#i HATE leaving things unfinished when it seems so monumental | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

sailorgreywolf-german · 3 years

Text

Weine nicht um mich

Characters: Prussia, Freidrich the Great

Ships: PruFritz

Summary: Prussia reflects on important personal moments with his best king.

Words: 7.2K

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Prussia took a familiar route to the all too familiar place, his feet carrying him there without any conscious thought. He knew how conspicuous he looked clad in his black dress uniform, walking in this small town with a white chrysanthemum in his hand. But, he couldn’t care less. Let people look at him questioningly; he did not care. He had performed the same ritual every year for more than a century and he was not about to give it up just because Hitler wanted to have some dinner with his commanders.

Prussia had made all the proper goodbyes, stating that there was a pressing matter that needed his attention before grabbing the key to one of the Mercedes and driving to Potsdam. He was not usually so reckless, but this was far more important than another night of nationalistic pomp.

He reached the old church with its soaring spire; it still looked like it had, like the albino, become unchanging. The years of its creation were long gone, but the gothic architecture harkened back to an older age. The wars had not yet touched it. In the years since it had been built, it had housed the remains of all the Hohenzollern monarchs. Now the dynasty was at an end, and Prussia had not been disappointed to see the last of them abdicate. He had been a belligerent fool, unfit to bear the family name. But, that didn’t stop Prussia from making this trip.

He stepped inside the heavy wooden doors and was immediately struck by a wave of remembrance. All these years later, it had not become easier to step into this crypt. He still felt his heart beating in his throat, choking him. It was still bitter and painful. He swallowed it in an attempt to force down the raw emotions. Now it was more painful than it had been in the comfortable years. Loneliness had been easier when he could lay his year’s conquests here like the fulfillment of a lover’s promise.

The space was lit by a single candle, but there were many scattered around the room. The tomb was still mostly in darkness. Prussia put aside the flower and picked up one of the candles. With careful diligence, he walked from candle to candle. As he reached each one, he let the flickering flame of the one he was holding until the flame caught. He walked around the crypt, making certain that no candle remained unlit. If not for the heaviness of the day, there would have been something awe inspiring about the rows of lit candle, lighting the confined space of the gothic cathedral. But, as it was, this felt like a devotional.

Once Prussia finished lighting all the candles, he returned to the original spot. He retrieved the carnation, a white flower adorned with the black and white ribbon of the old flag. Choosing his steps carefully, he approached the tomb. There was a grand engraving of the name of the man, but Prussia knew that the man buried here would have called the monument austere and gaudy. He had wanted to be buried in a simple tomb far away from his father with his hounds. His heir had insisted that he be buried with pomp and ceremony, and Prussia had been in no state to object. The albino placed the flower carefully next to the one from the year before, which had withered and dried. He would remove the desiccated flower when he left. But, first there were words to be said.

The albino kneeled in front of the tomb and said, “So it’s been another year, Fritz. You wouldn’t like what has happened this year. That man keeps saying you would, but he isn’t worth the dust on your boots. I know you well enough to know you would hate all of this.” He mentally kicked himself as he realized that he was still using the present tense to speak to a man who was long dead. It was still so tempting to treat him as though he was alive and could still offer sage advice.

The feelings began to accost Prussia, the deep nausea he felt every time Hitler used Fritz’s name. This whole thing made him sick. Germany seemed happy for the first time in years, and that was worth something. The dour expression he had worn since Versailles was finally fading, and that was enough for Prussia to swallow all his misgivings. But here, alone in a place sacred to him, he could say what he really felt.

He continued, telling the gravestone his worries like he would have to the man when he had been alive, “Sometimes, I look around and I think that this is the price for my ambition. I started all of this: I told Ludwig all my war stories. He always looked so impressed with me.” His voice trailed off and he struggled to regain the thread of what he had said. Germany’s new dictator seemed fond of dragging Prussia’s name into his tirades, and Prussia could see the fervent wish for that kind of glory in his brother’s eyes. His voice returned to him, and he said the words that had been struggling to be formed all night, “I wish you were here, Fritz. I need you now.” _____________________________________________________________________

The music of the flute was soft and soothing in the warm summer air, but Friedrich was having a hard time concentrating on it. His fingers were moving, the memory of a song played many times animated them. But, his eyes were on his kingdom, who had draped himself provocatively over one of the chaises. His limbs were spread in reckless abandon. Prussia was holding a glass of red wine in one hand, occasionally taking a drink from it.

The sight was a little victory for Friedrich. It had taken categorically banning beer from his court to get Gilbert to drink French wine instead of that common German swill. He knew that when the albino drank with the soldiers he still drank beer. But, for elegant evenings like this he had learned to enjoy wine. In these little ways, Prussia had become more used to society.

But that wasn’t what was so distracting. It was the look on his face. Friedrich would be lying to himself if he said he enjoyed anything more than this. Prussia was his favorite audience. These private concerts were more fulfilling because the albino always had the most sublime look on his face, like he never wanted to listen to anything else. His attention never wavered; he never looked away. He was the only one who ever gave Friedrich the impression he was savoring every note, that the music moved him to the core. There was nothing more gratifying for a musician than the feeling of being closely attended by the one he loved. It warmed him to have the albino’s eyes fixed on him.

And yet, Gilbert’s attention was distracting because Friedrich knew that if he put down the flute and closed the space between them, Prussia would embrace him. There was an empty place in the albino’s arms that was calling to him. However, he would not leave this movement unfinished. The temptation to rush through the movement was present. The evening was pleasant and warm, as only a summer in Potsdam could be and the idea of spending it in the other’s arms sounded like paradise.

Prussia took another drink and, as he pulled the glass away from his mouth, he ran his tongue over his lips. And yet, his attention never wavered and a supremely pleased smile returned to his face. The king’s fingers found their way to the last notes of the composition and the sound hung in the air as he let the song end. Dwindling music always seemed to leave a certain magic.

He carefully placed the flute aside and watched as Prussia’s smile widened. He knew what was coming next, and there was an impish undertone to his smile that invited it. Friedrich took the invitation, stepping confidently towards his kingdom. The albino made to sit up, but apparently decided against it. The king settled himself firmly next to his country, who immediately extended his arm around the other. There was barely enough room on the piece of furniture for the pair of them, but it was easy to find space. It felt like the most natural thing in the world to be reclining into Prussia’s embraced.

Friedrich spoke, though he knew he didn’t need to, “What did you think?” He knew he didn’t need to ask; he had gotten all the feedback he needed from Gilbert’s uncharacteristic silence and his rapturous smile. He asked only to hear the praise. Like an obedient soldier, Prussia responded to him, “It was beautiful. You have such talented hands.”

Without any resistance from the man, Prussia took his hand in his own and brought it to his lips. As the albino left soft kisses on his fingers, Friedrich reflected on how their relationship had changed. Prussia had never been good at romancing; nothing in his upbringing had prepared him for the subtleties of sweet nothings. Like the soldier he had always been, he wore his desires openly and expressed them without restraint. When he wanted to indulge his cruder desires, he made no secret of it. But, as they spent time together, Prussia had learned a subtler way. His tongue had soften and learned to speak surprisingly good French, even the sweet flirtations of a foreign tongue. Now, the compliment had rolled off his tongue with little pretense.

It was easy to find the words to respond, private words, “Your hands are just as talented. And I am fond of what you do with them.” Prussia scoffed, entwining his hand carelessly with the other’s as he spoke, “Don’t lie to me. Mine are soldier’s hands. They’re rough.”

Friedrich could feel the callouses of the albino’s hand pressed against his own palm. Gilbert was right; his hands bore the marks of the years of swordsmanship. But, that was the charm of them. They were a map of Gilbert’s life before he became a kingdom, every hour honing his own skills. They spoke of the frustrated young knight, and the ascendant power finally coming into his own.

He replied, “Why should that make them untalented? I’ve never seen anyone handle a sword like you.” An arrogant smirk lighted across the albino’s face. It was exactly what he expected. Prussia loved praise, more than he would admit. The modesty of a monastic knight still lingered, even though it was counter to his nature. Years of being a vassal had apparently taught him to hold his tongue. It was as though he thought that by voicing his own greatness, he would make it untrue. But, the deep pride he took in his skills was obvious. Obvious in the way he would best his enemies without pretense, obvious in the way he would pour over maps of his new territorial acquisitions like a giddy child. Friedrich had managed to coax it out and find the braggart craving to be released.

He leaned in and kissed the albino’s lips lightly, saying as he pulled away, “You are a knight and I wouldn’t want you any other way.” Prussia’s hand tightened on his king’s affectionately. He seemed to contemplate his words before he said, “You’re right. And you’re a philosopher, a musician, and a brilliant general.” As he listed each achievement, Friedrich could hear the pride building in the man’s voice. But, he only took pride in the latter two. Beyond that, he saw an equivocation in the words. By listing the other’s achievements, Prussia meant to lessen his own.

His king would not allow this old habit. He immediately said, “I’m afraid you give me too much credit. I leave philosophy to more talented minds. You write better Latin than I do.” At this the albino let out a scoff, “That’s only because I had to transcribe manuscripts.” The dodges were becoming tedious and Friedrich did not have the stomach for it tonight. He wanted this to be uncomplicated affection while they were alone together. He said, using the voice he usually reserved for drilling the regiments, “Mon cher, I do not want to hear about your imagined inadequacies. I know full well that you do not believe any of it.”

A mischievous smile returned to the albino’s face, and he let out a short laugh, “You found me out, Fritz.” Satisfied that he had won some honesty, Friedrich reached over his country and grabbed the glass of wine. As he put it to his lips, Prussia objected, “That was my wine.” He leaned closer, but it was only the pretense of indignation. They had shared far more than this. A retort rolled off his tongue carelessly, “As your king, I am claiming it.” Then, not yet taking a drink, he ran one finger up the albino’s leg, “It’s not all I’ve claimed of yours.”

It was brazen, but there was no reason to refrain. They were alone and secure. Prussia took the invitation, putting one hand on the side of his king’s face. He said, breathily, “I love when you’re forceful.” Without allowing the other time to respond, the albino joined their lips. He still kissed like a man of war, with passion and messy, reckless abandon. It was like he considered this another conquest. But, it was that undisguised passion, completely honest, that caused heat to spread across the mortal’s skin. He could taste wine on his country’s lips and feel the hand on his face holding him gently.

But, there was something more beneath that, something naive but wholeheartedly determined, something quintessential to the man. Friedrich knew that he had been Prussia’s first, but he suspected that Austria had pined for that honor. In that respect, he had always had the advantage in skill and experience. But, Prussia was earnest and unending in his love, and he kissed with a voracity that no other lover had ever matched.

If force was what Gilbert was craving, then he could certainly have it. His king returned his kiss with equal firmness, gaining ground against his country’s force. He could feel the shift in the albino’s demeanor as he started to succumb. Prussia pulled back, taking a deep breath as he did so. The proud, witty remark that he undoubtedly had died as he was forced to take another breath. He said, “How do you do that?”

The question was genuinely confusing, seeing as what he had been doing seemed rather straightforward. But, he took it as a flirtation, or an attempt at one. Friedrich spoke as he put his hand in Prussia’s hair, “How do I do what, amour?” The albino smiled and his king could see the playful shadow beneath the smile. Then Prussia said, “When you kiss me, I feel like I’m melting. I would do anything for you.”

His voice was thick with desire, but it was the words that made a blush take to the king’s cheeks. He knew Prussia well enough to know that these confessions did not come easily. The man was not one to readily express his emotions. The vulnerability lasted for only a moment before the kingdom added, “But you are my king, so I should do what you want.” It was a witty evasion but nothing more.

Friedrich stroked back a few pieces of the albino’s hair before he countered, “On the contrary, I am your servant. I will do whatever I can to make you happy.” He had said it before, but it carried an entirely different rhetorical weight here with no one else listening. It was not a broad statement on the ideal of serving the needs of the people, it was a lover’s promise. The other didn’t respond at once. He seemed to be contemplating what he thought of the promise. There was something endearing about the way that Gilbert bit his lower lip whenever he was thinking. But, this was more than banter.

Though he had learned to appear like cold steel to his army and commanders, Friedrich couldn’t help but feel deeply for his country and want his happiness. It had been painful to watch Prussia lose land during the Seven Years War, even worse when there had been Russian troops in Berlin and he had seen the spasms of pain when the albino slept. Each loss had felt like the thrust of a knife, if only for the pain he knew it caused Prussia. And yet, he had never said anything, because he did not want his lover, his country to doubt him. Not even a word of his concern had left his lips. Even when the urge to apologize for everything had occurred to him, he had ignored it. Gilbert believed in him and, selfishly, he had wanted that to remain. He had never told Prussia, even once the war was over, that he had told his ministers to place the preservation of his kingdom and his successor over that of his own life. It had been more important to save Prussia and give him a stable line of succession. Gilbert did not know that the deepest joy he had ever felt had not been in the arms of von Katte or in conversation with Voltaire; it had been when the albino embraced him after the signing of the treaty of Hubertusburg, because he knew that Prussia would be safe.

He spoke again, “Anything you want, you need only name it.” Prussia smirked, “Bullshit.” Friedrich responded immediately, “I secured Silesia for you, did I not? I thought you wanted to humiliate Austria and gain territory.”

The boast did not feel entirely sincere in light of what his gamble on Silesia had almost cost him. But, the smile that spread across the albino’s face erased every doubt. Prussia let out a short laugh, and with their proximity, the king could feel it in his own chest. He replied, “It was amazing to see the look on Roderick’s face when he realized you’d beaten him.” Without thinking about the words, Friedrich said, “He’s jealous.” Prussia scoffed as he always did at the notion, “Of what? He’s an empire and I won one little province.”

Sometimes Friedrich couldn’t help but wonder if this was willful ignorance because it seemed painfully obvious to him. The covetous way Austria looked at Prussia was enough to convince anyone. He sighed as he explained again, “He’s jealous of this.” To make his point more effectively he took his hand from the albino’s face and ran it up his thigh. The other shifted so that they were even closer. His response was not the usual denial, “I don’t care what he thinks.”

The brazen answer was tantalizing. It proved that the Austrian influence was truly gone. The king finally took a drink of the wine he had forgotten he was holding. Then he returned to the earlier subject, “If you could have anything, what would it be? What is your greatest ambition?” He suspected he knew already. Gilbert longed to finally be recognized as a great power. Deep crimson eyes met his own and some of the levity left the other’s face, “Are you serious, Fritz?”

The return to the somber tone was unexpected. There was a shadow of a much younger boy in Prussia’s face for a moment, and Friedrich had the sudden strong urge to comfort him. He moved his hand back to the albino’s face and ran his thumb across the skin. The words came easily, “Yes, mon cher, I want to know.” Prussia took a deep breath before saying, “I want all the German states under my control.”

The mortal drew in a shocked breath. He had not expected such far reaching aspirations had resided in his lover’s breast. The reaction did not escape the country’s notice. Responding to the inevitable question, he continued, “They should have been my inheritance. I was my father’s eldest son, but he made my youngest brother the Holy Roman Empire.” He drew in another deep breath before saying, “If I could have anything, I would have it all.”

Friedrich found himself unable to respond immediately. The information was all so novel. Aside from a few moments of sympathy in his youth, he had never heard Prussia speak of his father or the reason for his hatred of him. He knew little about the distant figure of the Holy Roman empire. This was the first time Prussia had said explicitly that he was even related to Holy Rome. It took a moment to understand that Gilbert had said something he guarded deeply. This ambition must have been festering since his days as a knight, never daring to be voiced to anyone.

Taking the silence for the end of the conversation, Prussia composed himself and said, “I’ve ruined the mood.” He then disentangled his limbs from his king and stood up. Having recovered from the shock of the answer, Friedrich said, employing his voice for command again, “Don’t walk away from me, Gilbert.” The albino stopped in his tracks, conditioned to obey. But, he didn’t turn to look at the other.

He could have ordered the man back to his side, but that would be a return to formality. Instead, Friedrich got up and walked over to his country. When he reached him, Friedrich said, “Look at me.” The albino turned his eyes with defiant fire towards his king, but the mortal could recognize the feeling beneath it.

It was that look that he addressed when he said, “Never be ashamed to tell me what you think.” Prussia snapped back, “I am not ashamed.”

Gilbert lied badly; he always had. It had been something of a miracle that he had so effectively hid their involvement from Friedrich’s father. Years of living under a monastic code of conduct had prepared him poorly for duplicity. This had to be a protestation of pride, nothing more. Friedrich took a step closer and replied decisively, “Yes you are. I don’t see why though.”

The albino let out a sigh, admitting his defeat, before saying, “It’s a nice night. We had good wine and exceptional music. You don’t want to hear about how I want my brother’s title.” His evasiveness made his king wonder when, if ever, Prussia had last voiced these sentiments and what reception he had gotten. He would not pry, since he knew he would get little from the other in the moment.

He took one more small step towards his lover and said, “Do you want to hear what I wish for?” Prussia didn’t step away from him. The albino responded with a forced laugh, “Better company?” Friedrich’s hand easily found its familiar place on the albino’s waist. He countered, “If I could have anything, I would have eternity.”

Prussia’s eyes widened as the meaning registered. His king continued, “I would want to be here with you to see you accomplish all your ambitions.” The smile that appeared on Prussia’s face was completely genuine. Everything he wanted to say was clear when he said tenderly, “Fritz.”

His king did not let him equivocate or explain; he pressed his lips against the other’s. If Prussia was really mad, he would have pulled away. But he leaned in and let himself soften under his king’s touch. Friedrich could feel that he had won. When he finally pulled away, the albino was silent. His smile was self-satisfied and bordered on a sneer; it was intensely erotic. The mortal spoke again, “But, for tonight I will be satisfied to take you to bed and claim you.” Prussia’s smile became a smirk as he leaned in again and said, “Whatever you will, mein König.” _______________________________________________________________________

The physician let out a low sigh before he spoke and Friedrich could already guess what he was going to say. The pain in his joints was intense enough already, but he had felt his health declining more rapidly for a few months. Consulting the physician had been a formality to confirm what he already felt. The man said, “My king, you are dying. I do not think you will live out the month.”

The news was no harsher than he expected. He had already appointed a successor with the full knowledge that he had had a long, rich reign. Friedrich nodded to the physician, “Very well.” He gestured that the man should leave the room, and he bowed and left. The news that he would die was not alarming. There were so many times he could have been cut down on the battlefield with his work unfinished.

He pulled his jacket back on, having removed it to be examined, and took his cane in hand. How ironic it was, he mused, that a cane had been an object of terror in his youth, but was now a necessity. He took a firm hold on the wood and used it to get again to his feet. It was deeply frustrating to be trapped in this breaking body, knowing what he used to be able to do. The young could not imagine the difficulties that came with something as vital as walking. But, it was necessary to make it to the desk on the other side of the room. Now he could feel the pain of the gout in every movement. It was only stubbornness that had stopped him from becoming completely immobile.

He reached the desk and lowered himself into the hard wooden chair with a groan. There was a will in one of the locked drawers of this desk that required his attention. It had resided there since very early in his reign, and had been altered very rarely. Removing the key from his pocket with an unsteady hand, Friedrich found the drawer and prepared himself to confront what lay inside. There had been plans in place in case of his death since the Seven Years War, but revisiting them now with such absolute certainty gave them finality. He laid out the papers in front of himself and began to read through them. The instructions were sufficiently clear; the throne would pass to his nephew since he had never wanted any issue. There should be no foreseeable dispute of the succession. For his own burial he commanded that there be no pomp, only a quiet grave at his summer palace. The last thing he wanted was to spend his eternal rest beside his father.

As he read the words again, an image filled his mind, alarmingly strong. He saw his country, dressed in mourning clothes, bent over his coffin crying. It caused a sharp pain in his chest. The idea was clear, but puzzling. Why should he be crying? In all the years he had been king, he had never seen Prussia truly cry. His country was the kind of man who could have wounds stitched with no more than a stony grimace. Prussia had certainly shed no tears for his father.

But, regardless, in the dizzying image of his own death, he saw Prussia weeping. Worse, he saw no one being able to console his country, no one knowing the man beneath the warrior well enough to do so. What was that German word? Einsamkeit. The french was more familiar, Solitude.

The idea was so throughly unsettling that he laid aside the document. There were no arrangements he could make that would keep his precious lover, who had become more like a husband than a casual lover, from pain. It would be absurd to add a clause to his will dealing directly with Gilbert, since his existence was a secret outside of the court.

The sound of familiar footsteps outside his door was not as welcome as it would usually be. What could he say to his country to soften the blow? Prussia did not wait for permission to enter his king’s chambers; he never did anymore. He looked as young and intoxicatingly virile as he did in Friedrich’s earliest memories. If anything, he looked stronger than he ever had; these years had been good to him. The contrast between them as the years widened had never seemed to bother Prussia, even when Friedrich had felt painfully aware of it. Prussia looked young enough to be his son. Austria did not age either, nor did he seem to physically weaken. When they had met in during the War of Bavarian Succession, it had been hard to meet Austria’s gaze knowing how old he looked next to Prussia. It had been clear from Austria’s self-satisfied smile that he was glad to see how imminent the king’s death was. Austria could see that an annoyance in his path would soon disappear.

As Friedrich reflected on his immortal rival, Prussia walked across the room. The albino needed no invitation; he chose one of the many chairs and sat. He looked at his king, apparently not yet understanding what the document on the table was. Before the albino could bring up a another topic of conversation, Friedrich said, “Have you ever considered taking another lover?”

He heard the pretense in his own voice. Asking about his lover’s infidelity sounded like inquiring whether the weather was favorable. Prussia’s eyes widened as the words registered. He said, sounding throughly incredulous, “Of course not. Why would I?” He scoffed as though he thought the question was a joke. But, it was not. If he had said yes, then that would have given the mortal some comfort. Perhaps if he knew that someone would take Prussia away from his coffin and dry his tears, then he would be at peace with the concept. At least then Prussia would be spared the loneliness he would otherwise have to face.

But, the words died in his throat as he attempted to form them. It was too hard to tell Prussia that he was dying, knowing that the man loved him and would be alone without him. Friedrich knew what it was like to watch someone you loved die. So instead he said, “I am old and I doubt that I still satisfy you. Perhaps you should find someone younger.”

The thought of Prussia bedding someone else made him feel a deep rage accompanied with a slight queasiness. The thought of someone else’s hands on the intimate parts of the albino’s body made him feel ill. But, if it spared him from misery then it would be worth it. The albino’s face fell as he comprehended how sincere the conversation was, and his expression was replaced with one of disdain. But, he shook his head, and the sight could scarcely be more frustrating.

The albino replied with the air of one whose pride had been deeply wounded, “Do you really think that’s all I want? I could certainly find someone to fuck, but would he treat me like you do? Would he discuss philosophy, poetry, or music with me like you do? I don’t think so. I love you for more than your body.”

In the years they had been together, Prussia had certainly become more eloquent. He had enough of an intellect to be a force on his own. But in the moment, Friedrich wished that his country could be simple and superficial. He took a deep breath before saying something else that he thought would never pass his lips, “As your king, I am ordering you to find another lover.” If he could not remedy the anxiety with gentile urging, he was not against coercing the man for his own good. But, he could have guessed Prussia’s reaction before the man snapped back, “No! Why would you ever ask that of me?” Frustrated with his country’s stubborn nature, Friedrich slammed his hand down on the desk. Before he could consider or reorder his words, he said, “I will not allow you to be alone without me!”

His meaning was clear enough and the other’s face went completely blank. He spoke with a mounting disbelief, “But you aren’t-” He stumbled for a moment, and then he caught sight of the papers. Enraged, the albino stood and stormed over. Before he could be stopped, he grabbed the top page and took several steps out of his king’s reach.

The red eyes flitted over the page. Friedrich steeled himself for his country’s inevitable rage. But, Prussia just shook his head slowly, saying under his breath, “Nein.” Before Prussia could fully articulate his thoughts, Friedrich said, “You knew this would happen, Gilbert.” The other’s eyes snapped from the pages back to his face. The tremble in his lower lip negated any idea that he was angry, “Is this why you’ve been having physicians hanging around? So they can make you worry about this?”

He waved the page of the will with a wordless outrage. His king could hear the meaning just beneath the words, and it was making his heart ache. He said, choosing his words carefully, “It is more than just worry. My health is failing.” He spoke the statement with absolute certainty, and it fell flat in the deadened air. Prussia pulled in a deep breath and shook his head again, “It’s not that bad. It has never been before.”

He didn’t sound fully convinced, and his hands were clenched together in front of himself. Friedrich could see the knuckles on Prussia’s right hand turning even paler as it attempted to restrain his sword hand. It was hard to tell what he intended to do with it. Perhaps he wanted to rip it to shreds, like destroying the words would change the reality. But, Prussia knew better than to believe in such childishness.

The king took a breath before saying, “I am not immortal like you, as you have always known. I am dying, and it is certain.” He saw the albino shook his head, but took a moment to collect his thoughts. He finally said, not daring to meet Friedrich’s gaze, “I knew it. I told myself it wasn’t that bad. I told myself that if loved you enough this wouldn’t happen.”

His discipline allowed him to restrain himself, but it was a familiar facade. Friedrich responded, trying to be gentle, “If it worked that way, my father would not have lived so long.” A smile appeared on the albino’s pale lips for a moment. Even wit could not blunt this blow. When Prussia spoke again, there was a tremble in his voice, “I always thought thought there would be one more year. I’m-” His voice caught in her throat, and for one of the first times, tears welled at the corner of his eyes. The sight sent a cold jolt down’s his kings spine. It was beginning already, and he felt his country’s pain as concretely as if it was his own. Prussia collected himself enough to finish his thought, “I’m not ready to be without you. I thought I would be stronger when the time came.”

Though it was uncomfortable, Friedrich got to his feet, using the cane to support himself, and walked around the desk to where his country was standing. Ignoring the pain that it caused him, he let go of the cane and pulled Prussia into his arms. The other immediately pulled him closer. Friedrich put his hand on the back of the albino’s head and cradled it against his shoulder. He spoke, attempting to be comforting, “It’s not a battle, mon cher, you do not need to be strong.”

He felt the other’s shoulder’s heave as he let out a sob. His hands were knotted in the back of his king’s coat. Friedrich felt a sharp pain with every beat of his heart. This was exactly what he feared. The man he had never seen shed a tear was crying against his shoulder.

He said, “You’re not going to be without me.” Prussia looked at him, and there was a look of disbelief that was understandable. But, Friedrich had finally lighted upon the right solution. What Gilbert needed was not a poor imitation of their relationship. He would find no comfort in that. He needed to be reassured that he had no reason to mourn, that he would lose nothing.

Prussia’s next question was predictable, “What do you mean? You’ll die and I’ll still be here.” To answer it, his king pulled away far enough to press his hand flat against the other’s chest. He asked, “What do you feel here?” The albino spoke slowly, clearly confused by the question, “Right now? Pain.” It was kurt, but it was expected. Friedrich responded, “I feel it too. Your pain hurts me too. But, that feeling tells you I am there in your heart.” He met Prussia’s ruby eyes again and he could tell that the man was drinking in every word. His eyes had not completely dried, but it was still clear that he was distressed. He continued, “I will always be there. That will not change with time.”

The albino put his hand over the other’s where it was on his chest. He said, “What about the times when I need you?” The answer was easy, and Friedrich spoke it, “Listen to your heart. I will be there with you. It’s my heart as much as yours.”

Prussia’s tears were gone, but his arms were still holding his lover with such force that he could not pull away. Friedrich did not mind, it was easier than holding his own body up. Prussia spoke again, hesitating uncharacteristically, “I will miss you all the same.” They were inevitable words, and there was nothing Friedrich could say to counter it. Instead he said, “I expect you will. But, you are fully capable on your own.”

He reached up and stroked back a piece of Prussia’s wayward hair. The albino leaned in and pressed his lips gently against his king’s. This was not the forceful kiss of youth. It was softer and sweeter, and as he put his hand on the albino’s cheeks, he could feel the moisture.

But the change in position proved too taxing for the elderly King’s body, and he was forced to say, “Gilbert, I should sit.” It was a command and the albino simply nodded and released his hold. Only once Friedrich had settled himself in his favorite chair, did Prussia sit on the floor next to him, resting his head on his lap. Friedrich’s hand found his country’s hair and he stroked it comfortingly.

A difficult thought seemed to struggle on the albino’s lips. He finally said, “These years with you have been the best of my life.” It was a deeply personal confession, the type that were difficult for the albino. Friedrich owed it nothing less than an honest response, “I have loved you since I was a young boy, and everything I have done, I have done for you.”

He had never dared be this forthcoming with his country before. But, now that there time was sparse, there could be no secrets. So, in favor of complete confession, he continued, speaking the words that he had never said, “Thank you for coming to me when I was at Küstern and telling me you loved me. I do not know if I would have been able to endure without you. You came even though my father forbid it. I knew then that I could love no one else.”

The memory was distant and cold. The imprisonment after his attempt to escape his father’s tyranny had seemed like the frigid end of the world. His former lover and friend was dead, slain right in front of him, and the future held no prospect but his father’s cane. Prussia had cut through it like a ray of sun through deep fog. He had ordered the guards away, wrapped the young prince in his own traveling coat and spoken the words that Friedrich had never forgotten, “You will survive and prosper because you are destined to be my king and because I love you.” Those words had galvanized him and given him the will to find common ground with his father.

Now, Prussia was looking at him adoringly as he continued, “Whatever you may think of Voltaire, you have been the one and only love of my life.” Prussia was blushing, which was very obvious against his unique skin tone. The albino drew in a deep breath before replying, “I never thought I would love anyone. You are the love of my life.” He echoed the sentiment, though the time frame was vastly differently. Prussia leaned his head welcomingly against the other’s hand, but he continued to speak, “I’ve never wanted anything in my life but you.”

Friedrich felt a smile turn up the corner of his mouth. He countered, “I’m not the only thing. If I remember correctly, you want to control all the German states.” Prussia scoffed, “Fritz, that was just banter. I know it’s impossible.” Continuing to run his hand through the other’s hair, Friedrich replied, “In this moment it is. But in a century or two, it could all be yours. You’re more than just a soldier. You have the skill and the mind for it, mon cher. I know you well enough to know that you do not say what you don’t mean.”

There was an obvious glint of ambition in the albino’s eyes, but he did not voice it. Instead he let his king speak again, “Promise me you’ll pursue your ambitions, even if I am not there with you.” Prussia swallowed whatever he was about to say about the improbability of controlling everything. He could tell that this was not the moment for modesty. He said, “I promise, Fritz. I will.”

With his free hand, the king reached down and took his country’s hand. Prussia’s grip was firm. Neither of them spoke; what had been said was enough. Wordlessly, the albino brought the hand to his lips and kissed the fingers. He then spoke again, “I am going to stay with you tonight, and every night until the end.” He sounded like a knight pledging to keep a vigil and it was comforting. His presence was more familiar than any, and it would be no intrusion for him to remain. So, Friedrich said, “I would like that.” ___________________________________________________________

In the night, the king woke. He looked at his country, who was asleep in his lap. His hand was still resting firmly on the other’s.

He looked incredibly serene asleep. The room was dark, but Prussia stood out as pale and pure as moonlight. It was easy to contemplate him now that Friedrich knew he had found an uneasy peace. Likely, he would mourn. But he would keep his promise and continue.

He felt a heartbeat that felt out of time, followed by another that seemed uneasy. It was not unnerving though. This was the most peace he could feel. He looked at Prussia one more time, memorizing every line and feature. If one sight was to be his last, then he wanted it to be this. As he looked at his country, he slowly closed his eyes and let himself slip away.

#hws prussia #hws fredrick the great #prufritz

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oveliagirlhaditright · 4 years

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Hilariousness

Me, somewhat trying to guess what the Master of Master's tale could be like, based on what we know from canon thus far... Also, a lot of me making crap up.

The Master of Masters with OC friends... the Master of Masters with an OC love interest for five seconds, etc.

Author's Note: I have to thank the amazing BlueRosesBurnBlue/BlueRose729 for a lot of this--and yes, this is dedicated to her for that reason, and since I know she loves the story we're learning about the Master of Masters in canon!--as she helped me edit the piece, and came up with the idea of the camping trip... when I knew I needed one more friend with Superbia with his friends, but couldn't figure out what it should be. So if anyone likes this story, you should give her some love, too And Liz, dear, I hope you like the changes I made here. Thanks for everything! Superbia didn't know how to explain the world he’d been born into. Was it, at first, perfect like those misinformed thought the later “age of fairytales” to be? A large part of him would have had to say "no" to that question, for darkness had possessed all of his friends and horrific Wars had happened again and again. But the caring part of the man that still existed, at least in part, would have had to say “yes”, because he remembered too well his frail, male friend—who he'd loved with all his heart—and his tough as nails girl friend, who liked to cook more than anything else and had even had that power on the battlefield (that Superbia had eventually become horrified of)… and how he missed both of them, even to this day. … It was hard for Superbia to understand why Them had such anxiety about everything, since they had been led into such a perfect world—even if it had peculiarly been black as pitch right after they’d been born for a while—but even with Them’s insecurities, Superbia could still have a good laugh with him: something that meant more to Superbia than perhaps anything, since he himself was a very humorous guy. "So... what do you think this monstrosity of a monument is?" it was Ash—Superbia’s gal friend—who asked this, as she kicked said statue beneath the three of them, and even probably nearly broke her toes in doing so. In Ash's constant desire to be unruly, she wasn't always careful to make sure she didn't hurt herself. The council that ruled the world had decided to make a memorial for the horse—the one that, legend said, had created this World before it faded away; though Superbia didn’t buy it at all--but this piece of art didn't look like the aforementioned animal. And while Ash hated the statue the most out of all of the friends (probably because she actually did adore horses and the story of Fire), it was Them today who had come up with the idea of just insulting Fire in their hang-out. And it was fun… Superbia enjoyed wry senses of humor, after all—and his friends meant a lot to him, so he’d always be here for that—but he was also a bit bored. He didn’t care about religion at all, after all, but rather discovering the new. Like right now, he was fiddling with a circuit in his hands, that he thought could eventually make light… but he’d entertain his friends with his thoughts on it all, anyway. “Whoever designed this made it look less like a horse, and more like a dirty pile of clothes that someone left on their floor.” Ash and Them laughed at him, and Superbia blushed... though there had been a part of him that hated himself for it, because why should he be shy about things he was good at, like being witty? Surely the council was wrong when they said arrogance was connected to darkness. Superbia was quite proud to be able to see something of worth within himself, and shouldn’t everyone have felt the same? Like, Them was thrilled with himself when he could get serious when the situation called for it, and Ash when she actually succeeded in making something cold—like ice cream—as opposed to her warm dishes that she was usually much better at… And perhaps that was why Superbia, in a very conceited manner, decided he was going to destroy the World to bring those two back when it took them away from him. They were the only two (well, them and one another) who were like Superbia at all, and he couldn’t stand to be alone… it was too horrible. His entire world was too horrible, really. And it was because of a certain trip in particular, that he would realize that: when comparing the joy from there with the later pain he would feel. … After the three had almost reluctantly spent time together at that statue, they had decided to go camping together. What could they say? They were getting tired of the stifling feeling that was the council and the city… Sometimes, Superbia thought that the people in charge of the World knew more about certain things than they were letting on, and that that was why there was always such a sense of foreboding in even a peaceful time. But as a kid, he didn’t dwell on it much. And he mostly wasn’t dwelling on it now… even if part of himdidn’t know why they’d opted to go into the off-limits wilderness now, that actually that for a reason and why he would eventually keep the Key Kids away from it… But in the past, when the outdoor adventure was taking place, all that had mattered to Superbia was having a good time with Ash and Them. Nearly the moment they’d set down on some of the bluest green the trio had ever seen, Ash was making s’mores for her nearest and dearest—using her magic to do so—and Superbia couldn’t get over how perfectly she cooked them this way. It shouldn’t have been shocking, really, since she was the type who could make crème brulee at the drop of a hat, but Superbia cherished how she got enough char on the s’mores to give them flavor… but at the same time, gave it barely any of that: so that no professional chef, who cooked the traditional way, would dare say that Ash burnt her food… ironically. “So, tell me how your powers work again. And what this ‘nothingness’ is,” Superbia attempted to make conversation with Them, as he got started on the hot dogs, the moment that it seemed like Ash had at least ten s’mores already created. …Superbia technically thought that Ash should’ve been doing this… but since she always saw to all of their needs when it came to cuisine—and this was a vacation of sorts—Superbia opted to step up to the plate just for once, even if it annoyed him some. “…I know it’s hard to understand—since we haven’t experienced it ourselves, and hopefully never will—“ Them answered after a beat; just when he seemed to find the proper words, and enough strength to say them and have his voice carry, “but ‘nothing’ is essentially an end to everyone and everything. And I can touch this… variable—even though it hasn’t happened for us yet, and the fact that I can do so makes me worry that it eventually will—and then add something to it… as a way to counteract the entropy it would otherwise lead to… Again, that’s also hard to explain—even to myself—I just have a certain knowledge about it all. I don’t know…” Superbia and Ash just stared at Them for a long time after that—no doubt looking like gaping fishes as they did so. And the real irony, later, would be when Superbia understood all of this and tried to fight against ithimself. Or when he later used someone named “Xemnas”, who had a corrupted version of Them’s powers, because the World had been destroyed—and then burst out laughing. “Wow, Them!” Ash exclaimed, as she held up another s’more in her hands and placed her blue light on it—what her abilities looked like, when she called upon them—that then burnt it… and Superbia got the feeling that Ash’s doing this was her attempt to try and understand what this “nothingness” was, that Them spoke of. What? Did she think by burning the food enough, it would eventually disappear? “You’ve quoted textbooks before… but that was still really something. But, hey: you’re speaking! So I can’t at all complain about it!” And maybe it was because Them could tell that Ash really did appreciate getting to know him better, that he took the burnt s’more she’d just made, and wolfed it down before Superbia could get a hand on it himself, since he would have just insulted Ash’s “mistake” the entire time he ate it… and Them had clearly realized that. And while Superbia should have been insulted by this—and maybe even jealous, that his friends seemed to be going in a certain romantic direction that would eventually leave him behind—he’d been struck by their purity, and how much he wanted to protect that and them. And suddenly inspired by that purity, Superbia tackled his two friends to the floor while he held their unfinished tent in his hands. And since they somersaulted while still in the air, each of them showing off, before falling back down, the piece of fabric landed before any of them did and so they were then laying on it on the ground… And it didn’t take long for the trinity to have a giggle fit, as they then tried to roll on top of each other and tickle one another: Them being the one to try and do so the most. “Come on!” Superbia said after a half-an-hour of it, deciding to be the responsible one again as he helped the other two up. “Let’s find a way to make this tent… before we give up on it, and just use it as a bed tonight and have no shelter from the elements.” But If Superbia had known then, that he would soon see his friends’ bodies laid out on the ground, he may have foregone building the tent and just used it as a mattress … since the fact that they all eventually laid down on the ground, even beneath the tent, was now tainted in his mind when his mind’s eye saw bodies at the Keyblade Graveyard. And speaking of that cold, hard ground… present day Superbia was now reminiscing over why he loathed it so much… and how he was trying to be nice to Ava, so she wouldn’t betray them, so none of the Foretellers or anyone else would end up on it themselves. … Superbia remembered most what it had been like when Ash had been possessed by the darkness. The vibrant personality that he had admired in her had completely dimmed and faded: words that he would give to his Foretellers about himself eventually. She became nearly comatose, and seemed unable to see or react to anything. And if Superbia hadn't known any better, he would've thought she was dead: if it weren’t for her eyes twitching in certain reactions to things. But then she ended up coming back to life with a vengeance. When they were fighting in a War against the darkness—and Superbia finally perfected a certain weapon he’d designed—he became afraid of her powers for the first time ever. She put the darknesses in a vat, in order to cook them, and he remembered how their eyes widened as heat engulfed them… and how they tried to wriggle away from the embrace that held onto them and forced them to stretch into a different shape, before eventually even being pulled apart, but they were unable to do it. But as difficult as it was to watch all of this with Ash—and her powers grow out of control as she slaughtered darkness after darkness this way, and even some lights by accident—it was even worse seeing Them, who'd always been so timid, pull everyone into the void as if it was his destiny to do so and nearly destroy everyone and everything—as he yelled how they, everyone, and everything was wrong… so very wrong. Superbia was someone who had, even before all of this had started, thought he was the best—he'd figured out how to make keys out of hearts, hadn't he?—but when he was needed most for this first War, he found himself laying down in the fetal position as he cried and prayed (him, praying?!) for everything to be over. …And soon, it was. Why the darknesses had passed over him, Superbia would never really know. Not even in the present. But they'd left him alive, while Them and Ash were decimated; Superbia could only imagine the darkness had eventually wised up, possessed them, and told them to off themselves. But maybe the darkness had somehow possessed the land, too, because even it was scorched and covered only in blackness. This should've been the end of all of Superbia’s torment; and in some sort of alternate world, he’d like to believe that it was, but it certainly wasn't in this one: some in Daybreak Town had actually managed to survive, and they repopulated enough that Superbia found himself in another of what he had (almost arrogantly) dubbed a "Keyblade War," after the weapons he'd designed. Only this time, it really could be called a "Keyblade War," as he'd given these manifestations of the heart to every person with potential he could find. But this time when the darkness entered the people’s hearts... they seemed less othered, and more like themsleves. And Superbia didn't know what to make of that, or how to take it; he wanted to believe this meant the world could eventually fight back against the darkness, even if it gripped them, but he’d long ago stopped being that hopeful. And this second time, an ice sculptor named Music—that Superbia had fallen for a certain amount, as Music helped him escape from what he’d seen Ash do—died in Daybreak Town, as the darknesses decided to target there first, instead of what they’d created as the Keyblade Graveyard... and Superbia figuratively lost his heart over it. And it was when a third Keyblade War came around, that he started to have an idea: the Keyblades he'd created could do pretty much anything... and he was done being in distress, and was beginning to see certain things, too. He would put his eye into his No Name (what he’d eventually decided to name his Keyblade, because in Superbia’s own mind, he was really nothing. He hadn’t been able to stop any of this)—and pass it down, so he could see all of time and try and fight whatever fate decided that Keyblade Wars had to happen to keep the universe in balance--and this time be able to save the upcoming six children he could already tell he was going to love… and perhaps some more kids even after that, who were also going to have it too hard. Because by the point that Superbia—in his mind’s eye—could tell that a fiftieth Keyblade War was soon (soon for him, with his future sight now) coming on the horizon, he decided it all had to be stopped, no matter the cost.. even if he had to become darkness himself, to do it. And if that also meant he’d finally be the sacrifice he wished he’d been, so Them, Ash, and Music hadn’t had to be it… then so be it. Maybe as he fell himself, he could even see their smiling faces and touch them once more. And in that deranged way, he had hope… in a way that wasn’t hilarious at all, except that it was. Author's Note: I actually didn't want to give the Master of Masters his own trio... since it's so overdone in this series, tbh. But three people really are the perfect number to write for, so it still happened... And Nomura would do this, so perhaps it helps to make the story feel canon like I want it to. But I decided to try and put a spin on it, where one of the guys was pretty weak--in some ways--and the girl was super strong... which I guess is more like the Wayfinder Trio than any other, except that you could maybe say that Them and Ash's budding romance is a bit like Sora and Kairi's, and Superbia has some Riku connections, then. I also decided to make Superbia LBGT to make this fanfiction not too cookie-cutter what we've seen in Kingdom Hearts so far. And it seems to fit with his character to me. -shrugs-

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nikkisnonsense-blog1 · 4 years

Text

To Myself... Three Months Ago

Dear Nikki,

Hey girl, I come to you not bearing the greatest of news. These next few months are going to be some of the hardest of your life so far. I really hate to be the one to tell you this but I feel like we’re close enough that we can be honest with each other. Well I’m not gonna waste anymore time because there’s a lot I need to get you up to speed on. Let’s make this a list of 8 things for organization sake.

1. The musical you’ve been directing for the past few months will not be happening

You and your friend/ music director, Joe have been wearing out the phrase “I can’t believe the show is happening!” for the past few months. Sadly, that’s not the case. Sure, sometimes you wanted to rip your hair out due to frustration or cried in your car because you didn’t think you were doing a good enough job. But underneath it all, I know you had put more work into this show than you have for anything else in your life. You knew the possibility of the show being canceled was there but it was only something that you joked about in rehearsal with your cast. It could never become a reality. The day you find out, you won’t cry much. Which is weird. If anything you don’t feel much at all. The next day your cast will do an amazing concert style performance of the show instead which people will rave to you about and it genuinely makes you feel good for a moment. But it isn’t until after that’s over that it actually begins to set in. When everyone else starts to move on You’ll stare at the box of props that sits in your kitchen for months and feel a weird form of uneasiness. You were told by everyone that any frustration you feel would be worth it when the curtain opens. But what do you do when the curtain never opens? You’re forced to sit with the disappointment and sadness of an unfinished project. You think about all of the fun things you would have gotten to do with your cast and crew and how proud of yourself you would have been after the shows. That’s when you cry.

2. The second half of your last college semester will be taken away

Besides the Musical, you will also be missing out on plenty of other events at school. Your spring concert, trip to NYC, your roommate’s senior art show, your girlfriend’s comedy show, any theatre in the area, drunken nights with your friends, and most importantly, Graduation. Ah yes, the very thing that your entire life has been waiting on. At least that’s how it feels. You remember when you were little and traveled to upstate New York and Boston for your cousins’ graduations and how big of a deal they were. Or watching your parents tear up at your sister’s graduation. Not having been the best student in school, you were shocked you even made it this far. A day that was going to be a monumental experience for you and so many others has just been pushed to a further date. Like a dentist appointment. That day hurts the most. When I tell my parents how upset I am, they assure me “You’ll still have a graduation!” but you know it won’t be the same. You get mad at the world because of it and feel like stomping your feet on the ground and yelling “It’s not fair!” like a child. But you know that wouldn’t do any good.

3. You’re going to gain weight

As someone who has had body images their whole life, I know this sounds like an absolute nightmare. And it kind of is. It’s kind of inevitable wen you can’t leave your house anymore, you rely on Door Dash a little too much, The gym is closed, and you really have no motivation to do anything. Stretch marks will appear in new places, shirts that once fit perfectly will be snug, and certain clothes you used to feels sexy in, just make you feel like a fool. It’s so important to remind yourself that your body is changing because your lifestyle is changing. It’s going to drive you wild for a while but I promise you it is not the end of the world. Also your girlfriend assures you she still finds you beautiful in any state.

4. You move back in with your parents

You’re fortunate enough to have the last 2 months in your apartment to quarantine with your roommates and your girlfriend which is like a weird stretch of time where there are no rules and you feel like a Sim without a task. Then before you know it, your lease is up and your parents come up and help move you out of your apartment. Now I know you’re thinking that sounds like a nightmare but living with Mom and Dad is not as awful as you imagined. They treat you like an adult, give you your space, and dad only makes you watch one video he finds online a day as opposed to his usual 5. Theres also a bulk size container of cheese sticks from Costco so you decide this place isn’t too bad. Moving home is surprisingly the best you’ve felt all year. Your mental health is getting better which is a god sent considering how miserable you’ve been. So there is a silver lining

5. Finding work is IMPOSSIBLE

You’ll find yourself comparing yourself to when your sister finished college and found work and an apartment almost immediately. Even though she’s in a different field and graduated 3 years ago when the world was a much different place, you still compare yourself. Indeed and Ziprecruiter become your best friends but they clearly don’t like you back very much because your responses are limited. The closest you get to a job is an insurance agency that would offer you $65,000- $85,000 a year. Maybe it’s just the Jew in you, but those numbers got you very excited, so you apply. They decide they’re interested in you and schedule you for a virtual interview. You’ve also read the job description 100 times and still have no god damn idea what you would be doing. During the Interview, the man asks you if you have any doubts and you say “maybe a few due to my lack of experience” but in your head you’re thinking “What the fuck am I doing. I have a degree in Theatre and I’m trying to get a job selling insurance. Would this job even make me the tiniest bit happy besides the paycheck?” The man tells you that he would like to offer you the job to which you graciously say thank you. As soon as you hang up the zoom call, you immediately burst into tears. Frustrated and sad that the only job you have gotten close to is one you don’t even want. The jobs you do want, in the arts and media, are not hiring right now and if they are it’s for people with 5+ years of experience. You’ve applied to over 50 jobs at this point and the only ones that have gotten back to you sound dreadful. You learn that no paycheck is worth a lifetime of sadness. You email the man back saying thank you, but you cannot accept the job.

6. The world is full of awful people

This may seem like an exaggeration at first especially because I- uh I mean you, are generally a pretty optimistic person. You may have severe depression, but you still usually see the glass half full. But even the blindest of optimists can’t deny the world looks pretty shit right now. Besides the pandemic, Black people are being murdered left and right by police for no reason. Something that certainly isn’t a new phenomenon but has now been amplified to new heights and has brought out the rage in people. You do what you can to help in these times. Protesting, donating, sharing online, signing petitions but it never feels like enough. You will continue to raise your voice about Black Lives Mattering and hope for change. Acknowledging your white privilege and trying to listen to the voices of others. As much as you personally try to help out, you end up seeing the ugly that comes out as well. Especially in your 92.9% white small town.

7. Pride will be different this year

The yearly celebration of going to Pride in Philadelphia with rainbow shadow on your eyes, glitter in your hair, and a water bottle full of vodka and gatorade have now been replace with anger and a yearning for justice. The LGBT community would be nothing without Black activists backing it. The Stonewall Riots were led by a Black Trans Woman. So you do your part to amplify black voices as a part of pride. Because right now is not the time to take shots and dance to Whitney Houston.

8. You’re not the only one feeling this way

Even though life is a bit of a shit show right now, it’s so important to remind yourself that you are not the only one experiencing these things. None of your friends know what the hell they’re doing either. Everyone is just scared shitless of the state of the world and is trying their best. Please take some of the pressure off yourself. You are only a person and it’s unrealistic to put these standards on yourself. The world today is a completely different world than it was 3 months ago. As for the months to come, I have absolutely no idea what to expect. You’d have to ask 6 months from now Nikki but I haven’t met her yet. The world will not be the same as it was before but I promise you, there is a new normal somewhere beyond the horizon.

Take care of yourself,

Present Day Nikki

Ps. You are going to adopt a baby tortoise named Harley and he will be the light of your life. He will make life just a bit more bearable.

Pss.

Here are links to help the Black Lives Matter movement

#blog #lgbt #college grad #college #personal #nikkis nonsense

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blasphemings · 5 years

Text

ah sacré papa, dis-moi où es-tu caché?

où est ton papa ? dis-moi où est ton papa? sans même devoir lui parler il sait ce qui ne va pas

where is your father? tell me, where is your father? without needing to talk to him, he knows something is wrong

[stone ocean/ireneverse, kakyoin is stone free via stand resurrection, ~9.3k words, ao3 link]

dites-moi d’où il vient

enfin je saurais où je vais

Jotaro Kujo was no stranger to being too late.

He had thought of this as his daughter snarled at him from across the table; how he had been too late to be her father, or really, to be a part of her at all. There isn’t a speck of you in my heart anymore, Jolyne spat.

That was a good thing. Probably. At the very least, it made sense. First person to be smart about that shit in a long time. She was taking care of herself. She would survive.

At least, she would have, if he hadn’t gone and let her get shot.

Too late, he thought in a daze during the too-long instant it took for time to grind to a halt, his eyes on the thick stream of blood flying from the hole in Jolyne’s chest. His heart plummeted like a chunk of ice.

Such a lazy excuse, to say things happened too fast, particularly given his circumstances. If he hadn’t been distracted—

Because of love?

—if he had been focused.

She hung in midair, one arm thrown forward in surprise, the other behind her to break a fall caught in place. Her face barely registered surprise. She hadn’t had time to be surprised. It was his responsibility to catch threats in time. How could she have known?

Unless…

Jotaro narrowed his eyes. There wasn’t nearly enough blood. Not for a direct hit to the chest. He moved closer, fists still clenched at his sides, until he could see that it hadn’t been a direct hit at all.

Seeing the impossible up close like that was almost enough to convince him he really was dreaming.

The time stop gave him only seconds, but despite his best efforts Jotaro remained himself, and Star remained a force of nature, beyond fast enough to catch all the details, even those he might have preferred to remain ignorant of. He stared at the hand-shaped barrier that had caught the bullet before it could pierce Jolyne’s chest, and he knew that he had seen it before.

“It can’t be,” he breathed.

Thirty years. Nearly thirty years since the web of shimmering green strands had snapped, gleaming against the darkness, defiant to the last. He had only seen Hierophant’s barrier once.

This time the unbroken web held the bullet still. It appeared to be made of some sort of string, a different material and a different color, but the familiar pattern held steady.

Jolyne’s Stand stood at her side, arm thrown out in front of her where its hand had stopped the shot from landing. Frozen completely but still it seemed to stare straight at him, its face tilted in his direction with what almost looked like a smile. The Stand was blue and far more humanoid than Hierophant had been, and fiercer, tougher, from the look of it. But there was something about the planes of the face, the eyes behind the green—sunglasses?

He would almost have laughed, had he had the time.

“You made a net out of the strings,” Jotaro murmured. “And dispersed the power of the bullet. Just like a bulletproof vest…all in an instant.”

Star flicked the bullet away as time snatched itself away from him. It clattered to the floor forlornly, and Jolyne was thrown backwards by the force of a shot that had never landed, coughing and enormously confused. He had been right. She hadn’t had time to protect herself consciously at all. That was what Stands were for.

Jotaro stared at it, already beginning to dissipate.

It’s you.

It inclined its head slightly, a motion reminiscent of old mockeries.

Of course it’s me.

Kakyoin had used Hierophant to protect him, on one of the rare occasions on which Jotaro allowed himself to be caught off guard. The memory had proven stronger than others somehow, Kakyoin calm and vindictive, the way he had held himself with his arm thrown out in front of Jotaro to say let me handle it for once.

He had always been like that when he stood between the others and danger, his expression reading you don’t know what you’re in for but I’m about to show you, fierce and satisfied and so much more sure of himself when he was fighting for others rather than watching his own back. Jotaro had hated it, hated what Kakyoin was willing to step so casually into in his name. He had feared what might happen the day it finally proved too much for him.

II.

où est ton papa?

dis-moi où est ton papa?

Seems like you may be a little closer than you were a moment ago.

Amazing how much lighter he felt, he thought dazedly. Wasn’t this exactly what he had wanted, once? To be free of that impossibly heavy star?

That why I can see you now?

Unfortunately.

Inconveniently, however, whatever had been done to remove this particular Star did appear to also be killing him.

Jotaro tugged his coat closed in a useless attempt to hide his bloodied chest from Jolyne as her expression shifted from confusion to shock to horror. He glanced at the face that flickered into view at her side, the face that was and wasn’t Stone Free.

It doesn’t matter, he wanted to say. I was never going to make it out of here. It doesn’t matter.

She saw straight through him. His bluffs, lethal against so many, somehow had never had much effect when it came to Jolyne. She knew he would look her straight in the eyes and tell her exactly what he imagined she needed to hear. I’ll be home in a few weeks. I’ll catch up soon.

“You’re lying,” she kept repeating. “You’re lying.”

Get her out of here, he thought wildly, watching the young man who now appeared to him, half-corporeal and superimposed over the Stand that hovered beside his daughter. Isn’t that what you do? Protect her?

He had, for an instant, appeared to twitch in Jotaro’s direction at the moment the bullets were fired. They had met each others’ eyes for a split second, no stopped time to give them the moment they needed, but he shook his head as he was struck regardless, his eyes flashing bright with don’t you dare. He almost looked alive again.

It was possible that he was still protecting Jotaro as he had always tried to do, every time he stood between Jolyne and danger. It was possible that was what he had meant to do all along.

He leaned back against the cold stone in an attempt to catch the breath that still pulled shallow. She was in shock. She needed to move. It was only twenty meters. Why wouldn’t she move?

Would you?

Jotaro gazed blankly at Stone Free as Jolyne stared at the pendant he had pressed into her hand.

Would you leave a fight unfinished with a dying man as your rear guard? Let alone family.

He closed his eyes. This isn’t about me.

Isn’t it?

“But…I just…” Don’t cry, don’t cry. “You can’t.”

Last chance.

“I always…” Jotaro swallowed painfully. “I always cared about you.”

Jolyne stared at him as though he had slapped her.

“You’re lying,” she repeated hoarsely. “You covered me just now, and—and the other enemy stole something from you. That’s why you couldn’t…”

Her eyes, round and unblinking as a child’s, were focused on his chest.

“…dodge the…bullet.”

Shit.

Jotaro blinked rapidly, fighting the fuzziness that threatened the edges of his vision. It had been a long time since he had seen this much of his own blood, on his shoes, his coat, dripping to the floor, smeared on the wall. He noted distantly that the bullet appeared to have made a clean exit, wondering whether it would matter that it would likely be left embedded in the wall behind him. Unlikely that their attacker would care enough to track it down—he already had what he wanted. The bullet would stay behind, a monument either to sacrifice or to failure, depending on whether or not Jolyne would just move already—

“I’m…just bleeding a little,” he said softly. “I’ll catch up in…a b—”

“Your chest,” she hissed, ignoring him. “You—”

Stone Free shifted, glancing towards the end of the hallway. Strings unspooled from the tips of its fingers and the ghost’s face closed in on itself in a familiar look of concentration.

“Go—Jolyne—!”

“No. No, no, no, no, no.” Jolyne pointed at him shakily. “You…it can’t—be…”

“JOLYNE!”

Two voices shouted for her, but Jolyne seemed to hear neither as she froze in place. Her expression emptied out and the bullets’ trajectories twisted away, sending them flying harmlessly into the far wall.

Something hard and cold had replaced the devastation in her eyes. The bullets slid inches from her face and she stood unflinching, waiting for them to pass. The gunman stared at the strings hanging from his barrel, unable to comprehend the nature of the sabotage.

I do have one question.

What’s that?

For how long did you intend to keep underestimating her?

I’m sorry?

She’s your daughter. Did you think she was so unlike you?

More string wound towards his ankles as he angrily shook the first round from his gun, brushing it aside like a mess of cobwebs. Jolyne had hardly moved, still staring at her father.

I wanted to believe she could be.

“Shut up,” she said flatly. She almost looked bored.

Distractions that passed for defense or offense on their own merit had always been the most effective. Whether a fly with a taste for human tongues or a sniper, once they took the bait long enough to get pinned, they had already lost. The fly had torn apart like tissue paper, he remembered. For a moment he expected the strings to shoot straight through the man’s body and rip him into pieces.

“Right now,” Jolyne continued, “we’re going to escape out that window. And go to the beach.”

Jotaro couldn’t find the breath to argue. He hoped she would at least have the sense to drop him once his heart gave out. There was no possible benefit to dragging around a corpse that might slow down pursuers in any case, if she was smart enough about where she left it. Sentimentality had cost her enough time.

“Stay out of our way, alright?”

An hour ago he would have thought to warn her about Manhattan Transfer and the obvious lie of the man’s promise to drop his weapon. It no longer felt necessary.

Jolyne broke eye contact with her father to look at the skull she had just bashed in with vague disdain. “I didn’t say a single word about dropping it,” she said sharply. “Was just looking to see what the best angle for pounding you would be.”

She had, it appeared, inherited Jotaro’s preference for finishing the job with his fists.

“I think my favorite was when your chin was aiming a little more to the right.”

Kakyoin hadn’t been much given to that sort of thing. It was strange to see, and stranger to hear.

Using my line?

Not yours. Not mine, either.

His fingertips had gone cold, but watching Jolyne rip into the assassin with natural ferocity left him smiling slightly.

It’s hers.

Their rage was synchronized and deadly, the sound of cracking bones familiar as ever, and the way she moved as though she had never known any other way to be both broke his heart and filled him with impossible hope.

If Jolyne’s mind is this strong…then I’m sure she’ll survive.

III.

sans même devoir lui parler

il sait ce qui ne va pas

“Think I probably fucked up.”

Jolyne leaned back against the damp stone, trying to ignore the feeling that the cell’s walls were seeping into her skin. She barely knew why it was she was trying to talk to the thing. It had never talked back before. Why would it think to answer now, when she needed it so desperately?

When had anything ever been that easy?

They stared at one another silently. That was the threat inherent in solitary confinement, as it turned out. Not just being alone, but being alone with yourself in a way that only unconditional silence could guarantee. She doubted the gnawing feeling in her chest would have been half as strong had she been able to at least hear evidence of other prisoners. Footsteps, or sobbing, or a sneeze once every couple of hours. Even snoring would have been okay, she thought; annoyance was better than nothing. But nothing was what Jolyne had.

Stone Free gazed at her still, impassive behind the strange glasses she had never seen it without. Maybe there was nothing underneath them at all. She imagined reaching for them and taking them off, only to find blank smooth space where eyes should have been.

It probably wouldn’t stop her. Then again, she wasn’t sure she wanted to know.

Jolyne hugged her knees to her chest. A memory flashed, unwelcome, to the front of her mind: her father, half curled up in his office chair, one long leg folded against his chest, the other underneath him. It was strange, she had thought, to see someone so large trying to make himself so small. Stranger still that he so easily fell asleep in front of a glowing screen like that, though it wasn’t exactly uncommon for him.

She had been young, seven or eight, but she still knew drying tears when she saw them, and how to recognize when she had been part of a moment that was meant to leave no witnesses. It was possible that he figured out who threw the blanket clumsily over his shoulders when his cramped legs finally woke him sometime before dawn, but if Jotaro knew, he had kept as quiet about it as she had.

“Something happened.”

She swallowed. Was she really talking to her own Stand? Was she talking to herself? Her father? Who was it she hoped was listening? Did she want anyone to hear her at all?

“Something happened,” Jolyne repeated softly. “It’s—something’s gone wrong, you know, and I think it’s—I think it’s my fault, that it’s all wrong. And, and I don’t know, I don’t know if I can do it. This. And I don’t know what’ll…I don’t know what happens if I can’t.”

She laughed angrily. “Like, this isn’t just, I don’t know, ‘oh, I’m so worried, I don’t know what happens next’ and then I’m about to get up and, and go save the day after I have my shitty little moment. I really feel like I might be fucked and if I’m fucked they’re fucked and he’s fucked and—and…”

I just got you back. You can’t leave now.

The sickly yellow light flickered overhead, threatening to fail altogether. Jolyne glanced up at it fearfully. Stone Free continued to stare at her until the moment passed, the glow reflecting green where it struck the pale blue surface.

“And I wish my dad were here,” Jolyne blurted. She made a convulsive motion as if to cover her mouth.

Not like there’s anyone here to hide it from. Her hands fell limply to her lap and she stared down at them in defeat. “I hate that I wish he were here. I hate it because I…God, I miss hating him, you know? I miss it when I hated him almost as much as I lo—as much as I cared about him. And I, I miss when I couldn’t even tell the two apart because I never needed to.” She shook her head. “I miss not needing to know the difference.”

It made her a little bit ill, to think of her father needing her. To think that Jotaro was even capable of something so soft as needing anyone at all. She preferred to think of him watching her, alert and strong as ever, from somewhere far away. It would almost be easier to think of this all as a cruel sort of test; it would have been easier to accept his nature being a callous one, rather than come to terms with the impossible presence of the warmth she had always craved, knowing it might now be lost to her.

Stone Free sat, cross-legged, still watching her closely, still silent.

“Right. You probably can’t even hear me. You never say anything.”

Jolyne paused.

“You remind me of him.”

She wondered if her father had ever wished his stand would just hit him for once. Fighting it would be easier than sitting here with it just looking at her and looking at her and saying fuck all.

“Just that stupid fucking ora ora shit,” she mumbled, wiping at her eyes. “That’s all you know how to do, isn’t it?”

If she was going to cry, she had to do it quietly. There was a reason for the oppressive silence of the solitary ward, and it didn’t just have to do with punishment by isolation. If any of the surrounding cells’ occupants heard her, even the faintest sob through the thick stone that separated them—I’m dead.

Dead faster than she already expected to be, in any case.

Jolyne buried her face in her arms, trying to crush the tears back down. Just like Hermes had said, right? I don’t think I have time to cry right now.

She wished Hermes were here. Hermes would get her sorry ass off the ground. Or Foo Fighters. Or her father, hell, even her mother, even her shitty ex-boyfriend might be able to piss her off badly enough to push her out of inaction—but Jolyne knew she was alone, more ultimately and completely than she had ever felt herself to be.

At first she barely noticed the hand on her shoulder. Only once the remarkable heat of its touch grew to be too much to ignore did she raise her head and look up at it with blurry eyes.

Stone Free gripped her arm. It peered down at her, and its expression, fixed as it was, seemed to soften.

The second presence, however, was harder to pin down. She didn’t quite see it so much as feel that there was someone else in that cell with her; the face seemed to flicker half into view only when she looked away, fading when she tried to focus on the features as though she were trying to catch the details of a sunspot. A face vaguely remembered from the faded photograph Jotaro used to keep on his desk, or a relic of childhood dreams she never seemed to remember in the morning.

Who are you?

Stone leaned forward, almost hesitantly, and touched its forehead to hers.

If an ordinary guard had passed by then, they would have seen only Jolyne, leaning into what appeared to be empty space with her eyes closed. If they were the right sort of person, or if they hadn’t slept for a day or so, or even if they simply turned away fast enough, they might have seen a young man with pale red hair and cherry-shaped earrings, holding her steady.

IV.

ah sacré papa

dis-moi où es-tu caché?

You should have dragged her out of there.

Kakyoin was silent as he watched Jotaro’s body disappear into the UUV. It was all too familiar, he thought.

I know you hear me. He knew the nature of bullets that refused to land far too well.

Isn’t it your job to protect—isn’t that what Stands do? Protect the user even when they damn well didn’t ask?

It’s my will that’s bound to her. Kakyoin shook his head slightly. It’s not my soul. Her Stand, her spirit.

She should have left me.

Kakyoin shook himself slightly, Stone Free dematerializing as Jolyne raised her hands above her head with a grim expression. Strange, the mannerisms that carried over in the absence of a body. Even Kakyoin, who had been without his now for longer than he’d been alive with it in the first place.

She should have left me, Jotaro repeated. I was already gone.

Kakyoin looked at him sharply. You’re not dead yet.

No? Then what do you call this?

There’s more to do. You’re the only one who can.

Well. He watched the shrinking horizon bitterly. Isn’t that how it always goes?

Whatever happens, happens. Kakyoin laid a hand on his shoulder. You won’t be going on alone.

A feeling he knew, although not one he had needed to remember in a long time. Lying on the gravel in Cairo, staring up at the stars, knowing the heaviness pinning his soul to his stopped heart belonged to someone else, someone whose own crushed body hadn’t yet gone cold on the rooftops above. It hadn’t been fair then and it wasn’t fair now.

Jotaro glanced at him. You always did know how to hold me down.

There is a limit to what I can do for you, I’m sure. But I will fight until the day I reach it. For both of you, Kakyoin added, looking towards Green Dolphin, dwindling rapidly now as the UUV sped away from it.

Why did she stay? Why wouldn’t she just go?

As I said. You completely underestimated her.

You don’t—

You underestimated how far she is willing to go for you. You underestimated how much like you she is and you underestimated how badly she needed what you couldn’t give to her until the very end.

She could have left me.

She was never going to do that.

Dusk turned to night turned to dawn around them. The sense of his body, somewhere far below.

She doesn’t want to lose you before she had the chance to have you in her life knowing that you care. So I don’t know what happens next. You have a lot of lost time to make up for.

I know. Jotaro looked at him, his shape still recognizable despite being so far away from anything it had been to him in life. I miss you.

I’m sorry for how things turned out, but you can’t stop yet. You owe Jolyne more than that.

un jour ou l’autre on sera tous papa

et d’un jour à l’autre on aura disparu

Two steps.

His eyes in pieces, the world gone white-hot and dark.

You were late by two steps.

Had to be a mistake. They had done everything right.

Too late.

Jolyne had been brave—he had been proud—pulled him free from death, it couldn’t come again now—not yet—

Jotaro Kujo…

She understood. She had understood him. He had seen it in her eyes. There hadn’t been enough time. He needed to tell her—to tell her…

…your daughter is your weakness.

Had it all led to this? A weakness to be exploited?

All he had done could fall to nothing, and he accepted that, it was a risk he knew he took every time he stepped between bullet and target, but Jolyne was different. Her hope still blazed, searing, far more than enough to blind any of them. There was no justice in that strong heart suffering such a hopeless fate.

Jolyne.

The last of Dio’s cruelty hadn’t been dodged at all. It had only been flung through time. A strike meant for him thirty years ago, finally landed in the way of a nightmare; the knife was lodged in Jolyne’s side. She still had yet to see him fall.

You’re what matters.

As Jotaro’s vision darkened for the last time, his daughter remained until the end, bright as a dying star.

You always will be.

VI.

serons-nous détestables?

He could not remember landing, only falling, plummeting through an impossibly dark sky towards an ocean with no horizon. He touched down clumsily, the hand that caught him by the arm mid-stumble all that kept him from falling through the water.

“Jolyne—?”

Not Jolyne. Kakyoin blinked up at him with unfocused eyes.

“Your face,” he breathed, reaching for the thick line of light that stretched from forehead to jaw. He pulled his hand back as though he expected Jotaro’s wound to burn him.

“You’re still—?”

He shook his head. “I can’t—I don’t—”

Some distance away, Hermés and Anasui slowly got to their feet, feeling for the bright patches through which death had reached them moments earlier. Hermés paused, her arms folded, before looking up sharply to see a tall young woman with light hair racing towards her. When the woman flung her arms around her, she held her fiercely, cheeks glittering with tears.

Kakyoin staggered back with a gasp, his distant expression collapsing in horror. His form flickered once, then held strong.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I—I’m sorry, I couldn’t—she’s—”

“Hey. Hey.”

He looked down at Jotaro’s hands on his shoulders, unable to meet his eyes.

“I couldn’t save her,” Kakyoin murmured. “I failed y—”

“Don’t you ever fucking say that.”

Jotaro gripped him tighter until he glanced up reluctantly.

“Don’t ever,” he hissed, “say that to me.”

Unfamiliar lights twisted into place overhead, something close to stars but not quite in line with any memories of life. Kakyoin narrowed his eyes.

“Is it usually like that?”

He shook his head slowly. “I’ve never—”

She slammed into her landing too quickly for any attempt to catch her, throwing up curtains of black water that left no stain, rolling back onto her heels with the force of it as though she still expected to run from some unseen danger.

“Emporio—!”

Jolyne leaped to her feet, looking around wildly. Her eyes settled first on Hermés, in the distance, and finally, on her father. Her hand rested unconsciously on the patch of light shining from her side, marking the place where the knife had struck her. A single butterfly that had arrived with her fluttered away, drifting towards Hermés and her sister.

“Dad,” she whispered. “Dad…?”

He had her in his arms before he realized he had moved towards her at all, and she stiffened for only an instant before collapsing back into him. She shook with what felt like a sob, but when he looked down at her face, her eyes were open and dry, almost angry.

“Jolyne,” Jotaro mumbled. “Oh, Jolyne.”

“I’m s…I tried to—I think I—something’s going to…”

She stared up at the sky, at the lights that had appeared with her.

“Emporio,” she said softly. “I gave him…I did everything I—”

“You did beautifully.”

Jolyne flinched, looking back at him with wide eyes.

“I am so proud.” He shook his head with a smile she had never seen before. “I am so proud of you.”

“Oh, shut up,” Jolyne croaked. “Don’t make me—you’re such an asshole.”

She wiped her eyes on his coat and froze when she heard Kakyoin’s muffled giggle. He watched the two of them carefully, still keeping his distance, whether out of respect or hesitancy it remained unclear.

When she met his eyes, she could think only of the old framed photograph from her childhood that had rested on Jotaro’s desk like a tombstone. Jolyne had resented the picture for a long time, the way it took her father away from her. He would pause, put down what he was reading or look away from the screen, easily distracted from his work in a way he never seemed to be when it was Jolyne who wanted his attention. Jotaro went somewhere distant when he looked at that picture. He would still answer, when she called for him, but his eyes were glazed over, far away.

Still she had always wanted to be as close to him as possible, and she had spent enough time in that office to have the faces memorized, enough to recognize the young man standing before her. And yet she felt that she knew him in a closer sense; she not only recognized him, but remembered him.

“I know you, don’t I.”

Jolyne felt like a child again, peering over her father’s arm at that stranger who wasn’t a stranger at all. He blinked at her slowly, almost catlike, and his was a familiar silence.

Gently she pulled herself away from Jotaro, who was clinging to her uncharacteristically tightly, as though he feared she might dissipate if he let go. She squeezed his arm, a reassurance foreign to give, even more foreign to receive.

Facing him she imagined she saw two faces at once, her Stand flickering in and out much the way his face had seemed to that day when their places were reversed. It would have been surprising had she not turned to him already knowing the answer to the question she had barely needed to ask, though she had no words to give either of them that would explain why it was she knew it was true.

He smiled sadly. “Hello, Jolyne.”

Jolyne stared at him, dumbfounded, as he placed his hands on her shoulders. Standing next to her father had dwarfed him, but he was not a short man by any means, and she had to lean back in order to get a good look at his face. He was young, she thought. Too young.

He hesitated, then leaned forward and touched his forehead lightly to hers, and Jolyne knew exactly who he was.

“I wish we could have met,” Kakyoin said quietly, “under better circumstances.”

“Yeah,” she muttered. “Me too.”

“I’m sorry that I—I couldn’t—”

“Don’t.” Jolyne pushed him back slightly, and when she met his eyes this time she saw the bottomless guilt and grief that rested behind them.

“Don’t,” she repeated. “You…you did…so much. For me—us.”

“I tried to,” Kakyoin murmured. “I tried to—oh!”

He watched Jotaro stifle his smile over the top of Jolyne’s head, eyes growing round. Eternally the teenager far too surprised by affection, but he had known her well for the short time they had together, and he hugged her back after a brief pause.

“You did,” Jolyne said. “You did.”

“At first I thought it was just Jotaro.” Kakyoin glanced at him carefully. “That brought me to you. I was there, and he clearly wanted something to protect you, our wills had—we have been tied to one another for a long time. I assumed…that was all it was. Because it was what he would want.”

The newly born stars circled overhead, moving quickly enough now to leave streaks in the sky as day and night flashed into one another too rapidly to tell apart.

“You were always pretty good at taking care of yourself,” he said, addressing Jotaro directly. “But—I didn’t want you getting proved right again, about what happens to the people you love.”

“Yeah, well.” Jolyne pulled away, watching her reflection in the inky water. “That worked out, didn’t it?”

“Jolyne,” Jotaro said sharply. “That’s not funny.”

“Wasn’t meant to be.”

Kakyoin chuckled. “There’s something about you.”

“Me?”

“Yes.” He spun in place absently, watching the ripples move away, towards Jotaro and Jolyne and then beyond them, to Hermés and Anasui, Weather and F.F. Hermés watched Jolyne, conscious of the moment she needed, but her face glowed with worry, nearly as brightly as the still-fading lines of light that served to echo the wounds on her arms.

“I’m glad it was you,” he said. “I’m proud of you. Whether I—whether it’s my place to be or not…I am.”

VII.

serons-nous admirables?

“Did we…fail?”

The strange black sun that had appeared only moments before began to dissolve as Jotaro watched. “I’m not sure,” he said slowly.

“What was the point?” Jolyne murmured. “Dad, what was the point?”

“I…”

He wanted to give her a better answer. He wanted to tell her about a different ending, one where something underneath the myriad of ways in which he had failed her gave all of it meaning, if not an undercurrent of hope.

“I don’t know.”

Hope had never been Jotaro’s strong point.

“Look at you.” Kakyoin shook his head, almost smiling. “Look at you. Look at both of you.”

Curiously he held his hand against the light and watched as pieces of his form tore away, somehow leaving him no less complete, but not quite solid either.

“All that love. You…you really think it was all for nothing,” he said. “You can’t believe that.”

“Then what…” Jolyne hugged her father harder, her voice muffled now by nature of her face being buried in his coat. “Then—what was it?”

“He’s your father,” Kakyoin said simply. “He’ll be your father again.”

“Noriaki—”

“Next time,” he continued, ignoring Jotaro, “next time, I think, you’ll find each other faster. You may not remember what you—what you did. For one another. You won’t. It won’t be real for you there. But that doesn’t mean it didn’t happen at all. What you’ve…your lives, whatever they may become, they will have to be a testament to the way you fought. For each other. That’s all I can say with any certainty, but I know it. As well as I can know anything.”

“And what if he leaves again?”

Jotaro stiffened. He closed his eyes, resting his chin on the top of his daughter’s head. It won’t come to that ever again.

Times like this he wished he were a better liar. He never could bluff against Jolyne, after all.

“If I leave.”

Kakyoin watched him with a strange expression that could almost have passed for pride.

“If I leave,” he repeated slowly, “no matter how many times I leave, there will be…I want to believe there could…if there are this many answers…”

Stars tugged gently but insistently at the edges of his form, but he held tight to Jolyne. Last chance to say it, to say any of it, no matter what he allowed himself to believe.

“If there are this many futures,” Jotaro said, “I have to believe—hope…that in at least one of them I worked out how to stay.”

“Do you promise?”

“Jolyne—”

“Dad.” She twisted free from his arms and glared up at him. Jolyne hadn’t cried in front of him like this since she was a child, since she broke her arm falling out of the apricot tree, since the day he left her there in the driveway. She had clung to her mother’s skirt then, hiding her face, but this time it was her father’s sleeve she clutched at, and she looked at him, unhesitating and defiant, as though she were daring him to confront the depth of the love with which she had lived and never had anywhere to put down.

“I’m asking you—” Jolyne swallowed angrily. “You promise me. You promise you’ll catch me when I get there.”

“I can’t…” Jotaro took a deep breath, unable to meet her eyes. “I don’t know—”

“No. Not—look at me.”

Green eyes. He had never thought to remember the last person to make a habit of asking him for impossible things when he looked at her. If he allowed himself to feel his memories whenever they surfaced he would never have been able to move at all.

Kakyoin smiled to himself, unnoticed by father or daughter.

“I will come,” Jotaro said slowly. “I’ll be there.”

“Promise.”

“I…promise.”

Surprising to find it barely felt like a lie. Jolyne smiled at him, and for a moment, he saw not a young woman, but a little girl, waving at him from the far end of the beach as she shouted at him to hurry up.

I don’t want to go in the water without you.

“Okay,” she said. “I’ll see you there.”

She looked over his shoulder at Kakyoin and mouthed thank you. Kakyoin winked.

“Good luck,” he called.

“Wait—” Jotaro spun towards her. “Jolyne—!”

She didn’t jump so much as fall; she didn’t fall so much as allow the light to take her. Jotaro may have had an intimate knowledge of being too late, but it was Jolyne who knew when she had locked eyes with a lost cause.

Her smile lingered after her form faded, as though he had looked for too long at a star shining far too brightly for the world in which it had been permitted to exist.

“I’ll see you there,” he whispered. “I’ll come.”

When Kakyoin wrapped his hand around Jotaro’s, he looked down to see an old school coat, his own frame somehow both lighter and heavier. It made sense that Kakyoin would remember him as a teenager, that he might be momentarily defined here by such a thing. Maybe it answered more to his own memories of what they had been to each other. Laws he had no comprehension of and would not have time to come to understand.

“Kind of thought you’d forget how to get scared after being dead this long.” He glanced at Kakyoin, who clung to him in a way that might have cut off circulation if he’d still had it. “You hang on too tight when you get like this.”

Present tense, he realized. Maybe he really had sunk into the past, here at the death of the future.

“I’m not scared to go,” Kakyoin said slowly, his eyes straight ahead. “Wherever it is we’re…wherever we’re going next. I’m not scared to go there.”

“Then what—”

“I’m afraid I won’t…know you there.”

Jotaro stared at him. “You didn’t seem too worried about that when it was Jolyne you were trying to talk down.”

“I was trying to talk you down too.” He chuckled sadly. “She’s your daughter. You’re her father. I think that’s different, I don’t…I—”

“We don’t have time for talking in circles."

The roaring in their ears grew ever louder as the storm’s eye shrank around them.

“We just as easily might have not met at all, Jotaro, you know that?” He shuddered again. “I might have just—one wrong step—or I guess, right step? Might have never, Dio might never have—at all. None of it. Would have just lived and not ever known you.”

“Most people don’t sound so bitter about the concept of not dying before they were out of their teens.”

“Most people aren’t choosing between living and knowing you.”

“I—Jesus Christ, Noriaki.” Jotaro laughed, amazed. “You can’t just say that shit.”

“You asked.”

“Guess so.”

“I…say I get a life back. Sure. Fine. I jump down there, and, and I’m me again, and I get a life back, but it’s not mine, it—it won’t be mine because I, because you won’t be in it. I’ll never even—never even know what’s missing. Just live the whole thing with a hole in my heart.”

“I’ll find you.”

He looked up at Jotaro, startled by the sudden intensity in his voice.

“I’ll find you,” he repeated. “Doesn’t matter if I don’t remember you. I’ll know you. I’ll always know you. And I swear that I’ll find you again.”

Kakyoin stood very still as their universe tore to pieces at his back, staring at Jotaro as he held tightly to his hands.

“Do you believe me?”

He paused and found himself confronted with flashes of lives both past and future, fated and impossible, infinite realities cracking open before him. There must be at least one where we were happy, he thought.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “Yeah, I’ll meet you there.”

VIII.

ca doit faire au moins mille fois que j’ai compté mes doigts

“Oh—I’m sorr—”

Their heads smacked together with a sharp crack. He had meant to reach for the pencils the other student had dropped when they first collided; the boy, it seemed, had had the same idea. He shook his head, trying to chase the stars from his eyes.

You had this look in your eyes, like you had just realized that nothing would be okay ever again. And you tried to smile, you tried to smile at me so that I wouldn’t be afraid, but you were staring at the sky and your hands were shaking and I had no idea what to say to you. I had always been the one to tell you that things would be all right. You got so angry when I tried to tell you that, but I meant it. Every time, I meant it, which was why I couldn’t say it then. No matter how badly I wanted to take your pain away, I couldn’t lie to you.

I felt like I was watching a meteor coming towards the earth, bigger and bigger until it swallowed up the sky, and there was nothing I could do about it. I wanted to tell you that I was afraid for you, and I was afraid for me. Were those things I was even allowed to feel? Am I allowed to be afraid for myself even now? Is my life my own to fear for?

The boy laughed nervously. “Should’ve watched where I was…sorry.”

“Not a big deal. Been hit harder by stray footballs.”

He smiled.

All I ever wanted was to keep you safe.

“Here.” He handed over a drawing pad, careful to keep it face down. “You an artist?”

“When I want to be.” The boy took it and blew loose red hair out of his face, looking at him curiously.

“What?”

“I—well, most people try to look. At it.”

“Well.” He shrugged. “Figured that’s your business.”

Is it selfish of me, to be glad that it’s me who’s going first? Is it cruel to feel relief? I don’t want to leave you alone. But I don’t want to be alone, either.

We should have had more time. I should have been able to give us more time, I should have been able to give you more time. You were supposed to come home with me on that train. I wasn’t supposed to have to do this alone. Not after knowing what it’s like not to be.

“I don’t think I’ve seen you before,” he said.

“Probably not. I just transferred.”

“Oh.” He offered his hand. The red-haired boy hesitated, then allowed himself to be pulled to his feet. When he saw his face, it took everything he had not to recoil.

The light of dead stars won’t falter when their lives flicker out. As long as there’s someone to see it, that starlight will always find them, as I will always find you. When the stars reach for you from a million miles away you will remember how it felt to be home.

I never wanted to have to learn how to remember you. I always had a shit memory for faces. This isn’t right. It isn’t fair.

“Are you—?” The boy’s face fell, sensing his distress. “Are you okay?”

What could he say? I think I’ve dreamed about you? That he knew his face from nightmares? That he had seen him with his guts punched out, seen him smiling and laughing and dying, with clarity that belonged more to a memory than a dream?

He looked down at their hands, still wound together.

It was never going to be fair.

You lying bastard. You promised.

“Yeah,” he said, forcing a smile until it felt real. “Sorry. Tired. I’m Jotaro. Kujo.”

The boy smiled back with a familiar gentleness.

“My name’s Noriaki,” he said. “Noriaki Kakyoin.”

It was not recognition, when they looked at one another, but the feeling of an echo, the answer to a promise made in another lifetime. They stared at each other curiously, each struck by the sense that this, the first time, was not the first time at all; that this moment had come a million times before and would come a million times again.

You will never be alone. You will never be alone. You will never be alone.

They knew exactly what to expect, and at the same time, knew nothing at all.

IX.

où t’es papa où t’es? où t’es où t’es où papa, où t’es?

Irene stared at the ceiling and waited for her heartbeat to slow. A cool breeze reached her through the open window, and she shivered a little when the goosebumps rose on her shoulders, unwilling to pull the sheets she had kicked off in her sleep back up lest she disturb the notoriously light sleeper at her side. Irene had asked her to close the windows before bed, but she found it difficult to be irritated in any sort of meaningful way.

“Mmmmh.”

“Sorry,” Irene said. “Tried t—”

“Not your fault,” Hermés mumbled, rolling over. She looked blearily up at Irene. “Had the dream again?”

“You can tell.”

“Pulse’s going nuts.”

“So?”

“So it—you know, that’s what woke me up.” She leaned back on her elbows and rolled her neck. “You okay?”

“Sure. Fine.”

“Don’t be a dumbass—hey!”

Irene giggled as Hermés tried and failed to block the pillow with her wrist mid-swing. She wasn’t above banking on things such as morning slowness.

“You’re annoying,” Hermés declared, sinking back down to pull the blankets over her head.

“You love it.”

“I tolerate it.”

“Yeah.” Irene stretched, wincing when her shoulders popped. “Are you gonna want coffee?”

“That shit makes me crazy.”

“You—like, you do understand, you say that every morning and then come over and drink mine anyway.”

The blankets muffled her snort. “What was that you just said about loving it?”

“Oh, fuck yourself.”

“Isn’t that your j—don’t hit me with that thing again!”

Irene laughed and dropped her pillow. “You’re the worst.”

“Yep,” Hermés said proudly. “Don’t ever forget it.”

“Like I—like you’d let me.” The hardwood floor was cold against her feet, still bare despite her father’s repeated stating that if it bothered her so much she should be wearing slippers. On paper Irene was holding out for carpet. If she was honest with herself she knew he was right about cold floors helping her wake up faster, but she certainly wouldn’t have dreamed of saying that to his face.

She leaned over her discarded pillow to kiss Hermés on the cheek.

“Love you,” mumbled Hermés. “Whatever.”

Her smile lingered as she stepped into the quiet hallway, careful to avoid the creaky floorboards just outside her door that had betrayed her so often as a teenager before she learned to sneak back in through the window if she wanted to avoid both her fathers and the consequences of being caught. These days she avoided them out of habit as much as consideration for the others.

She ran her hand absently over the photographs that lined the wall as she passed, stopping to straighten the frames she found crooked. Hermés had made it up there a little over a month ago, represented by a half-stained Polaroid that was treated with the same reverence as the wedding photos that hung above it. She grinned out at Irene, her arms around a disgruntled and very sandy Emporio, though he had only allowed the corner of his face into the picture.

Emporio and F.F. weren’t much for photos, but at least they didn’t make an effort to duck out of frame like Weather did. It certainly wasn’t enough to dissuade her stepfather in any case.

Why’re you so into pictures? she had asked him once, waving a developing photograph gently in front of her face.

He shrugged, smiling. I like to make copies of my memories. You never know how much time you’ve got.

Kinda grim.

I don’t think of it that way. I think we should be proud of living so much that’s worth remembering.

“You’re up early.”

She glanced at the kitchen clock, still persistently running six minutes too fast. Jesus. “Didn’t realize.” Silently she thanked Hermés for not being more ornery about the six a.m. wake up call. “Where’s Noriaki?”

“Still asleep.” Jotaro glanced up from his book. “Water’s already warm.”

“You’re great,” she mumbled. “He got back okay?”

“Mm. Just a little later than he expected.”

“How’re they?”

He paused. “Apparently they might actually…get married. Legally, I mean.”

Irene nearly dropped the mug she was holding. “Are you fucking with me?”

Jotaro chuckled at her expression and shook his head.

“No,” he said. “Mohammed said they’ve been talking, but. Likely means it’ll be years before they’re ready to make a decision, you know—forget acting on it.”

“Christ,” she muttered. “I’m gonna lose the bet.”

“The…?” He laughed again. “You made a bet?”

“I thought—well, I thought it wouldn’t happen at all. I mean, we were all, it was crazy enough when they admitted they were together.”

“I remember.”

“They were living together for, like, how long? Before that?”

“Five years. Give or take.”

“You see—!”

Jotaro closed his book carefully. “You don’t have to explain yourself to me,” he said. “Just remember what I told you about making bets. Never—”

“Never bet something you aren’t ready to lose.” Irene rolled her eyes. “Pretty standard advice, you know.”

“For good reason.”

The smell of cut grass wafted through the open window, accompanied by the early morning chill. It wouldn’t be burned away by the sun for another few hours at the very least. Irene moved to close it, but the salty ocean air stopped her, coaxing her into accepting a little cold in order to let it through.

“You’re still tired,” Jotaro said, watching her out of the corner of his eye.

Irene shrugged. “Fucked up dreams.”

He nodded. “Remember any of them?”

“Not really,” she lied, shaking out the coffee grinder with more than necessary force. “Just didn’t sleep great.”

“Hermés still here?”

“It’s just for another night,” she said quickly. She shifted uncomfortably. “She had, like…she didn’t really tell me. I think probably some, a fight with her sister or—”

“Irene.” Jotaro shook his head, smiling. “She can stay as long as she needs. Just wanted to know.”

“Right. Yeah.”

She glanced at the long, thin birthmark that stretched from her father’s forehead to his chin.

“You ever heard of that shit that’s like—you know, that’s like your birthmarks are how you died in the, in a past life?”

He rested his chin on one hand, eyes on her back. “I’ve heard of it.”

“Kind of fucked up, right?”

“I guess the….”

Irene turned to face him.

“…it would depend on the birthmark,” Jotaro said, scratching unconsciously at his forehead. “You’d have something serious to account for, I think.”

She snorted. “And you wouldn’t?”

“I don’t exactly…put stock in it, I suppose. In things like that.”

“Not enough cited sources, huh?”

“Something like that.” His smirk faded. “I think—well, I…it’s not important.”

“I’ve been having dreams about it,” Irene said quickly, before she could lose her nerve. “Like, seeing shit happen to all of us. With the birthmarks.”

She gestured vaguely in his direction. “Your face. Getting. I…yeah.”

Jotaro narrowed his eyes. “Nightmares?”

“I guess.”

Childish to say that they felt more like memories than dreams, or that she often woke up feeling cold and sad, dissatisfied in a way she couldn’t quite explain. Staring at her side in the mirror, at the patchy blotch of a birthmark she’d had since childhood, trying to shake off the phantom feeling of a knife. Recently, but less frequently, she had found herself watching her father more closely than usual just to be sure that his face was still in one piece.

The chair creaked when she dropped heavily into it and she froze for a moment, waiting for the telltale sounds of feet on the hardwood.

“You know,” Jotaro said slowly. “I used to have those.”

Irene blinked. “You mean nightmares?”

“Yeah.” He nodded. “Was about your age. A little younger, I guess.”

“They’re a pain in the ass,” she muttered.

“Used to dream I was seeing Noriaki get punched clean through.”

She paused, hand frozen mid-nervous tap on the table. “…Really.”

“Mhm.”

The star-shaped discoloration that took up the better part of Kakyoin’s torso that had fascinated Irene ever since she was a child. She held on to old memories of Jotaro half-heartedly telling her not to stare and Kakyoin laughing brightly when she poked at his stomach.

“Did you ever…tell him?”

“Not at the time.” He shook his head. “We had just met. Would have been a little strange to tell my new friend ‘hey, I’ve been dreaming about your disembowelment’.”

Irene laughed. “If there’s anyone who would take that in stride—”

“—it would be him, I know. Which is—I did tell him. Much later.”

“Tell him what?”

“Dreams.” Jotaro allowed Kakyoin to lean on his shoulders, wincing slightly when elbows dug into his back. “I told you not to sneak up on me.”

“Not my fault you don’t hear me coming,” Kakyoin said. “We aren’t all huge and loud.”

“I’m not loud.”

Kakyoin raised his eyebrows at Irene over the top of her father’s head. She looked away to hide her smile.

“I thought you didn’t buy into that dream reading stuff.” He squinted at the mug in his hands, unable to make out the text. Irritating to need glasses for that sort of thing, but he often expressed that he knew things could be worse. “Jotaro, which one is this?”

“Aquarium. And I don’t,” he added. “Doesn’t mean I can’t talk about it.”

“Sounded like you were talking about your old ones.”

Irene glanced at him and Jotaro shrugged.

“They were…well, you know.”

Kakyoin nodded and yawned. A bird wailed outside, song too shrill to make out a melody.

“You ever think about birthmark reincarnations, Noriaki?”

He blinked. “The—the what?”

“Birthmarks are how you died in a past life.” Irene took a sip of coffee and grimaced. She had been too distracted to remember sugar. “That’s what I’ve heard, I mean.”

“Oh, God, no.” He shuddered. “I mean—I hope not. Look at your dad’s face.”

“Me?” Jotaro stared at him. “What about you?”

“Well…I guess.”

Kakyoin fell silent, watching cream spread like a cloud through the dark liquid. It drove Jotaro crazy, usually, that he rarely bothered with stirring it at all.

“I just don’t like,” he said slowly, “the idea of it all having happened before.”

“I don’t really mind it,” Kakyoin mused. “Second chances are nice.”

Jotaro smiled, shaking his head. “You would look at it like that.”

“And what—what does that mean?”

“Nothing bad—Noriaki!”

Kakyoin grinned and ducked out of the way, winking at Irene. Little surprise that she had developed a fondness for throwing pillows at Hermés, after learning how to be in love by growing up with the two of them.

Jotaro shook his ruffled hair like a large and disgruntled dog.

“I’ll be outside,” Kakyoin told them, pulling his coat from a crowded rack near the door.

“Aren’t you—” Jotaro glanced at the glittering frost only just beginning to melt away from the windowsill. “Isn’t it cold?”

“Well, of course.” He stopped, hand on the doorframe. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“‘There’ll be time to be comfortable when I’m dead’,” Irene said.

“That was…” Jotaro groaned, getting to his feet. “That was about something different.”

He did take up an amazing amount of space, Irene thought. She had always found it comforting.

“Dad,” she said. “Thank you.”

Jotaro set his half-empty mug on the counter. “For?”

“Just—I don’t know. Thank you.”

He paused, turning to watch her with a strange expression that slowly became a smile.

“You’re what matters,” Jotaro said. “You always will be.”

#jjba #jotaro kujo #jolyne cujoh #jotakak #noriaki kakyoin #jolymes #stone free #anyone who knows me knows this has been driving me Up the wall for like a week #listen to papaoutai its good. the video made me cry like a little bitch #its also the longest fanned fiction ive ever produced. jotaro and jolyne just do that to me i guess #as i said on ao3 i used some of the actual panel dialogue here for convenience and canon compliance so dont shoot me

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locke-writes · 5 years

Text

On The Road

Author: locke-writes

Title: On The Road

Prompt: Road Trip x Tony Stark. For: @thefanficfaerie Picture Is Worth 1000 Words Challenge

Rating: T

Word Count: 2214

AN: Life got in the way and I’m immensely late but I finished it anyway.

Quickly grabbing a fry off of Tony's plate you took a bite before he could even make a comment. He frowned while you grinned in response, reaching to grab the salt from the end of the table. The neon lights reflected off the windows in the diner providing calm and comfort.

When Tony locked himself away in his lab you worried about him. There was no telling what caused him to disappear, hiding away, tinkering on a new project or perhaps an already existing one. The only thing that kept you calm in those situations was the fact that this particular vice wasn't all that detrimental to his health compared to others. But there was no telling if Tony was sleeping or eating without consulting Jarvis or running into him in the kitchen.

If working himself to death in the lab was Tony's way of calming down, you recognized that it still wasn't a healthy way to cope. It was up to you to provide another way.

There was always talk of traveling between you and Tony yet nothing had ever come of it. With running a business alongside saving the world there just wasn't any time. Truth be told you were afraid that there would never be any time, the list of cities, state, and countries you wished to visit sitting there on the page you had written them on, mocking you.

Tony's retreat into the lab once more, the sound of him bickering with a wrench you had heard clattering indicating the overwhelming need for him to get away. And so you arranged it in secret.

Typically secrets weren't a part of your relationship with Tony. Honesty was the best policy after all. But when the idea for a road trip came about you knew that Tony would object, he'd say he was fine, he'd try and have a mission arranged just to prove it to you. Whether he was fine or not Tony was never one to admit he needed help. Over time he'd gotten better about it yet he still wanted to be the person others relied on rather than the person to rely on others.

Nick wasn't about to agree to not calling Tony for one full week but after a few threats and promising him a few favors he had agreed. Which meant that you had one full week without interruptions, one full week that Tony could relax without worrying. One full week in which you hoped Tony would be made to take a break from his worrying, at least if his mind would let him.

There was never any true discussion about where you and Tony were about to go. A plane would have been able to take you anywhere around the world in a matter of a few hours, but you didn't want that. You wanted to keep Tony occupied, to make sure his mind was focused on something else rather than on any unfinished project. It was since decided that a road trip would be the best form of escape.

California.

It's nickname was the Golden State but for many years of your life you called it home. After leaving to attend college in New York many years ago, you hadn't been back since. Or at least in awhile as you came home for the holidays when you were able.

There were many things that you missed from home, many Cali-centric places, but the main was the beach. Yes you did live on the East Coast and you could find the time to head to the beach should you choose to but it wasn't the same. You missed the sand practically burning your feet when you went on 100 degree days and the lack of tourists when you went on days where it was 60 degrees. Lower temperatures always meant that tourists would never be there but native Californians would since it would still be warm.

Tony had taken only a few minutes of convincing. He had questions, he always did but you had answers. You didn't know where you were stopping, you'd figure that out on the way calling hotels as you came close but you knew the route, knew what states and cities you were stopping in. Once he was fully satisfied by the fact that he was going to be left alone and that you hadn't talked about the trip to anyone other than Happy and Nick, he began packing.

Two days later and you were ready to hit the road.

Washington D.C

The first stop. There wasn't anything much to see that you hadn't seen before. It was nice wandering around though, pretending that you and Tony were tourists. With all the conversations that Tony had to attend at the capitol, with all the Senate interrogations the two of you had to attend, you'd been in D.C more often than any other city on the road trip map.

It didn't seem to make it any less special though. In fact the knowledge that you'd only be there for the rest of the day before taking towards the road in the morning. Walking around the monuments was refreshing, getting a chance to be somebody no one cared about was refreshing. Whether or not Tony admitted it you knew he was glad that there was no one around bombarding him for autographs. You didn't know if they didn't think Tony was the real deal or if they didn't want to bother the two of you but either way you were grateful.

Nashville

You'd left DC at eight in the morning wanting to at least have some time to sleep in but leave with enough time that you wouldn't arrive to late in Tennessee. With no time to explore the city on the first day you and Tony grabbed food and hung out in the hotel room going to bed relatively early. The schedule you had created allowed for a full day in Nashville which you planned on taking full advantage of.

Whether or not it was cliche to do you allowed Tony to drag you to the major tourist sites. Admittedly going from the Grand Ole Opry to the reproduction of the Parthenon was a little odd but it fit. In some ways it allowed you to learn more about the man than you had known before. He was like a private tour guide. Aware that he was a music fanatic you'd only ever heard him listen to everything but country yet suddenly he was spouting out facts of the top of his head. Maybe he had looked them up when you were off somewhere but with Tony's brain you truly believed that he knew everything off the top of his head.

Nashville was the first place on the road trip map that you truly noticed a change in Tony. It was the first time he was becoming calm, allowing himself to relax.

Mississippi

To keep on track with the trip schedule and get Tony back to New York before Fury broke the promise and started calling you weren't able to spend too much time in Mississippi. For the most part it was used as a rest stop. A place where you could grab food that wasn't from regional drive thru's and was actually edible. A place where you could get some hours of sleep. Not excellent sleep but a few hours on a decent hotel mattress.

For the most part you'd been doing most of the driving. Going to Mississippi was the first time Tony had offered to take the wheel, it was also the first time he began to critique the road trip you playlist that had been created. Or well, you hadn't actually created it only pulled together a few songs from other existing playlists you'd found online.

New Orleans

Having not made plans when you arrived in New Orleans you were ready to treat the city the same as the one before, as a resting place. Of course you should have known that when Tony set his feet down in New Orleans he'd have too many ideas of what to do. Tony had friends in a wide variety of places and Louisiana was no exception.

Despite having a need to wake up early in the morning you didn't care. You didn't care about anything after you saw Tony smiling and laughing in the bar. You'd gone along for a few drinks with the friends that he knew from college. In your head it was like you had been there for it all as well, like you had existed for all the stories that had been brought up.

It was like a switch had been flipped. Flip it one way and you had the word weary Avenger, the man that everyone thought they knew, the man that everyone knew only by news reports and magazine interviews. Flip the switch that one way and you had a man that truly believed despite every word set against it, that he had to be the only one to hold the word on his shoulders. Tony Stark was a modern day Atlas. He was punishing himself for every single wrongdoing that was out of his grasp.

And yet flip the switch the other way and here was this Tony Stark. The Tony Stark that was laughing and was acting as if his life never consisted of the stress of being a superhero. Here was a carefree Tony Stark and perhaps this was the one true carefree Tony Stark that you had known

Austin

Stepping foot into Austin was as though you were physically stepping onto the halfway mark of the map. You knew in only a few days your feet would be touching sand, you'd be in California. You'd have one moment to officially be carefree. And Tony would have days to just be. To just exist. No worries, no thoughts of a life to get back to. There was just going to be the beach and water ever else you would end up deciding to do.

For the most part in Austin the two of you decided just to take in local shops. It was a thing not widely known about Tony Stark but he was a supporter of local businesses. Many thought that he'd recommend franchising, selling out and expanding, but that was far from the truth. Although Tony owned and partially ran Stark Industries he knew the history of the company. Every business starts off small and every business can grow to be a corporate giant if they so choose. To give those places the option of expansion though, they still have to make money as the small businesses they'll start out to be.

Scottsdale

Being in Arizona was difficult. Not because you in Scottsdale which was mainly known for its golf courses and you absolutely hated golf, but because there were only hours keeping you from California, for a beach you hadn't been to in years. Only a few hours keeping you from sharing a meaningful experience with your closest, dearest friend.

One of the few other things Scottsdale was known for was it's abundance of spas which you and Tony took full advantage of. Driving for hours upon hours a day leaves for barely any time you walk around and stretch. It leads to feeling sore and it leads to the great want of a massage. With the two of you always working there wasn't much time you spent being indulgence. Taking care of others was what Tony felt most necessary, rather than taking care of himself.

In the time that you had been on the road you'd seen the weight lifted off his shoulders. And now as the two of you were on separate massage table in the same room, you knew it'd be fully eradicated from him. Every amount of stress would be fully washed away.

Huntington Beach.

California

Home.

It took six hours to get to the beach. Six hours and some minutes due to traffic but you were smiling through it all. Tony thought you were crazy to enjoy traffic but having been away from Southern California for so long it felt like him being stuck in traffic on every freeway you needed to drive down.

Six hours.

That's how long it had taken to get from one state to the next. That's how long it had taken to get you here, a beach parking lot. You stood staring out at the sand and the water out there before you. Tony questioned why the two of you hadn't gone straight to the hotel to rest. He wasn't angry or upset, just curious but even while asking about the hotel he was grabbing the bag you had packed specifically for your arrival at the beach.

There was no time to waste, you'd change into a bathing suit later but now you just wanted to sink your feet into the warm sand. You grinned while Tony shut the trunk of the car.

"Step 1. Grab shitty nachos from the snack bar. Step 2. Lay out towels and claim a spot. Step 3. Admit I was right." You turned back to look at Tony.

He smiled back, "I admit it. We needed this. I. I needed this"

#locke writes #tony stark #marvel #tony stark imagine #marvel imagine #tony stark fic #marvel fic #tony stark fanfic #marvel fanfic #tony stark oneshot #marvel oneshot

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