaned over to turn the lamp on your nightstand on, the light momentarily blinding you because you had become used to a darker ambient. both you and peter had a chance to appropriately greet each other and offered him the chair from your desk.

afterwards, you both sat across from each other and simply talked. it was a conversation that neither of you expected to be comforting, but it was. feelings and emotions escaped out of you and you swore that you felt your heart began to stitch itself back together.

and that’s how it was from that point on. you and peter began to hang out a couple times per week; helping him out with a spider-man problem or even as simple as solving a physics equation was enough to bring you both back to the joy of being in the real world. he, in turn, organized days where you, peter, and morgan would play UNO card sessions while pepper and aunt may chatted.

with your mom, you began to tell her how you felt and everything that had been locked up within you was shared. because of that, you and pepper grew closer as a mother and daughter.

it was a genuine friendship that was formed by the most devastating circumstances. the avengers, you and your family, and peter were finally able to see the world in different colors.

#peter parker x reader #peter parker imagine #peter parker #avenger endgame #tom holland #tom holland imagine #tom holland x reader #spider-man #spiderman homecoming #tony stark #avengers #avengers endgame spoilers #marvel imagines #marvel

142 notes · View notes

donnerpartyofone · 4 years

Text

had to post this via browser because I forgot the app cannot handle text posts longer than a couple of sentences.

I gotta drink filtered water because of this problem I have where I can't process copper very well and it makes me insane. I thought I had ordered myself a bunch of replacement filters for my stupid pitcher a while ago, but after a couple days of looking, I decided that wasn't true. So I ordered some new ones, and when they didn't arrive, I realized I had done something wrong in the ordering process and had to do it again. Fine, whatever. I'm thirsty from all this annoyance, so I go to get a can of green tea out of the fridge, when the guard thingy explodes out of the refrigerator door, dumping the full 11-cup water pitcher onto the floor, where it shatters. I have no paper towels; I've been indoors for almost three weeks straight due to a sprained ankle, because of which I had to abandon some groceries at the store this morning--by the time I realized I forgot them, my ankle hurt too much from my heroic journey to double back and get them. So I have to mop up the floor with my bath towel and change the clothes I had just put on to try to look nice, which I thought would make me feel better about being trapped indoors. I order a new pitcher which will supposedly get here tomorrow, although who knows because I just found out haphazardly that something else I ordered has been sitting at the post office for days waiting for me to independently figure out that I personally have to schedule its delivery, since they supposedly tried to deliver it a few days ago when my ankle and I were absolutely sitting at home hearing narry a ring nor a knock and there was no delivery attempt notification slip to be found. After all that, I have no idea where my canned beverage went. It is absolutely nowhere to seen in my tiny apartment. I spend hours of my day, about 5 days a week, doing stuff like this: looking for things so arduously that I sweat through my clean clothes and slough off all my makeup, breaking things I absolutely need, and just generally struggling through my own life as if it were an obstacle course that I have absolutely no familiarity with. I hate it because it's depressing and tiring and it makes me feel stupid, but also, because there's things I want to do with my life, and I can't imagine how I'm supposed to do any of them when I have to spend all my time fighting and losing a doomed battle for basic human functionality. I'm trying to finish this big writing project, to which end I read that On Writing book by Stephen King which everybody loves so much, but my problem isn't so much that I need instruction--it's that I don't know how to navigate my personal problems well enough to even have the energy left to do anything worth while. Reading Stephen King's quasi-memoir about being a writer made me really aware of how much can be done in a day by someone who is not impeded by gnawing self-loathing, and how much can be said by someone who, uh, has something to say that most people can relate to. Mental problems like depression and this generalized incompetence can make every day of your life feel like a trip to the DMV: You don't want to do it, there is nothing you can do to make it easier, and there's nothing left of your day after you're done. I should be writing a few hours every day, but I have to spend like 60% of my life just cleaning up after the mistakes I make during the other 40% . I started taking these expensive ketamine treatments just to manage the misery of the daily guarantee that I won't get anything done and nothing good will happen. I actually am getting better at coping as a result, but when I tried to explain this to some of the people in my life, more than one of them leapt to the conclusion that the drug therapy will help me stop being such a fucking disaster area. Um, no, nothing is going to make me smarter or more competent ever because if that drug existed, everybody would be on it, I thought it was obvious that I'm getting treatment to help me avoid jumping off a cliff...just further evidence that most people do not have my level of problems and in fact, they can't even imagine it without introducing science fiction ideas into the mix. Ah, the many splendors of invisible ailments, nobody really thinks they exist, no matter what they say to your face... A little while ago I posted this thing here where I was trying very hard to vividly capture the relentless ugliness I see in the world around me, which I thought of as something bordering on a suicide note, and my dad saw it, and told me it was one of the funniest things he had read in a long time. I was sort of horrified, but hey, he's a real writer, maybe he knows better than I do. I might think I can't say anything that the general public can relate to, but maybe if I just write my most sincere thoughts as earnestly as possible, then I can have a bright future in comedy.

10 notes · View notes

cynnied-writes · 5 years

Text

Perfect Imperfections

○ paring: kralsei ( kris x ralsei )

○ genre/warnings: pure unadulterated fluff with a bit of angst

○ word count: 3.5k

→ summary: ralsei is coming to visit and, after days of deliberation, kris knows exactly where to bring him.

○ note: so this is the kralsei thing I said I was working on over on @cynnied-art. I hope you enjoy!

Kris’ hometown was a barren land of clinical depression and midlife crises. Filled to the brim with literally nothing to do.

And yes, they’ve checked.

All you can do is; eat at the diner, hang out in the school’s playground, stare at the lake for hours… Get a concussion? Soon realize that, in the grand scheme of the universe, nothing you do will ever matter? Oh, there’s also a pizza place that doesn’t technically even serve pizza.

This is the bad place if you were wondering.

For Kris, this was all common knowledge. They had known this since they were twelve. And yet here they were. Still sitting at their computer. Bathed in the pale, artificial glow of the screen at 5 am in the morning. Trying to find something, anything, to do. But, after wasting their finite time on the interwebz, a realization dawned on them. Their search was, in fact, fruitless.

They let out an extended groan. Slumping into their computer chair at the sight of the miles of empty space on Google Maps. This was hopeless. They lived in a tiny town. A tiny town in the middle of nowhere. With the closest city being three long hours away. And if they spent one more minute looking at a screen their eyes would die.

A softer sigh fell as they pushed away from the desk. Kris stretched as they stood up on wobbly legs. Their bones popping back into place. They exhaled dramatically. Ending the exaggerated motion slouched over like an exhausted Sim.

This was so lame. SO LAME!

Their boyfriend was coming tomorrow and they had nothing special planned. All because of their stupid, boring hometown. Sure, they could laze around on the monkey bars again. Share another milkshake at the diner? Or you know, contemplate the meaning of life for a couple of hours. For the second time. Ralsei wouldn’t mind. But that’s the reason for all the mounting stress.

He wouldn’t care. He’d be happy to spend time with them. The duo could be in the ninth ring of hell and he’d still say it was a pretty good date. He’ll never expect any more than their simple presence. He’s just so…

Perfect.

Too perfect.

And Kris wasn’t.

Their legs were too long. Hair’s too shaggy. Mannerisms too odd. Mind and soul too fucked up. The immediate willingness to eat moss off a dungeon floor kinda solidified that.

And, yet…

Ralsei still smiled at them with eyes filled with galaxies. Blushed whenever he caught them gazing. Said words that only held a genuine affection. Sang them the kinds of songs only Disney princesses sang to their true loves.

His words might stutter or his lyrics might be on the cheesy side but, man…

These trips to the surface he makes… to visit them? To visit a creepy, loner that could barely hold a conversation? In their mind, there was no other option. His visits had to be special.

Kris’ feet dragged across their bedroom floor. A hundred percent ready to crash into bed. They shuffled before a strand of light caught them by surprise. Not taking in that tomorrow was now today.

The bright beam stung as Kris ran to close the curtains. Their hands paused, though. Gripping the rough fabric, they peered through the gap between them.

Orange and pink hues blended in the early morning sky. Contrasting against the shadowed tree line, the sun slowly rose. Its rays stretching across the horizon.

Any hint of drowsiness they had slipped into the background. Their soul lost its usual burdensome weight at the sight. Memories from a time almost forgotten reemerged in Kris’ mind.

Sitting high up. So high, it felt like they were in another world. Looking off into the distance. The same orangish colours surrounded them. Cool breezes brought golden leaves with them. Warmth seeped from the knitted scarf around their neck. Warmth seeped from the loved ones who were near.

Everything was… perfect.

Oh.

In that moment, as they stared out of their window, enchanted by the sunrise, they knew.

They just knew. This was the view Ralsei deserved to see.The two teens snuck out of Kris’ home shy of twenty-four hours later.

The two teens snuck out of Kris’ home shy of twenty-four hours later.

With hands interlocked and fog all around them, they made their way across town. The sharpness of the air filled their noses. They kept their voices hushed and footsteps quick. Up above them the navy blue blanket of the night began to brighten. Slowly changing shades in the sky above.

Ralsei let a yawn escape him.

A few moments ago his steady had the honour of waking his tired form. Though the gesture was as old as time, a heroic knight waking a sleeping princess, this time it wasn’t with a kiss. His knight’s methods involved things like poking his side and harsh whispers. Not exactly fairy tale material but accuracy is a small price to pay.

Especially because he got to experience the wondrous things that are sleepovers. Sleeping in Kris’ room. Sleeping in Kris’ bed. Hogging all the blankets because they smell like sunshine. Kris didn’t seem to appreciate that last one. But, they also didn’t appreciate nice smelling sheets like he did.

Although, one caveat dampened the experience a bit. They had to forgo the “sleeping-in” part of a sleepover. No waking up to strands of light coming from the curtains. No smell of breakfast drifting from downstairs.

Nope, only waking up before the sun was even awake and sneaking through the streets. Like a couple of rapscallions.

Guess he still had much to learn.

Their feet finally crunched on fallen leaves as Kris brought him to the Flower King. Or rather, the side of it. His steady let go of his paw, using their spare hand to rummage through their inventory pockets.

Earlier in the day, Kris had waltzed into their father’s shop. Locked in loaded with a puppy-dog grin and years of unused “child of divorce” brownie points. They also maybe over-exaggerated their driving abilities a bit.

Okay, maybe a lot.

But, nonetheless, his truck would be back in its spot before 9 am and in the exact way he left it. As promised. Most likely. As long as they didn’t have to parallel park at any point.

With a startling beep, their father’s truck unlocked. The duo got in and tried to settle into their seats. Both a bit nervous about the endeavour. Kris more about the actual act of driving and Ralsei about the defiance.

He sank into the worn, leather seats as he began to worry. It was one of his oldest pastimes. His thoughts endlessly spinning worse and worse outcomes of his current situation.

This excursion couldn’t end well, right? There were a thousand different ways it could all go wrong.

Before he could spiral down any further, Ralsei jumped out of his thoughts as the old truck burst to life. The engine began to rumble. All the tiny lights and icons along the dash started flickering. While the soothing tones of John Denver drifted through the radio.

“Are you sure about this, Kris?”

They glanced up from adjusting the driver’s seat height to their size instead of their father’s. They tilted their head as a simple reply.

“Kriiiiiss.” He scolded, understanding their unspoken sentiment. It’s not like he didn’t know they were a teen of few words before they had started dating.

Continuing their silence, Kris’ head only tilted further. Resembling a ninety-degree angle instead of one belonging to a proper steady. Ralsei sighed, “You know what I mean. There’s no way your mother’s going to be okay with this.”

A shrug for a reply.

“How about we go for breakfast at the dinner from the second time I came? Those checkered things we had were pretty tasty. Waffles, right?”

A small grimace, this time.

“Or how about that strange P‘e’zza place? I’ve never had ice pizza before.”

“You’ve never had any kind of pizza before,” Kris said, their voice filled with confusion and disgust. So, now their words came out. Of course. They continued to mutter, “You’re first pizza isn’t gonna be a goddamn Ice P‘e’zza. Not while I’m still breathing.”

Ralsei flashed a small smile as he put his paws up in defence. Soft chuckles falling from his lips.

“It’s just…” He barely said before his sentence trailed off. Gaze turning to the sleeping world outside of his window. Kris reached over to take his paw and intertwined their fingers. Urging him to continue. “I don’t want to cause a fuss, Kris. I don’t want to… Your mother’s going to be so upset if she finds out. She’s going to punish you for an eternity. She’s going to—”

“Be ecstatic.” They said, drawing intricate circles into his fur. “I’m with ‘friends’, remember? She won’t mind.”

“That excuse isn’t going to work forever.”

Kris’ hand lingered with his as their head settled forwards. Staring off into the foggy woods. Easily drifting into deep thought.

Sure, it was a matter of when and not if their mother would ever figure out what was going on. No doubt. There was only so long she could believe whatever she wanted to believe. But, that day wasn’t today and thus that was a problem for future Kris, not them.

That kid’s fucked.

Themselves on the other hand? Present Kris? They had something spectacular to show their lonely prince. No strict rules or possible eternal damnation was going to stop them.

“Don’t worry, Rals.” They drawled as they took their prince’s fluffy face into their hands. “Future Kris’ got it handled.”

Now it was Ralsei’s turn to do the head tilting. His words coming out as jumbled as the thoughts in his head.

“Future Kri—What do you—? Futur—? Are you—?” He almost finished a single thought before Kris ducked under his hat and gently kissed his cheek.

They pulled back, flashed him a quick finger-gun-smirk combo, and put the truck into reverse. Letting out a chuckle as his love pulled up his scarf and down his hat. Hopelessly trying to cover his blush.

His steady was weird. A good kind of weird, though.

One that urged them to word for word recite the passage ‘Alas, Poor Yorick’ for no reason. The kind that allowed them to remember the rules to a satanic ritual but not the order of operations. A special kind of weird that caused them to resign to shackle themselves to a dungeon wall and eat floor moss.

They were all things he loved about them but, they were weird nonetheless.

Don’t get him wrong, he’s eternally grateful for Kris falling that day. He thanks the pillar of darkness every day. But, it’s just that any kind of kisses from them was so overwhelming. The simple act causing his cheeks to match his scarf’s hue. Though, he never complained because they also always calmed him like magic.

Why was being in love was so complicated?

Luckily, it was less complicated than driving. Of which the basic mechanics were entirely lost to him.

The truck jostled along the dirt road. Its headlights the illuminating the surrounding foggy woods as they went.

Kris’ knuckles had turned white a few miles back. Changing shades as they had turned off of paved streets and onto rougher terrain. Through their shaggy bangs, lidded eyes had never once deviated from the road. Perhaps they were being too cautious. Too wary. But, how could they not be? They were carrying the most precious cargo.

At just the thought of him, their eyes flicked to Ralsei curled up on his seat. Gaze settled outside his window. Intently watching the world rush by. Yawning every so often.

A small smile graced their face. They leaned back in their seat and released some of the tension in their fingers. Settling into a focused-yet-more-relaxed driving mode.

The road ahead got tighter as it began to curve. Letting them ‘round the side of one of Appalachia’s many mountains. Engine rumbling as they went. Luckily, for them, the truck had made this trip several times. Though they hadn’t been in the driver’s seat.

Glimpses of the past revealed themselves as their destination grew closer. A dozing Asriel sitting beside them. Eyes and head drooping as he fought back the dastardly enemy that was sleep. Their parents in the front seats, both humming along to the turned down the radio.

That’s when they saw it.

A nice patch of the mountainside overlooked valleys below. Tall, wild grass with flowers sprouting up in patches. They pulled up. Easing the truck to a full stop a couple meters from the optimal gazing spot.

Their whole body relaxed, finally. Head lolling back onto the headrest. Letting out a breath and closing their eyes. Knowing they made the trip here safely.

“We’re here?” Ralsei asked, yawning as his bones cracked while he stretched.

They threw him a lazy thumbs-up and clicked their tongue. Catching his yawn before holding out a hand, “Specs, please.”

His head and eyebrows cocked at their request. The urge to ask at least several questions rising in him. But, knowing Kris, they wouldn’t answer any of them.

With a sigh, he let the world turn blurry as he handed his glasses away. Soon after, scarred digits took a hold of his scarf, pulling it loose. Guiding it from his neck to cover his eyes. Before the world went dark as they tied a tight knot at the back.

Now, sound and touch were all he had to go on. Kris’ soft hum once they were finished tying. The clicks of their seat belts unbuckling and the whirring of them gliding back into place. A thunk as their door of the truck swung open. Another as his side opened.

Their hands guiding him out of the vehicle and over to an unknown spot. The dewy grass under his paws and roundness of the air. And finally, the familiar weight of his glasses returning.

He blinked once and then twice before his jaw dropped.

A golden world awaited him.

The sky he had fawned over weeks prior seemed so much more expansive. Stretching from the ends of the earth, blanketing everything around them in a warm hue. Streaks of orange, red, and yellow danced along it. Like a painter’s brush strokes. All independent at times. Before blending together to make the wondrous painting in front of him. Light, fluffy clouds lazily drifted across the background.

And in the center of it all?

A thing, once upon a time, he’d never thought he’d get to see.

The Lightners’ brightest star.

No, it was his too now.

Their brightest star. Their most prized possession rose from the horizon. Slowly but surely making its way to its throne in the heavens. Lighting up their little corner of the world. Not that he could quite remember it wasn’t just him and the celestial body. No, as he gazed upon the sun and a wave of serenity washed over him, it felt like there was no one else left on Earth.

Wait, there was someone else with them.

Ralsei pulled his sight away from his new friend to his real-life company. His silent knight.

Kris sat close beside. Their form bathed in the rays as they sprawled out in the tall grass. Golden light illuminating their whole body. Creating a god-like glow around them. At last, they seemed to be at peace. Then, as their head lolled back, their long bangs fell to either side. Revealing the gems they kept hidden from the world.

An occurrence rarer than any blue moon.

Maroon irises admired the painting before them. They were filled with something he couldn’t quite place. Contentment? Amazement? Nostalgia? Whatever it was, when their eyes drifted from the sunrise over to him, it was still there.

Oh…

Perhaps it was love.

He still had to come to terms with that fact. That somebody alive and sentient loved him. Somebody as wonderful as Kris loved a wreck like him. A tiny ball of nerves and anxiety. Terrified of falling too fast and too hard. Being too needy. Too much much of a bother. Being too… everything. And not being what Kris needed.

But,

They never seemed to mind.

They always were an attentive listener to all his rambling but, always knew the right time to stop him. Lest he enters a perpetually downward spiral.

They were one hundred percent willing to become the hero that he needed. Not questioning ludicrous, reality breaking implications for anything he told them.

And when they were ready, Kris would talk for hours.

About stories from when they were younger.

Barely believable conspiracy theories.

Loosely connected thoughts stringed together profoundly.

They were just so perfect.

And this, the sneaking out in the early morning, the quiet drive, and the sunset. It was all just so…

Perfect.

Kris reached out and laced their fingers together again. Pulling him out of his thoughts. Right on time as always. They gazed at him with, his throat tightened, love-filled eyes. Their usual neutral expression replaced with upturned lips and those softened gems.

Oh, darkness, don’t cry.

Don’t cry, Ralsei.

Don’t cry.

Don’t—

Dammit.

“Kris,” He choked out as tears began to well. They threatened to fall and ruin this perfect moment. Kris’ perfect moment for him. No, he had to pull himself together. “This is, this is. It’s…”

Yep, stuttering is a surefire sign of someone who’s totally not on the verge of a breakdown. So embarrassing. SO EMBARRASSING!

“Rals,” They began softly. Eyes squinting as they searched for the right words. “It’s… okay. Tears of joy, right? It’s okay. You’re okay.”

Not helping. Not helping at all.

“Oh, damn it all.” He cursed as he mustered up all the courage he had. Within the second, he bounded over to his steady. His beloved hat falling to the wayside as he wrapped his arms around them. Burrowing his nose into their neck. Inhaling their piney scent as he blurted out, “Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you!”

The two stayed like that for a while. Enjoying each other’s body heat and tight holds. But, all good things must come to an end. And this good thing ended once he pulled back. Quickly realizing their current position.

His arms rested linked on their shoulders as he sat in their lap. And with their hands settled on his hips, their bodies were close.

Super close.

Close enough for a… kiss?

Yes, Kris thought as their hand made its way up to his cheek. Close enough to stare into his galaxies for eyes. Close enough to breathe the same air. Close enough for his head to block out the morning sun. Creating a glowing halo around him.

Definitely close enough.

Also, definitely a perfect way to punctuate their date.

But, alas,

Mother Nature had another idea in mind.

“Was that a raindrop?” Ralsei blinked and shook the excess wetness off of his snout. He rose from their lap to scan the horizon. Brows furrowed as he adjusted his glasses, “But, there aren’t any clouds?”

Despite the obvious lack of cloud coverage, rain began to pour down on them.

Kris, reluctantly, got to their feet. Their fingers ran through their messy brown locks as they closed their eyes. At least they got their sunrise.

With a deep sigh, they called out to their love, “We… should get back. Sorry about this.”

“Why?” Their eyes shot open at his question. That’s when they saw him. Spinning around on the balls of his feet as his giggles resounded through the air. His arms swung and legs kicked as he jaunted around the field. “This is amazing! How weird is this! Raining while the sun’s still shining! I’ve never heard of this. What is this, Kris?”

Oh.

My.

God.

He wasn’t upset?

“Sun showers,” They answered like a ditz. Their mind still running wild. Trying to comprehend how he could be this happy about it raining on their perfect date. “They, uh, happen sometimes. You don’t want to go?”

“No! I love it!” Hat long forgotten, he ran up to them, eyes a glow. Hands outstretched until they intertwined with theirs. “Dance with me!”

It was less of a question and more of a demand, not that they minded though. With all his might, Ralsei swung them around the wild grass. Dancing something between the waltz and a folksy jig. Loudly humming out a familiar tune. Soon, their laughs joined his humming. Until both faded and only the gentle beats of the rain were left.

They were close once more.

Super close.

Now or never.

Kris straightened their back and cleared their throat before asking, “Do you, maybe, want to—”

“Yes.” He cut them off, a look of pure unadulterated love on his face.

And then, they did it.

They kissed.

It technically wasn't a perfect kiss. The rain continued to beat down. Their now soaked clothes uncomfortably clung to their bodies. His fur wasn’t as soft and fluffy as it usually was. It was more damp and kinda spiky. Their skin somehow felt sweaty and tight. But,

None of that mattered.

Nope. Not to them.

Somehow, like everything else about the two of them, it was perfect.

Perhaps, their imperfections were what’s perfect.

At least to them.

And in the end, isn’t that the only thing that matters?

The End!!

I hope you've enjoyed reading this. If you did, any kind of comment would be appreciated!

I've been working on it for a loooong time. Just glad it's all finished! Finally, I'm free!

#kris dreemurr #ralsei #deltarune #krisei #kralsei #fanfic #fluff #semi angsty #also lots of headcanons

84 notes · View notes

ohgoddard · 4 years

Text

Fist of Fire.2.12

AN: Warning, heavy topics in this chapter.

“Court is now in session. On the matter of ‘The State of South Carolina vs Joseph Ellington’ on matters of extreme destruction of public and private property, endangering the lives of the innocent, partaking in heroic actions without a valid license, and conspiracy to destroy the government.” The judge takes a deep breath, reaching up to his face to straighten his glasses.

“How does the defense plead?”

The courtroom was packed. Behind the fencing that separated the legal teams from the people, every available seat was packed with news teams, cameras, and those lucky enough to get in before all the seats were taken. Dozens of eyes were centered at the legal teams, which were feeling the heat of the public gaze. The plaintiffs were four neatly dressed men, the most lawyer people you can think of. In front of them on their table lay briefcases of paperwork, with piles around them as well. This was a legal case they wanted to win. The defense on the other hand, was remarkably bland. Their table had nothing on it, save for a glass of water. But every movement the defense made sent off the camera shutters in the back of the room, and elicited hushed whispers of the news crews. The defense was a huge man, dressed in a custom tailored striped suit, with his hair slicked back. And he had the largest smile yet.

“Yes, the Defense pleads innocent to these charges.” When he spoke, the room exploded in the snapping of shutter lenses and the scribbling of pencils and pens onto notepads. The judge slammed his gavel on his desk, calling for order. The Judge peered over his post to eye up the defense, his eyesight failing him at identifying who it is. “Am I to believe you are who we are prosecuting today? Are you Mr.Ellington?”

The defense laughed and shook his head. The Judge did not like this display of non-professionalism in his court. “Just who are you then? And where is the defendant?”

The large man stood up and did a courteous bow to the Judge. “Excuse my manners, your honor. I am not accustomed to American law. My client will not be joining us today. I doubt he will be walking in anytime soon.” He stands up and straightens his tie.

“As for my name? I am a good friend of Rev-I mean, Joseph Ellington. And I believe I can help him out in this situation. My name is All Might.”

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

Jade had been in a violent depression for weeks now. Since the fight in Charleston, the last time she saw Reverse..and his body laying at the bottom the crater he caused. In the following days of the fight, of her scuffle with the golden haired boy, she was in dozens of police stations. She gave the same story, the same details. But they always brushed off one part of her story. How the golden haired boy spoke of Emesh’s plan. How it would happen, regardless of her being there or not. But they were not interested in that. They wanted her to say they saw Reverse destroy the stadium. That he without calling for backup jumped into a fight. That he was a reckless man who did only the wrong.

You killed him.You caused all this destruction.

Then came the chastising. The scolding. The ‘You should have just run.’ They seem to forget she was paralyzed for a good bit of her story. A lot of this though was aimed at her other classmates, who instead of running away assisted in getting the civilians out. Riley, who instead of running away ran to the people who were too slow to get out on their own. John, who teleported to far away places. Emily, who grabbed those under rubble. Seems like there was a good bone in her after all. Ricardo, who managed to cut a hole in the wall for them to escape. Grace, for keeping their captors under wraps. They got the worst of it. They were being hit with all manner of charges with juvenile heroism and such. They would have all gone to prison if not some big shot from the school called in a favor from overseas. Some “Mighty Strength” ass hole.

But her friends being given the slack on their sentences did not alleviate the depression that built up in Jade. In her head a whirlwind of emotion whizzed around, hurling insults and depreciation.

It was all your fault. They came after YOU. Reverse would still be here if not for YOU. YOU CAUSED ALL THIS. After the police were done grilling the teenagers, weeks of testifying and interrogations and interviews, they sent them back home to Atlanta. However, the school could not legally take them into the dorms due to the police investigation going on over there. So they had to go to their parent’s homes. Which, for some like Emily, were good. But then there was Jade.

Jade’s mom lived in an apartment in Boulevard Heights. It was not a desirable neighborhood to be in. The streets still had their usual aroma of spilled alcohol and urine, the streetlights were flickering in and out. Jade was unfortunately the last person to be dropped off by the police, and even then they dropped her a block away from her home and drove off. They must have been scared of her street, the only reason why they must have dropped a teenage white girl off by herself in the middle of Boulevard Heights.The sun was setting too, but this wasn’t the problem. Being out in the dark on her street was nothing foreign to Jade, especially when you had to grow up here.

He would still be here if not YOU. You saw his body. You know he’s dead.

Jade began her walk home, looking around at how her block has gotten worse since she was last there, Whole buildings now nothing but rubble, larger congregations of people around shops.

She sighed deeply and kept walking, keeping her head down. It was like putting on a familiar hat. She melded right back into the place. Except, instead of a hidden bravado and looking for a fight, she was not trying her hardest to not scream and cry. All around her she is reminded of that day.

The flashing of the broken street lights reminds her of the warning lights in the corridor. The humidity of the air reminded her of the restricting telekinetic grab around her throat and chest. The yelling and hollering of people having fun that night only ring in her ears as the cries of people being crushed by falling debris.

Jade’s phone buzzed.She took it out, saw that it was Riley, and put it back in her pocket. It was hard to talk. Especially to her. And especially about this. The missed calls tallied up to seven. The dozens of text messages only given one word replies. She ran her hand through her hair, grabbing it in a faint attempt to give herself any feeling. But there was nothing. Her being sent back to Boulevard would not help her get better. Her outside now reflected her inside. She walked by an old man sitting on a stoop, listening to a radio. The court case in South Carolina against Reverse was dropped. The broadcaster was going on about ‘celebrity judges’ and the swaying of the juries. But all that doesn’t matter.

Because Reverse was dead. And she killed him.

A few minutes later, Jade appeared at her mom’s apartment’s door. She knocked and waited. And waited. Down the hall, the old lady who used to look after her as a child was leaving her room turned to see Jade. She waved happily at Jade, who only replied in a meek hand gesture. Her mom’s door opened and.. She was exactly as Jade remembered from when she was here three years ago. Her bright ginger hair was put up in a messy bun, zero makeup on her freckled face, and a slim frame dressed in a nurse’s scrubs. Her face was one of joy when she saw her daughter standing there. She immediately swept Jade up in a huge hug and gave a yelp of joy. Jade was lifted off the ground for a moment as her mom bear hugged her.

“Oh my Jesus thank God you’re safe!”

“Thanks mom. I’m a bit tired though, from being in the car all day. Can I go to sleep?”

Jade’s mom put her down and let her walk in. The apartment was very tidy, as there was only one very organized nurse living there. Her teenage daughter would not have messed it up in a while. Jade made a bee-line to her room, where she closed the door behind her almost just as fast. She didn’t like doing this to her mom, but she could not talk right now. Her room was just as she left it, posters of mighty heroes on the wall, piles of books on gasoline and petrol. Kinda useless now. And her bed, which was -

Full?

A figure was laying in her bed, and when Jade turned on the lights..It was Riley.

Jade just kinda stood their dumbstruck, as her classmate got out of her bed and walked over to her, looking down.

“If you don’t respond to me, I’m not just gonna sit by and let you do it. I’m gonna track you down, and we’re talking about it.” Riley tried to reach for Jade’s hand,but she snatched it away. Riley took a step back, and gave a look to Jade.

“I’m..I’m sorry. But I can’t talk.” Jade turned her face away from Riley, not wanting her to see her face. Not see her eyes.

“But you can talk. You need to. If you keep all this bubbled up inside you you’re going to do something bad like -”

“Like what?!” Jade turned around to face Riley in a fit, her eyes tearing up and her hands and arms starting to glow. Riley kept her calm composure and slowly walked back to Jade.

“I’m worried about you. You didn’t go through what me and the other teammates went through. You went through worse. I know it was awful. I know it left a mark on you. I saw the way you walked on the way to your home.” Jade took a step back from the approaching Riley, her arms lighting up another level of light.

“You followed me?!” Riley yelled back, “Because you weren’t answering my calls! You weren’t talking to me!” Jade wanted to punch her. Just to vent.

“I DON’T NEED YOU!” she yelled as her arms lit up in a flame,her whole body becoming a blinding light.

She didn’t want to be cared for right now. She wanted to be alone. Be alone with herself. With those violent thoughts. The memories of the corridor fight, and how helpless she felt until her body was overtaken by some golden feeling. The memory of seeing Reverse’s body at the bottom of a crater. She wanted to be alone with those memories. And her thoughts. The ones that told her she killed her teacher, the only connection to her father that wasn’t her mother. The man who had taught her how to use her power better. The man who told her stories about her father that her mom could or would not. The man who was..more of a dad to her than her own father. She wanted to be alone with those thoughts. The ones that reminded her of the extension cords in the closest and the height of her ceiling fan. The ones that told her to do it.

Jade didn’t know when Riley took her arm. Nor when she started crying. Jade didn’t know she said all that aloud. Her eyes were too full of tears and her mind was gone. All that was left was the sorrow and regret. The pain she had been holding onto for so long. The burden she put upon herself to kill her father’s killer. To stop his evil plans and make her father proud. She let it all out, holding tightly onto the arms of Riley and sobbing. She fell onto her bed, whimpering and bawling while Riley calmly rubbed her arm and gave soothing words. Riley rebuked every foul statement Jade made about herself, about her inability to be a hero, her cause of Reverse’s death. She just let Jade get it all out.

And in the morning, when Jade awoke from a night of sobbing and release, she found herself alone in her room.

Then her phone buzzed. She saw that it was Riley. She hesitated. Was she ready to just talk? Talk like it didn’t happen? Maybe it didn’t. Maybe Riley was never here. Maybe Jade made it all up in her head. Was she even in the right headspace? No, no Jade still felt the haranguing pain in her soul that she caused all of this. But, it was not as heavy. And with it came vindication. A drive. A need to turn that pain into something else. To ruin whatever plans Emesh left behind. To avenge Reverse.

She picked up her phone.

“Thank you.”

#FoF:og #creative writing #creativewriting #creative #original #original writing #original story #originalwriting #orignal female character #superhero #superhero story #allmight

1 note · View note

carmenlire · 5 years

Text

Dying to Live

Warning for mentions of depression, self harm, and suicidal thoughts.

read on ao3

“What are you doing out here, darling?”

Alec hears the caution in his husband’s voice, though it’s mostly hidden by warm curiosity. It’s nothing so sharp as fear, nothing accusatory. The question is warm and seeps through Alec’s bones, just starting to thaw from their arctic chill.

He doesn’t answer for a minute, loses himself in watching the scene down below. There’s a child running down the sidewalk with a red balloon. It’s a mostly cloudy day, the sun peeking out in fits and starts, and Alec smiles a little as the mother, just a few steps away, catches up to the girl and swings her up into her arms.

The child’s laughter echoes down the block and is audible even up here on their balcony. Alec closes his eyes to soak it in.

It sounds like happiness. It sounds like peace.

With a shuddering breath, he doesn’t startle when Magnus’s arm wraps around his back, when his husband leans into his side and kisses his cheek, rough with week-old stubble, gently.

“How are you feeling today, Alexander?”

Alec doesn’t immediately open his eyes. Instead, he focuses on his breathing for a few seconds. He’s in a stretched out t-shirt that was once black but is now a washed-out gray. His sweatpants have seen better days and his bare feet are cold against the balcony.

He feels the beat of his heart and the early morning air is crisp and bracing in his lungs. He feels alive.

Opening his eyes, his gaze sweeps across New York before turning to face Magnus. He smiles, just a little, but his eyes are shining with contentment.

“I’m good,” Alec says, voice just a touch hoarse. “I’m better.”

Magnus studies him with a critical air before Alec sees something ease in him. “That’s good, darling,” he says softly. "I'm happy to hear that."

It’s quiet for awhile, both of them lost in their own thoughts.

Magnus thinks about the past week or so. While Alec is immeasurably better than he was a couple of years ago, he still has bad periods. His stumbles have grown few and far between but Magnus had seen the warning signs even before Alec.

His husband had been dragging his feet out of bed. While that wasn’t unusually in and of itself, it was noticeably different in that he didn’t climb out from under the sheets until Magnus kissed him on the back of the neck and murmured that he was about to be late. Alec would then swear, and scramble out of tangled blankets.

He almost looked like he was moving in slow motion, like every step forward was more effort than it was worth. Magnus had watched Alec for a few mornings and his concern only grew in his quiet silences, in the way he seemed a little out of it, not quite connected to the conversation or the world around him. Magnus would gently prod him and Alec seemed to shake himself, taking a moment to reply, to react.

Then there was the way that he just collapsed when he wasn’t working. He’s come home from The Institute and fall onto the couch, barely taking the time to toe off his shoes. Magnus would come home from a consult and find his husband sleeping. If Alec came home early-- which was happening more often than usual-- he’d be napping.

Even in his sleep, though, he frowned. Alec would wake up groggy and annoyed. What was worse, though, was when Magnus found him and he wasn’t sleeping-- he was staring at the blank tv or into the distance. He wouldn’t notice Magnus’s approach, would startle and offer a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

Still another warning sign had been Alec’s utter disinterest in sex. Magnus had initiated it a few times over the course of several weeks and each time had been met with an apologetic grimace.

I’m tired, babe. Maybe tomorrow?

Magnus, of course, had nodded and kissed his darling husband on the cheek. While both of them had turned down sex once in a while, the two of them hadn’t done anything more than kiss in greeting for over a month. It seemed like Alec didn’t have the energy to stand most days, let alone anything else.

Alec has had the past few days off and has spent most of them in bed. At this point, they both knew he was having a bad spell and Magnus had done all he could to keep him afloat. Mostly, when Alec’s like this, he just needs a reminder that someone’s there, that he’s not alone.

Magnus had been a little surprised to wake up and find Alec out of bed. Exploring, his heart had leaped into his throat as he’d seen his husband out on that damned balcony.

Alec didn’t look in the grip of a spiral, though. No, instead he looked contemplative, calm, his gaze clear in a way that it hadn’t been for far longer than Magnus wanted to realize.

The two of them stand at the edge and stare down. There are the usual crowds on the sidewalk and as they study New York, Magnus feels something ease in him. He knows his husband better than anyone else. He knows what Alec looks like when he’s spiraling, when he’s so far down that they’re both worried about him climbing back out.

Releasing a quiet breathe, Magnus knows that they aren’t there-- at least not yet.

The fact that Alec’s outside is a good sign, even if Magnus would burn this goddamn balcony to the ground if he could. The fact that he’d said he was feeling better is the best news Magnus has heard all week.

His thoughts break off, however, as Alec speaks into the silence that’s wrapped around them.

“You know,” he starts, not looking at Magnus but instead focused on the early morning traffic. “Before I met you, I had a lot of bad days. I got pretty good at hiding them, though, so that no one but Jace and maybe Izzy noticed-- and even that was just some of the time. I remember graduation from the academy approaching and wondering if I’d make it until then.”

A chill shivers up Magnus’s spine but he doesn’t say anything, just pulls Alec a little bit closer and listens to his husband’s measured words.

“Then I came back to New York and went on mission after mission. Patrol was freedom but it still wasn’t enough.” Alec’s tongue wets his lips and he draws in a sharp breath that Magnus doesn’t even think he hears. “Sometimes I let demons land a lucky hit. Sometimes it was everything I could do to jump out of the way in time. Sometimes, everything in me screamed to give up-- I could die a heroic death, a shadowhunter's death, and no one would ever be the wiser.”

Gaze unseeing, Alec continues, “There was a long time when I didn’t want to be here. I couldn’t see a future worth a damn and nothing I did-- hanging out with Iz, practicing on the roof, nothing-- was enough to pry this weight off my chest. I thought I was doomed.”

He chuckles but it's bitter and cold and makes Magnus's heart lurch in fear. "I analyzed it rationally-- that's what I told myself-- one night when I was so fucking tired I couldn't see straight. I thought I'd be doing everyone a favor if I just disappeared. I still don't know what stopped me that night. Truth be told, I had a lot of nights like that, where exhaustion pulled at me and I couldn't imagine a good day-- where I couldn't imagine wanting to live."

Blinking furiously, Alec looks up at Magnus and his eyes soften. “But then I met you. Everything wasn’t immediately fixed-- obviously,” he says with an eye roll that makes Magnus smile because it’s more life than he’s seen in his husband in days. “But you made me hope. You made me want to see what life had in store for me-- and I’m here. I’m still here and I’m happy about it.”

He trails off for a for minutes and Magnus leaves him be, a little too focused on dislodging the lump in his throat at Alec’s words. His eyes close when Alec kisses his forehead and their breathing syncs.

“I still have bad days. They catch me off guard sometimes and sometimes it’s still hard-- really hard-- to climb back out. But then I remember that I’m not the person I used to be. I’m not that cold, bitter shadowhunter that wanted to give up. I’m still here and I don’t plan on going anywhere.”

Magnus’s breath catches. It’s nothing he didn’t know. It’s no revelation. But, it’s still nice to hear the words, to hear the conviction and determination in Alec’s voice.

“I woke up this morning and everything felt just a little bit lighter than it had last night. I came out here and the sun is peaking out from behind the clouds and the noise of the city grabbed me by the throat. I’m glad I stayed,” Alec whispers hoarsely. “I’m glad that I fought and I’m glad that I’m still here. There were a lot of tough years but I’m thankful for the person I was because he fought and he’s stronger than he ever realized and it’s because of him that I’m standing out here on a spring morning holding the love of my life. I’m proud of him and I wish that he could have seen this-- just a glimpse at the future that would be his. I wish he could have known that he’d get everything he ever wanted and that it was sweeter than he could’ve ever imagined.”

Magnus blinks and shudders out a breath, doesn’t try to hide the tears as they spill over. He kisses Alec furiously and they both shudder at the taste of salt.

When Magnus pulls back, he sees Alec staring at him with a lifetime full of love and hope and contentment in his eyes.

“Oh my darling,” Magnuns whispers. “I’m proud of him, too. I am so incredibly happy to be here with you now. I love you, Alexander. So much that I can’t imagine my life without you-- and I’m so glad that I’ll never have to even try.”

“I love you too, Magnus. I love you, too.”

Alec’s voice is quiet but fervent and his eyes fall shut as Magnus sweeps a hand through his hair and kisses the top of his head.

The two of them stare over New York and bask in the life they’ve been given. Both are thankful for second chances and hidden strength.

Both count themselves unimaginably happy that their futures look so damned bright.

Magnus and Alec know that life won’t always be sunshine and joy. They both stumble and fall and claw their way back to the land of the living.

But.

They have each other and that makes all the difference.

They have life and never take that for granted.

#dying to live #my writing

121 notes · View notes

lifeofresulullah · 4 years

Text

The Life of The Prophet Muhammad: The Battle of Tabuk and Afterwards

The Expedition of Tabuk: Part 7

Love of Uhud

While approaching Madinah, the Messenger of God looked at Mount Uhud and said, “There is Mount Uhud. It loves us and we love it.”

Meeting in Thaniyyatu’l-Wada

When the Muslims in Madinah heard that the Prophet was coming, they all went up the hill called Thaniyyatu’l-Wada to meet him. The women and children had the joy of seeing the Messenger of God again. They expressed this feeling by saying, “The white moon rose over us from the valley of al-Wada / And we owe it to show gratefulness Where the call is to God.”

Arriving in Madinah

Finally, the Messenger of God arrived in Madinah with his army after a tiring journey in the month of Ramadan.

Great Victory

The Islamic army did not confront anybody in Tabuk. However, it was a great success for the Islamic army to cover such a distance under very hard circumstances and to attempt to confront the enemy. This expedition was also a clear challenge to the Byzantine Empire, one of the biggest states of that time. The fact that the challenge was not responded was very significant. This showed that there was no power to face the power of Islam.

Three People for whom the Earth Seemed Narrow

Ka’b b. Malik, Murara b. Rabi’ and Hilal b. Umayya were three sincere and sound Muslims. However, they did not join the army for the Expedition of Tabuk and remained in Madinah due to their negligence; they did not have any legitimate excuses.

Ka’b b. Malik was a poet from the tribe of Khazraj of Ansar. He was one of the three poets that joined the Pledge of Aqaba. He recited heroic poets that aroused heroism.[82]Before the Expedition of Tabuk, he had joined all of the battles except the Battle of Badr. On the day of Uhud, when there was a tumult and everything was in a mess, he recognized the Messenger of God from his bright eyes under his helmet and called out to the Companions to gather around the Messenger of God. He received eleven wounds on that day.[83]

Murara b. Rabi’ and Hilal b. Umayya were two companions from the People of Badr; they had high ethics and virtues.

Why did They not Join?

Ka’b b. Malik, one of those three people, narrates the reason why he remained in Madinah as follows:

“...The Messenger of God fought that war (the Expedition of Tabuk) at the time when the fruits had ripened and the shade looked pleasant. God's Messenger and his Companions prepared for the battle.

I started to go out in order to get myself ready along with them, but I returned without doing anything. I would say to myself, 'I can do that.' So I kept on delaying it every now and then till the people got ready and the Messenger of God and the Muslims along with him departed, and I had not prepared anything for my departure, and I said, ‘I will prepare myself for departure one or two days after him, and then join them.'

In the morning following their departure, I went out to get myself ready but returned having done nothing. Then, again in the next morning, I went out to get ready but returned without doing anything. Such was the case with me till they hurried away and the battle was missed (by me). Even then, I intended to depart to take them over. I wish I had done so! However, I could not do it.”

The situation of the other two Companions was no different. They did not remain behind with bad intentions. They acted neglectfully and remained behind. This situation caused them to experience a hard test and trouble.

They Go to the Prophet to Seek Forgiveness

When the Messenger of God was in his mosque, those three Companions came and asked for forgiveness. They stated clearly why they had remained behind.

Ka’b b. Malik narrates the time when they asked for forgiveness as follows:

“The Messenger of God arrived in the morning, and whenever he returned from a journey, he used to visit the Mosque first of all and offer a two-rak'ah prayer therein and then sit for the people.

So when he had done all that (this time), those who had failed to join the battle of Tabuk came and started offering (false) excuses and taking oaths before him. They were something over eighty men; God's Apostle accepted the excuses they had expressed, took their pledge of allegiance asked for God's forgiveness for them, and left the secrets of their hearts for God to judge.

Then I came to him, and when I greeted him, he smiled a smile of an angry person and then said, 'Come on.'

So, I came walking till I sat before him.

He said to me, 'What stopped you from joining us. Had you not taken part in the Pledge of Aqaba?’

I said, ‘Yes, O Messenger of God! I promised to help you at any rate.

O Messenger of God! By God, if I were sitting before any person from among the people of the world other than you, I would have avoided his anger with an excuse. By God, I have been bestowed with the power of speaking fluently and eloquently, but by God, I knew well that if today I tell you a lie to seek your favor, God would surely make you angry with me in the near future, but if I tell you the truth, though you will get angry because of it, I hope for God's Forgiveness. Really, by God, there was no excuse for me. By God, I had never been stronger or wealthier than I was when I remained behind you.”

After this talk of Ka’b, the Messenger of God said, “As regards this man, he has surely told the truth. So get up till God decides your case.”

The other two Companions spoke like Ka’b. The Prophet told them to go and wait until God sends down a verdict about them.

Prohibition of Talking

The Messenger of God forbade all the Muslims to talk to those three people until God sent His verdict to him through revelation.

Upon this prohibition, everybody was keeping away from them. The people they wanted to talk to, even their relatives, did not want to talk to them; they did not even respond when they greeted them. From then on, the earth seemed narrow to them despite all its spaciousness and it started to depress their souls and squeeze their hearts.

Ka’b b. Malik describes this depressing and troublesome state as follows:

“My two fellows remained in their houses and kept on weeping, but I was the youngest of them and the firmest of them, so I used to go out and witness the prayers along with the Muslims and roam about in the markets, but none would talk to me, and I would come to the Messenger of God and greet him while he was sitting in his gathering after the prayer, and I would wonder whether the Prophet moved his lips in return to my greetings or not.

Then I would offer my prayer near him and look at him stealthily. When I was busy with my prayer, he would turn his face towards me, but when I turned my face to him, he would turn his face away from me.”

Yes, those three Companions were undergoing such a painful and exemplary test. Ka’b, who saw that nobody wanted to talk to him, went to Abu Qatada, his cousin, and greeted him. Abu Qatada did not reply to his greeting. How could Abu Qatada reply to the greeting of someone that the Messenger of God did not reply to? It does not matter whether he was a close relative or a brother. This shows the love and loyalty of the Companions to the Messenger of God.

Ka’b b. Malik said to Abu Qatada, who did not reply to his greeting, “O Abu Qatada! I beseech you by God! You know how much I love God and His Messenger.”

Abu Qatada kept quiet. Ka’b asked him again but he remained silent. When I asked for the third time, he said, "God and His Messenger know it better.”

When Ka’b received this answer from Abu Qatada, his uncle, whom he loved very much, started to cry and left that place crying.

1 note · View note

ibelieveinahappilyeverafter · 5 years

Text

Ko-Fi Prompt Fill - Boku No Hero Academia (EraserMic and Shinson)

Hey, everyone! I hope you're pumped up for some Erasermic that isn't Villainous Heroics or another of my ridiculously long projects! The winner of my Prompt Fill Goal Challenge over on my Ko-Fi requested:

Eraser/Mic pairing where one of them has escaped from some sort of illegal quirk experimentation facility. The other finds them and tries to help them to recover physically and mentally.

My initial idea is something that would easily and quickly become a 10-25k fic, so instead I went with another option that only ended up being 5.5k, which is an improvement for me! Hopefully they don’t mind the Shinson I threw in there!

Relationship: Aizawa Shouta | Eraserhead/Yamada Hizashi | Present Mic, Aizawa Shouta | Eraserhead & Shinsou Hitoshi, Yamada Hizashi | Present Mic & Shinsou Hitoshi

Characters: Aizawa Shouta | Eraserhead, Yamada Hizashi | Present Mic, Shinsou Hitoshi

Rating: Teen

Summary: Shinsou Hitoshi has always been curious about how two people as different as Present Mic and Eraserhead became best friends and eventually married, but when he finally asks, he’s told a story about how Present Mic didn’t always used to exist, Yamada Hizashi was only Hizashi, and chance meetings have a way of working out.

AO3 Link!

⍣ I have a Patreon! NOW UPDATED!!⍣ ☪ I have a tip jar! Buy me a Ko-Fi!☪

Where Starlight and Sunshine Meet

“How did you and Sensei become friends?” Pausing from where he had been locked in combat against a plastic wrapper, Hizashi looked up to see Hitoshi was staring at him with what would have been a bored expression if not for the fact his eyes were bright and curious. It was a familiar look, but the fact he had asked a question to Hizashi had him fighting not to beam. “You two don’t seem like you’d be friends.”

Putting on a dramatic pout, Hizashi clutched his chest, “What are you talking about, herolet, me and Shouta are the closest of friends!” Hizashi patted at Shouta’s head, his husband asleep on the wooden floor they were all sitting on.

It had been a few months since the Sports Festival, and Shouta had firmly taken Shinsou Hitoshi under his wing and started training him so he could get into the hero course. Hitoshi was quiet and withdrawn, but Hizashi had slowly helped to bring out his curious nature, answering any question he had with as little a pause as possible. After all, Hizashi, of all people, knew what it was to have a dangerous quirk.

It was to the point where Hitoshi didn’t even bat an eye anymore when Hizashi crashed their training sessions with snacks and drinks, lecturing them on not overdoing it. Shouta usually used the chance to sleep while Hitoshi, like now, liked to ask questions about them and other heroes. He had put together pretty quickly that they were married, but, well, Hizashi supposed that one hadn’t been hard to put together.

“Yeah, but how? You’re bright and cheery and happy and he’s…” Hitoshi trailed off, looking to Shouta with a wrinkle of his nose. “Not.” It was harder than it should have been to not laugh.

“You’re right! I wasn’t always the bright and cheerful Present Mic you see before you, though!” At the skeptical look, Hizashi toned it back, letting himself smile more naturally, voice dropping to something a little less energetic than his hero persona. It was amusing, but Hitoshi always responded to Hizashi better than he did Present Mic. “I used to be a pretty depressing kid - even more than you two.”

Hitoshi chewed on his straw as if digesting the information given, finally shaking his head, “I have a hard time imaging that, Yamada-san.” Hizashi had half a mind to let the kid know he could call him Hizashi if he wanted, but it had taken a month-long fight just to get to Yamada. Small steps, he supposed. “You seemed plenty cheery when you met in the Hero course if Sensei’s stories are true.”

“I knew he told stories on me.” His dramatics earned a huff of a breath that was Hitoshi’s equivalent of a bright laugh. “Yeah, I was a pretty happy kid when we were both in high school, but… that’s not how we met- That’s not where we met.”

“Really?” Hitoshi perked up as if smelling the story that was there. Hizashi wondered if he should lead him away from the subject, but, well… it almost seemed like a story Hitoshi needed to hear. “How’d you meet?”

What a question… and of course Shouta would be asleep and leave him to deal with all of this alone. Thinking it over for a moment, Hizashi fiddled with the plastic wrapping around his snack, looking up at Hitoshi seriously. “It’s a dark story, Hitoshi. Are you sure you want to hear it?”

Hitoshi looked to carefully think about it, sipping at one of those jelly pouches Shouta loved to carry on him before looking back up, gaze resolute. “I want to hear it. If you’ll tell me.”

“Alright, then.” Finally stating when he wanted something, huh? This kid had come so far. “It started when I was around fourteen.”

Stumbling over bleeding, torn feet and wayward gravel, Hizashi caught himself the edge of an alley wall, crumbling red brick digging into his palms as he panted harshly, trying to get enough air in his lungs. His throat was burning from the thin metal collar locked tight around his neck, suppressing his quirk as he coughed and bent double, all the air he had gathered leaving rapidly.

The sound of yelling voices from adults had Hizashi stumbling into the alleyway, breath hitching on a sob as he stumbled over broken metal and glass, trying to find a dark enough place to hide. He crouched down in a group of shadows beside a dumpster just as he heard people running past, Hizashi covering his mouth with his hands and shaking as the handcuffs around his wrists, chain snapped at the start of this all, rattled softly.

It was a tense few minutes before the sound of running footsteps and yelling voices started to fade, Hizashi not letting himself move an inch until he was sure they were gone. Shivering from the cold that swept over him and left him panting and clammy, Hizashi stumbled to his feet and slowly started to work his way back out onto the street. His body felt utterly exhausted and he wanted nothing more than to curl up somewhere and sleep, but he couldn’t. He had to make sure-

“Are you alright?” Jumping at the voice, Hizashi stumbled back, sucking in a breath and trying to figure out which direction to run. When he saw a teenager who looked to be his age, Hizashi felt a bit of the tension leak out of him, but not all of it. This kid could be just as dangerous as any adult if he called the wrong people. “You’re bleeding.”

Hizashi didn’t – couldn’t – answer, only staring at the other and waiting for him to make a move or go away. The other… did neither. He kept staring at him in a steady, calm manner, as if he had all night to waste. When he made no move to grab him or get the attention of adults, Hizashi took a moment to study him. It had been a very long time since Hizashi had seen someone his own age, after all.

He was a bit shorter than Hizashi, but not by too much. He had long hair, too, but whereas Hizashi’s was a bright blond that tumbled down his back, tangled and dirty, this kid had hair that was as dark as the night sky, brushed and tucked away carefully in a bun at the back of his neck. He was bundled up for the chill in the air, a scarf and a coat wrapped around him in dull, neutral colors.

It was the eyes that caught Hizashi’s attention, though. This kid had gray colored eyes, but they were bright, in a way. They reminded Hizashi of the stars he’d tried to count when walking past windows on his way to and from his ‘room.’ Those eyes, bright and curious and tired all at once, stared at him evenly and steadily. There was no hesitation and no uncertainty and somehow, after so long of his life being nothing except that, the steady, unshakeable confidence this kid was giving off was more than he could have wished for.

“You’re bleeding.” The words were restated, blunt, but kind, in a way. “It’s supposed to rain again, tonight. You can come home with me, if you want. If you don’t, I can try to find some bandages and help you take care of your wounds.”

There was no mention of the police or parents or any sort of adult. Just this kid giving him two options - one which would help him without endangering him or forcing him to trust someone he just met.

Hizashi felt, with everything in him, that this was a choice that would change things drastically. So, with a moment or two of thought, and the weight of a decision on his shoulders, Hizashi gave the kid a smile. It was tired, and small, but it was the first smile he could remember giving in, well, ever, maybe.

The kid smiled back, something sharp and toothy that was made endearing with the kind eyes that went with it. “Alright, then. My name is Aizawa. Aizawa Shouta. It’s nice to meet you.”

Hizashi had been staying with Aizawa Shouta and his family for a week. To the Aizawas’ credit, they had taken one look at the bedraggled and bleeding child their son had dragged home and immediately started helping. A shower, clean clothes, and food had been in that order, followed by the removal of the handcuffs around his wrists.

It had been Shouta to notice the collar, frowning and then pushing and pushing until he managed to get the truth of what it was. The collar didn’t stay on long, but Hizashi refused to speak even after it was off. While he was happy - so happy - that the collar was off, he was too scared of the possibility of hurting this nice family to dare speak to them.

Maybe he should have tried, though, because now he was crawling out the bathroom window late at night with a bag filled with a few pieces of old, worn clothing and a couple of snacks he hoped they wouldn’t mind was missing.

Hizashi hated to leave as he had liked the family, but he had heard the parents talking about contacting child services and, well… At best he would end up bounced around foster homes or be put in a group home or facility. At worst, though, he would end up right back where he had just escaped from.

There was no family for him to return to, after all. He had no name except Hizashi and no home or family except the caretakers he had run from. Leaving now, when he was able and healthy enough, was the best he could manage.

What he didn’t expect, and could have never expected, was the determination of Aizawa Shouta.

Hizashi had pushed himself to run for almost half an hour before ducking into an alleyway and, when he finally caught his breath and looked behind him, it was to the sight of a ragged Aizawa looking sweaty, upset, and like he had been in the middle of getting ready for bed. Hizashi had thought he was hallucinating until he felt the mild slap to his chest.

“Idiot. You can’t just run off like that - we just bandaged your feet and you’ve already wrecked them again where you didn’t even think to steal a pair of shoes!” Aizawa scolded him, Hizashi not sure if he should feel amused or deeply concerned that Aizawa had managed to keep pace with him for so long. “Do you even know how to wear shoes.”

Of course he did, he just hadn’t had a chance for the last five or six years. Aizawa didn’t expect an answer, at least, huffing and shaking his head as he poked at Hizashi’s chest, “Listen, I don’t care if you want to leave, but the least you can do is tell us instead of sneaking out the bathroom window.”

Hearing the sound of approaching voices, Aizawa tensed up and seemed to realize they had run towards a seedy looking distract. Letting the teen look behind them to see if anything was coming, Hizashi took the chance to back away, slipping around the corner and getting ready to run as he heard Aizawa’s voice, “Hey-!”

“Hey! What are you doing in our alley!” The sound of older voices had Hizashi flinching and pressing himself against the wall, tucked out of sight as he slowly realized the voices weren’t talking to him, but… “What the hell, did you get kicked out of your house or something?”

“None of your business.” Aizawa’s tone was short and sharp, Hizashi biting his lip and looking around. The street was clear and he could make a run for it easy. He could get out and never be seen again. “Get out of my way.”

“Hey, hey, this is our alleyway. Thought we made that pretty clear to everyone around here.” The voice was older and darker, Hizashi swallowing as he at least peeked around to see if Aizawa would be okay. He was surrounded by three men who looked to be anywhere from seventeen to twenty. His escape was blocked off at either end and Aizawa, blank faced and calm, had a look in his eyes that screamed fear.

“Looks like I didn’t get the message,” Aizawa drawled, stepping forward and meeting the older man’s challenge. “I’ll be sure to remember in the future.”

“Yeah, you will, runt.”

What happened in the next few seconds blurred together into one seamless stream. The man raised his fist and pulled it back. Aizawa turned to face him head on and his hair floated up. The man looked terrified and then he looked angry. He screamed for them to attack. Hizashi had thrown his bag to get their attention on him. Hizashi spoke.

“Cover your ears, Aizawa.” Just as he knew he would, Aizawa dropped down to the ground and covered his ears without question or pause. Hizashi didn’t waste the moment, sucking in a breath, letting his quirk run wild, and screaming.

Hizashi saw the men all collapse, blood starting to run from their ears as they lost all tension in their bodies one by one, but Hizashi didn’t stop. He couldn’t. His quirk had been building and building and building and it wouldn’t stop-

Silence.

Hizashi thought he had destroyed his hearing for good finally, but the ringing in his ears faded and instead he heard sounds start to filter back in. The distant honking of cars, people laughing and screaming from what seemed to be another world away, sirens not too far away, summer cicadas making themselves known, and a million other little things.

What stood out above it all, however, was Aizawa Shouta staring at him with bright red eyes and hair that seemed to no longer follow gravity. Hizashi didn’t have to be all that smart to realize what had happened and what Aizawa’s quirk was.

“That’s why you never said anything. You can’t control your quirk.” He didn’t blink, continuing to stare at him even as he stumbled to his feet and caught himself on the wall. “That’s okay. I think I can help with that, at least.”

Aizawa blinked and his gray eyes were back, hair falling down around him in messy curls and waves. The teen took a steady breath, rubbing at his eyes that looked more bloodshot than before. “What’s your name? And don’t worry. If you lose control again, I’ll stop you. You won’t hurt anyone.”

Hizashi stayed quiet before swallowing and breathing in a ragged, unsteady breath, an exhale carrying out his name. “Hizashi.” His voice was bright and strong and clear even after so long without talking. “My name is Hizashi.” He had no last name to give, but Aizawa didn’t seem to mind, giving that sharp, wide smile of his that looked like victory.

“Nice to meet you, Hizashi. You can just call me Shouta.” For the first time in a very long time, Hizashi laughed until he cried, smile never falling from his face.

“Why did I let you talk me into this?” Shouta’s groan was loud and unnecessarily dramatic, Hizashi making a few gestures with his hands that earned him more groaning. “You don’t have to remind me it was my idea.”

It had been four months since Hizashi had begun to live with the Aizawa family and while he had managed to warm up to Shouta’s parents, it was Shouta that had become his best friend. In four months they had learned sign language, enrolled Hizashi into Shouta’s school, and had decided what they wanted their futures to be. Hizashi hadn’t been the only one who wanted to be a hero.

‘We’re going to need all the extra muscle we can get if we want to get into U.A. We’re already at a disadvantage with our quirks.’ Hizashi signed out the words easily and fluidly, Shouta taking a minute or two to struggle through before nodding.

“Yeah. My quirk doesn’t offer me any physical strength and if an opponent can stop you from screaming, then you’re as good as out.” Shouta pushed himself up from where he had collapsed on the beach they were practicing their running and sprinting on. “I still don’t know how you became fluent in JSL so quickly - and your English grades are still better than mine.”

Hizashi offered a shrug as an answer, falling back to lay on the sand himself. Fall was well and truly on its way, but there were still a few warm days left like the one they found themselves on. The sand was hot against their overheated skin, but Hizashi felt no desire to move as a peaceful silence settled between them.

It was Shouta who finally broke the silence, voice almost whisper soft, “I’m glad you’re my friend.” It was a sentiment that had been shared both with and without words for months, now, but it was this moment that made Hizashi realize he had a friend. He had a real honest-to-God friend who wanted to help him.

Shouta didn’t just take him in, he helped give Hizashi the power to stop being so afraid of his quirk. He had encouraged him that he could be a hero. Shouta had given Hizashi everything, and Hizashi hadn’t done much to pay him back. Somehow, with those whispered words from a friend, Hizashi found his voice.

“I was eight.” Hizashi could tell his voice startled Shouta, but he didn’t interrupt. Instead, Hizashi felt fingers wrap around the edge of his shirt, giving a tug as if telling him to continue. It was the least Hizashi could do after everything that had been done for him. “It’s a pretty long story, but I was adopted by some… caretakers.”

Hizashi didn’t have it within him to tell the whole story, not yet, but he could start with the basics, at least. That was enough for now, wasn’t it? “My caretakers were part of an illegal quirk experimentation center. They would take villains, prison inmates, and kids without homes and test their quirks.” He felt his shirt tugged, as if Shouta had tightened his grip.

Rolling over onto his side and sinking down into the sand, Hizashi looked at where Shouta was staring at him. His face was blank as always, but his eyes were wide and sad and, in a way, knowing. Hizashi supposed there weren’t many places he could get a collar like the one he had on when they met.

“They studied quirks. I don’t know what they do with the research, but it wasn’t good, Shouta.” Hizashi reached a hand out, slowly and hesitantly, and brushed his thumb under one of Shouta’s eyes. “They would have loved your quirk. They didn’t have a quirk like that, but one of them had a forced activation quirk. By looking at you she could make you activate your quirk and you couldn’t stop it. There was no way to stop it-”

“Hizashi.” His name was barely a whisper, but Hizashi saw the reprieve for what it was. He didn’t have to talk about it - not all of it. Not right now.

Taking a steady breath, Hizashi closed his eyes for a few moments before looking back to Shouta. “That night you found me was the night I escaped. Something big was happening and they didn’t lock the door. I ran.”

There was a stretch of silence before Hizashi was startling as arms wrapped around him, pulling him close. Pausing for only a moment, Hizashi wrapped his own arms around Shouta as tight as possible, hands gripping at the other’s shirt. In the months he had been getting better, he found he really liked hugs and kind physical contact.

“‘Zashi.” The little nickname never failed to get Hizashi to grin, and Shouta seemed to know it as the arms around Hizashi got just a touch tighter. “I have something important to tell you, but I’m not going to tell you until we’re both in the hero course.”

“Aw, what? That’s so long,” Hizashi whined, delighting in the laugh he got from Shouta. It was ridiculous, he supposed, two teenagers hugging in the sand on a deserted beach with more stars in the sky than sunlight, but the moment felt right. Sunshine meeting starlight felt so right. “Fine. I won’t complain, but you have to make me a promise, first.”

Shouta pulled back enough to look him in the eye, mock suspicious as he squinted and asked, “What’s the promise?”

“You have to promise that we’re always going to be friends.” It was an imposing promise, and Hizashi half-regretted the words as soon as they were out, but he didn’t have long to regret them.

Shouta, with hardly a pause, shifted and pushed at him until they both had their pinkies wrapped around each other. It was such a childish gesture, but it was enough to make Hizashi start crying when Shouta looked up at him with a wide, bright smile, eyes near shining. “It’s a promise.” Hizashi didn’t doubt him.

Hizashi sucked in ragged breath after ragged breath, trying to figure out how it had all gone so wrong. Things had been going fine. They had trained and studied and then had done so well in the written portions of their U.A. exams and then they were given the physical. It had been robots - robots.

With a quirk loud enough to topple buildings Hizashi had been fine, but Shouta? He couldn’t fight against metal. His quirk was great against people, but there was no way to use it against metal. There was no way to get enough points to get into the Hero course, not with a test like that - never with a test like that. If they hadn’t been separated then maybe Hizashi could have teamed up with him and helped, but as it was there was nothing he could do.

The results of the exams came the same day child services did. Hizashi didn’t even know if he made it into the school he had been dreaming of or not. He had seen people in suits and with perfect smiles and he had run. Trusting adults was what got him into his last mess. Being in that system was what had almost broken him.

He locked the bathroom door, crawled out the window, and started running. He had taken every alternate route he could think of, but he could only hear the sounds of adults in white lab coats chasing him and the sound of yelling for him to come back and it just kept getting louder and louder and even with his quirk he was gasping for breath.

Hizashi stumbled and crashed down into an alleyway, sobs erupting out of him that were quirk strong and enough to rattle the brick walls, small rocks and pebbles crashing down as he tried to get a hold of himself. Nothing was working, his sobs weren’t stopping, and he was just getting louder and his ears were ringing-

Silence.

There was no sound except ringing ears and then there was the sound of distant cars, people a world away, and quiet gasping for breath. “You always crawl out the bathroom window. We have a door, you know.”

Shouta was at the entrance to the alleyway Hizashi had collapsed in, leaned against the wall and clutching at his side as if he had run too far too fast. His eyes were bright red, and his hair was floating up. A blink and those starlit eyes were back, Shouta walking over to him before carefully sitting down in front of him.

“It’s okay.” Two words. Two words and they brought back Hizashi’s sobs, Shouta not even putting up an effort of a fight as they hugged each other tightly, Hizashi shivering as he felt a hand rubbing at his back. “It’s okay, ‘Zashi. We’re okay.”

Hizashi wasn’t sure how long they sat like that, but his legs were asleep by the time he pulled back, and no doubt his eyes were as red and bloodshot as Shouta’s usually were. Shouta was looking just as tired, but he gave him a small smile and a quiet, “Better?”

“You didn’t get in, did you?” The wince said it all, but Hizashi wasn’t the type to give up. If he was, he wouldn’t be here. “We’re going to be heroes, Sho.”

“Hizashi, I didn’t get in. I can’t-” Shouta stopped himself as Hizashi wrapped their pinkies around each other, giving Shouta a wobbling smile.

“We’re going to be heroes and help kids like us.” They would help the kids who were broken and beaten and looked down on or used for their ‘destructive’ or ‘villainous’ quirks. He knew it. “I promise.”

Shouta didn’t cry often. He had a hard time where his eyes were always so dry, but this time, for maybe the first time, Hizashi saw tears well up in Shouta’s eyes before he gave a grin, wild and sharp and eager as he laughed out a bright, “It’s a promise, then.”

“And, as well, another teamwork inspired win by Yamada Hizashi from 1-A and Aizawa Shouta from 1-C! It looks like we might have a new hero duo on the field!” The announcer’s words echoed across the field among screaming and cheering adults, Hizashi bent over and trying to catch his breath as he and Shouta managed to advance to the next round of the Sports Festival.

In the few months since his acceptance into U.A. Hizashi had thrived, meeting other hero hopefuls, making friends, being adopted by two amazing women and getting a last name, and helping teach Shouta everything he learned in his hero classes. The Sports Festival was the best chance they had to prove Shouta was as good a hero as anyone here.

“This is too exhausting.” The field was being cleaned after the latest test where everyone had to get at least three scarves to pass into the next round, the trick being that everyone started with one. Quirks had gone wild and the fighting had been rough, but Shouta and Hizashi had managed to get by with three scarves each, now collapsed on the ground with one of the recovery heroes on duty passing out waters and snacks to everyone. “I should have just started a revolt.”

“A revolt may have been less work,” Hizashi laughed, sitting down next to Shouta, who was on his back with his eyes closed and looking exhausted. “We have one more round left. Think you can keep going?”

Shouta cracked an eye open, a smirk tugging at his lips, “You say that like I don’t routinely kick your ass in our own training every day.”

“Hey-”

“Alright, everybody, our next event is ready to go!” Pouting at being cut off, Hizashi cheered up a little at Shouta’s quiet laugh. “It’s a one-on-one fight to the end with these heroes-to-be fighting it out to see who stands on top!

Shouta sat up and leaned against Hizashi’s side, the two of them looking to the board along with the other students still collapsed on the ground. Matches appeared across the board, Hizashi scanning all the names and those who were fighting and slowly grinning at seeing how it would all play out.

There was quiet, eager laugh beside him as Shouta saw and understood the same. “Looks like I’ll be seeing you in the last round, ‘Zashi.”

“You better.” Twenty students left to compete. Shouta was at one end of the board and Hizashi was at the other. They had nothing to lose and everything to show.

“Our first match: Yamada Hizashi and Iida Tensei, step on up to the arena!”

A brutal couple of hours passed before Hizashi was staring across the arena at Shouta. Both of them were running on their last dregs of energy, unable to fully catch their breath and, as well, were bandaged in more places than they ever had been. Shouta’s grin was as wide as his own, though.

“Our last round and it’s the hero duo that stood out so brightly in the beginning. It’s friend against friend with Yamada Hizashi vs Aizawa Shouta. This is it, everyone! The final match to decide it all!”

“Are you two ready?” The pro hero officiating looked between them, the two of them nodding and looking back to each other. “Then… Begin!”

Neither one of them moved. Hizashi had nothing to prove, but Shouta had everything to prove here. If he failed here, then- “‘Zashi.” Shouta’s voice caught his attention, Hizashi focusing to see Shouta was giving him an exasperated smile. “No holding back, right?”

If he failed, then they would find another way. “Right.” A second passed, Hizashi sucked in a deep breath, Shouta ran forward, and it began.

Hizashi would never know how long the fight went on, all his attention focused on keeping up with Shouta and doing his best to knock him out of the ring. They had been fighting together and against each other for months, though, and Shouta knew Hizashi’s moves as well as Hizashi knew his own. It came down to stamina, in the end, and while Hizashi was good at running, Shouta had always managed to catch up to him.

A dizzying twist of the world as he was thrown over Shouta’s shoulder and Hizashi’s back hit the ground, a worrying crack making the air rush out of him as he groaned and hazily blinked up at the sky. There was the sound of massive cheering on every side of him and the first stars of the night were beginning to peak out from behind blue-tinted skies.

There was a ringing in his ear that started to settle, Hizashi catching the tail end of some announcement or other before Shouta’s face appeared over him. He looked as exhausted as Hizashi felt.

Thinking over what had just happened - tossed, down on the ground, cheering, announcement - Hizashi squinted his eyes and muttered a hoarse, “I think I lost.”

Shouta’s laugh broke through everything else and, for the first time in what may have been his entire life, the world made sense.

“And that, herolet, is how Shouta and I gained a true friendship that has lasted throughout all these years!” Hizashi finished with a flourish, trying not to laugh as he saw how Hitoshi startled, as if realizing he had been leaning forward throughout the story and hanging on to each and every word.

“Wait- What was it that he had to tell you? You said he made a promise to tell you something when you were both in the hero course!” Hitoshi was acting like a child who had been cheated out of the ending of a story and Hizashi had to fight to not laugh or cry at how he had opened up so much since they had first met. “You can’t just end it there! That’s bad storytelling!”

Alright, that did have Hizashi laughing, “Ah, what sharp ears you have, little listener!” Hitoshi made a face at him and Hizashi laughed again. “Well, you see-”

“Are you telling him dumb stories?” At Shouta’s voice, the two looked over to see the man had woken up and was looking at them with tired, squinting eyes. Hizashi could easily see the amusement and delight shining out of them. “Don’t listen to a word he says. He exaggerates everything.”

“That’s the point of a good story, Starlight!” Just as he expected, Shouta flushed, Hitoshi choked on a laugh, and Hizashi had sealed his fate of being attacked when he least expected in. “Don’t worry, Hitoshi, he gets back at me by calling me Sunshine-”

“Stop telling him dumb things!” Shouta snapped, still flushed as he sat himself up while Hitoshi was struggling with his laughter.

“No, no, please keep telling me dumb things,” the teen managed to struggle out, laughing again when Shouta ‘glared’ at him.

“Listen here, you brat.”

As the two ‘fought’ and ‘argued,’ Hizashi watched them fondly, memories settling in place after telling a story he hadn’t told in a long time. This was a story he hadn’t exaggerated and never could – there was no way to make it better, after all. He would have to tell Hitoshi the rest of the story some time, maybe when they managed to approach him about summer break and the possibility of another foster home.

Hitoshi would love knowing that the day Shouta had transferred into the Hero course was the day he had confessed his feelings to Hizashi about how he was in love with him. And, if Hitoshi didn’t mind the cliché ending of it all, Hizashi might end it by telling him that was also the day that he never again felt afraid of his quirk.

#bnha #boku no hero academia #erasermic #aizawa shouta #present mic #shinsou hitoshi #my writing #prompt fill #my ko-fi

23 notes · View notes

grumpyhedgehogs · 5 years

Text

Artificial Harmonics

Summary: The aftermath of destructive heroics.

Notes: Follow up to ‘Draw String.’ Warnings for discussion of suicide and abuse.

Part 1 Here.

In another life, Vanya makes it out of the concert hall alive. She is barely breathing, numb to the world, and in serious need of a blood transfusion, but she is alive.

This is not that life. In this life, her siblings watch as death slowly leaks into Vanya’s eyes like so much blood flowing from her throat. She closes them in her final moments and it is the last kindness she bestows upon her family.

Luther gathers her to his chest as gently as a newborn kitten and carries her out passed dead bodies and broken furniture and wailing sirens, the flickering lights from the police cruisers flashing red-blue-red against the stained white of her suit.

In another life, Vanya is given a tiny room in the general hospital which once treated Leonard Peabody. She is hooked up to a machine which breathes for her, a machine which pumps a stranger’s blood through her veins, a machine which registers brain activity. Her room stays full of family after visiting hours are over.

In this life, she has not destroyed most of the academy; only the west wing has crumbled to dust- the foundation of which contained her cage. Her siblings clear the rubble enough for a grave.

There is no portrait of Vanya Hargreeves on the wall. There is no imposing statue to watch over her grave. She is buried on a sunny Tuesday morning, a reflection of her brother’s grave across the yard. The funeral is silent and still. No argument breaks out, no punches are thrown. It is quiet and understated and no one knows exactly what to say for a eulogy- it is, all in all, an exemplary representation of Vanya’s life.

“She was our sister,” Luther starts when no one steps up. “She was- extraordinary.”

Klaus makes a choked noise and is the first to tear away. Allison follows quickly after him, her protective instinct needing a new sibling to latch onto. Luther looks torn for a moment, but stays behind and starts shoveling.

Diego turns his back, clenching his fists furiously as he storms away from one fight he can’t win with a well-placed punch. Twenty minutes later, Luther tries to place a hand on Five’s shoulder only to receive a glare so sharp he nearly joins his sister in the afterlife. He leaves it.

Five spends a long time out there with her. The sun fades. He doesn’t mind the chill in the wind as it ruffles his hair; he sticks frozen digits in his pockets and crouches beside her. They- none of them- had washed the blood from their skin until late on Monday evening. He didn’t know exactly why none of the others could stomach it, but for himself-

That dried, flaking red was the last he had left of his sister. He could still feel it coagulating in the creases of his palms, so much more damning than any of the blood he’d ever spilled before. He is sure Diego has scrubbed the skin of his hands raw by now. Five thinks he noticed still more of it caked, unnoticed as of yet, under Allison’s fingernails. He doesn’t believe he’ll say anything just now; Allison has been very fragile lately. He doesn't want to set off another sobbing fit.

“You’re a hero now, Vanya,” he tells her grave. His smirk is sardonic at best, tragic at worst. “Tell me- is it all you could ever imagine?”

The vitriol in his own voice burns as it makes its way up his throat, startling even himself. Blue crackles in the air for a moment before a violin (a deep burgundy, the backup Vanya kept in the left-hand side cupboard in her room in that dingy little apartment, right across from her bedroom window which she still didn’t lock, the fool ) is placed gently against the gravestone Allison paid way too much money for. The white of the marble doesn’t do his sister justice. But onyx wouldn’t have been much better.

Five stands at his sister’s side for one last time. “I apologize, that was uncalled for. I- you spent your whole life being sorry for living. You should know you didn't have to be. And-”

The wind in the branches rattles something which could be loosely defined as a heart in his chest. “And I’m sorry too. For not telling you that I missed you- that I still miss you.”

His laugh resonates in the cavity where his innards should be, ricochets against his ribs, tears at his esophagus. “We’re always missing someone, aren’t we? Some things never change.”

In another life, Allison stays at her sister’s bedside until she wakes. She works tirelessly to research methods of dealing with emotional and physical trauma, how to move on from abusive relationships, how to mend familial bonds. She hires the best doctors and swears them to secrecy. She sleeps curled around her sister, slipping as close as she dares between all the medical equipment.

In this life Allison writes a book. It seems fitting.

Allison writes it all out on a typewriter she finds in Vanya’s apartment. (She’s paying for rent now, can’t bear to give up the one place which was Vanya’s and Vanya’s alone.) The keys don’t jam up with the salt from her tears, which Allison is thankful for. (She wonders once how many times Vanya cried over this contraption, heart twisting with the rejection her family didn’t realize they were heaping upon her from the get-go, and has to stop for three days.)

The worst part about it isn’t writing about the wrongs Vanya has committed- writing the book, turning her back on them (even if she wasn’t to blame for all of it), beginning the end of the world to name a few. It’s the good parts which hurt the most, mostly because they are so few and far between. (Waking up to the smell of pancakes on her birthday only to hear from Mom weeks later that her sister was the one to go behind their father’s back to make them for her. Settling in the library, too tired to study after training, and letting the faint strains of her sister’s music wash away the doubt and fear and shame her father piled at each of their feet. Clinking glasses with Vanya in a bar, giddy with the hope of sisterhood and second chances. The way her sister had smiled at her moments before making the terrible decision to rip herself from Allison forever. The way her sister’s sacrifice saved an uncaring world.)

Too few memories for thirty years, but Allison writes them anyway. When she finishes, eight months after the near apocalypse, she sends the first draft in with a nom de plume. She will not sully the memory of Vanya’s hard work by getting her story published simply with the name ‘Allison Hargreeves.’

The first draft comes right back- she’s not as good a writer as her sister. The second and third drafts come back too. One publisher tells her no one wants to read such depressing fiction about such a boring character and Allison nearly asks Five to have him shot. He’d do it, too.

The fourth draft, Allison lets loose. She falls apart. She stitches herself back together while listening to records the orchestra’s head assures her have her sister as third string chair. She plasters her name on the cover but makes sure it’s in smaller print than her sister’s. She refuses an author portrait.

The book is published in record time. It sells out in an hour.

It’s not enough.

In another life, the doctors say that noise stimulates the human brain while in a coma. In another life, Luther visits Vanya’s room with new records every Friday morning. He works his way through his old collection and those that his father occasionally remembered to send to the moon. He buys new ones and feels a strange excitement to be sharing his first experience of them with his sister, unconscious though she may be.

In this life Luther builds a greenhouse across from the graves of his siblings. It’s slow going and painstaking to build, especially because his sheer mass and height get so many looks and muttered comments that more often than not Luther is sent scurrying home with his tail between his legs. The man who runs the local nursery nearly faints from fright when Luther’s shadow darkens his door.

The tomatoes insist on dying, too persnickety about the amount of water Luther’s clumsy, oversized hands should feed them. He thinks for a long time that the basil and bay have bit the dust too, but they rebound once the rainy weather clears and they can drink in the sunlight. The potatoes need no help at all, and soon Luther is leaving Diego hashbrowns for his morning eggs. He knows it’s not enough of a peace offering.

Luther gathers new seeds every other week from what is fast becoming his favorite nursery. The flowers which he grows are bright and fragrant and soft, so, so soft. They remind him, as they were meant to, of the fragile young woman whom they had to lose to save the world. He thinks often of the moment before he tightened his arms around her, when her face was pressing wet, hot tears into his sweater, when her hands clung to him, desperate and trusting. She’d felt as small as a child in his arms and he’d thought better of his actions for just a single moment-

But Luther can’t take it back now. So he grows flowers instead.

There is a fresh bouquet on her grave every Friday morning. He’s working his way through the nursery’s supplies of seeds, but he thinks his sister likes yellow roses and daisies the most. They are the brightest, most delicate, and the ones that last the longest.

She’d have outlasted them all, he thinks, if she’d ever been given the chance to grow.

In another life, Klaus braids Vanya’s hair in her sleep. He stays as long as he can by her side, but in the end he has to turn away from the painkillers and the pills and all the temptation. But he can’t force himself away too far; he ends up becoming a regular in the group of smokers outside the hospital. The registered nurse on Vanya’s floor loves his dry wit.

In this life, Klaus reaches for the dead.

“Come back,” Klaus mutters over blue fists, sweat dripping from his brow. “Come back. Where are you?”

His brother, ever watchful, places an incorporeal hand on his shoulder. Klaus shakes it off.

“Klaus,” Ben tries. “Klaus. Stop it. You’ve been trying for days, you’re exhausted. Just stop it.”

“No!” He whirls on Ben, eyes too wide and mouth too dry. “God damn you, no I won’t stop! How can you ask me to stop? This is our sister!”

“I know-”

The blue around his fists grows, creeping up Klaus’s forearms, but he’s too busy toppling the desk in his childhood bedroom to care. Clothes are thrown in the air, the window ends up cracked from the force with which he launches his lamp.

“She was right there!” He screams at Ben, gesturing to the space in his room which used to house another wall, another room, another child. “ She was right there and we didn’t even see her! Why didn’t we see her?”

Ben has no answer and Klaus isn’t done yet.

Under his bed, Klaus kept a hammer- he doesn’t remember when he got it exactly, but he does remember vague plans to threaten to whack his father upside the head with it if he didn’t agree to stop taking Klaus to the mausoleum at night when he was sixteen. He ended up running away instead. Both he and Sir Reginald knew he’d never go through with it.

The hammer takes out a good chunk of the brick when Klaus swings it at the wall, even though he’s far from fit enough to do any kind of home renovation.

Ben holds up placating hands. “Klaus, what are you-”

“She was right here! Right on the other side of the wall, for years! I used to hear her cry, did you know that?” Ben is pale even for a ghost and Klaus can’t stop the terrible laugh which rips its way from within his voice box. His throat is left raw. “Yeah, all the time, man. It was a regular concert, just for me! Sometimes I didn’t even open my eyes at night when I heard it. Hell, I think it helped me sleep. Some kind of sick, huh?”

His lungs are burning now and Ben is a watery blur. “I told myself I didn't know what to say, that I had it worse than she did, that she wouldn’t want pathetic old me to take care of her anyway. I told myself anything I could to make myself feel better, and you know what?”

Ben doesn't reply. Klaus can’t stop laughing but somewhere along the way it may have turned into sobbing. He can’t be bothered to tell the difference these days. “You know what the fucked up thing is? It worked! I forgot about her crying every damn morning because I just didn’t care enough! I mean, shit! She looked fine, didn’t she? She wasn’t sick, was she? She was still playing that damn violin, wasn’t she? Good enough for poor old Klaus! No need to get involved.”

“It’s not your fault,” Ben tells him quietly. Klaus stares, wordless, and then just- lets go. The resulting yell is loud enough to shake the glass in their panes.

“It is!” He tightens blue fingers around the hammer and brings it slamming back down onto the brick. “You know that it is! Because I knew she was hurting and I did nothing, and if it were you in the same position with me, Ben, you’d never forgive yourself for letting me go. Would you?”

“Klaus-”

“ Would you? ”

“No,” Ben answers after a beat. Klaus cocks the hammer back over his shoulder again. “I wouldn’t.”

“Yeah, baby!” Klaus cries, flinging the hammer down again. It clips the wall and is torn from his palms. He watches with a strange detachment as it rebounds into the plaster of the next wall and sticks there, trembling from the force of its travel.

“Yeah, baby,” he repeats, tired suddenly. “So I can't stop. I’m gonna get her back. I- I have to. I have to.”

He looks around himself, unsure of his surroundings. Ben perches on the edge of his bed and pats the space next to him. Klaus sinks down, boneless.

“I took her room, man,” he says, and his brother snorts.

“Yeah, that was a pretty dick move.”

“I’ll give it back,” Klaus reassures desperately. “I’ll give it all back, I’ll rebuild the wall myself, I’ll decorate and make it nice and I’ll save up money for a good bed and- and-”

“Klaus.”

“I’ll do it. I’ll do it, or I’ll finish what she started and tear this place to the ground myself, I swear to God.”

“If she doesn’t want to see us, she’s not going to respond to your summons, Klaus. You know she won’t.”

“Yes she will.” For once, Klaus is certain. “She has to- she’s our sister. She has to. She has to.”

In another life, Diego stands guard in her doorway. The doctors and nurses hate him with a passion, but he can’t help it. He stays there most nights, fiddling with a blade and pricking his ears at every footstep. Sometimes, when they try to kick him out, he scales the side of the building and they find him leaning against the door jam in the morning, tired, bruised eyes on the vulnerably prone form of his little sister. Eventually Allison pulls a chair over to the door and he sits there night after night.

In this life, Diego polishes her violin.

He was the only one to hang back and watch their backs as they left the concert hall that night. His memories of that night are fuzzy at best (flooded with the blood of a little sister he always meant to protect better than he did and all the anger and fear and guilt twisted knots into his vocal cords so much he couldn’t even get out one- only one, the only one he’d ever have said to her- quick I love you before her eyes closed; God, would someone stop letting his loved ones die in his arms?). But he remembers reaching down and curling numb fingers around the neck of a pure white violin. He left the bloodstained bow behind.

He had to research how to treat violins with varnish and alcohol and all the polish in the world. He didn’t even dare touch it for a few weeks after- after. He’d left a bloody handprint around the neck.

The first thing Diego did was strip the white from the thing. He could recollect a thousand memories of a younger Vanya standing framed in her doorway, long brown locks blending with the wood of her instrument so well it was hard to tell where she began and the violin ended. He wants that shade of brown back.

He repaints it, polishes it. He learns how to string and unstring it, how to make sure the wood doesn’t rot or knot or warp. On Wednesdays he takes it out to her gravestone and sits under the sunshine and the trees and the birds and polishes for hours. It’s strangely soothing; almost as if he were sharpening one of his knives. He trades his violin for Five’s on those afternoons, makes sure they’re both fit as a fiddle (terrible pun intended- Vanya loved them when they were kids).

Diego wonders if he could have had this with her, once upon a time. The answer brings a lump to his throat.

In another life, Klaus is able to call forth his brother whenever he wants, relative to how much he has eaten and rested beforehand. In another life, Ben is afforded his own seat by his sister’s bedside, and he stays in it even when invisible. Allison even remembers not to throw her coat through him. In another life, Ben wishes he could be corporeal enough to hold Vanya’s hand in his all the time, but he settles for playing with her fingers when Klaus can manage to concentrate enough.

In this life, Ben goes back to the concert hall.

“Klaus is going to figure out where you are eventually, you know,” he calls out to the figure onstage. “He and Allison are looking for you. They’ll find you at some point.”

“They may figure it out,” Vanya concedes, kicking her feet lightly where she sits at the edge of the raised platform, “but they won’t come back.”

Ben draws near, raises a brow. “What makes you so sure?”

His sister glances behind her pointedly; her own blood still darkens the hardwood. Ben winces. “Point taken.”

Vanya smiles a little and tilts her head back. The moon is waning above them, but it still throws off enough light to catch in her hair. If it weren’t for her bloodstained suit and the gash at her throat, Ben would not hesitate to call her beautiful. Even if her smiles are always so sad.

“But it won’t matter in the end, Van.” He’s been testing out nicknames on her. She’s yet to not be startled any time he uses a term of affection. It makes him crumple inside more often than not, but it also makes him sure to come back with more the next time over. “They’ll come to you someday. They love you too much not to.”

Vanya looks skeptical. “I don’t know about that.”

“ I do,” Ben reassures her, and takes a seat beside her. The moon really is quite something through the glass ceiling. The curve of the dome catches the light differently, throwing diamonds of it through the two of them. “I know they’re tearing themselves apart because of you.”

Vanya shrinks from him. Phantom blood pours from her wound, and Ben throws his hands up, palms out.

“That came out wrong. I didn’t mean it like that- listen! ”

She had started to fade away. At his commanding tone, Vanya snaps back into existence (relatively).

“I just- I mean that they love you, Vanya. And they’re so- so sorry.”

“What?” Vanya looks confused, wrapping her arms around herself tightly. Ben often finds himself with the overwhelming urge to hug her. “Why would they- I did this.”

“They think it’s their fault. They think they pushed you to it. Klaus, he’s begging you to come back every night, Van. Allison pretty much lives in your apartment now, and Luther won’t stop trying to will away your death with flowers. It’s really weird. Diego is suddenly obsessed with violins. And- and nobody can really pin Five down most days.”

Vanya bites her lip, shakes her head. A wind that doesn’t howl through the concert hall lifts tendrils of her hair around her pale face. “What do you want me to say, Ben?”

He hops up, stands in front of her and tries not to be offended when she flinches back just a little. “Say you’ll come back. Say you’ll be part of the family again.”

She scoffs. “Don’t know if you noticed, but me not being part of the family in the first place is kinda what started this mess.”

“Then let us try to fix it.”

“I already fixed it!” She pushes right through him, spins on her heels and marches over to her own death bed. “I made everyone safe, don’t you see?”

Ben stares.

“The apocalypse, it was me, right? And I fixed it. No one else but me. I did that. I saved everyone. You can’t take that away from me.”

“I wasn’t going to, Vanya.” He keeps his voice soft. It does little to help tame her ire.

“This- this is all ridiculous,” she scoffs again, muttering more to herself than her brother. “This is not how it was supposed to go. They weren’t supposed to-”

“To what?” She pauses, and something cold drops to the pit of his stomach. “We weren’t supposed to, what? Care?”

“It’ll be okay,” Vanya tells him. The earnestness in her expression makes him sick. “You’ll move on. It’s all alright now. The world is safe. You’re all safe.”

“Nothing is going to be okay without you Vanya.” He tries to reach out but his sister backs away, feet slipping over her bloodstains. “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you for weeks- no one is okay without you. Everyone wants you back, they want to apologize, they want to be better. And now, Klaus could make you corporeal! It’s not the same, but I could help you and we could be a fami-”

“No.” Her voice is firm, but she’s smiling so softly at Ben. It’s the worst thing he’s ever felt. “It’s okay, Ben. It’s all okay now. Tell Klaus- don't tell Klaus anything. Just let me rest now.”

Her eyes are too vacant, her smile too soft, too far away. His heart lurches. Ben reaches forward, but his sister is already fading out.

“You’ll get over me,” Vanya reassures him. “Just let me rest, and let them live without the apocalypse hanging around every corner. They earned that, at least.”

“Vanya, no!”

But he is too late, and she is already gone. “Vanya! Vanya! ”

The concert hall doesn’t echo a ghost’s yells back at him. Ben spins, trying catch sight of her but there is no one. He is alone.

“They won’t give up, Vanya! And I won’t either!”

The silence would be suffocating if he weren’t already dead.

Ben slumps, defeated, but raises his eyes to the moon just one more time. “However long it takes, Vanya. We’re gonna wait for you to come back home. That’s a promise.”

8 notes · View notes

siavahdainthemoon · 6 years

Text

I’m a fucking hopepunk, and I will kill you with kindness.

‘Not all people are bad. The bad people are just the loudest.’

I think we’ve all heard variations of that truism by now. Of if you haven’t—there you go, you’ve learned something new, you’re welcome! But in either case, something clicked for me yesterday that I think I have to share.

(This is going to be a long one. Bear with me: I swear there’s a point to it. If you want to skip it all, @thebibliosphere says it all more eloquently and far more succinctly than I ever could here.)

About a month ago, I contacted an online seller, concerned that my package hadn’t arrived. I was polite, and made it very clear that I wasn’t requesting a replacement—it was stated very clearly on the seller’s site that if you didn’t purchase tracked shipping, items lost in the post couldn’t/wouldn’t be replaced. Instead I asked what information they had about the package, anything I could potentially use to figure out where it might have gone.

We exchanged several messages back and forth, during which I stayed polite (and so did she). I explained that I was worried the package would be forever MIA—the postal system where I live is not great, and it wouldn’t be the first time something had been stolen or lost—and given that the item was limited-edition, was there any chance she could set another one aside for me? If the package didn’t arrive, I would like to buy a second one. I understood if she couldn’t or wouldn’t do that—there was no obligation and I knew she had a store to run—but what did she think?

She said that was perfectly fine, no problem. I expressed great gratitude and relief.

A few days later she sent an email saying the package had been returned to her, so I paid for shipping again (tracked this time!) and all ended well.

What struck me—and upset me a little—was how relieved and grateful the seller was for my being understanding. She explicitly said as much. What upset me was the implication that other customers with similar issues had not been polite and understanding about it.

Last week, I reached out to another seller about a different missing delivery. (I told you the postal service here is terrible). She had already sent me one replacement free of charge, so this time I insisted on paying. The item was hand-made, and I said her time and skill, not to mention the materials used, ought to be paid for. So I did, and this time I paid for tracked shipping (I’m learning my lesson), and hopefully this one will reach me.

This seller also expressed what I would consider disproportionate relief and gratitude for my understanding and politeness. She said that she had been growing depressed lately because other customers whose packages had disappeared had left poor reviews on her store, and I think probably sent unpleasant messages about it (she didn’t say so explicitly, but that was the impression I got.) She said (she was very, very sweet) that I’d restored her faith in people, and in customers specifically, and she was grateful for that.

I sent back one last message thanking her for being so incredibly helpful and kind through the process of helping me. And I told her that she created beautiful things, something I couldn’t do, something none of her customers could presumably do, and that there were people who appreciated that, and anyone who didn’t were idiots and didn’t deserve her time.

Her last message said that I’d made her cry—in a good way!—and that she would remember this for the rest of her life.

I swear that knocked the breath out of me.

Over the last little while, I’ve made more of an effort to leave positive comments in my browser history—retweeting updates from my favourite authors with way too many exclamation points, leaving comments on the fanfictions I read, the videos I watch, the art I see. Even the Kickstarter projects I back.

And every single time, the (always positive) reaction I got was drastically, almost insanely out of proportion to the amount of effort it had taken me to make it.

I’ve heard ‘good people have to be louder’ many times in discussions about social justice, but always in terms of big, physical action. And those actions are incredibly important! Voting and showing up for protests and making blockades and calling out people who need calling out—it’s all incredibly important.

But yesterday it hit me that that’s not the only kind of ‘louder’ we need.

If you haven’t heard of hopepunk, it’s basically the idea that being kind is an act of resistance in a world that wants to grind you down. It’s the point-blank refusal to give in to either indifference or outright negativity, and about fighting to be good. Not good like saints—not good like perfect. We’re mortals; I don’t think it’s possible to be perfect, and to be honest I don’t think I’d like to be a saint anyway. But still good. Good as in kind. Good as in gentle, when gentleness is called for. (You are allowed to be fierce, you are encouraged to be fierce. But be gentle to yourself, and to others when you do not have to be fierce.)(Or maybe I’m phrasing it badly. Be fiercely gentle. Be gently fierce.) Good as in fuck you, I will not let you make me into someone who does not care, who does not love. I will be kind because you want me so badly not to be and you cannot stop me. I will be a light in the dark no matter how dark you make it.

And guys—yeah, that means protests and petitions and voting and everything else. It means the big things.

But if we forget about the small things, it doesn’t matter who is president or what laws get passed. If we let the world make us cruel—even casually, unintentionally cruel—then there is no world to fight for. Not one that’s worth fighting for.

We have to remember what we’re fighting for.

A few years ago now, I wrote a post that went kind of viral, the ‘you are not filler’ post. In it I talked about how we all make ripples with our every action, inaction, with our very existence. It’s basically chaos theory—the whole ‘a butterfly beats its wings, and causes a storm on the other side of the world’ thing. We all matter because we all make ripples simply by breathing. We are all irreplaceable because without any single one of us, the world would be different. You are not filler because if someone else was in your place, the ripples would be slightly different. Maybe almost imperceptibly different. But different. This world would not be this world without all of us in it.

Somehow I never made the leap to realising that it’s not just that you make ripples simply by living. You can make ripples on purpose.

You can be a hopepunk. You can make not just neutral ripples, but positive ripples. You can choose to be kind and set off a trail of bright gold dominoes that ring the earth. And it can be so easy! It can take only seconds; saying ‘thank you’ to a server, writing a quick comment on a fic you like, holding the door open for the person behind you. I’m a writer who’s struggled with depression for years; guys, those comments and reviews can change someone’s life. They can save someone’s life. I promise.

And it can be hard, too: you can swallow your frustration when you’re dealing with a customer service rep whose fault it isn’t, even when you’re tired and you’ve been passed between four different people already. You can not snap at someone even though someone else has just hurt or angered you. You can be patient when you’ve explained something a dozen times and need to explain it again. Those kinds of things are hard. They are.

But every time you manage it, you have managed to not make a ‘bad’ ripple. You’ve made a good one instead. You’ve cancelled the potential darkness and added a bit more light to the world instead.

Here’s another truism for you: ‘an eye for an eye leaves the whole world blind.’ Here is how to be a hero every day: when a dark ripple reaches you, don’t pass it on. Don’t be the next domino in the chain. Your boss snarls at you because he hasn’t been sleeping because the investors are anxious because and because and because—and you don’t snap or lash out at the next person who gives you an excuse. You don’t take it out on anyone else. The chain of small or not-so-small cruelties and meanness and indifference reaches you, and you break it. You are the one who says stop. You are the one who doesn’t take an eye. You are the one who says enough.

You are a fucking hero.

You are, though. Some of you are scoffing at me right now, but think about it. You know how hard it is to do that. You know that you say things you regret to someone who isn’t the cause of your pain or stress. You’ve had someone do it to you. Now think about the strength of will it takes to hold that pain or stress and not pass it on. It’s like a game of hot potato, only the potato is a burning coal and there is no music to make it stop. The burning coal has been passed from person to person to person and given to you. You’re the one who has to make it stop.

Think about what it takes to hold onto that coal and not pass it on.

Think about what it takes to crush it into nothing.

It is hard. It hurts, sometimes. How is that not heroic? You’ve stopped an evil. A little evil, maybe, but little evils build into big ones. And even little ones can break people, hearts, lives. You know that too, if you think about it.

I remember being about fifteen or sixteen years old, so happy because for the first time in my life, I’d gotten 90% on a Maths test. The highest mark I’d ever managed in that subject. I brought it home beaming because my dad had spent years frustrated with me for struggling with mathematics. It had been a low-grade, sometimes not so low-grade vein of disappointment and small miseries for all of my life, and now I’d finally done it, and he would be so proud of me.

He barely glanced at it when I showed him. He said something absently, vaguely congratulatory and continued on with what he was doing.

It’s been ten years and it still makes me want to cry.

And that wasn’t any kind of deliberate cruelty. That was just a father who was exhausted from working 5am to 9pm in the middle of the credit crisis, who knew his job was on the point of being terminated and who had to borrow from his father-in-law to make our rent. He had every reason to be that tired and absent-minded. Just like you have every right to be raw and snarly after a terrible day at work, to be maddened by the idiocy of that customer service rep, to feel like the whole world’s against you after a million tiny things go wrong in one day.

You have every right.

But you can choose not to pass on that coal.

It’s hard. We’re mortals: sometimes we fuck up. Sometimes we’re cruel by accident, sometimes we make mistakes, sometimes we don’t know the whole story. Sometimes we’re just so fucking tired.

But you can choose to try.

Even stopping just one evil makes you a hopepunk. Makes you a hero.

And what about being more than a hero? What about crushing that coal down into a diamond, and passing that on instead?* What about deliberately choosing to be kind when someone has been cruel, when the world has hurt you? By which I mean: what about turning around and doing something to make a positive ripple when a bad one reaches you? What about being a magic kind of prism, and turning the darkness that reaches you into a rainbow?

I’m not saying, do something good for everyone who hurts you. Like I said, I’m not a saint, and I don’t want to be. If you can be or are that good, then…then I can’t even. You’re something more than the rest of us, and you have my unfeigned awe and I am happy you exist. But for the rest of us—when your boss yells at you, maybe drop a penny into a charity box. Grab your roommate’s favourite treat for them on the way home. Write a positive review for an app you like on the app store. It can be anything. It can be tiny. Smile and say thank you to the person who makes your coffee at Starbucks, I don’t know.

But drop the coal on the fucking ground, and give something small and beautiful to someone else instead.

If you’re good, make your voice heard. Remind strangers that the world isn’t all bad, that the terrible people featured on the news are far from the only people out there. Give someone a moment of kindness that they might just remember forever. Help make a world worth fighting for by refusing to let Them make you into someone who wouldn’t.

You won’t always manage it. We all have bad days, we all make mistakes. That’s okay. But try. Do your best.

When you can, stand next to me—stand up with all of us—and when a ripple of casual cruelty or deliberate evil or just plain indifference reaches you, say no.

Say It stops here.

Because I’m a fucking hopepunk, and I will kill you with kindness.

(NB: I’m not advocating pacifism here. You have no obligation to be kind to - well, arguably anybody, I guess, but especially not to people who hurt you. And there are some kind of cruelties that you need to push back against, not just stand against. But I believe we need this kind of resistance as well.)

(*Yes I know that’s not how diamonds are really made, that’s not the point!)

19 notes · View notes

mimiplaysgames · 6 years

Text

A Rush of Blood to the Head (2/6)

Pairing: Terra/Aqua Rating: T Word Count: 4,951

Summary: Aqua was told it was a fair trade - her life for his. And it was, but now Terra has to pick up after the consequences.

AO3 FF.net

A/N: It’s such a weird feeling to end a WIP. This is the third one I’ve opened, and the first one I’ve closed. I usually daydream about them until I put them into words. The outline had been collecting dust for a couple of months. After I’ve dusted it off, I decided not to change anything. Needless to say, I’ve been very excited to finally share this. I almost consider this as an AU to my other AU, with all the same headcanons and backstories for them that I’ve written out.

The reunion was done to Michael Giacchino’s “Locke’d Out Again” from Lost Season One. The Wayfinder scene was done to Michael Giacchino’s “Departing Sun” from Lost Season One. The second flashback to the end was done to Gustavo Santaolalla’s “Home” from The Last of Us.

One Gain

The only thing that would have made this night better would be moving closer to her. But asking for her permission to do so was a risk Terra never took.

The rain continued to patter heavily on the windows, and every once in a while lightning struck again. The lamp next to Aqua had been lit, and they rested the heavy leather book in between the both of them, a blanket draped over their laps. The rest of the lounge, a mixture of furniture, long desks, shelves of books and a wardrobe, was completely draped in shadows. She was close enough that her leg rested against his.

For now, he was grateful to relish her proximity. He also felt safest when he made it difficult for her to determine his feelings for her, fearful of how she would react if she ever found out.

“Ghosts will stay behind for any number of reasons. They may need to take care of unfinished business, or they could be in denial over their deaths,” Terra said, summarizing most of the chapter he had been reading.

Aqua rested her elbow on the backrest of the loveseat they were sharing, her head on her palm. She yawned. “That doesn’t sound so bad. When does it get dangerous?” she asked, rubbing her eyes.

“They can haunt people if they are angry or resentful.” He wondered if there would ever be a point in his future career as a Keyblade Master that he would encounter one. “They can even get aggressive if they are enraged, or vengeful, or even possessive.”

She scoffed. “And the writer of this book came across enough of them to know this?”

His lips curled ever so slightly upward. “Did you know there is a world out there where there are undead pirates? It’s true. There was an earlier chapter about them.”

She rolled her eyes. “That’s not the same thing as a ghost. How do you actually know you came across one?”

He pointed to some lines in the book and read aloud: “A ghost, upon contact, will carry burdens and confounded memories of the life left behind. When one speaks, the manner will be cold, and their sentences garbled. A ghost will talk nonsense, leaving the living confused. It is a way to make certain that personal pain is felt by those left behind.“

“That’s horribly depressing.” She stifled a laugh rather poorly, which was usual. She always made fun of him for finding the strangest things to read from the library. But she never refused to listen to him talk about it.

“It gets worse.” It was fascinating, but heavy-hearted at the same time. “Sometimes the living can keep a dangerous ghost around because they get obsessed with their loss. Like, they’ll keep objects that used to belong to their loved ones with them at all times.”

“Ugh, Terra-”

“Hey, you never know. You might need this information.”

“Of course,” she said, her eyes fluttering shut. “Someday we’ll need to attempt a heroic rescue over some old lady who didn’t know she died.” Her voice cracked.

“You’re very tired.” He mustered every ounce of his will to stop himself from sounding disappointed, expecting she’ll leave him for bed.

She slowly opened her eyes, the dim lighting from the lamp on his side reflecting off of them. They stared into his for a while. “Yeah.” She actually sounded discouraged over her own tiredness, and it was a lie if Terra pretended that his heart didn’t flutter in that instant.

Still, he shouldn’t be too forward. “Should I carry you to your room? Or do you want to camp out here like we used to do during the snowstorms?”

“First of all,” she said, smacking him on the bicep, “I can take myself back to my room... But yeah, let’s camp here.”

It was the better answer. The lounge was one of the several rooms they’ve christened as spots for blanket and pillow forts when they were children. Inside the wardrobe were a heap of stacked blankets. They spread them out and layered them right in front of the tall windows - enough to makeshift a spacious bed.

The rain wasn’t letting up anytime soon. Each time lightning flashed, it illuminated her silhouette, the way her chopped hair fell around her face. Most days, Terra was able to handle his ache to touch her just fine.

Tonight, he snuck behind her in some feeble attempt to scare her. As expected, her reflex to defend herself kicked in - she sent an elbow straight back, which he grabbed. She laughed, her other hand right on his as he wrapped his free arm around her waist. She never seemed to learn that tackling him using just physical strength was always futile. Being this close to her, he could faintly smell notes of vanilla and lavender. He threw her onto the blankets, her laugh the sweetest sound next to the rain.

The sky was painted in shades of bright oranges and deep pinks. Sunsets in Twilight Town seemed to make the sandstone that shaped the architecture stand out all the more.

To see light again - after what apparently had been thirteen years of pure darkness, with nothing to see or touch - was an indescribable feeling.

Hearing voices that weren’t Xehanort’s took a few days to accept. The smell of food was overwhelming. The sights were unbelievable. He had spent such long hours in darkness with nothing but repeating memories and dreams. Anything he saw in his mind those years was probably warped. Seeing color again made him weep with happiness for the first several hours. Best of all, there was no Xehanort left to speak of - at least not speaking to him in his head.

But that was the biggest problem. He woke up, and didn’t understand why or remember what led to it. He was left to die in the middle of a desert, with four furry legs and an inability to walk properly. He was saved by a talking meerkat and warthog who took him to an oasis. It was there he met a young lion by the name of Sora. It didn’t take long for him to meet others, like his most esteemed successor, Riku.

Terra would describe the two of them as saviors. They helped him retrieve his armor and his Keyblade. Kept him up to date with all of the latest happenings. Listened to him when he briefly spoke about his past. But it had been two days since Riku came back from the Realm of Darkness, from a mission to find her. Avoiding Terra was such an understatement to describe how often he refused to answer calls.

That left Terra on guard duty in this quiet, peaceful town, checking the communicator they gave him every five minutes to see if Riku had finally replied. He listed every possible reason why he was awake in the first place.

He also replayed memories to himself, since he had no friends to share them with. Sneaking notes to Ventus during their study time, unable to stifle giggles. Ventus would write back to him the worst puns. Aqua sat right by him, her brow twitching every time they laughed as she glued her nose to a book. Until she grabbed the essay she was writing and smacked Terra right on the head, begging for some peace and quiet.

She was the same as him, though - she failed to contain a giggle of her own. They spent their entire childhoods with endless teasing like this - it was the easiest way to get her attention. When he got older, he wanted more from her, attention that was different than what he was used to. It was possible that he probably could have received it if he had asked. But old habits just didn’t break.

To think that was thirteen years ago, and he spent those last few moments they had together by shutting the both of them out, going out on his own, and hiding a bunch of truths he should have, could have, and would have shared with them. He could have been sharing this beautiful sunset-lit view with them now.

I didn’t even congratulate her for becoming a Master. I’ve ruined us.

He walked through the streets of Twilight Town, and checked his communicator again. Nothing. The buildings were tall, and it looked like magic was at work with the way the sun seemed to brighten every angle. Except for a hooded figure. So black was the cloak that it stood out like a mess of paint.

The hooded figure, a woman, saw that he noticed her, and bolted straight toward the forest outside of town.

“Hey!” He sprinted, following her into the trees, away from the ears of any civilian. She was lithe in her movements, almost floating in a way, using shadows to make her fly faster, to make her jump higher, to help her speed.

They reached a clearing, some decent patches of grass where thick tree trunks wouldn’t get in the way. She stopped and faced him, her hands melting into cascades of ever flowing shadows that seeped out from her long sleeves. Until they thinned out and hardened. He summoned his Keyblade, and she whipped.

The Master usually said that Terra excelled in staring down his opponents. In facing them with bravery. In analyzing their skills and preparing accordingly. The woman was a mage, a sorceress that utilized shadows that were able to bend to whatever she wanted them to be. She floated in the air, using mainly her whips for offense, at times trying to grab him. Not once did she say a word.

There were only two things that Terra needed to keep in mind: do not fall to his knees, and do not keep his eyes away from his enemies.

Most of the fight was just a flurry of strikes that were blocked by others. But it was her dodging that gave him the first sense of unsettling dejá vu. He moved to slam her with his Keyblade, and she maneuvered a handless cartwheel to her left. A twirl here. A backflip there. Each dodge an opportunity she took to sneak up on him later. But each one was something he almost expected.

What hurt the most were his obliques. He gripped them as leaned onto his Keyblade. At least he wasn’t thrown down.

He waited for an opportunity to hit, and it looked like she waited for the same. The smoky shadows that kept pouring out of her long black sleeves still formed those annoying whips, but she kept them close to herself.

The woman made the next move. She flailed her right arm first before closely following it with her left. Terra maintained his defensive stance, blocking each strike as she continued to wail at him. He could feel that he was getting a bit more sluggish every second. So he darted the next strike and sprinted at her with all his might, raising the incredibly heavy Ends of the Earth to hit her as hard as he could.

She dodged, and dodged again. He stopped, and there they waited. Again, there was that itching feeling in the pit of his stomach. Something about the way she was moving. It was acrobatic. It happened at all the exact moments that never left him surprised.

He kept his Keyblade close and he breathed hard. What was worse than being this injured and fighting a new enemy this powerful was the thought that was threatening to leave his mouth.

And he didn’t have the strength to keep it in. “Aqua?”

The shadows didn’t exactly dissipate. They crawled right back into her sleeves, gloved hands forming in replacement. She started to remove the hood that was hiding her face.

The hand that held his Keyblade became weak. It felt like his face went cold, and he might as well be floating in the air since he forgot the pain he was under. Her hair had gone mostly white, save for the roots which were still blue. Her eyes were bright as always, but instead of bearing that enamoring azure color he kept a memory of all these years, they were amber. And they were furious.

All at once, Terra forgot he was breathing. He slowly walked forward, holding his hand out, but stopped himself short from touching her. She stood still, the look of wrath never wavering.

“I don’t understa-” He choked on a sob, and willed himself to hold it back.

She smacked her lips, and took a moment to respond. Her expression was fully unnatural for her.

“You understand exactly who you’re looking at,” she said with a low voice, but with an intensity that told him she was ready to strike again.

Of course he knew. He was looking at a parasite, during its gestation. It almost felt like he was going to faint, his face losing all feeling. “Why?”

There were small micro twitches throughout her face - her nose, her mouth, her eyes. As if she was enraged by the question and tried her hardest to contain it.

After what felt like forever of her staring at him this way, she asked, “did you ever think of me all these years? Just once?”

Terra let out a harsh gasp. “Of course I did!”

She breathed in slowly. “Then what was I doing, sitting in the dark all by myself this entire time? Hm?” She cocked her head at that last hm? But he had no proper answer.

Then she said, in a softer voice, “were the worlds safe the entire time I was gone? Was there a point to any of it?”

He shook his head slowly. His eyes burned and his throat constricted.

“And what were you thinking when you left us there to chase you around world-to-world?” she continued, her jaw quivering. “What was going through your head when you refused to come home?”

Again, he had no answer. She straightened her head, and strange sense of calm washed over all the movements that flooded her face before.

“You’ve ruined us,” she said.

Terra slowly dropped to his knees, leaning on his Keyblade. He stared at the ground.

“I know,” he said, failing to keep his voice steady. “Everything is broken, and I don’t know how to put it back together.”

He took in two breaths. She must been staring at him, because she didn’t move. He told himself to keep it together before speaking again. It was breathy, the way he said it. But it was the most strength he had.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you when you needed me.”

No answer. He willed himself to look at her, even though he was terrified of what he would see. Her brows were slanted harsher than before, her lips so pursed that she must have been grinding her teeth. Aqua never used to get this angry.

If this was the most frightening she would get, then the only terror left to face was to tell her the truth. As crazy as it was. All these years of saying nothing, though, only to hit him back where it hurt the most.

“I’m sorry I never told you earlier,” he said, his voice surprisingly calmer like he was ready for the execution. He felt his eyes soften, but he refused to cry. “I love you.”

Her eyes quivered and they watered. Her mouth relaxed into a the beginning of shock as her eyes went wider.

He prepared for an attack, but then her face changed. It became... cold almost, and her eyes glassed over, almost like she suddenly became a different person. She reached her hand into her pocket, and threw something so hard that it told him she hated him. It hit him in shoulder, and bounced onto the dirt.

Her bright blue Wayfinder.

Fair enough. She slowly turned to walk away, leaving him and his unsteady breaths.

What to say to make her stay?

“What about Ven?” he called out. There was no way she would abandon him. No way she would put him in danger.

She stopped, but refused to face him. It took way too long for her to reply, and it was impossible to read what she was feeling through her voice. “I don’t... need you to find him.”

Aqua kept going, disappearing into the trees. For the moment, Terra didn’t feel much of anything. It seemed that his body responded by simply denying everything he had seen. He eyed the Wayfinder, the only spark of blue that is among this forest baked in sunlight.

The sound of crumpling leaves and twigs crept up behind him. “She dealt a stronger resistance than you did,” said a voice that was soft, but only mock-pleasantly so. “Either way, her ability to continually struggle with it usually turned toward our favor.”

It was a young man, seemingly younger than Terra, with white hair, dark skin, and bright yellow eyes. There was no denying who this was. Xehanort, but a teenage version of him. How this was possible was beyond Terra’s understanding - not that he was able to mull over the reasons right now. The shock of seeing such a face nearly put him in a stupor.

This Xehanort smiled - it was a smile that oozed superiority, and it was perpetually different from the way an older Xehanort would have done it. The Master was practiced in pretending. This one still had a long way to go.

Terra only stared at him. This Xehanort wasn’t the one who told him continually, all these years, how he was good for nothing. That it was all his fault. That there was no one in the world who wanted him around. Still, it didn’t matter.

“What are you talking about?” Terra said, trying hard to keep his voice steady. There was no way he was going to give this bastard the benefit of hearing him in pain.

Xehanort maintained a smile. “She isn’t as frantic about resisting it as you were. On some level, part of her desired it. I believe most of it was due to the fact that she can now remember what it is like to feel again, and that she is free to roam where ever she may please.”

Terra let out a scoff that melted into a laugh. “Just shut up,” he said calmly. “She would never have-”

“But she did.” A glisten in the eyes, like rubbing salt on a wound. “She traded herself, for you.”

Terra held his breath. He shook his head, very quickly, and didn’t allow himself to gasp.

“You were a liability,” Xehanort continued. “We thus sought a more proper candidate who was primed for the responsibility.” He crossed his arms, his smile widening just a bit more. “I don’t believe she understood exactly what she was getting herself into.”

“You took everything from me.” Terra’s voice shook now. He hated himself for it, and he gripped the handle of his Keyblade so hard that his knuckles turned white. Eraqus was dead. Ventus was still missing. Now Aqua was taken.

Xehanort pretended not to hear it. “So much unspoken and forgotten emotion. This made her much easier to manipulate than-”

Terra lunged at him, the latter summoning a Keyblade that was unrecognizable. Another mage, just like the old man, but much more temporal. Much more willing to let himself be distracted by anger.

And without a foreign will to bend the mind, Terra was free to let loose any ounce of darkness he was still scarred with. It was like unlimited power, fed by a hatred so deep, Terra wished he could end him there - take the life of a teenager, and everything in time and space would reverse.

It left the young Xehanort disarmed and up against the trunk of a tree, with his shoulder lodged under Terra’s substantial Keyblade. Without magic, Xehanort was just as weak as any, unable to wrestle out of Terra’s grip.

“I’ll take her back,” Terra said, and this made Xehanort sneer through his nose.

The he heard her voice. “Let him go.”

She stood there, shadows snaking up along her cloak. She wasn’t in a stance to attack, but her voice demanded submission all the same.

Surrounded by two enemies now... although one of them was someone he would never fight again, knowing now who she was.

He turned to face Xehanort, and said, “the next you see me, you’ll be afraid.” His voice was so low, it was only meant to be heard by one person.

Terra ripped his Keyblade out of the trunk, and Xehanort stumbled a bit, breathing hard.

The least he could do was keep his eyes on the enemy - at her. She was still Aqua, maybe she would always be. But not right now.

She held his stare until her eyes started to tremble, and she was the first to break contact.

“We have work to do,” she said to Xehanort, before turning her back. The teenager didn’t look too pleased with her reaction, but he gripped his shoulder and followed suit.

They walked some distance, where another man in a cloak, who was fairly large and very tall, waited for them by a gateway made of shadow. This man also had white hair that was long enough to drape his shoulders. Most surprising was his face - Terra’s face. Aqua walked through the corridor without acknowledging this man, but the man followed her with his gaze, and it made Terra uncomfortable to witness. Xehanort also disappeared through the gateway, and the man eyed Terra one more time before going through himself.

Alone. A gentle breeze shook the leaves that still took refuge in the canopies. Terra realized he was still gripping his Keyblade with an iron will, but forcing himself to relax opened a dam of tears to pour from his eyes instead. He walked over to the blue Wayfinder, and fell on his knees when he tried to pick it up.

Terra let the tears fall, barely breathing. His chest hurt the most, and he told himself that he wouldn’t vomit.

He held the Wayfinder to his forehead. When was the last time she truly smiled at me?

The morning of the Mark of Mastery exam. They stood together, right before opening the back doors to the entrance hall. The sun shone so brightly through the windows. The mountains were still green from the summer season. She looked at him, and with two fingers, traced the shape of a smile on her lips. Her own followed, and whenever she smiled - when she was really happy - her eyes sparkled. He remembered smiling back, although it was lie to say he wasn’t nervous. They were silent. Then they graced each other with good lucks and shook hands. It was the last time he had ever touched her, as well.

Tears continued to drip. He stroked the Wayfinder with his thumb, his nose stuffed up.

Peculiarly, he felt a nub at the back of the trinket. He flipped it to see a tiny, rolled up piece of paper taped there. He gently unrolled it, careful not to destroy the beautiful details she poured her heart into the creation of this star-shaped charm. The scroll was tiny and narrow, and it had three lines.

The first - her handwriting, soft and elegant:

Find him. May your heart be your guiding key. You just need the right one.

The others - still hers, but they were scratchy, as if she was being tortured when she wrote them:

It cannot break.

It hurts so much.

Terra let out a breath, the last of his tears tracing his jawline. “I know it hurts,” he said out loud. “But you’re going to be okay. I’m going to fix this.”

With a refreshed bravado, Terra stood up quickly, and hustled back to the motel he was staying in. The sun was disappearing behind the horizon, and most of the sky was dark. He turned on only the bathroom light, so that the bedroom was illuminated by it and what remained of the sun. He placed the communicator on the dresser and made his way to the narrow standing mirror right by the windows.

He began to undo the clasp that held the string of her Wayfinder together.

A question she asked him a few weeks before their Mark of Mastery exam rang in his mind...

“Do you know what I would haunt you for, if I ever turned into a ghost?”

They laid next to each other that stormy night, on top of several blankets, with some pillows they took from the lounge sofas. She was on her side, facing him, while he opted to rest on his back. Close enough to touch each her, and damn, he wanted to.

He allowed a half-smile. “No, what?”

She rolled onto her back. “The fudge cake you rejected for your sixteenth birthday.”

“Oh please-”

“It had multiple layers-”

“I already apologized for that-“

“And I worked so hard on it-”

“It’s not that your baking is bad. Far from it. I just needed a change of diet.” He scoffed and added, “I still ate it, anyway.”

“I even put strawberries on top.” He could see in the dark that her smile was smug.

Terra snarled. “I’d haunt you for driving me crazy.”

She giggled and rolled back to face him. Her eyes were just as beautiful and bright at night. “But seriously though,” she said, “we should make a pact about this. And it should be a serious one.” She thought for a moment. “Hey, why did we stop making blood oaths?”

He laughed. “You forgot about that? We decided that it hurt too much to prick our fingers for everything single stupid thing. We were doing them for reasons like saving each other from being stuck on a tree.”

She snorted. “I think when you’re eight or nine, being stuck on a tree is a scary enough ordeal.”

“We still made pacts, though. We agreed to replace them with pinky shakes.” He smiled at her. “Don’t you remember? We said they meant just as much.”

“Okay then. Let’s promise to save each other’s souls if we ever turn into ghosts.” She held out her pinky finger. “What do you say?”

He gazed at her for a moment, and lightning struck. He wished he could hold her by the waist to bring her close to him.

He hooked her pinky with his own. “I guess you’re worth the trouble.”

... Terra wore the Wayfinder around his neck. Its bright blue stood out against the earthy tones of his clothes. He placed his hand on his sternum, underneath the trinket, as he stared at the mirror. It felt light on his chest, sitting close to his heart.

From her peripheral, a small light blinked from his dresser. A message on his communicator. It was Riku. The message said that Sora found a Keyblade washed up on the beach of their home world, and Riku asked if they could come together to investigate it.

Terra looked back through the windows, seeing that the sun left a sliver of red along the horizon. The stars were bright. He reached up to touch her Wayfinder again, and stepped out of the motel to summon his glider.

YOOOO so if you haven’t heard, I’ve gotten some requests to expand on this and include Terra saving her and their eventual reconciliation. Let me know if that’s what you would like, as I’m mulling it over!

Thank you guys so much for reading this! Especially to those of you who stuck by this particular story. The mention of the Keyblade that Sora found is essentially inspired by the multiple theories that were popping up all over the place over the very first trailer for Kingdom Hearts III, where Sora found Eraqus’ Master Defender on the beach of Destiny Islands - possibly hinting that Aqua was severed from it when she turned into Aquanort. Most of these theories say that it’s the key to finding Ventus - since it would be terribly out of character for her to put him in such danger. I just wanted to play with a tragic love story. I hope you guys enjoyed this!!

#terraqua angst #terqua #kingdom hearts fanfiction #kh fanfic #aquanort #terra #aqua #young xehanort #can't believe it took me this long to update #but i felt like my other works needed so much attention #but it's here!#let me know what you think please <3 #my fic

27 notes · View notes