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georgemackayhey · 4 years

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Home Again

a/n: So once, an anon vaguely asked for something with Schofield. And I recently sent out a poll for what my first multi-chapter fic should be about. The Schofield coming home option came in third place, so I figured I'd kill two birds with this blurb!

warning: General sad times but the ending is happy like he deserves

w/c: 2k

───※ ·❆· ※───

It was just like Will to be so quiet, but his silence lingered differently than any other time before.

He had only been home for a day, not even that long if you subtracted the long journey from the train station back to your neighborhood.

When you spotted Will at the platform, he bent at the knee to better scoop up your daughter and spin her around with a flourish. Will greeted you with sweet kisses and sighs of relief. And then he fell asleep for most of the ride back home. It was probably the most rest he'd had the pleasure of slipping into in far too long, you figured.

By the time you made it home for dinner, your daughter spent a majority of the evening sitting in her father's lap, reading from storybooks she'd created herself, a hobby she picked up sometime after he'd gone away. Her pages were sparse of many words. She mostly drew pictures and made up a new story every time she flipped through the sketches.

Will sat listening with a tired grin and a fond focus on his child. You caught precious glimpses as you made dinner.

After, you put your girl to bed and found Will fast asleep in your favorite claw-footed chair. For a moment, you admired his strong arms and soft hair under the warm light cast from the kitchen behind him. Will was finally home, peacefully draped on the patterned chair he used to call too ugly to be comfortable. The passing thought made you smile. It was your turn to curl into his lap and press a soft kiss to his temple.

Will's eyes fluttered open and peered into yours, silence lingered but it was shared once again.

"Let's go to bed, my love." You decided, gently tugging your husband from the chair and holding his hand down the dark hallway, like little kids on an adventure.

You drew a bath and pulled Will in to join you, worried over nothing but taking care of your man.

While you washed his hair and warmed his skin, you told the story of The Nightingale And The Rose, changing the ending into something grand and romantic. It was your favorite story to tell each other, while you waited for desserts to bake, or watched the rain. Each of you always started telling the story the way it had been written but made a tradition of rewriting the ending, to score a giggle or a smile.

It only seemed natural, now, as Will watched you take care of him, with big blue eyes you'd missed more than words. His eyes were full of all the things you'd missed, and his glance was a language all its own. You'd moved on from winks and nods, a look was all it took.

You followed Will to bed in the quiet cool night. He fell asleep with both strong arms around you and you lied awake to soak it all in.

When you awoke the next you weren't surprised to find the silence that seeped into the nighttime had remained.

It wasn't long before your new day was narrated by your daughter as she lunged into a hug from you and laughed as she danced at your feet through the halls.

When Will finally awoke, he drifted into the kitchen wearing a cautious glance like he'd forgotten his way around the home he helped fix up a few odd summers ago.

"Goodmorning my love." You cooed, stepping away from cooking breakfast to place a gentle hand on the side of his face. His eyes searched yours, full of more than you knew or ever would. You realized there was a world of things he wanted to tell you, but couldn't, or shouldn't, or something. And even though your chest filled with too much emotion to understand, you were just glad he was finally home.

"Breakfast is almost ready." You grinned, hoping he'd have some. You decided then and there that your new mission in life was to do whatever it might have taken to get his flickering smile to stay plastered on.

Will gave the smallest nod but made no move to drift away from you, keeping those big somber eyes locked on yours.

So you pulled him toward the kitchen table where your daughter had already placed dishes in front of chairs. Will sat, watching as you kept a hand on his jaw so you could turn his face for a soft, quick kiss.

You ate breakfast all together listening to your daughter name birds that flew past your window.

After, you cleaned up and packed all the necessities for a picnic, a Sunday tradition. Will helped, handing you items to pack away and offering to carry the basket, all while somehow staying quiet as a mouse.

When you left the house his hand found yours and held on tightly. His face became nearly unreadable as you strolled down the path to the closest park, but he still chuckled when your daughter danced ahead of you, leading the way.

"Remember when we brought her home and were afraid she was too quiet?" You spoke low to Will, who cracked a smile as he watched your girl sing and skip along the path.

"I've missed her made-up songs." Will cooed as you both kept your eye on her. But as your husband spoke of your daughter, he also made the first mention of being away, being anywhere but here with you.

It made your heart flutter but you knew better than to make mention of anything.

"How'd someone with so much to say come from you, Will?" You chuckled. He was always quiet. Will almost couldn't get the words out to ask you on your first date. And the guy was reduced to tears before he could even ask you to marry him. Luckily you knew what the ring between his fingers meant and blabbered enough for the both of you, then.

But now you were wise enough to realize that words weren't always necessary, and that the ones that were would come in time. For now, holding his hand in the warm sun was more than enough.

The park was mostly empty, save for a few rusty swings, a family of birds and a pair of young brothers too preoccupied with fishing to notice anything else. Your daughter spun toward the play area, begging for a push on the swing. You were closest to her, leaving Will to sit among the blanket you'd brought along, staring into a line of blooming trees.

You pushed your daughter until her heels scraped against the dirt. She then hung her head as the swing came to a swaying halt.

"What is it, darling?" You crouched at her feet, struggling to see her face past her windblown hair. When she lifted her head, her bottom lip stuck out into a pout.

"Why doesn't papa like the park anymore?" Her little voice whined.

Your daughter had a very rough understanding of where her father had been for so long. When Will left he explained to the small girl that he had to go away and help some people. But as time passed and the papers and the town gossip kept shouting and weeping over the war, she learned that the big scary word had quite a lot to do with her father. But for all the questions she asked, and all the answers you could think to give, this one stumped you a little.

"You know, I think he's just still very tired. But I know he's most glad to be here." You assured, taking your daughter's hands in your own and giving them a squeeze. You couldn't even fathom what Will was feeling right now, and you weren't sure if you'd given your daughter the answer she was looking for.

You'd heard other mothers and wives explain that their husband's homecoming seemed to happen a day at a time. But right now, each passing minute felt like a lifetime all it's own.

"Will he be here for my birthday?" Your daughter asked, cocking her head and worrying her dad might disappear for years on end again. It almost broke your heart, but you were sure of the answer this time and it was a very good one indeed.

"He's here to stay." You nodded with a smile. You lifted your daughter from the swingset and on to the ground with a giggle. She seemed pleased enough with that answer to skip away from you on a mission to pick wildflowers a few feet away.

You made your way back to Will who sat propped up on one elbow, eyes still lazily focused on the trees on the horizon.

As you started to sit, you also started to worry over what to say. You wanted to ask what was on Will's mind but didn't want to push him, certain he'd say something if he found it important enough. But before you were even halfway to the ground, he took you by surprise, casting his eyes up to your way along with a smile.

"Com'er." Will held out a hand, softly pulling you closer before you even got the chance to agree. It made you laugh, the soft conviction in his voice. You fell to Will's side, happily gazing up at him while he looked out in your daughter's direction.

"Her birthday is next week. She's been asking for a big party." You huffed, looking to the thin golden clouds overhead.

"Whatever she wants, we should do. Right?" Will seemed to remind you of a sentiment you'd coined when she was too small to even make her own decisions.

"But what do you want," You asked through a small laugh. He was back to help make these sort of plans now, and her birthday was only a few short days away. What if Will wasn't ready for all sorts of people packed into you home, with more questions for him than presents for you very spoiled offspring, no doubt.

"I want her to be happy. Let's throw a party!" Will rose a brow like trading a secret, somehow scoring another laugh out of you. That's when your daughter came over, presenting a bouquet of wildflowers to her father. He took them with a quiet thanks and pulled her in to join your pile on the blanket. And somehow, then, it didn't feel like a single day had passed since the last picnic like this one.

Time was skewed, speeding up and slowing down when you least expected it. Some rainy days, breakfasts were filled with song, and rides to town were grand adventures. Other days when the weather was perfect and his favorite record played, Will sat with those big sad eyes focused on the wall.

Still, every night ended with him all wrapped around you while your breathing matched up and you fell asleep until it was time for another day.

And when your daughters big day rolled around, and all your desserts were baked, and a few paper streamers hung from bookcases, you couldn't tell how Will was feeling. So you went about your routine as normal as possible and said a quick prayer as family members came flooding through your front door and into the back garden.

You'd kept a steady eye on Will, unable to read his big baby blues. He kept his eye on you, too, while aunts and uncles pulled him into uncomfortable hugs.

You heard bits of their silly questions, like what was it like and aren't you glad it's all over?

When your daughter challenged her cousins to a game of hide and seek, Will was the first to disappear. After making sure your guests had fresh tea and were lost enough in their own conversations, you went to find your husband.

He'd found quiet in the upstairs library. Which was just the attic decorated with a rug and a bookshelf, and his silhouette sat on the bench in the window frame. His big blue eyes rested below a furrowed brow and you knew as you shut the door behind you, that it was time to ask what you'd been wanting too.

"Will, are you alrigh-"

Before you could even finish your whisper, Will sucked in a sharp breath and turned to face you in tears.

"I don't know," Will spoke with the smallest shake of his head. You took cautious steps toward him as he went on, "I don't... know what I'm feeling. I don't even know how I should be feeling or what to do. I don't have answers for anyone, even after all that. After everything, I don't have any answers and I'm so sorry."

You were sitting in front of him by the end of what was on his mind, reaching out to pull him closer to you. Will latched onto you, burying his face in your neck and letting himself cry. You petted back his hair as he struggled to catch his breath.

"You don't need answers, Will, my love. " You cooed, holding him as he wept. "You don't have to say anything to anyone for any reason. But I do hope you know you can tell me anything, whether you think you should be sayin' it or not."

A few stray tears of your own fell as Will started to settle down. But you sat there on the bench in the dusty window, holding each other for what felt like forever. Even if it wasn't that long, you were glad time seemed to be on your side again.

"Better go throw a party, huh?" Will gave a watery chuckle as you reached out to wipe his tears and fix his shirt collar. You gave him a silent smile as he seemed to have something more to say.

"I do know one thing," Will nodded, taking one of your hands away from fiddling with his shirt buttons. "And it's that I'm glad to be back here with so much to celebrate."

Will kissed your knuckles and melted your heart. After a moment longer of pulling yourselves together, you walked back downstairs hand in hand. You proceeded to throw a party, passing out cake to grandmas and grandpas. Your daughter made sure to keep everyone entertained with dance routines to old records and stories she'd make up on her own (a trait you were glad to know she'd inherited.)

You watched Will help your daughter unwrap parcels, and giggled when she smeared a bit of frosting on his cheek in the middle of singing happy birthday. Spirits were high, and the weather was nice, and everyone was glad to be together.

But the night came and the guests trickled out the way they came, and quiet settled once again, unlike any time before it.

Will opted to put your daughter to bed that evening, as you crawled under your own covers. Your bedroom was full of dark blue moonlight, and the door had been left open enough to hear your husband tucking your daughter in. Their voices were distant but close enough for you to hear your girl ask for a story.

You sat up a little, totally enchanted by normal everyday life, and how it now seemed all too much like a fairytale dream you'd been wishing for.

"What's your favorite story, papa?" Your daughter's tiny voice asked. After a pause, you were able to hear her father answer.

"It's a sad story."

"Why would your favorite be sad?"

"Because your mum and I always tell it and try and find ways to make it much happier. You do the same thing, don't you, with those storybooks of yours."

Your daughter's giggle was faint, but you swore you could hear Will smile. There was another beat of quiet before you heard your husband's hushed low tone...

"Sometimes sad things happen. And we can't stop them or change them. But we can always decide what happens next, can't we? We can always make things happy again."

"Like how you went away but you're back now? That's very happy."

"Just like that."

You held back from sniveling, not wanting them to know you'd been listening in. Will wished his daughter goodnight and it wasn't long before you heard her bedroom door creak to a close.

Your husband appeared in the doorway, his big blue eyes bright and inviting in the moonlight, but it wasn't long before they were closed at your side.

Will had been home for a week now, but it felt more like a lifetime.

───※ ·❆· ※───

#george mackay #george mackay x reader #george mackay fanfic #george mackay imagine #william schofield #1917

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meduise · 4 years

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my own hibari headcanons

[reposting because of adult terminology crimes, lol]

been meaning to write down my list of hcs for a while anyway, and now i have the occasion to get to it! among the others im gonna add what i decided to avoid putting under this post and give more details about what i already wrote there

content/trigger warnings: death, assassination, mental illness, eating disorders

the list will be under the cut! it excludes my strictly shippy hcs and i may update it over time

first things first. like my own blog title suggests, i hc hibari as a trans guy. i’m trans myself, so this is arguably the hc of mine im the most attached to for personal comfort reasons LOL. it all started when i read a fic about trans hibari a few years ago and later on i got more and more fond of this transcanon, becoming 100% personal. i also hc that he doesnt feel dysphoric. as for his sexuality i hc him as gay

we know that hibari and fon are relatives. my idea is that they’re step-brothers (different mother), and long lost to that. NOW. i realize that with the assumption of fon’s age, them being siblings is unlikely, but it shouldn’t be impossible. their father could be old enough. he got married to a chinese woman who gave birth to fon, then divorced, then got married again to a japanese woman, kyouya’s mom. (i kinda based this on my irls situation, where because of the parents’ second marriage there is at least a good 20 years of gap between the oldest and youngest sibling)

the hibari family was part of the yakuza. to answer a question that was made to me: i agree that hibari “just liking fighting” isnt funny at all. i heavily believe that there’s a psychological reason to his behavior but im going to talk about this in another point below. i also think that hibari was probably the heir to the clan, but here in my head hibari is still too young for it, like 5-6 years old.

when hibari was a child his parents got killed in the hibari household. how could they get killed in their own house, didn’t they have enough protection? they did. but the guard was low considering who turned out to be their murderers were old, trusted allies. kyouya only survived because he managed to hide properly and long enough. he didnt witness the assassination but he did see his parents in a pool of blood after everything ended. before dying, his mom left a last message to him: be stronger than anyone else. because of the trauma, even in the present hibari avoids going back to that house as much as he can and especially he never reopens the door of the crime scene. hibari also still grows into a delinquent, but he dislikes the mafia world and wishes he didnt have to be involved with it

for a while, hibari is in fon’s mother’s custody. here is when he meets fon for the first time, over time they get very attached to one another, but because of the arcobaleno matters, fon goes disappearing, and hibari ends up assuming fon has died and left him behind just like this parents did. fon reappears and goes to meet hibari in occasion of the arcobaleno representative battles and of course wit trauma resurface and about 10 years of beliefs and assumptions hibari really, really struggles with this reunion, but eventually they bond again. (for this one i dont take into account the events in the anime only arcobaleno trial events, as well as the fact that we see all the arcobalenos revived at the end of the future arc)

hibari has an antisocial personality disorder (which implies he already had conduct disorders before the age of 15). it explains his violent and criminal behavior, as well as the fact that he doesn’t feel guilty for anything he does. he also suffers from ptsd and has eating disorders (i thought about the avoidant food intake, where, among the other symptoms, a person avoids to extreme levels some types of food because of characteristics such as their pattern or their color and generally lacks appetite/interest in food)

(wears my enneagram nerd hat) HIBARI IS A TYPE EIGHT. 8w7 precisely, aka the maverick. all about type eight is basically a call out to hibari lmfao but here’s the most relevant characteristics: eights are the real stand-alones of the enneagram. eights’ basic fear is to be harmed and controlled by others, and they steel up to prevent their basic fear from happening (or happening again). below the tough facade there is a vulnerability that cant be shown to anyone. their virtue is innocence, an innocence that they once and forever lost, and hibari basically lost it when his family was assassinated. eights are also associated to the deadly sin of lu st. for hibari its not necessarily the ns fw kinda lu st, rather bloodlu st. and its one big paradox because eights want to be in control of their surroundings, but being consumed by lu st means being under something/someone else’s control (and so we’re back to the basic fear). unhealthy eights are violent, despotic, reckless. all things we see in hibari. very unhealthy eights are also those who typically may develop the antisocial disorder, reason why i listed it above

since he wants to dominate his environment, hibari controls over the namimori and especially the school to feel “security”. he managed it through illegal means and pretty much lives in the school, namichuu is also one of the few places where usually he can sleep without having nightmares

yes, hibari loves sleeping but also he gets nightmares about his past more often than not

but i also love imagining hibari gradually healing and recovering from his trauma, so i do hc that in adulthood he’s mentally doing better. he can be a leader without being tyrannical. he can be strong while also acknowledging his own vulnerability. he is able to love again, too

the reason why he has a soft spot for little animals and children, like we see for ipin, is that he (unconsciously?) sees in them the innocence he himself lost. plus tiny and cute things help him cope when he is having episodes

he also treats ipin well because she is fon’s pupil. and i love to think of them as a little family

if hibari has a ring he really likes or is emotionally attached to he makes sure to never wear it on his fingers so he doesnt risk breaking it with his flames

hibari is pretty much a nerd, in his own twisted way. i mean. he’s seen reading in a bunch of official arts and we know that he’s very fond of the wonders of the world, he started up the foundation for his box researches and he knows well how illusions work - which means he studied them. since he was moved by his hatred towards mukuro, his illusion studies must have reached an unhealthy level, becoming an obsession

fon trained hibari on how to fight against illusions as well

for hibari, finding out he has mist flames too was very much of a shock, but he eventually accepts it. he only uses those flames if really needed (like the foundation entry camouflage)

i will get back to this post when i’ll have established:

why hibari picks tonfas as his weapons (i already have an idea but i havent gone into details myself enough to write about it here)

hibari’s parents and fon’s mother’s name

anything relevant that i forgot or come up with

#khr #katekyo hitman reborn #hibari kyoya #kyoya hibari #khr headcanon #headcanon #trans headcanon #tw: death #tw: murder #tw: eating disorder #cw: mental illness #i wont tag the two people i tagged in my first post again so that i dont bother them again shdjz #also made the answer to one of them more vague so i didnt have to write the username there! why didnt i think about it the first time me du #i cant believe i had to repost this because of ONE word that went against the policy #and i had to censor the other with nonsensical letter space #like man this is so much

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nitewrighter · 5 years

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Can we get some fluffy/steamy Spiderbyte featuring Widowmaker's Black Lily dress? I could see it becoming one of Sombra's favorites

Arrrgh this has been sitting in my inbox since literally last Lunar New Year because I wanted to write it but couldn’t really come up with anything beyond “Widowmaker… Hot” at the time…like all my spiderbyte prompts I didn’t really have the heart to delete it though. But with Lunar New Year and Femslash February once again upon us, and me noticing I don’t actually have a lot of Talon-Centric fics and like… sexual tension fics for Spiderbyte, so I’m taking a crack at it now!

(Also I just realized I don’t think I’ve written much Moira interacting with Talon members aside from Gabe? Gotta fix that.)

I think Widowmaker’s hair is going to be closer to her “hairpin” spray than with the full tactical headdress here.

—-

Sombra sipped at a sour, smoky cocktail of mezcal and Lapsang Souchong, leaning against the railing of Vialli’s luxury barge and looking out over Singapore’s waters. The night air was warm, muggy, and salty. The city glittered on the coast, looking like jewel-toned flames springing up from the red embers of the red lanterns lining the streets below. Sombra herself was dressed for the occasion in a black cropped silk jacket over a long red and gold dress. Not her usual color scheme, but one she could pull off pretty well and one that conveniently covered up most of her spinal implants. She had parted her hair to hide her neural implants as well. She knew the party was at least 90% Talon allies with the remaining 10% being those who were likely to be brought into the fold, but still, for her, you could never be too careful.

“I’m surprised you’re not in there,” a smooth and deep Irish accent cut through the mugginess as Moira stepped up alongside Sombra, towering over her almost comically, “Personal data being exchanged, secrets being loosened by drink, compromising situations just waiting to happen… I imagine that’d be a buffet for you.”

“Max said we weren’t working tonight,” said Sombra, smiling a little and sipping her drink.

“Ah but the work is never finished for us, is it?” said Moira, swirling her whiskey in its glass. Sombra didn’t dislike Moira–sure, the geneticist cut a pretty spooky figure, but there was a combination of aggressive independence and professionalism about her that Sombra could respect. Honor among thieves, she supposed. Moira was looking a bit more feminine than usual tonight in a violet qipao.

“Never is,” Sombra agreed before clinking her glass against Moira’s.

“Start any wars lately?” Moira quipped–subtle ego stroking, Sombra didn’t mind, but it wasn’t anything that would bring them any closer. Moira probably knew that.

“I’d have to check my schedule,” said Sombra, “Start any plagues?”

“Well they won’t be plagues until they’re released on the general populace, you understand,” said Moira with a smile before sipping her own whiskey. Sombra didn’t really want to know if she was joking, not tonight. She gave a glance back at the interior of the barge–air conditioned, she was sure, otherwise with how crowded it was in there, more people should have been flooding out where she was.

“It’s been a good year for us,” Moira went on, leaning against the railing, “I hope you realize we owe no small part of that to you.”

“I try,” said Sombra with a shrug.

“You do a lot more than that. I feel there could be a lot of mutual benefit having someone with as great a command of information as you in the inner circle.”

Sombra was quiet at this, giving a tentative sip to her drink. The work really never was done with Moira–not even Talon’s inner politics.

“New year, new opportunities,” Moira spoke a bit airily, swirling her whiskey again, “Just something to consider.” She sipped her drink.

Buttering it on thick, aren’t you? thought Sombra. “You offering me a seat at the table?” Sombra arched an eyebrow.

“That depends on if you’re inclined to accept,” said Moira, bringing the glass down from her lips, her voice a bit husky with the burn of whiskey.

Sombra wasn’t inclined. She knew Akande’s special little club with their big table in Venice would only put more eyes on her, only slow her down. She knew Talon was pulling a lot of strings, and she wouldn’t mind getting her own hands on some, but gut instinct told her Moira was not the way to do that. If she ever did make it to the big kid’s table, she wouldn’t want to be carried there in someone’s pocket. Moira was the last person you wanted to owe favors to, as well.

“I’m a little busy with my own stuff right now,” said Sombra, examining her nails.

“To be expected,” said Moira, “Well the offer stands,” she pushed off of the railing and headed back towards the doors to the interior of the barge, “And if you change your mind, you know where to find me.”

“I know where to find anyone, it’s kind of my thing,” said Sombra with a grin.

Moira gave a soft chuckle, a narrow silhouette against the light of the barge’s window’s behind her. From the inside of the barge, a swell of music was muted by the window glass, but Sombra’s eyes flicked from the shadow of Moira to two figures past the glass. Widowmaker was walking past, her arm hooked in Doomfist’s. Sombra’s eyes widened at the sight of her. She knew Widowmaker was no stranger to fashion–her number at Maximilien’s casino a few months back was proof enough of that, but this look blew the Monaco dress out of the water. Ornate and body-hugging, the aubergine cheongsam featured a daring slash up the front of her thigh, and bared the spider tattoo on her back. Her earrings were dripping with rubies and her hair was done up in an intricately looped updo pinned in place by a hairpin sporting a large, dangling blood-red mystic knot of silk. And stockings–of course the Parisian had to be sporting lacy sheer black stockings.

Sombra brought her martini glass to her lips to try and hide her staring but one glance at Moira and she knew it was obvious. Again, she didn’t dislike Moira, but she didn’t like Moira knowing a lot about her. She didn’t like most people knowing a lot about her. She didn’t like anyone knowing anything about her but Moira smiled a bit, following Sombra’s line of sight to Akande and Widowmaker.

“Talon’s crown jewel,” Moira said, looking admiringly on Widowmaker. Some part of Sombra’s stomach knotted. Sombra wasn’t sure how much involvement Moira had in making Widowmaker…. well, Widowmaker—She wasn’t sure how many records of that time had been destroyed. And Moira was still in Blackwatch then…No. Not the time to fixate on that.

“Seeing a pattern between this and Monaco,” Sombra said, glancing at Akande as he spoke to Maximilien with Widowmaker on his arm, “They’re not…”

Moira laughed a little. “Do you honestly think she’s even capable of those kinds of feelings?” she said, looking back at Widowmaker, “No. We made her perfect. But you know Akande–Likes to make an entrance.”

The music thrummed against the wood and glass and Maximilien took Widowmaker’s free hand. He bent and kissed it (Well kissed it about as much as an omnic could manage) and then gestured to the dance floor. Sombra’s brow furrowed and her lips pursed as Widowmaker broke away from Akande and disappeared into the crowd of the dance floor with Maximilien. Sombra started briskly walking toward the doors.

“Play nice, Sombra,” said Moira, clear amusement in her voice as Sombra pushed past her for the door.

Sombra suddenly gulped down her Lapsang Souchong cocktail, “Oh, I’m playing nice,” she said, and tossed the martini glass over her shoulder, over the ship’s railing where it splashed soundlessly into Singapore’s bay. She pushed through the doors and entered the crowded interior of the party. Sombra knew how to move through a crowd. She knew how to be the person no one looked at. Despite the mezcal now burning in her solar plexus and hazing her senses slightly, her footing was sure and direct. Her heels clicked across the wood until she stepped out onto the barge dance floor. She only had to scan the crowd briefly to see Widowmaker and Maximilien dancing.

A socialite, a rich suit with a face she couldn’t be bothered with recognizing right now, one of the 10% and therefore, probably an idiot, blocked her vision briefly.

“Where have you been all ni–” he started with charm but Sombra completely ignored him and walked past him.

The music was a combination of east and west–Big band compositions rendered atmospheric and romantic by the erhu and guzheng, and the singer of the band giving a lovely Malay cover of Sinatra’s “Strangers in the Night” while piano dripped in and out. Widowmaker’s tattoo bobbed through the crowd as Maximilien danced her across the floor. Between the multiple couples to push through, it took Sombra a good couple of seconds to reach them. It didn’t really occur to her that maybe this wasn’t a good idea until she tapped Maximilien on the shoulder. He turned his head and looked at her. Widowmaker lifted her chin slightly to look past her shoulder and there were maybe three seconds where Sombra remembered, Right. Big kid’s table, as she looked at Maximilien.

“Can I help you?” Maximilien said, looking down on her. For a brief second Sombra wondered if her need to take down or control all the corrupt systems of the world were a part of a Napoleon complex, but one glance at Widowmaker’s eyes and she stared into the red glare of Maximilien’s eyes without fear. She hadn’t been afraid of a man in a suit in her life, and she wasn’t about to start now.

“I was hoping I could cut in,” said Sombra, extending a hand toward Widowmaker.

Maximilien managed to make a waltz position look statue-still as he looked down at Sombra. “That would depend on Mademoiselle,” he said, giving a glance over to Widowmaker.

This isn’t about Amélie, Sombra realized immediately, This is about power. Big kid’s table. This was about her knowing her place in the organization. About Amélie knowing her place in the organization. Sombra made eye contact with Widowmaker, wondering if she could see the same, wondering if she knew the same, wondering how much was behind those yellow eyes.

Moira’s voice echoed in her head. Do you honestly think she’s capable of those kinds of feelings?

Bad idea, Sombra realized, Bad, bad, bad idea. You’re counting on the favor of someone who was literally brainwashed to have no preference. But Sombra couldn’t pull out. She couldn’t say, “You know what, you look you’re having fun, I’ll leave you alone,” because then Maximilien would know that she would back down where Talon wanted her to, and she couldn’t have that. She just had to brace for the humiliation of Widowmaker’s rejection. That was it. No one knew who she was at this party. It didn’t matter. Sombra was a ghost. A shadow. Her shield. It would all just go right through her. Maximilien–well she could deal with Maximilien later.

A long pause passed between the three of them, the other bodies on the dance floor still shifting and gliding to the music around them.

“Well—” Maximilien started after a few beats.

“Mademoiselle accepts,” said Widowmaker, breaking away from him and taking Sombra’s hand.

“What–I mean, well of course, as you wish,” said Maximilien, pulling away from them with all the grace he could muster.

“Oh–” said Sombra as Widowmaker took her hand and put a hand on her hip. Her hands were cool–not cold, Singapore was too warm for their usual clamminess, but the coolness was a comfort that Sombra could feel through the silk of her dress.

“I’ll lead,” said Widowmaker, “I’m taller–is that all right?”

Sombra nodded dumbly as Widowmaker stepped into a dance. At that point, the last song ended and a Malay cover of “It’s Only a Paper Moon” started. Widowmaker knew how to dance—she knew how to lead. Sombra could feel her face burning and the mezcal still burning in her gut. She knew she could hold her liquor better than most but she was hyperaware of any misstep she could make now, but Widowmaker looked down at her.

“That was bold,” said Widowmaker after a minute or so of dancing.

“Psh,” Sombra bunched up her shoulders, “You think just because he’s got a chair in Venice that I’m scared of him?”

“You should be scared.”

“Don’t have to be scared if I’m smart,” said Sombra.

“Stepping on the toes of Talon superiors is not smart,” said Widowmaker, flatly.

“Well sorry for figuring you didn’t want to spend the night as someone’s hood ornament,” said Sombra.

Widowmaker smirked a little. “I can handle myself,” she said with a smile.

“I know you can,” said Sombra as Widowmaker twirled her, “But it’s New Year’s. I figure you’d want to have fun.”

They swayed to the music a while longer.

“Tell me something,” said Sombra.

“Mm?”

“Would you want a chair on the council?” asked Sombra, “Y’know… Venice?”

Widowmaker looked thoughtful. “I wasn’t made to lead,” she said after a long while, “I was made to kill.”

A part of Sombra wanted to debate the terms of Widowmaker being ‘made’ but she knew that was a whole other can of worms, so instead she simply proceeded in the same line of the conversation. “But if you lead, you could direct Talon so it kills better,” said Sombra.

“I don’t want to leave the field,” said Widowmaker, her eyes scanning across the crowd on the dancefloor, “I had more than my fill of the politics in Monaco.”

“Akande likes you, though,” said Sombra.

“Because I do my job,” said Widowmaker, a barb and a smile in her voice.

“Mean,” said Sombra.

“I know,” said Widowmaker.

Widowmaker just smirked and swayed Sombra across the dance floor. “You do know how to make a night interesting,” she conceded. Widowmaker studied Sombra for a moment. “You changed your hair,” she said after a beat.

“Yeah well… you know these parties,” said Sombra, with a shrug, “It’s not bad, is it?”

“I almost didn’t recognize you,” said Widowmaker. She tucked a bit of Sombra’s hair back, revealing one of the metallic nubs of her neural implants, “There–”

Sombra instinctively brought her hand up and tucked her hair back over the nub. Widowmaker’s hand pulled back slightly.

“Sorry,” Sombra glanced off.

Widowmaker shook her head, “I understand,” she said after a beat. They danced a while longer. Widowmaker smelled good–Perfume didn’t really trail off of her the way it should with her lower body temperature, it took the warmth of the room for it to occasionally bloom off of her as she and Sombra glided towards other bodies. Sombra would only get occasional bursts of labdanum and peony.

“So you… uh… like dancing?” Sombra managed.

Widowmaker chuckled a little, “I like dancing,” she said, dipping Sombra, the movement making Sombra curse an uncountable amount of times in her head while feeling her face burning as Widowmaker stooped over her before bringing her upright again, “I also like seeing people like Maximilien brought down a peg or two…” she swung Sombra around so that she could see the bar, where Maximilien was bitterly ordering a glass of Glenwales organic oil. Sombra snickered a little as Widowmaker swept her across the dance floor, “And I like that you make a living of doing just that.”

A nervous chuckle escaped Sombra, “Yeah well… You got anyone in mind, you just let me know, you know?” she said as Widowmaker pulled her out of a dip again.

“I will keep that in mind,” said Widowmaker, smiling.

Sombra could hear the distant pop of fireworks from Singapore’s shores as they kept dancing, but she didn’t feel particularly inclined to go watch them. Not just yet.

#spiderbyte

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theghostofashton · 5 years

Text

“i care about you.”

this has legitimately been the hardest thing i've ever written. i started it in january, of 2018. it's now december 31st. it took me way too long to figure out and i honestly have no idea why but i finally managed to do it.

it's over 13k and very triggering for anxiety/panic attacks and eating disorders

someone on here requested i write a oneshot where awsten is suffering from an eating disorder while they're on tour, in geoff's POV. there are a couple scenes of awsten thrown in, just to add more depth, but it is 90% geoff. anon, i hope you enjoy this. thank you for requesting it. (and for that matter, if y'all ever have requests, message me here and send them in! i love writing them!)

welcome to the ‘ed fic’.

Awsten’s always loved sweaters.

He has so many of them. Vintage sweaters, a variety of colors and patterns, baggy and hanging off his body. There’s an entire bunk full of them on the bus. It’s meant for all of them but it basically belongs to Awsten and his never-ending sweater collection. He goes to vintage shops and puts down hundreds of dollars on more pieces, experiments with new designs and vibrant colors. They’re all unique and they’re all beautiful.

He wears a different sweater on stage every night and sweat drips down his face and soaks into the heat-trapping cotton but it clearly doesn’t bother him. At least, not enough for him to wear something cooler. He used to alternate between sweaters and tank tops but he’s stopped in the past couple months.

Geoff doesn’t remember the last time he saw Awsten in anything but a sweater.

He used to love wearing t-shirts; I wanna show off my hot new bod, Geoff! This dude’s got guns! and muscle tanks I’m a sweaty shithead and I want everyone to fuckin’ know it! But lately he’s been living in those huge sweaters that he drapes across his body and hides behind.

Awsten likes being cozy and loves to cuddle. He’s fairy lights and warm nights in and hot chocolate just as much as he is loud music and cutting fingers on guitar strings and angry diss tracks. He’s confidence and hard work and the embodiment of dedication. He gives so much, destroys himself and puts the pieces back together only to shatter them once again, all for his art.

And Geoff wishes he wouldn’t, wishes he would allow there to be a victor of the battle in his mind rather than constant relentless fighting. Some days Awsten is a zombie, moving through his day like it’s made of molasses, listening but not registering, experiencing but not feeling, a witness to his day instead of a participant in it. Sometimes the depression takes a hold over him like a bird crawling its way up his back, sinking its talons into his skin and holding on tightly.

Some days the pain is too much.

And those are the days he is solitary, silent and subdued, the days he wriggles further into the sheets, sinks back into the creases of his mind and further tangles himself up into a knot he may never unwind.

Those are the days he is a lump under the covers and a prisoner among the sheets, trapped inside his head, living in a world of dread; he has always been broken but those are the days the cracks start to shine through, the jagged edges make their reappearance, the long talons sink their way into his back and tear him apart all over again.

Those are the days Geoff hates the most, the days when he crawls into bed beside Awsten and takes him into his arms, brings him as close as he can, knows that warm touches and whispered words won’t take away from the war inside is head, but maybe, just maybe…

Maybe they’ll be the driving force, the invisible pair of hands that fit just under his arms and drag him back from the edge. Maybe they’ll be nothing and he’ll just ignore them, but maybe…maybe they’ll be the voice on the nights he’s thinking of making that desperate choice.

Maybe.

…

“Getting off at the next rest stop!”

Geoff opens his mouth to say something, but cuts himself off with a smile as Awsten groans and wiggles upward a few inches, pillows his head just in the middle of his lap. He brushes his hand back against Awsten’s hair and tangles some of the strands around his fingers. “Go back to sleep, love. I’ll wake you when we get there.” He tilts his head and ducks down to press his lips against Awsten’s forehead.

Awsten hums and turns his head to the side. His eyes slide shut and he lets out a little snuffle as his breathing starts to even out.

“I love you.” He mouths the words so soft they’re barely audible. Awsten probably couldn’t even hear them.

He didn’t intend for him to. Sometimes he’s not even supposed to. Sometimes those three words have a mind of their own, pull from his lips and release into the world at the most inopportune time – you said you loved me for the first time in the fucking chip aisle at Trader Joe’s, are you kidding me?

He couldn’t help it. He never can. There’s just something about Awsten, something about the way he moves and laughs and exists in the world. There’s something new, something special about his smile and his laugh and the way he wears his second heart on his sleeve, protects the gold-plated first one in his chest and opens the other to light and warmth and sunshine. There’s something about his smile on the worst days, when he is muddling and drifting through the foggy haze.

There’s something about him that’s different.

This tour has been particularly rough on him. Geoff knows that. He knows how hard it’s been to get out on stage, cut himself open and bleed from wounds she left, every night. He knows how hard it is for Awsten; to send his own fist into his chest and serve the wreckage on a silver platter, scrape the remains of his shattered heart into a neat little pile that they feast on nightly.

She broke him.

It’s been a while, well over a year, in fact. And the tears and 3 am phone calls and blood-red songs with jagged, broken endings, are starting to fade into the background. It’s been a hard year, albeit impossible at times, I can’t do this. I don’t wanna do it anymore. It hurts and it never stops and I just- I need it to stop. I need everything to stop.

He remembers that night, remembers moving impossibly closer to Awsten and pulling him as far into his chest as he could, curling up and around his body to keep him against him, knowing he’d never be able to protect him from the sharp claws in his mind but hoping the touch would be enough.

It will, sunshine, I promise. A year from now, you won’t feel like this anymore. You’ll be better and you’ll be happy and everything will be okay.

“Alright, everybody off!”

He waits for a few moments, runs another hand through Awsten’s hair and strokes a finger down his cheek, waits for him to wake on his own. He doesn’t want to rush him – Awsten and sleep are like oil and water. The mixture never combines, two poles apart, each side refusing to wind with the other. Sleep is a rare bird he doesn’t experience often, and Geoff knows from past arguments, do you fucking know how long it’s been since I’ve slept for more than two hours? Fuck you, Geoff. I can’t fuckin’ fall back asleep now.

But Awsten is snuffling and his eyes are fluttering underneath his eyelids. He isn’t past the gates and into the deep throes of sleep just yet. Fortunately.

“Hey…sunshine…” He shakes Awsten’s shoulder and presses another kiss against his skin. “We’re here. Wanna go get somethin’ ta eat?”

“Mmmphhh,” Awsten hums. “M’good.” He keeps his eyes closed, but scoots off Geoff’s lap and rests his head properly on the couch cushion. “You go.”

“Sure?”

“Yeah.” Awsten’s voice is heavy, soft and sleep-ridden. “M’gonna take a nap.”

“That’s what you said this morning, Aws.” Jawn speaks up before Geoff has the chance to answer. He looks over to the bus door. Jawn is standing with one foot out and the other in, but he brings both inside and turns toward the lounge area, frowns at Awsten and takes a couple steps inside. “You didn’t get off then either.”

Awsten blinks at him. “So? I wasn’t hungry then, and I’m not hungry now. What’s the big deal?”

“You, not eating.” Jawn joins them in the lounge and reaches down to rub Awsten’s shoulder. “M’worried about you, dude. This isn’t good.”

“What isn’t?” Awsten sits up and aligns his back with the wall. He keeps his gaze locked on Jawn, glares at him as he brings his knees to his chest. “I’m just not hungry today. Why’re you being such a dick about it?”

Jawn holds both hands up in surrender. “Just…come eat with us, okay? We’ve missed you, the past coupla weeks.”

“You see me every day,” Awsten deadpans. He rolls his eyes and crosses both arms over his chest. “So I’m not hungry one day. Stop acting like I’m some kinda criminal, jesus christ.”

“What about something small?” Geoff suggests. He reaches over to brush some hair away from Awsten’s forehead, but freezes midair when Awsten leans away.

“I’m fine,” Awsten repeats. “Seriously. Go eat.”

Geoff exchanges a glance with Jawn, and forces himself to swallow. His heart is pounding. Everything is happening so fast, like someone flicked a switch and sent his mind into overdrive, what’s going on what’s wrong with Awsten why is he being like this he’s never like this what’s going on what happened why is he like this why-

“Alright, love,” is all he can get out. He leans in and kisses Awsten’s cheek, before he stands and heads for the bus door. His heart is hammering in his chest and he can feel every beat, like someone ripped out the muscle and timed it in sync with his racing breaths. It’s going too fast. It’s all going too fast.

“Are you-”

“Fucking go, Jawn!” Awsten snaps. “Get the hell out and leave me the fuck alone.”

…

His hands are shaking.

His heart is racing and he can feel the blood rushing in his ears and his hands won’t stop fucking shaking.

He’s only seen Awsten like that a handful of times, the most recent being over six months ago, when the news broke that Equal Vision had fucked something up with their latest album. He doesn’t remember any time before then. There have definitely been some, but he’s tried to think about them less and less, let them float to the bottom of his mind and sink in, tunnel into the hollows of his chest and stay below the surface, never to be dragged up again.

He doesn’t want to think of Awsten like that. Awsten isn’t like that. He’s not a ticking time bomb, about to explode at any second. He’s collected and controlled and able, to handle thing most of the time. The things Geoff thinks will set him off, don’t.

He’s soft and warm and he smiles at the smallest things, sees a dog on his runs in the morning and comes back beaming, that made my fuckin’ day. No matter what shitty thing happens today, a dog was excited to see me. That’s all I care about. He turns his face to the world and grins and laughs and lets the mundane travesties roll off his back.

It’s okay, Geoff. Rumors are rumors. There’s a new angry person on Twitter every day, at this point. I can’t care about it too much or it’ll ruin me.

And he hasn’t been.

At least, from what Geoff’s seen.

There hasn’t been a change in fan interaction. He gets online and scrolls through Awsten’s twitter multiple times a week – doesn’t tweet from his own account because the amount of people and notifications and overall attention gets overwhelming very quickly – and there’s been no difference.

But the tour is different.

Warped Tour, is different.

He remembers when they were asked to play. It was before Europe, right after the album came out and they’d gotten back from Australia. Management called on a morning he’d slept over Awsten’s house – they weren’t together, not yet, but by February, the nights Awsten called him at 2am because he couldn’t sleep had increased and if he couldn’t do something about the reason why, he could go to his house and crawl into bed with him, at the very least – and asked them to consider it.

Awsten wasn’t on board at first. He wasn’t, either. 2016 was a shitstorm.

The roof leaked and the bus creaked and everything was so hot and cramped and cumbersome, all the time. They were tripping over each other and trying to avoid the strategically placed buckets, while still needing to get the adequate amount of sleep and perform every day, eat the shitty food and interact with bands he was sure talked shit about them behind their backs, spend the two and a half months in a state of overdrive that wouldn’t relax.

And then there was her and the shows she came to and the dates after, watching Awsten throw his arm around her shoulders and parade her around the venues. Laughter spilled out of his mouth and his eyes were constantly crinkled. His smile lines got so much more pronounced during that tour.

They’d get off stage and he’d barely towel off and change shirts before she was grabbing his hand and dragging him somewhere and some days it looked like he didn’t want to go but he did he did it for her he did everything for her he gave all of himself up for her he-

He destroyed himself for her and they’re still sifting through the carnage. Every piece is coming up tarnished and Geoff is still trying to figure out what parts of him she left whole, what parts of him she didn’t take and mark and toss out a ten story window after the news broke.

Awsten got tears in his eyes when he hung up the phone, turned and buried his face in Geoff’s chest and didn’t say anything for a very long while. Geoff remembers waiting for him to, giving him the chance to take some deep breaths and force himself out of the chaos, listening as his breathing started to slow down and his body stopped shaking.

I don’t wanna do it. But it’s the last tour and they really want us ta be on it and I just…I don’t know, Geoff. I want to but I don’t and it’s all happening too fast everything’s too much, I-

He pressed a finger to Awsten’s lips, here. Smiled and gripped tighter to his hand, breathe, Aws. It’s gonna be okay, I promise. Whatever you decide. Everything’s gonna be okay.

He remembers Awsten agreeing, talking it over with Otto and Jawn and eventually deciding that they should give the last ever Warped Tour its final hurrah. Awsten went quiet and refused to talk about it for a few weeks afterward, it’s done and booked and I just wanna forget about it for now, okay? I’ll think about it again when we havta arrange shit and start packing. I can’t do this right now.

He’d just signed on to a tour marking the two year anniversary of his failed relationship, a tour that went to all the same places and stopped in all the same cities, including the place they got together and the off days turned day dates, the memories turned miseries, replays turned dismays, she was everything until she wasn’t. He gave her all of him and she took every last limb. He had nothing left. He had nothing left. He had no-

“Geoff?”

“Huh?” He shakes his head to clear it, slows his pace and allows Otto to fall in line with him as they walk up to the rest area building. “Sorry, what’d you say?”

“Aws didn’t come?” Otto asks. “You couldn’t convince him?”

Geoff sighs. “He said he wasn’t hungry. Didn’t wanna push it. He wasn’t in a great mood.”

“He’s never in a great mood.” Jawn can be heard from behind. He slides in on Geoff’s other side and looks over at them. “Haven’t y’all noticed? He’s been so pissy lately.”

“Yeah, dude. He’s been snapping at me a ton.”

“I think he’s just tired,” Geoff says, in lieu of a proper explanation. Awsten hasn’t been an ass to him, but boyfriend and best friend aren’t synonymous and he could’ve been ignoring a lot of things in subconsciousness. “He hasn’t been sleeping well lately.”

“Hasn’t been eatin’ well either.”

“I don’t remember the last time he ate with us,” Otto mutters. He pulls open the door and holds it for Geoff and Jawn to walk through.

“I don’t remember the last time he ate at all.” Jawn says the next words, and Geoff stops.

He stops.

Everything stops.

…

I don’t remember the last time he ate at all.

I don’t remember the last time he-

Geoff’s been replaying the words in his head all week. It’s been about five days since Jawn said them, since he froze in his tracks in the middle of the rest stop, felt his heart break lose from its suspension in his chest and start to sink, slow at first, and then faster and faster and faster, until it was reduced to a pile of rubble at the pit of his stomach.

He’s been trying to go over the past few weeks too, rerun through all of it with a mental magnifying glass; did he come out to eat with us that day? Where’d we get breakfast? What’d he have? Wasn’t that the night he said he wasn’t gonna order anything and just steal off my plate because he wasn’t too hungry? Did he take anything off my plate at all?

There are too many possibilities and each sounds worse than the last. They all culminate the same, end in the exact same way with the exact same person disintegrating into a pile of rubble before his eyes, old Awsten be damned. There’s been a shift between old and new in the past few months and he can’t put his finger on when.

Awsten isn’t eating.

And it definitely isn’t the first time. This has happened before. It’s a side effect from tour, a manifestation of Awsten’s blatant discomfort with being on the road. He loves the shows but hates everything else, hates the cramped buses and the driving all night and waking up in a new place every morning, a new venue that’s surrounding food places culminate in a less tan desirable menu.

Eating healthy is one of Awsten’s top priorities, one of the parts of his routine he is so heavily attached to and stubborn about giving up. He’s the type of person who would rather not eat than eat something unhealthy. Geoff understands the sentiment. He does. He understands being hungry over feeling like shit for eating crap, but there’s a genuine issue if he’s just going to give up food entirely because none of it is healthy.

This is a necessary evil, if they want to keep touring. The band’s longevity depends on touring. He needs to let go a little bit, be okay with relaxing the reins, eat whatever’s available despite how much it pains him. He needs to eat. This isn’t healthy. He needs to eat.

He needs to eat.

Bringing this up to him is going to result in a massive fight and he’ll probably end up sleeping by himself in his bunk for the first time this entire tour, but he can’t drop it. He can’t let it go. Not something like this.

Awsten needs to eat.

…

“Aws? Hey, you in here?”

He kicked Jawn, Otto, and Lucas out of the bus so he and Awsten would have the space to themselves. Awsten isn’t going to react well to any of this. He doesn’t need an audience. Jawn worries too much and Lucas wants to know everything that’s going on and Otto feels the need to insert himself into everything. He tries to “help”, but it never actually manifests in a beneficial way. It’s all more trouble than it’s worth. They’re more trouble than they’re worth.

“Yeah.” Awsten pokes his head out of his bunk. “What’s up?”

“I sent everyone else away,” he says. “You and I got the bus ta ourselves for a bit.” He sets his bag down on the couch and moves into the bunk area, crouches and kneels on the floor to meet Awsten’s lips in a kiss.

“Mmm,” Awsten hums. He brings one arm out and winds it around Geoff’s neck. “Haven’t seen you all day. ‘ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed you too, sunshine.” He straightens and pulls back the curtain with his free hand, scoots onto the edge of Awsten’s bunk and turns to continue kissing him properly. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” Awsten whispers. They press their foreheads together and he exhales, stares into Awsten’s eyes and feels his chest start to loosen. If only they could stay here. If only the rest of the day could be spent like this. If only he didn’t have to shatter it. They’re building such a delicate foundation and feeling it swirl and envelop around them, and he’s about to send it all to flames with a single sentence.

He shouldn’t.

But he has to.

“Hey…I wanted to talk to you about something…” He trails off, moves his hand down to Awsten’s cheek and smoothes his fingers against Awsten’s face. He cups his chin and leans in to kiss him once more. “And I just want you ta know that I love you, okay? I’m doing this because I love you and I want you to be okay and-”

“Geoff…” Awsten says it slowly, takes a couple moments to get his name out and doesn’t move his gaze from Geoff’s eyes. “Are you breaking up with me?”

“What?” His heart seems to stop in his chest. He feels it, feels the beat skip and the breath pull, like someone reached in and grabbed every trace of oxygen. It was there and now it’s not, flip the switch, draw he curtain, gone, gone, gone. “Why would I- I don’t- that’s not even- Aws, I would never.” He reaches forward and grabs both of Awsten’s wrists, tugs him forward and moves his hands to his shoulders once he’s sure he’s got Awsten’s full attention. “I would never, okay? I love you too much.”

“What’s this about, then?” Awsten blazes over the sentiment. He doesn’t echo it. Geoff’s heart is beating faster. This is not how he imagined this going this is not how he imagined this going this is not fucking-

“I just-” He pauses and shakes his head, takes Awsten’s hands again and squeezes them tightly. “Remember what happened a couple weeks ago? At the rest area?”

Awsten is silent for a few seconds, thinking it over. He doesn’t pull his hands away. Geoff focuses on that, stares down at their intertwined fingers and tries to remember, breathe. Breathe. Breathe. “What are you- oh, Geoff…” Awsten rolls his eyes. “That, again? I told you. I just wasn’t hungry that day, okay? It’s not a big deal. You didn’t havta freak yourself out over it.”

“I know you, Awsten,” he says quietly. He strokes his thumb against Awsten’s palm and swallows against the lump in his throat. His mouth is so dry. The saliva feels like one ball of ache being launched at the barrier of his esophagus, tearing through, penetrating as painful as possible. “We go on tour and you don’t wanna eat fast food, so you just…don’t eat. And I get it, I know the shitty food sucks and it makes you feel all gross or whatever, but you just-” He drops his head. Tears are burning at the corners of his eyes. His voice keeps breaking. “You gotta eat, sunshine. You gotta eat. You can’t starve yourself like this.”

If Awsten says something immediately after, he doesn’t hear it. A tear rolls down his cheek. He squeezes his eyes shut, hard enough to see the colored blobs of ink spurting themselves across the dark colored page. This is bad this is so bad this is not what was supposed to happen fuckfuckfuck-

“Geoff? Hey, look at me.” A hand slips underneath his chin and Awsten pulls his head up. “Oh god, don’t cry…”

He blinks. Awsten reaches in and thumbs tears off his cheek, first strokes for that and then keeps rubbing his fingers against Geoff’s cheekbone. Geoff swallows, feels the salt on his lips as tears go down.

“You don’t have to worry about me, okay?” Awsten leans in and pecks the corner of his mouth. “I promise, I’m okay. I think it’s just stress, y’know? Killing my appetite or whatever. I’m not starving myself. Really, I’m not. That was a bad day. I snapped at Jawn ‘cause the world was pissing me off and I needed someone to yell at. The food sucks and I hate it but I know I don’t have a choice. Okay? Please don’t do this ta yourself anymore. You don’t havta worry about me.”

“I’ll always worry about you.” The words are thick and clumsy around his tongue, heavy as they leave his lips. He reaches forward and grabs Awsten into a hug, winds his arms around the younger boy’s waist and pulls him as close to his chest as he can get. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

…

His throat burns.

He doesn’t do this very often, but every time he has, it’s felt like a thousand hot knives pressing down and stabbing into his throat, forcing them through the muscle until all that’s left is a corpse. It stings and it burns and everything feels like it’s about to end at that moment, like his entire life has culminated to a halt right here and the next few seconds could (quite literally) kill him.

It feels like he’s dying and he doesn’t know why. Too many people do this on a daily basis for it to feel like death for someone who’s a mere novice. He’s dying he’s about to die it’s all over this is it this is how it ends he’s shaking on a bathroom floor and he’s going to die he’s shaking on a bathroom floor and he’s going to die he’s shaking on a bathroom floor-

He didn’t have a choice.

Geoff is onto him and he’s watching him like a hawk and starting to figure things out and that can’t happen he had no choice that can’t happen he had no choice that can’t happen he had no choice-

He had to eat tonight.

He had to sit with them and order something from Kentucky fucking Fried Chicken – because it was the only thing that was open – and force the greasy, fried, nasty chicken wings down his throat. He had to consume the calories and accumulate the fat and keep it where it was, sit and talk and force out laughs every so often, become a presence amongst his unwavering stream of existence.

Geoff was looking at him like he’s on trial. He couldn’t risk it. He couldn’t risk anything. He couldn’t risk staying quiet and blending into the background, only nodding when he’s prompted and pretending the meal hasn’t daunted him the entire time. He couldn’t risk the lies, winning the prize for best actor, adding up how many calories he’s eaten this week trying to factor in the possibility of adding dinner to that.

He shoves his fingers back down into his throat, forces them past their barrier, past where his eyes start to go teary and his body protests against him, you’re not supposed to do this. You’re not supposed to make yourself throw up. Stop doing it. Stop. Stop it. He goes farther, presses harder, digs deeper, until the wave of pain finally comes and the bile joins it, surging up his throat and piling against the toilet water with a loud plop.

Tears are running down his cheeks. His chest is heaving. His breath is coming in pants and he can’t slow it. Nothing will slow down. It’s moving way too fast. He inhales and holds it for barely a second before it’s gone, pulling another piece of his chest and bounding away with it.

He can’t do this.

He can’t.

It’s all too hard and it hurts too much and new pieces of him get taken away every day. He’s in pain all the time and when he isn’t it feels wrong because he should be because he deserves to be because people who look like this don’t get a break people who look like this don’t get to have cheat days people like this don’t get to feel pretty.

People like you don’t get to feel pretty.

He’s not pretty.

He’s not pretty and nothing is perfect and it’s all pulling at him. He’s pleading and praying and barely managing to push himself over the barrier as one day bleeds into the next. The hunger pangs at him, pulls at his stomach and twists it into a permanent knot, I don’t want to do this anymore but I can’t stop and I don’t know what to do-

It traps you.

You think it won’t. You think you’ll be able to handle it, read the stories of people who couldn’t and reassure yourself, I’ll never get that bad. It’ll never happen to me. I just wanna lose a few pounds. I know what I’m doing. I have it under control. Just a few pounds, and it’ll all be over. It’ll all be over. I know what I’m doing.

I know what I’m doing.

And he did, in the beginning.

He had it under control. Portioning one meal a day. Skipping lunch and not thinking too much of it. Giving up white mochas entirely and making the permanent switch to those Americanos he still fucking hates.

He was tracking his calories in a journal and he had no idea it would become eternal, had no idea that book would become his life source and missing a day of writing everything down would feel like brute force, like someone was stabbing into his flesh and ripping pieces out and taking large chunks of him when they left.

You’re too fat not to be doing this did you really think you could get away with taking a break for one day you don’t get breaks people like you don’t get breaks you look like shit why don’t you care fat ass stupid fucking pig can’t even go a day without stuffing his face people like you don’t get to take breaks people like you don’t get to take breaks people like you don’t get to take breaks-

He swallows, feels the saliva drip thickly into his throat and slide down, sit in the pit of his stomach and stretch its roots all the way over to flip the switch of nausea. His head is spinning. The ache behind his eyes is stretching. Everything hurts and it won’t stop everything hurts and it won’t stop everything hurts and it won’t fucking stop-

He shoves his fingers down his throat again.

People like you don’t get to take breaks-

…

“C-Can I sleep with you tonight?”

Awsten is shivering in front of him. The large sweatshirt he’s wearing stretches halfway down his thighs and the sleeves go way past his hands. He’s brought one hand to his mouth and he’s still shaking, almost vibrating in his spot from the force of how genuinely cold he is.

“Of course, love, hey, you’re freezing…” He closes his book and opens his arms, collects Awsten against his chest and feels him start to burrow, press cheek to chest and wrap his arms tight around his waist. “Whoa, why are you so cold?”

“D-Don’t k-know,” Awsten stutters. His teeth are chattering loudly. “Just c-cold…”

“Alright, alright, shh…” He shifts Awsten against his chin and tucks his chin above Awsten’s head. “You’re okay, you’re okay, I’m here.”

It’s barely 9, but they’ve had quite a few early mornings in the past couple of weeks. Tons of driving and traffic on the freeway that manifested itself in honking all the way past midnight, who’s that fucking pissy at 12:44 am? I just wanna sleep, for fuck’s sakes.

Awsten doesn’t sleep. He’s never been good at it. It’s like he lives in a world where sleep is a rare bird he can’t quite find. He goes out every day, book open and binoculars out, spends hours searching, grasps at every straw he can find, and still comes back with nothing. He always comes back with nothing. The sightings are few and far between; his precious sleep is determined to be hidden, unseen for days, leaving him drowning in a blurry haze and envelops and surrounds and makes everything foggy.

So when he does find it, when he grabs the carrot and eats it before it can be pulled away, takes hold of the cloud before it delves back into the forays beyond, grabs it and wrestles it into submission, lets himself pillow down and drift out until his vision finally calms for the night.

And that’s why, when Awsten’s breathing deepens and his head falls, Geoff doesn’t move. He doesn’t breathe. He doesn’t shift to change position, no matter how much it hurts to stretch his arm up and around Awsten, coming in contact with the top of the bunk and resting in such a manner that it’ll definitely fall asleep and give him hell soon.

Awsten’s sleeping.

Finally.

All Geoff can do is tighten his grip and press his lips to the boy’s hair, curl as close as he can without disturbing him. This is warm and it is safe and it feels like forever, like the Sun could explode and life could end at this very moment and he’d die happy. Awsten’s existence is warm and the small smile on his face is bright and he feels infinite. Certain.

Everything else exists in a series of unknowns, and drapes itself in uncertainty, but his love for this boy will never waver.

Awsten snuffles and coughs in his sleep. His body shakes in Geoff’s arms, shifts so Geoff’s hand falls into the junction between his neck and shoulder. His fingers graze across Awsten’s collarbone, and he stops.

Everything stops.

It feels like someone hit a pause button on the world, like time has just decided to halt for the time being. Nothing is moving. The world is happening but nothing is moving.

He can feel Awsten’s entire collarbone.

And that’s not necessarily the scary thing; he’s always been able to feel at least part of that bone…but never as much as he can right now. He’s never been able to trace the junction so easily, feel exactly where the bone is and how it presses sharply against his chest like the rest of Awsten’s body.

There’s no fat underneath, purely muscle and the damn bone. He’s lost everything else.

Geoff’s heart is racing as he moves his hands down the rest of Awsten’s body. He snakes his fingers inside Awsten’s sweatshirt and traces down, feels the pit in his stomach drop lower and lower as he goes over bone. More bone. There’s no fucking fat on him. It’s all bone. He’s lost everything. It’s all bone.

It’s all bone.

He has to stop when he gets to his hips. He has to stop at Awsten’s hip bone, let his hand go limp and bite his lip, squeeze his eyes shut and force the pinprick of tears back in because he can feel the entire thing more prominently than any other. It sticks out so sharply that it can’t be missed, that wearing a tight pair of skinny jeans or just keeping his boxers on would display it. He doesn’t even need to be completely nude.

Fuck.

He swallows and pulls Awsten impossibly closer, wraps his arms even tighter around his fragile body.

“I love you so much, sunshine. We’ll fix this, I promise.”

…

“Are you serious?”

“I’ve seen him naked,” Geoff mutters. “Well, not naked, naked. He was wearing this huge sweatshirt, but I could feel every single fucking bone through it.”

Jawn nods and blows out a heavy breath, drops his head down between his knees and stays like that for a few moments. “I just- I figured something was wrong, but I never…I never even thought about it being…this.” He’s biting his lip and trying to keep his voice steady. It keeps breaking. His words are wavering.

“He’s been off all tour,” Geoff continues. He rests his head against the wall and closes his eyes. “I knew something was going on, I just- we’ve only been together like, three months. I didn’t wanna jump ta anything and piss him off, but maybe I should’ve, fuck, I just…”

“Don’t do that.” Jawn lifts his head to meet his eyes. “Blaming yourself isn’t gonna help him.”

“He isn’t eating and I don’t know why.” Geoff hears the words, hears himself say them, but they still don’t feel real. Everything’s detached, disengaged, distant. He’s existing in a separate reality and trying too hard to cling to the fantasy, grab for scraps of the universe that don’t end in tragedy, where Awsten is okay and he isn’t doing this and the world doesn’t feel tipped on its side, where every puzzle piece is where it belongs and his deep and dark and depressing only bleed out in songs, where he’s not wearing his damage on his body and everything is okay.

Where everything is okay-

“-hates himself for it. We never get good shit on tour and it fucks with him,” Jawn is saying. “I guess- I didn’t know it was this bad.”

“I asked him about it.” Geoff rubs a hand over his face and moves to rake it through his hair. “I asked if he was doing that, if he was fuckin’ eating, and he said he was. He lied.”

“He doesn’t talk about anything.” Jawn flops his head back against the wall and closes his eyes. “It’s not personal. He doesn’t talk ta me either. It makes him panic. He likes his shit ta stay boxed up for him ta deal with on his own, but he sucks at that too, so it’s just- fuckin’, it’s a lose-lose for everyone.”

Jawn is so used to defending Awsten that it isn’t even a conscious effort anymore. Geoff has to smile at that, at genuinely how overprotective Awsten’s best friend is of him. He won’t let anyone say something even the slightest bit negative, not without challenging them on it and starting a fire where every flame has already been put out. He’ll pour the gasoline and not give a shit.

Awsten needs it.

There are times when his defenses fail, when they’re too exhausted to stand up once more, when the world has taken too much and all the meat has been picked from his carcass, nothing I ever do is right and I’m so tired. I could find the cure for fucking cancer and someone would find some reason to call me out on it. It’s too much and I can’t do it anymore.

And that’s where Jawn comes in, slides between Awsten and the world with his sword raised, insult my best friend again. Do it. I fucking dare you. Jawn is sometimes even too overprotective – Geoff remembers when he first joined the band, unsure of why this guy wouldn’t stop fucking staring at him, why he acted like Awsten had hung the fucking moon and getting to be friends with him was a privilege he’d been awarded far too soon – but the world deserves it.

Awsten deserves it.

“I just…” He glances over at the bunk area. Awsten is still sleeping. He slipped out a while ago, bunched cushions against his body and transferred his head onto the pillow, I have to get out of here I have to go I can’t do this I can’t sit here and hold his fucking skeleton like this isn’t happening I- “I don’t know what to do. I love him so much, Jawn, I don’t- I fucking-”

“Geoff. Geoff, breathe.” Jawn leans forward and places his hands on his shoulders. “Dude, hey, calm down. Everything’s gonna be okay, I promise.”

“You can’t promise that.” He drops his head to his lap and bites his lip. “He’s fucking starving himself, Jawn! Anorexia is fucking fatal!”

“Deep breaths,” Jawn repeats. “You are not helping him by panicking.”

“I’m not helping him at all,” Geoff chokes out. “I’ve been sitting on my ass and watching him get worse and not fucking doing anything because I didn’t wanna overstep and piss him off. I didn’t want him to break up with me but now he might actually fucking die on me and I-”

“He’s not gonna die. Look at me, hey.” Jawn says the words slower, grips his shoulders and forces his head back up. “Listen. We got him, okay? We know what he’s doing and we know how bad it is; we’re gonna help him. Or get him help. Whatever he needs ta get better. We’re gonna do it. And he’s gonna be okay, alright?”

He doesn’t say anything, focuses his attention on the heart that’s starting to slow; the hunk of flesh in his chest that feels like it’s been broken in two. It feels like someone’s taken a hammer to it, like every piece that was once whole and could at some point stand on its own is now shattered into a thousand smithereens that press their jagged edges into his chest cavity and bleed.

It’s bleeding.

Everything’s bleeding.

…

He doesn’t know how to do this.

He’s been tiptoeing around the subject for days, starting to talk about it and then reigning himself because what if Awsten isn’t ready what if he gets mad at me what if I push him away even further I don’t know how to do this I don’t want to make it worse what this makes it worse I don’t want to make it worse I-

They agreed that he’d be the one to do this, over Jawn. Aws’ already blown up at me once over this; if I go ta him with it again he might actually murder me. You’re saying shit ‘cause you love him; I’m just the best friend who thinks his new “diet” is fucked up. Obviously not the case, but I know that’s what he’s gonna think.

Jawn knows much better how to approach this, probably wouldn’t feel like his entire chest was folding over at the thought, has been through this with Awsten before and definitely wouldn’t have this visceral of a reaction to the new territory he was about to explore.

Jawn made up an excuse about sightseeing and herded Otto and Lucas off the bus, texted Geoff almost an hour later that the place he’d taken them was almost three miles away and even if they did start walking back at that moment, it’d be at least forty five minutes before they got back.

He needs to do this now.

Awsten is in the lounge; he can hear him noodling around on his guitar, pausing every so often to write something in a notebook splayed across his thighs.

He’s probably working on a new song now isn’t the best time what if-

No.

This has to happen now.

He climbs out of his own bunk and makes his way over to the lounge area. His heart is pounding too fast, pumping doses of panic into his veins that make everything go sort of fuzzy at the edges. The world is a cotton ball that’s been fluffed out too far and everything is moving.

“Aws? H-hey, you working on a new song?” He forces his voice to stay steady, bites his lip when it wavers and closes his eyes briefly. Breathe. You cannot panic. This needs to happen now. Breathe.

“Nah, just messing around.” Awsten smiles at him and holds one arm out. He bends and tilts his head for the kiss, breathes out against Awsten’s lips and lets him wrap an arm around his neck. “Why? What’s up?”

“Just wanted ta talk ta you ‘bout something,” he stammers.

Last time went so well because Awsten was lying to him. He knows that. He knows this is going to be different. He knows this could potentially ruin them. He knows he could be ending their relationship today, and maybe this is the worst idea he’s ever had there’s probably nothing going on it’s all in your head he’s fine don’t do this don’t fuck up the best relationship you’ve ever had- but something feels off.

The world feels off kilter, now. Every time he looks at Awsten, he feels it. He sees bones he didn’t see before and a skeleton that may not make it out the door. Every morning, when Awsten pushes against his chest and slides out of the bunk, stretches and makes his way to the bathroom to shower, Geoff stops.

because what if he falls what if he faints what if his body decides that this is the day and it can’t take anymore and finally fucking gives out on him what if he leaves the bus and falls down somewhere and no one’s around to catch him what if no one catches him what if this kills him what if today’s the day what if-

what if this kills him-

“What’s goin’ on?” Awsten asks. He reaches for his notebook and plucks another string on the guitar. “Shit, should be a C chord.”

While he’s rushing to grab his pencil and fix it, Geoff speaks.

“I know what you’ve been doing.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Awsten’s voice is steely calm. It’s low, soft almost, and he still won’t look up. He draws his shoulders into his body and keeps his gaze trained on his lap.

Geoff’s hands are shaking. His heart is racing too fast too fast too fucking fast everything’s going too fast can’t move can’t speak can’t breathe fuckfuckfuck-

Calm down.

You need to calm down.

Calm the fuck down.

He forces in an inhale that feels as ragged as it sounds, cuts through his throat messily and severs the ties on some of the strings holding his heart up in his chest. They’re about to snap. It’s about to fall. Everything’s about to fall. His world is disintegrating underneath him and he may just be speeding up the process.

“It’s okay, Aws,” he tries. He reaches out to put a hand on Awsten’s shoulder and feels the dose of panic, feels the injection of insecurity wash over his body, knock it over with the sheer force of the wave. “We’ll help you. All of us, we love you so much, and we’re gonna help. You’ll be okay.”

Awsten pulls away, twists his torso and turns his face to the side, wrinkles his forehead even more at the words. “What the hell are you even talking about, Geoff? I’m fine. Everything’s fine. Just been stressed, y’know, like I always get on tour.”

Geoff shakes his head and sits down on the couch, pats the area next to him and opens his arms. “It’s more than that, sunshine. It’s serious, and I know you don’t think it’s a problem, but it is.”

“What is?” Awsten snaps. “What the hell are you so fucking “concerned”-” he pauses to make the air quotes. His cheeks are starting to pink up and his eyes are wild. “About? I’m fucking fine, okay? This tour’s been hard. I’ll be glad when it’s over. I’m in a shit place but that’s nothing new and nothing you gotta worry about. What the hell else is there?”

His fists are clenched and he’s glaring at Geoff, hair mussed and face fully red. His chest is heaving and he’s starting to breathe even worse.

Awsten’s always been stubborn. Geoff knows that. He knows his boy, knows that he would rather die than crack himself open in conversation. He bleeds so much into lyrics, rips open every healing would before it’s even had a chance to scar over, forces his way into scar tissue and deepens those cuts too; it hurts but that can’t just be it. That can’t be all. The pain has to have a purpose.

The pain has to have a purpose.

He didn’t understand it, at first. He remembers when Awsten told him about it in the beginning, when they’d just gotten home from a recording session and Awsten could barely breathe beneath the weight of it all, when he had the panic attack and felt the world shift on his shoulders, it’s hard and everything hurts and I hate it. I hate it so much.

So why the hell do you do this? It’s bad enough that you’ve had to live it, why are you writing about it and singing about it and putting yourself through it all over again?

And he remembers Awsten panting, one hand on his chest, trying to get his breath back; it can’t be for nothing, Geoff. It’s gotta have a purpose. All the hurt and pain and whatever else. It’s gotta have a purpose. It can’t be for nothing.

He knows Awsten likes to deal with things on his own, stitches himself back together and does so in the quiet of his blue tomb, piles his weaknesses together and shoves them back into the depths of his chest for next time; if I don’t talk about it they can’t hurt me and I can’t be hurt again. I can’t do it anymore.

But this is far too big and far too heavy and far too much, for Awsten to handle on his own. It’s far too much.

He doesn’t deal in the best ways – he never has – and it always comes back to bite him the ass and chip off another tiny piece of him and the pile of pieces is getting bigger and bigger he’s falling apart further and further and Geoff knows it’ll be bad he knows where this is going he knows what Awsten is going to do to himself he fucking knows that if he doesn’t nip this in the bud right now, it’s all going to snowball and cyclone and turn into potentially the biggest mess they’ve ever had to deal with.

Awsten is a ticking time bomb and he’s sure it’ll explode before too long.

“You know what I’m talking about, love.” His voice wavers. He’s trying to keep it steady, but he’s so close to crying; it might not work. “Don’t make me say it. You know exactly what I’m talking about.”

“I don’t, actually,” Awsten mutters. He puts a hand on his hip and rolls his eyes. “What the hell are you talking about? Why’re you acting like you’re some sorta fuckin’ savior and I fuckin’ need you, or whatever? It’s bullshit. This whole fuckin’ thing is bullshit.”

“I just wanna help, okay?” Geoff snaps. “I don’t want my fucking boyfriend to die on me!”

Awsten stops.

Geoff watches him freeze in his tracks, halfway toward the table, still reaching for his pencil. He isn’t moving. He isn’t looking up. Geoff swallows, feels the saliva travel stickily down his esophagus and sit at the base of his stomach, stretching toward the switch of nausea with long, thin talons. Pleasepleasepleasefuckfuckfuckfuckfuck-

“Fuck,” Geoff swears. He shakes his head and stretches his arm toward Awsten. “Look, I didn’t mean to yell at you like that, I’m sorry, I just- I’m so worried about you, sunshine. You’re not okay and I hate seeing you like this. I wanna help. Please, would you just let me?”

Awsten wrenches his arm away. “You’re not fucking helping! All you’re doing is making up shit! Nothing is fucking wrong!”

“Me?” Geoff shoots back. “I’m making up shit? I’m not the one fucking starving myself!”

He just misses a glimpse of Awsten’s face, as he turns and runs for the door.

“Trouble in paradise?”

The world shifts.

And he feels that, feels everything start to change and move ninety degrees; the world is turning but he hasn’t quite caught up. He can’t. It’s going too fast and happening all at once and he can’t ride the wave.

Jawn intercepts Awsten, puts both hands on his shoulders and moves them down to his biceps, holds him in place while Awsten swears and screams at him. “Fuck you so fucking hard, Jawn. Let me fucking go!”

“What the fuck is going on here?” Lucas demands. “Are y’all really fighting right now?”

He exchanges a glance with Jawn and moves his gaze to Awsten, pulls his lip in with his teeth and tries to take some deep breaths, slow your fucking heart down, you idiot. You’re fine. Breathe.

“It’s fine,” he forces out. “Everything’s fine.”

…

Everything is not fine.

The bus door slams shut and they can see Awsten run through the window, watch him disappear behind the bus and off into the woods stretching the rest of the way.

“You had one fucking job.” He bites the words and lifts his head up to glare at Jawn. “Keep him here. All you had ta do. Not let him run. Was that really so fucking hard?”

“Who made him wanna bolt in the fuckin’ first place?” Jawn shoots back. “If I wanted him ta run I would’ve talked ta him myself.”

“You know how fucking stubborn he is. Don’t tell me you didn’t see this coming.” He’s getting hot again, waves of sweat breaking out all along the length of his back. He swallows against the lump in his throat and plows out, forces his tears to stay in. “This is not my fault.”

“Well it sure as hell isn’t mine.”

“Both of you, shut the fuck up.” Lucas’ voice is hard. He fixes them with a glare that sweeps across the entire space. “This isn’t helping anyone. We gotta find him and get him back.”

“He’s fine.” Otto’s voice is quiet. “He just texted me. He found a park. He needs some time to breathe. If you go after him he’ll freak even more and you’ll make this worse.”

Geoff exhales.

His heart feels like it’s been smashed, like it’s a barrier that’s now bleeding, gushing from the cracks and filling his chest cavity. It hurts. All of it hurts. Awsten hurts and he hurts and everything might’ve just been ruined in one foul swoop. Everything might’ve just gone to shit he might’ve just lost the best thing that’s ever happened he might’ve just lost everything for good it’s a mess it’s all a mess he just-

“Would either of you like to tell me what the hell this was all about?”

Lucas takes a seat at the tiny table they have and rests his elbows on the surface, turns his gaze to Geoff. Geoff sighs, exhales heavily as his heart starts to slow back to normal and everything settles back into calm.

He exchanges a glance with Jawn and takes another heavy breath. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I…I’m so worried about him. I just- he doesn’t see it, at all. He doesn’t think there’s a problem. He kept saying he’s fine but I know he isn’t and I’ve been watching him fucking waste away right in front of me and it’s just…”

“I know.” Jawn steps over to him and presses a hand against his back. “I know. I get it. I’m sorry too. It’s not your fault he ran. He woulda done that no matter who confronted him.”

“He’s…not eating.” He looks up and addresses Lucas, feels Jawn slide their fingers together and squeeze his hand as he talks. “We don’t know why. He never comes out with us and doesn’t eat after shows, and I- I’ve heard him throwing up before. Like, after we’ve all gone out. I don’t know what’s going on with him or why he’s doing this but something’s wrong and I just- I’m scared. I’m so scared.”

“Geoff-”

“He’s starving himself and he could die and I don’t know what to do or how to help I just-” He pauses to take in another breath that barely quenches his thirst. Everything hurts too much. “I’m so fucking scared.”

…

He doesn’t know what to do.

He doesn’t know where to go from here.

It’s a reality he never thought he’d be a witness to; he’d do a better job of hiding until his untimely demise, keep it a secret until he could no longer, until he was no longer, until everything that was once him faded away and the remnants were nothing but a distant memory.

They were never supposed to find out.

This is his secret and it was supposed to stay his secret but it isn’t his secret anymore they know they know everything and now they’re gonna be all over him and he won’t be able to breathe he isn’t ever able to breathe he won’t be able to breathe they won’t let him breathe he can’t-

And he wants it.

He wants to shove his fingers down his throat and dredge deep, hit his gag reflex and go further, until he’s tearing his stomach lining and spitting blood into the toilet, deeper than he ever has and hurting way more than the last. He wants to hurt and he wants to cry and he wants to fling his useless body off a cliff and hope he dies, because living is a lie he can’t seem to “try” any longer.

Geoff doesn’t know what he’s talking about.

It’s not an eating disorder.

Those are for skinny people, the people whose knees knock together from how knobby they are, who have legs that look like they’re about to snap, who go about their days as if they aren’t seconds away from a heart attack. They’re the people you can’t look at, have to turn away and avert your eyes, because seeing the extent of the damage they’ve done to themselves is worse than the thought of confronting them about it. They’re dead inside and trying to match it with their body, pinching and forcing and restricting, until it all culminates, unsure of which morning will bring their untimely death date.

That’s not him.

That’s never been him.

You’re too big for that too fat for that too fucking huge to even be considered that he’s just trying to get rid of you-

Geoff doesn’t want to be with you anymore. He’s using this as a reason to break up with you. You’re finally too big for him and it shows. Too big for him and too big for the fans and too big for the fucking world you useless piece of shit. They’ve had enough they’re done with it they’re done with you and all the caveats you come with it’s too much it’s all too much it’s too fucking much and they’re done with it it’s too fucking much and they’re done it’s too fucking much-

He gasps out the breath and presses a hand to his chest, squeezes his eyes shut against the burn of tears and tries to will his heart back to calm. It’s determined to run, determined to sprint the rest of the marathon while he huffs and puffs and tries to carry on, tries to shift underneath the weight on his back, resist against its numerous attempts to drag him down.

It’s a diet.

It’s a diet and it’s a workout plan and it’s because he can’t keep being this way. It’s because the flabs of extra skin are too much, because he can’t stand in front of the mirror for one more day and pinch a his stomach, pull the skin between his fingers and jiggle his fat around until he can’t see through the tears, because the thought of losing Otto and Jawn and Geoff and everyone else who loves him is outweighed by the fear of being like this for the rest of his life.

You’re too fucking big.

He’s gonna break up with you you’re too fucking big he’s gonna break up with you you’re too fucking big he’s gonna break up with you you’re too fucking big he’s gonna break up with you-

Too fucking big.

…

“We’ll talk this out tonight, alright?”

Lucas rests a hand on his back and uses the other to hand him his guitar. “Nothing’s gonna be figured out in a day. Let’s just get this show over with, and we’ll talk everything out tomorrow. Y’all have a day off, anyway. We’ll sit Awsten down and get to the bottom of this and it’ll all be okay, Geoff, I promise.”

He swallows.

Lucas can’t promise that. No one can promise that. No one can promise he hasn’t rocked the boat and shattered the glass and broken the delicate ice their relationship was teetering on.

No matter what happens next, Awsten is going to break up with him. And yeah, it was for his own good and he’ll be so much better off single and pissed off than he would be smitten and dead, but the ache in Geoff’s chest has yet to be put to rest. His heart was shattered before and now it feels like everything is being raked over hot coals, like someone saw the pieces and decided that wasn’t enough and is now torching them, just for good measure.

You did the right thing.

You did the right fucking thing.

And he wants to believe it. He wants to believe that he was right and good and Awsten will finally get help for the body that no longer fills out any of his shirts. He wants to believe that good will come of this, that Awsten will accept the assistance he so desperately needs, stop faking and priding and just agree…he wants to believe this was for the best, that he didn’t just ruin the best thing that’s ever happened to him over an uninformed assumption.

It isn’t uninformed. The rational part of him knows that. He knows that Awsten has a problem, knows that the looser shirts and skinnier arms and bony ribs are indicatory of more than just a fad diet to stay healthy on tour, he’s not eating. He’s starving himself and going for runs all the time he works out too much he doesn’t come out with us to eat anymore this is a problem it’s a problem he has a problem-

The rational part of him knows this is a problem, but irrationality is a silent ghost that sneaks up on him when he fears it the most. Its long tendrils wrap around his arms and sink into his skin, breathe out and whisper from within, what if it’s all in your head what if you’re seeing things that aren’t there what if he’s fine and you just ambushed him with all this shit that isn’t even true liar you’re such a liar you just fucked up your relationship you fucked up the best thing you’ve ever had you fucked up you fucked up you fucked up-

You fucked up.

…

Something’s different.

Of course it is; he wasn’t naïve enough to have witnessed the last three hours and still expect everything to go on as normal. He wasn’t naïve enough to expect Awsten to come back, tears still drying on his cheeks, ready to re-absorb himself into a reality that reeked of repression. He wasn’t naïve to expect that anything would be the same after what happened, that it would be a fight they could shove under a rug, move a painting over the hole it put in the wall, try to ignore the elephant that has just stomped into their room.

He isn’t naïve enough to believe that everything is going to go back to the way it was, anytime soon. He knows better than that.

But something is still so fucking different. And he can’t put his finger on what.

The chords come easy. They always have. He remembers when he and Awsten first got together, lying on Awsten’s bed with their legs tangled, laughing about absolutely nothing. He remembers the idea he had, sitting up and reaching for one of Awsten’s old guitars; bet I can play our entire set with my eyes closed.

And the fucking shine in Awsten’s eyes as soon as he said it. He lit up. The smile that stretch across his face never left. Bet what?

I’ll buy you the most expensive drink you want at Starbucks, if you win.

But if I win, and he remembers Awsten rolling his eyes at that part, you come here, and let me kiss you for as long as I want.

That’s all you want?

That’s all I want.

He won.

And he still has to smile at the memory, smile at the thought of that night, how his lips didn’t leave Awsten’s body and his arms never moved from his waist. It stayed soft like that, messy, almost, lip locked and warm and cuddled up like two pieces of a puzzle that were meant to be.

Meant to be.

He forces himself to swallow, shakes his head and turns his attention back to the stage. At least he wasn’t fucking any of the chords up.

Awsten looks different tonight.

He’s quieter, slower, not animating the stage like he usually does. It’s obvious that something’s wrong and he knows the fans are gonna be talking about it on Twitter for the next few days, posting clips and trying to analyze what in Awsten’s recent tweets could possibly give away the reason for his change in demeanor.

He’s missing some of the chords and his voice is weaker. He still sounds good, but there’s not as much power behind everything, not nearly enough force to drive across the emotion-packed words he spent hours pouring over. They don’t feel the same without that, don’t have the same effect that they usually do – Geoff always looks forward to Awsten showing them new music, always anticipates the icy punch in the stomach that leaves him disoriented for hours afterward; Awsten just has that power.

Tonight, something’s missing.

Awsten’s staying right behind the microphone stand – he hates that, I wish I could just fuckin’ sing and crowdsurf, ‘cause dude, that’s all I really wanna do – and he keeps skipping over words. He’s barely playing his guitar at this point. Geoff can’t hear any of the right chords. It’s like he’s 15 again, just picked up the instrument for the first time, trying to get all the strings and make it sound like a semblance of something.

What was semi decent then is awful, now.

Something is wrong.

It just keeps replaying in his head. Something is wrong something is wrong something is wrong something is wrong something is wrong something is wrong something is wrong something is wrong something is wrong something is wrong something is wrong something is wrong-

Awsten stops. He grips the microphone stand in both hands and sways a little, on his feet.

The next moments happen too fast. He barely registers them. One moment, Awsten is standing a few feet away from him, and then he isn’t.

He watches his body crumple to the floor in a tangled pile of limbs.

Everything stops.

Something is so fucking wrong-

…

“He’s okay.”

The doctor sighs, pulls a hand through his hair and exhales. “We checked him out for a concussion and it’s most likely that he doesn’t have one; the CT came back negative, so he may have a mild headache for a couple days, but it’s nothing serious. We put him on an IV to give him back some fluids, but…that leads into the most pressing issue here.”

Geoff stops mid-swallow. The saliva catches in his throat and clings to the back, stretches itself too thing and snaps in the middle, creates a hole that descends lower, down into the pit of his stomach. “W-What…?”

“He’s extremely underweight, and severely malnourished,” the man continues. “He’s showing a lot of signs of anorexia nervosa, with possible bulimic tendencies. That’s why he passed out. His body wasn’t getting enough nutrients to function properly.”

It isn’t news.

He’s had the feeling for a while, seen Awsten’s shirts getting looser and his jeans sliding off his waist more and more, held him at night and wondered, why the fuck can I hold both his wrists in one hand why the fuck can I feel every single one of his ribs why the fuck is he so thin-

But it still feels like destruction, like it’s swung and connected and slammed into the fragile structure he was rebuilding from the debris of his chest, swung and connected and knocked it to pieces once again, shattered the rest of the fragments as they fall and embed himself deep into his chest cavity.

The realization is a wrecking ball and nothing will stop bleeding.

“What- I…” Jawn stutters and trails off, shaking his head. Otto reaches over to put a hand on his back, and he bites his lip. “What do we do? How do we- how do we help him?”

“If you can get him to agree to spending some time in a treatment facilit-”

“No.” He doesn’t register the words until he hears himself say them, and even then, they don’t feel like his. “We’re not sticking him in a mental hospital. We’re not committing him. He’s not a problem we’re gonna shove in there and hope gets fixed.” He looks up, to address the doctor. “Thanks, but…we- I want to try helping him on my own, before I send him to some fuckin’ facility.”

The doctor nods, “either way, he has to agree. He’s not a minor, and he hasn’t been declared incompetent or unable to make his own medical decisions; he needs to consent to it. From what you’re saying…I doubt he will.”

“He doesn’t need a treatment facility. We’ve got him.”

…

“He should be waking up soon.”

The nurse flips his chart closed and sends Geoff a small smile. “Press that button.” She motions to cord resting across Awsten’s thighs. “If you need anything. We’re gonna keep him tonight for observation, so someone’s probably gonna come in and check on him in a few hours, but aside from that, you guys should be good.”

“Thank you.” He scoots one of the chairs all the way up to the side of the bed and reaches for Awsten’s free hand, brings it to his lips and then leans over to kiss his forehead. “Oh, sunshine…what the fuck did you do?”

Awsten’s legs are so bony. Every single one of his ribs is visible. Geoff can feel them through his shirt when he reaches in to hug him, feel his hipbones jutting out sharply and the edges of his collarbones poking through as well. His face is thinner, too. Every part of him has gotten so much smaller.

They didn’t see it.

Through the baggy sweaters and belted jeans and constant flurry of long sleeves, they didn’t fucking see it. They didn’t notice when he stopped coming out with them to eat or disappeared after the meals he did partake in. They didn’t notice the shakiness, didn’t see how he was always tired and constantly cold – that’s the part that stings the most. Geoff remembers numerous nights that Awsten crawled into bed with him, countless days of him pressing against his side, trying to leech as much body heat as he could.

They should’ve seen this sooner.

He knows that’s not the place he needs to be in right now. It’s not productive and it won’t help Awsten at all, but he can’t help it. He can’t help but resign himself to the fact that this could’ve been prevented. He could’ve seen it sooner. He could’ve actually looked, instead of passing it off as touring and stress and not wanting to encroach on the bubble their relationship had slipped into.

He could’ve done more.

But he didn’t, none of them did, and now they’re here, and he needs to fix this. He needs to help. He needs to do something, because he’s done too much of nothing in the past few months. He’s done too much of ignoring, pretending, convincing himself that everything was alright so it wouldn’t turn big. It was already big.

“I love you.” He strokes a thumb across the back of Awsten’s palm and brings his hand up to his lips again. “We’re gonna fix this, Aws. I promise. We’re gonna get you better.”

“What if I don’t want to get better?”

He freezes.

Awsten blinks rapidly as his eyes adjust to the light, shifts up to lean on his forearms, and pulls his hand out of Geoff’s. He lets his head flop back onto the pillows, but doesn’t move his gaze. “There’s nothing to fix. M’not broken.”

“I know that.” Geoff forces his voice to stay steady. His heart is racing. He feels like it’s sprinting at the start of a marathon, going too fast to have any energy later on, using all that’s in the fuel tank for the first few miles, ensuring a long and hard journey ahead. “You’re not broken. There’s nothing to fix. But there is something wrong. You and I both know that, Aws.”

“It’s a diet.” Awsten’s voice is starting to get thicker. He’s avoiding eye contact now, turning to stare down at the sheets while he picks at a loose thread from the blanket. “It’s a diet and a workout plan. Y’all are making a big deal out of fucking nothing.” His voice breaks on the last word and Geoff wants nothing more than to hug him, but he knows that won’t solve anything. He knows that’s not enough. Not anymore.

“Starving yourself isn’t a diet, love.” He holds his hand out, palm up. Please, come on, just take it. Take this. Let me help you I love you please let me be there for you please- “And working out ‘till you pass out isn’t a plan. It’s not healthy. None of this is.”

“It’s not fucking about being healthy!” Awsten cries. “Don’t you fucking get it? It’s not about doing it the “healthy”-” He pauses to make the air quotes, “way. I’m too fucking big, why don’t you understand that?”

He’s crying, now. Geoff can hear it in his voice. He bites his lip and straightens, pushes the chair back with one of his calves and takes a step forward to sit on the edge of Awsten’s bed. He reaches, again, for his hand, and this time, Awsten gives it to him.

“You passed out on stage, Awsten,” he says. “Don’t you get what that means? You’ve been depriving your body of the nutrients it needs, to work properly. It couldn’t handle it anymore, so you collapsed. That shouldn’t happen because of a diet.”

“So I went a little too hard this week, whatever.” His voice is shaking, now. He’s trying so hard. He’s trying so fucking hard to convince even himself that this isn’t a problem. His hands are trembling and the heart monitor he’s attached to is starting to speed up. “Not a big deal. I won’t do it again.”

“Diets don’t work like this, love.” He doesn’t want to get angry. He doesn’t want to yell. He knows that’ll only work Awsten up even more. He knows that his knee-jerk reaction is far from attraction. He knows how easy it would be to make this worse and he knows he has to actively resist but it is so hard it is so fucking hard he wants to yell he wants to scream fuck it fuck this fuck- “This an eating disorder.”

“I don’t have a fucking eating disorder.”

“Awst-”

“You can go.”

“What?” He stops, tightens his grip on Awsten’s hand, and stares at him. What is this what does this mean what did you say what the fuck is happening right now-

“You said it yourself.” Awsten’s voice is low, thick with tears. He won’t look up. “It’s not a diet, right? It’s an eating disorder. It’s a problem. And I- I know you don’t wanna deal with that. With- with me. And I get it, ‘cause I wouldn’t, either. It’s okay. I won’t hold it against you. No hard feelings. No strings attached. You can-” He pauses to choke out a dry sob. “You can go.”

The tears are rolling down his cheeks rapidly. His eyes are closed and he still won’t look up. Geoff swallows and shakes his head, scoots up the mattress and leans forward, rolls onto his other side in one motion.

He slides in next to Awsten and takes him into his arms, pulls him against his chest and presses a long kiss against his cheek. He waits until Awsten turns to look at him before speaking, “you are not a problem. You’re not a burden or a basket case that anyone has to babysit, and you’re not- hey, listen.” He pauses, as Awsten starts to squirm. “You’re not an obligation, sunshine. Okay? You’re not. People aren’t here because they have to be. Me, Otto, Jawn, Lucas, everyone else that loves you? We’re here because we want to be, because we love you and want you to be okay. We care about- I care about you. You’re the love of my life and I want you to be okay. I’ll do anything I can to make sure you get there. So no, you’re not a burden and neither is this. I need you to know that.”

Awsten stills in his arms, breathing softly. He doesn’t say anything, instead turns into Geoff’s chest and presses his face into his shirt. Geoff feels the tears start to dampen the fabric a few seconds later. “I j-just…” Awsten chokes out. “It’s so hard. Everything. It’s all so fucking hard and I’m so tired and everything hurts, all the time, and I just- I don’t want to be like this anymore but no one’s gonna want me ‘cause no one ever wants me and I just-”

“Whoa, breathe, love.” Geoff rubs his back as he sobs again, starts to breathe heavily against his chest. “You’re okay. And everything’s gonna be okay, I promise. We’re gonna get you some help and it’s gonna get better. We’ve got a lot to talk about, you and me. You’ve kept a lot inside and tried to deal with it on your own and that’s not healthy, okay? You gotta talk to me. I need you to talk to me about these things. ‘Cause you’re not on your own. You’re never on your own. You’ve got me, and I’m not going anywhere. Okay?”

“O-okay…”

They have a lot to talk about. There’s a long way to go from here. And he knows it’ll be hard. He knows Awsten will hate him some of the days. He knows he’ll want to scream and cry and throw things at a wall, on others. But love is cost, and sacrifice, and things not always going the way they were meant to. The road is windy and it is long and this is just one of the (likely many) bumps. He knows it. And he knows there’ll be more.

He’s ready.

#PLEASE GIVE THIS LOVE #it took me so fucking long y'all have no idea i just #awsten knight #geoff wigington #gawsten #gawsten fanfiction #waterparks #waterparks fanfiction #neha writes #eating disorder tw

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elesianne · 5 years

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A Silmarillion fanfic, chapter 1 of 2

Sequel to Eagerness and Unrest (Tumblr link, AO3 link)

Summary: The Noldor settle in Mithrim, Alasselië the seamstress among them. After many years they welcome back their king, though he is much changed, and more changes follow once he recovers.

This fic revolves around the experiences of both Alasselië and Maedhros as they come to grips with the changes in their lives, but there is no romance between them.

Genre: General; Rating: Teenage audiences and up; Warning for mentions of torture and trauma; Word count: ~2,400

Some keywords: the Noldor, First Age, family, some angst, trauma, aftermath of torture, canon compliant (because the OCs live between the cracks of canon)

A/N: I've decided to post more of Alasselië's story even though it is not as well written, in my opinion, as my more recent fics – I wrote most of this two years ago.

This will make more sense if you read Eagerness and Unrest first (links above). The names in this are unfortunately confusing anyway. The narrative switches from Quenya names to Sindarin names as the characters change their names.

(AO3 link)

Chapter I // 'Then the brothers of Maedhros – fortified a great camp in Hithlum'

After the initial battles are over and the people who followed Fëanáro and now follow his sons have made up camp by the shore of Lake Mithrim, Alasselië settles into living in this new land and gradually finds her own place in it. It turns out that her place is helping her father as he creates organisation from among chaos, and it is also spinning, weaving and needlework as always, though these are in Hithlum different than they were in Aman.

She becomes her father's assistant almost by accident, as Quildalacon is becoming overwhelmed by all that needs to be done. It is no little task to establish a new household in a new settlement that is in the beginning only a sea of tents, with their people in disorder, grieved and worried by the capture of their new leader, Nelyafinwë, so soon after the death of Fëanáro.

So there is plenty of work for her alongside her father, and she takes on responsibility for organising and overseeing many of the tasks that fall to female servants. And together with others she works to figure out how to keep them all warm in the cold climate as their supplies dwindle. As soon as they get new supplies of wool from the grey elves who inhabited this land before the Noldor, there is more spinning and weaving to do than there are skilled pairs of hands.

What needlework there is is very different from what Alasselië is accustomed to. In Aman, she designed and created ceremonial robes and extravagant dresses for festivals. Her greatest talents lay in making those elegant garments of luxurious materials and embroidering them with vivid, complicated patterns. But taught by her mother practically since she was an infant, she is competent in all manner of work involving thread of any kind, and here in the great camp in the cold, rainy north there is more need for other craft than fine clothes. So now she sews hardy, practical garments and mends them when they rip and become tattered. They waste nothing in that early time of sparse resources.

As time goes by their situation stabilises in all ways, many tents becoming simple buildings, and austerity gradually gives way to a pale shadow of their former splendour. Alasselië is delighted to get opportunities for fine work again. Her heart has missed making beautiful things, and she puts all her skill and passion into the new fine clothes that are commissioned from her by Canafinwë and his brothers who want to make sure that they still look like princes though they are exiles in a cold land surrounded by mists and mountains of shadow.

Otherwise she avoids the sons of Fëanáro as much as she can, for they are of course the worst affected by their brother's terrible fate, and their fiery spirits are apt to burst into flames at any moment. Canafinwë tries to keep his brothers in check, but several of them challenge his decisions and chafe against his leadership constantly. Their disagreement about what should be done about Nelyafinwë is the main cause of contention.

Just as Canafinwë attempts to stop his brothers from doing anything rash and stupid, Alasselië and her father work to keep Hendunáron from going to pieces.

Like some of Fëanáro's sons, Alasselië's brother who was a close friend to Nelyafinwë thinks that something should be done to save him – that this impunity of their foe cannot be allowed to stand, that Nelyafinwë should not be left to agony; that even if there is nothing else to be done, their king's body should be recovered. But Hendunáron does not rebel against Canafinwë, the leader whom Nelyafinwë appointed before going to parley with Moringotto.

As years go by, all at the Fëanorian camp indeed think that Nelyafinwë must be dead by now. After all, the alternative is too terrible to think of.

During this time of waiting Alasselië together with the other Noldor learns Sindarin, the language of the grey-elves. Like others she and her brother choose new Sindarin names for themselves. Hendunáron translates his name as Baralindir which has very much the same meaning, a man who has fire in his eyes. Their father Quildalacon takes a longer time getting accustomed to the fact that Sindarin is their principal language now, but eventually he chooses Dinalagos as his new name.

Alasselië's own name which means 'thread of joy' seems like mockery on some days, yet it is the name her mother gave her, and she would keep it if she had no other reason than that.

So she names herself Merelaineth in Sindarin, 'joyous spinner'. It is the closest equivalent that she can construct with her still very imperfect Sindarin that also sounds pleasant to her ear. And she is now called Meren for short as she was Alassë before, and that feels like a comfort.

Years after everyone on the southern shore of the lake has given up hope of ever seeing their king again, alive or dead, one day Findekáno – Fingon, now – stumbles to the Fëanorian camp, exhausted and dirty, carrying Nelyafinwë.

Those who see them first think that Nelyafinwë is dead, for the maimed, blood-stained and emaciated figure in Fingon's arms looks more like a corpse than a living, breathing person. But as Fingon makes his way through the camp, amidst the throng of people who silently gather to watch and make way in amazement and respect, the ravaged figure in his arms rouses and moans in pain.

The crowd exclaims as their grief turns into pity and horror. Fingon just readjusts Nelyafinwë's position in his arms, mutters something to him, and keeps going. Many men come forward and offer to take his burden from him, or help him, at least, for Fingon himself looks like one who has been through torment. But he shakes his head and carries on tenaciously, even when three of Nelyafinwë's brothers run in, having been alerted that their cousin has brought their brother back.

Merelaineth is at work inside the building where Fëanor's sons keep their headquarters, and she doesn't know of Nelyafinwë's return until she sees him carried in and rushed through the great hall to a bedroom, his brothers yelling for a healer. One is quickly found, and Meren and others go to look for more.

For it is clear that the skills of every healer at the Fëanorian camp will be needed if Nelyafinwë is to be brought back to some semblance of health. All who saw him are horrified at the state of him, all the vicious scars and the bone-thin figure and the bleeding stump where his right hand used to be. They know, though, that they cannot even begin to imagine what he must have gone through during the many, many years he was Morgoth's prisoner.

It is a miracle that he is alive at all, and some whisper that must a be a mercy from the Valar, a sign that they have not turned their back on the Noldor after all. All wish to help him, to do whatever little they can to help their king recover. Dinalagos and Meren do their part by holding counsel with the cooks, organising first weak and then nutritious broths to be sent to Nelyafinwë as often as he can get it down, and later, when he is a little better, making sure that whatever is served to him is already cut up to bite-sized pieces that can be eaten with one hand only.

Baralindir is overjoyed that Nelyafinwë is alive, though he has not seen him yet as for months only healers and his brothers are admitted to his room; but Merelaineth one day overhears Curufin speaking to Celegorm as she is stacking linen in a cupboard and the two sons of Fëanor walk past it without noticing her.

'It would have been better if he had died there', says Curufin, and Celegorm makes a noise of assent. Meren's heart aches for her king.

It takes many, many weeks before Nelyafinwë's brothers stop being grave when they go to see him and graver when they come back, and months pass before he leaves his room and comes among his people. When he does, he is very quiet, and greatly changed in appearance. His right arm is in a sling, his blazing hair is shorn short and there are half-healed scars as well as old ones on all parts of him that are visible. Meren thinks that there must be countless more under his clothes.

Soon after Nelyafinwë has recovered enough to start taking on his duties and reassuming leadership, Maglor comes to Meren and asks her to make Nelyafinwë some new clothes: 'For he has nothing at the moment that fits.'

She says that she will be happy to sew the clothes, and enquires cautiously after measurements. it would be easier to make clothes for Nelyafinwë for the first time in a long time, if she had his current measurements.

As she half expected, Maglor says, awkwardly though he is usually silver-tongued and smooth, that measurements aren't available.

Meren nods quickly, understanding that Nelyafinwë would not want the disturbance , and says that it's quite all right, she's made clothes without measurements before and the results should be acceptable. She promises to get started right away and have the first garments ready soon.

Maglor thanks her more courteously than he needs to – this is her job, after all.

That night when Nelyafinwë makes his daily appearance among the people of his household after dinner, Alasselië studies him with her trained seamstress' eye, taking care to not dwell on his injuries and concentrating instead on his size and proportions. Still thin and unwell-looking, he is nevertheless an impressive figure, and standing straighter every day.

She starts by making (with some assistance so that the garments are finished soon) one complete, simple outfit: an undershirt, a tunic and breeches and a robe that can be worn over them.

Of her own initiative, she also makes a cloak that is wider than usual. She has noticed Nelyafinwë covering his maimed side with his cloak when he can. As an especially wide cloak for a very tall man, it is the largest cloak she has ever made.

When she finishes the first set of clothes one afternoon she decides to take them to Nelyafinwë's room himself, as he usually is out at this time of the day and doesn't keep so tightly to isolation any more anyway. Balancing the pile of garments on one arm, she knocks on the door of his room and announces herself and her business, and is surprised when Nelyafinwë's voice bids her to let herself in.

As she steps in he gets up from the desk where he has apparently been writing. His left hand – only hand – is covered in ink spots, proof that he is still clumsy at writing with it. He looks at her like he's still wondering what she's doing there, though not impolitely.

'I am sorry to disturb you, my lord, I expected you would be out. I have brought the new clothes that were requested.' She looks around and then goes to lay them out on a big chest beside the bed. Nelyafinwë comes to look at the clothes and touches briefly the big fur-lined cloak, neatly folded.

'Did my brother ask for this too? He didn't mention.'

'No, my lord. It was my addition. Days are cold here.' She decides not to mention the extra width. He will make use of it if he wishes.

'Yes, they are, aren't they? Colder even than in Formenos. You were there, weren't you?' He is looking at her, frowning . 'I'm sorry, I cannot recall your name. You're Hendunáron's sister, and your father is now my seneschal, but your name escapes me at the moment. Many things do', and he smiles a little crooked smile that brings the scars on his face into stark relief. It seems that marks left by Morgoth's torment do not heal well even on an elf born in the Blessed Realm.

'I was Alasselië in Aman, and now I am called Merelaineth.'

'Ah, of course', he says, running his hand through his hair that is now just long enough for it. 'It is no matter that I can't remember names, since everyone took on a new one while I... was gone. I will have to think of one for myself too, and work on learning the language.'

'It is fortunately not very difficult', Meren offers. 'Or so most of us have found.'

'That is good to hear.' He turns to look at the clothes on the chest. 'Thank you for the clothes, Merelaineth, and for the cloak especially. It seems you have the same gift for noticing what needs to be done as your father does.'

'Thank you, my lord. I have been working together with him here in Mithrim, in addition to the needlework.'

'And very important work it is, part of keeping order here. Order right now is essential', he says, the good leader that he is proving to be now that he is recovering and reassuming his responsibilities. Meren knows that ever since he rose from his sickbed, he has been doing his part in keeping order both by leading his own people and by pursuing reconciliation with Fingolfin's.

Meren thanks him for his kind words and briefly debates with herself whether she should offer to wait while he tries the clothes on for size, as those she sews for usually do – but can he even dress himself? Should she offer to do it for him? It wouldn't be the first time she has dressed a man, as a professional seamstress, but she is fairly certain that he doesn't want to be dressed by someone who is a virtual stranger and a woman besides. Maglor, sensitive to the emotions and moods of others, hadn't wanted her to even take Nelyafinwë's measurements.

So Meren just tells him to send the clothes back to her if they are the wrong size, and she will make alterations. She also promises to make more for him as soon as she can, and she curtsies, and she goes.

A/N: The next chapter will be posted soon. It will feature narrative from Maedhros' POV.

#silmarillion fanfiction #tolkien fanfiction #maedhros #alasselië aka merelaineth #noldor #my fics #on the grey fields of mithrim #elesianne's fics

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haletothewolf · 7 years

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a rec list with no theme other than awesomeness

or, a handful of fics that I’ve read recently (either for the first time, or the bajillionth)

Light Up My World Like Nobody Else by @lissadiane In which Stiles Stilinski has a little too much to drink, and steals a baby goat.

Trigger Warning by @thesuninside Derek goes home to New York shortly after the nogitsune is dealt with. He begins the long, slow climb toward mental health, and begins a text-based relationship with Stiles. Stiles, who is struggling with very real issues of guilt and consent, is climbing his own mental health mountain. Together, they’ll try to make it.

These Are the Days That Bind Us Together by @brookesbutler In which Stiles volunteers to go to Chicago with Derek and it’s awful. (Except it isn’t).

Cruising by @thepsychicclam Stiles and Scott spend Friday and Saturday nights cruising through town. All the kids do it. Stiles and Scott cruise around, confident and cool. Except, they’re totally not. Stiles and Scott are definitely not cool. They don’t have their own cruising posse, a caravan they ride around with, taking corners too fast and yelling out the windows at each other.They have Liam and Mason, two freshmen who sit in the back and complain about the choice of music.

Rebalance by @rhysiana When Derek loses his powers while saving Cora’s life, he gets sent to Stiles Stilinski, acupuncturist to the supernatural set, to try to fix him. He sincerely doubts it will work, but he’s run out of options.

Come Fly With Me (Or Don’t) by @stileshale Stiles is overworked and stressed out when his flight home gets delayed due to copious amounts of snow. He finds entertainment with one Derek Hale, whom he hasn’t seen since high school but really doesn’t mind getting reacquainted with.

Like Real People Do by @tatsukitty The ladies at the local yarn shop knew him by name now. Sometimes, he sat in one of the ancient soft armchairs in the store with them, frowning at his work as he struggled to maintain his tension.

“How’s it coming?” Edith asked, settling across from him in another chair, working on a delicate lace shawl with a pattern Derek couldn’t even fathom yet.

“It’s… better.” He hedged.

Wednesday Morning by @deepspacebison Derek's going to break, and Stiles is worried he's going to be the one to do it.

Written in the Stars by @quixoticity Derek Hale is a lucky guy. He's got a great family, good friends, and a fulfilling job as a tattoo artist. He's also one of the twenty-five per cent of the population born with a soul mark. He likes his life, but he's waiting for his soul-match. The odds of meeting them aren't great but hey, Derek's a lucky guy. He has faith. He can't believe how good his luck really is when one day his soul-match wanders right into his studio, all long limbs and copper eyes. There's just one problem: Stiles is there to get his soul mark covered up. Permanently.

Best Case Scenario by @ladyofthelog The fourth time Stiles breaks the fridge, Dad is less sympathetic.

“Stiles,” he says as Stiles holds the door steady for him to screw it back onto the chassis—there's new hardware involved this time, and not a little duct tape—

“I thought this werewolf thing was going to help.”

“Yeah, with the dementia,” Stiles says.

Fight Me, Helen by @witchspark Important OTP question: Which one aggressively argues with the suburban soccer moms at the PTA meeting and flips Helen’s 9x12 pan of betty crocker brownies?

Take Me Out to the Ballgame by @zjofierose It's all fun and games until someone catches a baseball with their face, Stiles.

In Which Laura is Never Going to Let Derek Live This Down by @omimouse A soulmate fic where you’ve got “Help! Save me!” on your wrist. So you do the martial arts classes, and ROTC, and get a concealed carry permit, you are READY, you are SO up for this… and then one day you’re at a friend’s house, and someone comes pounding down the stairs laughing and ducks behind you and goes “Help! Save me!” and that’s how you find out your soulmate was escaping a tickle fight.

Gravity’s Got Nothing on You by @zosofi “Three weeks,” Derek says.

“Still don’t want to,” Stiles says.

“I’ll pay you,” Derek says, and that… that has Stiles interested. Alf’s Antique’s may be a great job, but it’s not a high-paying job, and half of Stiles’s tuition is coming from financial aid, so…

“How much,” Stiles asks, “are we talking here? Because I know your family, dude. And it’ll be kind of awkward after.“

“My family thinks you’re some sort of fucking gift to the world,” Derek seethes, like he’s jealous, “they’ll probably be pissed at me when we break it off, so don’t worry about that. Five hundred bucks.”

“A thousand,” Stiles says, because screw ethics. Also, the Hale family is loaded. Derek can deal.

Chasing the Horizon by @obroech Stiles nearly laughs and for a moment, he sits there trying to think of anything to say. "It's been a good year," he croaks at long last. "I got you back--I got you back and I was so scared I'd lose you, you know? I got out there; I backpacked across half of Europe with my best friends - I got to see the never less than perfectly composed Lydia Martin after a few days without showers or real beds. Scott and Allison got married, dad. I made a speech."

The Sheriff's expression softens and he smiles, reaching up and clapping Stiles' shoulder. "You did. I was there. You had Melissa, Scott and Allison in tears."

You Can Plunder My Dungeon Anytime by @13callieb Stiles is numb. “I’m a kid,” he repeats blankly. “I’m nearly seventeen. I’m a kid.”

“Um,” Scott says, or at least, the weird man-hybrid that Scott apparently is these days. “You’re twenty-seven. We had, like, a party.”

Thank You for this Dance by @matildajones Derek picks up another glass of champagne, and that’s when he sees him. A man stands at the edge of the room, chewing his lip and staring at the dance floor longingly. Every person walks past him. Derek must have done it a hundred times this evening.

A Strong Heart and a Nerve of Steel by @lupinus, @uraneia Stiles and Derek wake up married in Vegas. Well, they would have if it was legal. In which Stiles is the president's son, Derek is his bodyguard, and Papa President orders them to pretend to be in love for the sake of gay rights.

Seems to Me It’s Chemistry by @halffizzbin Awkward Nerd Derek has been crushing on Handsome Jock Stiles since forever—so getting paired with him on a Chemistry project is definitely the best/worst thing that's ever happened to him.

Somewhere to Start by @lissadiane Stiles has always known that he isn't quite human - the plant life that tends to sprout around him whenever he gets upset or excited gives it away. He's never really fit in among the regular people in Beacon Hills and is determined to wait it out, go to college, and find somewhere to belong. He's forced to abandon those plans, however, after he desperately agrees to enter into an arranged marriage to save his father's life.

#sterek #eternal sterek #fic rec #sterek fic rec

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sasusakufestival · 7 years

Text

Samsara (Part 2/3)

Summary: Sakura’s words die in her throat as the man’s eyes shoot open, and the coldest red irises she has ever seen meet hers. She is hit by a wave of terrifying certainty about two things right then – that she knows these eyes better than any other and that, if he wanted to, this man could stop her heart with just a look. [SasuSaku Festival 2017 – Day 15 – Prompt: “The Biggest Gesture”]

Disclaimer: This story utilizes characters, situations and premises that are copyright Masashi Kishimoto, Shueisha, Shonen Jump and Viz Media. No infringement on their respective copyrights pertaining to episodes, novelizations, comics or short stories is intended by the author in any way, shape or form. This fan oriented story is written solely for the author’s own amusement and the entertainment of the readers. It is not for profit. Any resemblance to real organizations, institutions, products or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. All fiction, plot and Original Characters with the exception of those introduced in the books, manga, video games, novelizations and anime, are the sole creation of KuriQuinn and using them without permission is considered rude, in bad-taste and will reflect seriously on your credibility as a writer. You will be squished by a Susanoo wielding demi god if you are found plagiarizing.

Warning: Spoilersfor pretty much everything up to Naruto Gaiden.

Canon-Compliance: Takes place during the Blank Period.

Fanon-Compliance: Takes place several years before An Inch of Gold and Unplanned.

AN: So, I decided I didn’t feel like waiting to post this. It’s unedited, but I will put up the edited part as soon as is humanly possible. Also, although I had originally planned for this to be a two-part fic, my plot bunnies decided to hit me with a bunch of other plot possibilities. So it’s probably gonna end up three parts. Therefore, if you want to read the continuation, you guys’ll just have to follow on my blog or something once SasuSakuFestival is over. I hope to post the next chapter within the week :P

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“Indra.”

Sasuke repeats the name slowly, sounding out the syllables as if the word is completely foreign to him. There is a deceptive calm in his voice, as if he is putting every shred of his considerable concentration into not reacting to Sakura’s tale.

“It’s…it’s not exactly a common name, is it?” she murmurs tentatively, hanging on to that tiny shred of hope that’s taken root since she awoke in a terrified sweat.

“No.”

They regard each other in heavy silence. Neither knows quite what to make of this development.

“Do you…” she begins, then pauses, because the question is utterly ridiculous and there’s no possible way… And yet. “Do you remember any of it?”

She doesn’t know what exactly Sasuke saw or experienced when he interacted with the Sage of Six Paths, whether the transfer of his chakra also meant a transfer of memories. It’s not a time they speak of very often.

“No. Whatever I knew that day disappeared quickly,” Sasuke tells her quietly.

“Oh.” She wraps her arms around herself. “So why am I dreaming this then? If anyone should be dreaming about you – past-you – it should be you. Or Naruto even. Unless –” She peeks up at him. “Maybe it’s my past life?”

“Then why are you only experiencing it now, after everything we’ve seen?” he counters, the calm from earlier giving way to something sharp.

“I don’t know,” she admits. “It does kind of seem like something the Sage of Six Paths should have mentioned when we all met. But what else could it be? It’s like I’m her, Sasuke.”

Sasuke’s eyes narrow in contemplation, jaw clenched and she swears she can hear him grinding his teeth. She reaches out – it’s instinctive to want to comfort him, even though she’s the one who woke upset – and places a soothing hand on his shoulder. The other automatically covers her still flat stomach.

Sasuke’s eyes follow the movement, and then snap back to her face.

“The dreams didn’t start until you found out you were pregnant,” he says in a low tone.

“It’s possible,” she allows.

“That’s the connection,” he muses, almost to himself, staring into the distance like he is seeing something she can’t. “He is the ancestor of the Uchiha…you’re carrying the next generation…it has to have something to do with that.”

“You really think so?” Sakura asks. The idea is unsettling.

“Do you have any other explanation?” he replies, almost harsh. The calm from earlier has begun to erode.

“Well, no, but we can’t just jump to conclusions,” she reasons. “Maybe it’s just…maybe every woman in your clan has dreams like this. Or…or maybe only women who are about to give birth to someone of Indra’s bloodline. Or –”

“Or maybe it’s because I’m Indra’s reincarnation that it’s happening,” Sasuke interrupts, running a hand across his face in agitation. His right eye flickers briefly between red and black. “Of course, we’ll never know for sure and there’s no one to ask because –”

“Sasuke, stop,” she cuts him off, taking hold of his hand. She squeezes it, trying to transmit some sense of calm, despite the fact that his obvious panic is frightening her. She has never seen him lose composure like this, and her immediate instinct is to put a stop to it. “It’s not something worth getting worked up about. These are dreams. Dreams that might not even be real, and are probably just my mind shoving together a bunch of information. You know, odd facts I know about you and me and maybe some of the plot from that horrible romance novel I was reading. If it helps, I’ll stop reading it.”

“Sakura –”

“Let’s not worry too much about unwanted commentary from dead people, okay?” She makes a face. “And that is a sentence I never though I would say.

The look Sasuke gives her now is equal parts awed and disbelieving.

“You are taking this remarkably well,” he says, sounding almost accusing.

Sakura tosses her hair. “I told you, didn’t I? The day we met the Sage of Six Paths? Nothing will ever surprise me again.”

“Not if I have anything to say about it,” he says stonily. “Are you sure you don’t know any sleeping draughts you could take? Just to stop the dreams until we know more.”

“Nothing that wouldn’t harm the baby,” she confides. “Relax, darling. I’m sure this is all just a big coincidence. We’re reading too much into it.”

“I’ll have to watch out for you better. Until there’s a way to protect you from this, I need to know everything you see.”

Sakura snorts at this. “Right, and what exactly are you going to do, pry my eyes open when you think I’m having a nightmare and use the…Sharingan…to…Ehhh!” She sees the subtle shift in his expression. “You’re actually th– no! No, no, no! You can’t do that!”

“I wasn’t going to. I was just…considering.”

“Well, considering me breaking your nose!”

“Using the Sharingan that way wouldn’t be possible anyhow.”

“Possible or impossible, that’s never going to happen! You promise me right now, or I’ll put you down so hard, losing an arm will look like a bee sting!”

Sasuke’s skin turns a shade paler, and he nods.

眠り

Sakura might have quelled at least some of Sasuke’s fears, but she isn’t as confident as she pretends. The idea that the fetus inside her is connected to as dark and tragic a past as Indra Ōtsutsuki is worrisome, but at the same time…

She has to admit she’s curious.

That doesn’t stop her being relieved when the dreams inexplicably stop bringing her to the strange beach. Her nightly visions become vague again, bursts of colour and emotion, occasionally faces that are familiar to her but inconsequential. She still experiences the frustrating moments of abuse, attacks from a faceless father and sister; her experiences paralyse her as she sleeps, and leave her irritated upon waking. But overall, there is such a vague and hurried quality to these that she suspects she is experiencing time passing.

This pattern continues long enough that it’s almost a shock when she falls asleep one night and finds herself once more in a completely lucid, detailed dream.

She is sitting uncomfortably at a table in a richly decorated room, and the dim memories Sakura can access suggest that her attendance here is rare, perhaps even only occasionally required. Sitting across from her are two people whose presence not only disheartens her – the small, curious part of her had been hoping to meet Indra again – but also fills her with overwhelming wariness.

“There’s talk among the court of a newcomer,” Father says as the servants place their meals before them. “A man of great talent, said to be the son of a wise sage from the East. They say he can call lightning from the sky and breathe fire like the dragons of old.”

“It would be useful to have such a man beholden to you,” Older Sister remarks, sounding bored as she picks at her food.

“Yes, it is better to be on the side of a demon than in his path. Should the stories of this man be true, I intend to offer him alliance. I am told he is young and ambitious. Command of my armies should sway his loyalty. Or, perhaps, marriage.”

Older Sister scowls. “Marriage to a foreigner won’t grow the coffers of this land.”

“Maybe not, but talents he is said to be able to teach could,” Father says. “I am confident you’ll do your duty, daughter.” He then suddenly turns and barks, “What’s that look for, Shachi? Have you something to say?”

They are both looking at her now and she realises that she is Shachi.

Her lips part. “If…if…”

“If…if…if…” Older Sister mocks. Sakura inwardly snarls, knowing if she had control of her body right now, she would wipe the floor with the painted doll before her.

“I-If Older Sister doesn’t wish to marry h-him, I w-would take on th-that duty, F-Father. If it would p-please you.”

He snorts. “Dishonour an important man with a concubine’s spawn instead of the heiress to the land? I intend to court an ally, not lend insult. Keep your ridiculous opinions to yourself. Don’t make me regret my generosity in allowing you to sit at my table.”

“As you wish, Father.” She bows.

“May the gods soon find me a man who can look past your whore of a mother’s legacy and take you off my hands,” he grumbles to himself.

Sakura – Shachi – looks down at her knees, shoulders sinking.

Older Sister sniggers. “Oh, don’t look so downcast. Besides, if the stories of this stranger is true, he attracts many followers. Maybe someone among the riffraff will take an interest in you.”

The two of them laugh, leaving Sakura – Shachi – clenching her fists.

夢

They are at the back of an izakaya, scouring dishes from a busy dinner rush; they don’t have any money tonight, and in exchange for a room they’re helping with hostess out. Sasuke washes, Sakura dries. There has been nothing but companionable silence until she breaks it.

“Can I…can I ask you something?”

“Hm.”

“It’s about your brother,” she goes on, hesitant, because the topic is a difficult one, and usually provides some cue for him to make an escape. She’s hoping soapy hands make that a little harder this time.

From the tense set of his shoulders, she knows he’s already planning bolt, and she hurriedly continues.

“It’s about your relationship before – before all of it. You never talk about it, and you don’t have to now, I just…I never had an older brother or sister, so I don’t know myself. I was wondering…is it normal for an older sibling to hate the younger one?”

She winces, because it still came out awkwardly, and she bets he’s going to ignore it, because it’s not exactly what she was asking but –

“For a long time, I thought so,” Sasuke answers in a low voice. “But over time, I learned it’s the exception, not the rule.”

She exhales at this. “Oh.”

“Why do you ask?”

“No reason. Just thinking.”

“Sakura.”

She scowls, because he’s getting a lot better at reading her voice. Or maybe he always could, now he just chooses to react to it.

“It’s something I noticed in my dream –”

“You had another one?” he interrupts sharply, nearly dropping one of the bowls in his hand.

“Yes – and no, I haven’t seen him again, if that’s what you want to know. Don’t you think I’d tell you right away?”

“Hn.”

“Well, I would. I just…haven’t had to say anything lately because nothing happened. I don’t think he’s in the picture right now. But this – the person I am in my dreams – her name is Shachi, I think.” She peeks at him. “Does that sound familiar to you?”

Since their conversation about a possible past life or odd Uchiha-specific pregnancy quirk, she has found it easier to ask him these questions. After all, between the two of them, he’s the only one who has a definite link to whatever it is she’s dreaming.

He closes his eyes, frowning in concentration, then shakes his head. “I feel as if I’ve heard the name before, but it could be from anywhere.”

He’s right, they meet enough new people every day, perhaps it’s a name they’ve encountered in their travels.

“It’s just, her family – or, I guess the people who raised her – they treat her so badly. It’s as if she’s beneath them, and I don’t…I don’t understand how family can do that,” she exclaims, frustrated. “How can someone not protect their younger sibling? How can a parent not love their child? I can’t imagine a world where you look at our baby like he – or she – means nothing.”

“It would never happen.”

He says it so instantly and certainly that she feels a wave of pure joy wash over her, and she offers him a loving smile. “I know that. But in my dream –”

“You said yourself your mind might just be processing things,” Sasuke continues. “You’ve mentioned feeling weak, held back. It’s possible that you’re drawing on experiences you’ve actually lived and your brain is interpreting them in the simplest way.”

Sakura shoots him a suspicious look. “You’ve been reading my medical scrolls, haven’t you? The psychology ones?”

“They offer the most logical explanation to all this.”

She sighs. “Darling, you can’t search for clues based on the answer you want.”

“It’s not what I want. It’s what it could be. And all of this could simply be a quirk of your dreams.”

They work in silence for a spell.

“You don’t really think it is, do you?” she asks eventually.

A pause.

“No.”

“So, if it is something that happened, why do you think she’s treated so badly?”

“Back then, people saw children differently. A means to an end, a legacy.”

“And what’s our child?”

Sasuke holds her gaze, no trace of doubt there, and simply says, “Hope.”

眠り

For some reason, after this conversation, the tone of her dreams changes. Her awareness of being in a dream fades faster. Memories of an entire life crowd out her identity during waking hours, and so when the stranger arrives in their land, her first reaction – Shachi’s first reaction – is of surprise.

Even though she shouldn’t be. Because there aren’t many men who can control lightning, after all, and there is such a commanding air about him that the idea of him as the leader her father spoke of is not impossible.

The day he steps foot in her father’s court is grey and overcast, inauspicious in it’s normalcy, and yet her body – both in her dream and her present self – feels taut with awareness. He arrives quietly, with little pomp, into Father’s audience chamber. If he notices her sitting on the dais by her sister’s feet, he gives no indication, his every attention focussed on the lord of the land.

He says very little, and yet before the audience is over, everyone knows who he is: Lord Indra of the Eastern Lands, a master in the secret arts. He is well-spoken and a warrior by bearing and – based on Older Sister’s expression upon seeing him for the first time – an acceptable possible match.

He seeks followers, those he will impart with teachings, and who he intends to make stronger, asks only for the freedom to recruit whoever he wants.

“My methods are difficult,” he warns quietly, “and only those willing to lay down their lives in dedication will succeed. In exchange, I will instruct the soldiers in your armies as well.”

Father is beside himself – this is exactly what he wanted, after all – and the accord is soon settled. He celebrates by throwing a lavish banquet in Lord Indra’s honour, despite the obvious fact that the young man has no use for the gesture. He appears restless and impatient, as if he wishes to get started on his mission as soon as possible.

Sakura – Shachi? – watches him with wide eyes, thinking on the helpless man she nursed back to health, the one who could have killed her but didn’t. As frightened as she is by him, she can’t fight down her interest.

He notices her watching him and looks up, holding her gaze. Her entire body tenses, and she feels as if she’s looking into the eyes of a snake moments before it strikes. She can’t look away until he does, and once free, her entire body shivers. Her breath comes in sharp bursts and she wonders if, perhaps, he hasn’t used some of his strange power on her.

夢

“It sounds like genjutsu,” Sasuke as he sets up a wire-trap.

“I don’t think so,” Sakura muses, leaning against a nearby tree. “He wouldn’t need to use that on her. She’s too afraid. Too docile. You only use genjutsu on someone if you expect resistance.”

She and Sasuke exchange a tense look, both of them acknowledging a bitter shared memory.

Sasuke grunts and hops down from the tree.

“When we’re done here, we’re heading to that temple we passed. Maybe there will be someone there who can explain why you’re seeing this.”

“We might as well stop at a hospital too and have me speak to a bunch of therapists,” she deadpans. “I don’t think anyone is going to have answers on this one.”

Sasuke scowls. “So, your strategy is to wait and see?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t accept that.”

“Well, tough. While I’m incubating the tiny human, I make the rules. And as of right now, I’m not in any actual medical danger, and other than being annoying and sometimes confusing, what I see when I’m asleep isn’t affecting my health in any way.”

“Yet.”

This time it’s Sakura who scowls. “Need I remind you of your history of overreacting?”

Which Sasuke can’t exactly argue with, and so he settles on beleaguered silence while they set up the remainder of the traps.

She sighs to herself and wonders if there’s a point to keeping him updating about her dreams if he’s just going to get so upset about them. And she definitely doesn’t want to admit to him that the longer these dreams continue, and the more often she has them, the more she feels as if she’s living a completely different life.

“Sasuke…I know there’s no way to be one-hundred percent sure about all of this, but…would it be so bad?” He stares at her, askance. “If this actually was my past life. It would just mean that I’ve care for you longer than be both thought.”

“You know it would mean more than that. You know that it’s a story that doesn’t end happily.”

“We don’t know if that’s completely true.”

“He broke everything he touched,” her husband says darkly. “He had everything, and just…” He cuts off, making a disgusted sound. “Because of him, my family… because of him I did the same. Might still do the same. What if this is a reminder, a warning, that I’m going to break this too?”

The question is so soft, so distressingly uncertain that for a moment Sakura doesn’t have an answer.

Sasuke very rarely shows any type of vulnerability, and to this day she is certain she is the only one alive who has ever seen that part of him. What makes this particular display so heartbreaking is that she knows he isn’t even asking it for his own sake, but for their child’s.

Tears fill her eyes, but she holds them back. Crying right now will do nothing to help him; she swore long ago that when he was struggling, she would support him. And if that means shrugging off her puzzling dreams, so be it.

“I never thought you were the superstitious type,” she says, trying to break the tensions with levity.

Sasuke scowls. “It’s hard not to be when your past life decides to haunt your wife’s dreams.”

She smiles. The fact that he sounds so waspish is a good sign.

“Come here,” she says, and without giving him opportunity to resist, she presses his hand above her womb. “Listen to me: you are not going to break this.” He opens his mouth, and she drowns him out. “No – listen. You are not going to break this. I don’t break easy, and you can summon a giant chakra monster to protect yourself. This child? Half you, half me. Definitely not breakable.”

He still doesn’t look entirely reassured, but the tense set to his shoulders fades somewhat.

眠り

Lord Indra becomes a guest in their kingdom, permitted to walk among the people and seek students. He accepts any who come to him, man or woman, and weeds out the weak. Many of them die – strangely enough, it’s usually the soldiers that Father sends who are unable to succeed – and yet still more continue to seek him out.

He is the only one who knows this strange, magical teaching. He calls it ninshu, yet when he says it there is a sneer in his voice, as the very name offends him.

She finds this odd, but Father doesn’t care. As he sees it, his kingdom will soon grow to rule over all the rest, if only he can convince Lord Indra to remain here instead of moving on. Older Sister preens and poses, trying to entice a smile from the sullen faced stranger, and taking it out on Shachi when he doesn’t.

No…I’m…Sakura?

That name seems so distant to her when she is here, when she is Shachi. Though she knows this is but a dream, she feels tethered to it as much as if it were real.

She watches Lord Indra from the sidelines. Although drawn to him, longing for him to acknowledge her again, or at least thank her for saving his life, she feels safer in the shadows. Sometimes, he is apparently alone, training or meditating by himself, and yet when she makes a move to approach him, she imagines she hears someone speaking to him. Whenever this happens, she hurries away. After all, their last encounter up-close is fresh in her mind, and as compelled as she is to seek him out, she is also afraid of him.

And so she keeps away, watching his training sessions from the protection of the forest.

Sometimes she is caught, receiving a reprimand or a beating from her father, but these days both are more an afterthought; Father only cares about her whereabouts when someone reminds him, and Older Sister, only if she notices her. For the most part, she is free to watch the stranger as she wishes.

Lord Indra teaches with brutal efficiency. He never raises his voice above a murmur, yet retains perfect control over his students. He can make a simple nod feel as if he has fallen to his knees in praise, and a derisive glare make a man want to fall on his sword to avoid dishonour.

Several do.

Only once he is satisfied with their ability to maintain discipline and control does he teach them the new abilities. Shachi watches as men learn to bend water in their hands, or call up mounds of earth like fangs from the ground. Some command the wind and others turn blades of grass into needles. With a flash of his red eyes he instructs them all, precise instructions, having them repeat them over and over, making motions with his hands as he does.

She mouths along his words, trying to capture the sound of his voice in her mind. When he speaks normally – not threatening her life as he did that day on the beach – his voice is pleasant, inviting. Despite the danger he represents, he makes her feel safe, and that is something she isn’t used to feeling.

From her place in the shadows, she makes the hand gestures as well, arranging her fingers until she can do it perfectly. Soon she does it without noticing, can allow herself to just listen to the sound of his voice as he instructs. One day, his words seem closer to her than usual, even though he is so far away, and she closes her eyes, imagines that he is watching her, not his students, is telling her –

You build up chakra, stop it once it collects between the mouth and the chest area. Once you have enough, you release it all at once.

She inhales deeply, focussing on the warmth in her chest, and then breathes out.

To her absolute shock and horror, flames spew from between her lips and incinerate the tree in front of her.

She stumbles backward in shock and fear, unable to believe what just happened. She takes a split second to look around, to see if anyone saw her, and then takes off at a run, pulling her cumbersome skirts to her knees and stumbling back through the forest.

In the distance, she hears people calling out, confused shouting, demands for water. Commotion as students try to put out the flames with buckets, or with their new chakra wielding talents, she isn’t sure, because she keeps on running –

Only to find her way blocked by Lord Indra.

His eyes blaze at her and she recoils, dropping to her knees and bowing her forehead to the ground.

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry, I didn’t meant to – I didn’t even realise I was – please don’t tell me father, I – I’ll never do it again –”

“How long did it take you?” he interrupts.

She blinks at that, chancing a glance up at him. “M-my lord?”

“You have been watching for weeks but you have never attempted anything before,” he informs her, earnings a small squeak of surprise. “Today you tried. How long did it take you.”

“I-I… not long. I just… I listened to what you said, and I tried it.”

“Hm.”

He gives her an inscrutable look, like he’s considering something he hadn’t before, and she bows her head again. “I didn’t meant to hurt anyone or cause trouble.”

She is aware of the sound of feet near her ear, and when she looks up he has begun to walk away, back to the training grounds. She isn’t sure if she imagines it or not when he mutter, “Next time don’t stand next to a tree.”

夢

“You forgot again, didn’t you?”

Sakura scowls at the gash in Sasuke’s leg, the product of a stray flail and misguided intentions. The villagers in this part of the country are so wary of strangers, they attacked before letting Sakura explain herself. Sasuke, of course, instinctively pushed her out of the way, but ended up with another limb nearly being severed.

“Forgot what?” he grumbles, observing as her fingers glow green over the skin there.

“That you don’t have to protect me,” she chides him. “Even if I didn’t have a basic capacity to dodge, a flail isn’t going to hurt me.”

“Maybe not, but as far as I know, your regenerative abilities don’t apply to the baby,” he reminds her. “You’re not as invincible as you’re used to being.”

Sakura blinks at this, surprise waylaying the retort on her lips.

He’s right.

For a minute, she did forget.

It’s all so new – the changes in her body, the adjustments she’s had to make. No more chakra suppressors, she can’t drink coffee anymore, she’s tired more often – it sometimes feel so disconnected to her. Some days she is completely aware of the new life within her, unable to stop thinking about it, and other days, when everything gets so busy and confusing – like today – she forgets. Even looking in the mirror is deceptive – she doesn’t look pregnant at all, even with her clothes off.

There is movement to the left, and she glances up as two young girls carry in buckets of water; she smiles at them gratefully, earning half-awed, half-shy expressions in return, and then they hurry off.

The villagers backed off when she sent a crushing blow to the ground, forcing them to retreat if they didn’t want to fall into the broken earth. Upon watching her lean down to heal him before he bled out, they finally realised that she was a healer and spent the rest of the evening apologising profusely. They even insisted on putting her and Sasuke up for as long as they wanted to stay, hence the small apartment where they are currently staying.

They even carried Sasuke back here on a litter so she could preserve her healing abilities. He nearly threw a fit at that (he still hates appearing weak in any way) but the people felt so terribly about it, Sakura insisted they go along with it.

Somewhat out of deference to this, she decides to relent a bit.

“I’m sorry,” she tells him, checking the progression of closing skin. “I’ll try to be more careful in the future.”

“Hm.”

“I’m just not used to hanging back. It’s been a while since I had to stay out of the direct line of danger.”

“I know.”

He finally relaxes, however, allowing his eyes to close and breath to even out. As if he didn’t expect her to take it easy until she said the words.

Ridiculous man…

She shakes her head, considering the calm picture he provides. It reminds her of those first few dreams she had, of healing Indra on that beach.

Sasuke’s former incarnation is starkly different than he is, she realises that now. He watched her – watched Shachi – with the distrustful gaze of someone who expected her to be incompetent or treacherous. Sasuke’s attention is intent, but in a different sense – watchful and wary for the sake of he health, not his.

As if being pregnant made her breakable.

She’s forgotten what it’s like to need to be protected. It makes her nightly sojourns in the life and mind of Shachi all the more confusing.

The other woman is such a stark contrast from her. Docile, obedient, hesitant – all of these are qualities she either never possessed or grew out of in her early childhood. Their very nature is utterly opposite.

In fact, even their ability to use chakra is completely different, judging from the way they learned to use it. Shachi’s first act was so powerful, charged enough to destroy an entire tree. Sakura remembers the first time she used ninjutsu, she had to try her hardest just to manage a passable substitution.

And that’s another thing. It’s not just their different temperaments. Why does Sakura have an affinity for water, when Shachi is clearly more suited to fire? Isn’t that the type of thing that should carry over?

“Not necessarily.”

Sakura jumps, realising suddenly that she has been musing out loud the hold time. Sasuke is frowning at her thoughtfully.

“The goal of reincarnation is to be reborn as a better self. Perhaps it means stronger, as well. Water is superior to fire.”

“Oh.”

“I take it you’re dreaming of him again then?” he asks, voice entirely too casual.

Sakura looks away, caught out. She’s been trying to avoid bringing it up because she knows it upsets him. “Only recently. Only last night, really. It’s a little confusing, so I didn’t say anything until I could get my thoughts in order.”

“I’m not going anywhere for the next little while,” he reminds her, nodding to his leg. It’s completely healed by now, and she shoots him an amused look. He raises an eyebrow, as if challenging her to call him on it. “Tell me what you dreamed.”

“As long as you don’t get upset every time I talk about Indra.”

His jaw clenches but he nods. “Fine.”

眠り

Eventually Father grows tired of Lord Indra skirting the issue. He wants to ensure everlasting loyalty, wants someone who will train and preside over his army in perpetuity.

In front of the whole court, he offers a permanent, eternal bond between them.

“My daughter, Shibasuri,” he declares proudly, gesturing to Older Sister. “She will make a fine wife, and through her, your children will be the heirs of my land.”

Every other man in the court seethes at this, because Lord Indra may be strong, but he is a foreigner. And more than a few covet Older Sister for themselves.

But the solemn stranger shows no interest in either offering.

“I have no interest in possessing this land,” he says quietly, his words easily audible in the stunned silence. “And I have no need of a woman who revels in her looks and is ignorant to the world. A creature whose body is starved to uselessness in pursuit of fashion, who will never be fatted with child.”

Older Sister makes a noise born of incandescent fury, and Father turns scarlet in anger.

“You dare – !”

But Lord Indra has turned away from both, and instead his gaze falls upon the crowd.

Upon her as she stand with her guardians.

“I will take this one instead,” he declares imperiously. “On that condition I will remain here.”

She gasps, because this makes no sense. He has never, ever given any indication of seeing her, let alone –

“Shachi?” Father inquires, confusion dampening his anger. “Why would you…? She is of lower status, not of any importance – ”

“I will hear her answer,” Indra interrupts. “And if she has no wish for wedlock, I will take my leave with any disciple that will follow.”

There’s a stunned silence then, a dangerous note of expectation in this, and then the whispering begins. Already the members of the court are wagging their tongues, expressing surprise and glee at this turn of events. They imagine blackmail, a play for power from a younger daughter, a secret love –

It is none of these things. From her weeks observing him, she knows that Lord Indra has his own mind, his own plans that he follows. If he prefers her over her beautiful older sister, there is a reason, and not one as basic and superfluous as caring for her.

Older Sister glowers at her, as if Shachi has indeed done something to organise all of this, and Father frowns at her with a look in his eye that promises a lifetime of broken bones if she doesn’t accept.

He needn’t bother, because she knew the instant that Lord Indra spoke, what her answer was going to be.

Even so, it feels as if she is signing the death warrant of her fate when she whispers, “I accept.”

夢

Sakura stretches a hand over her head, making a high-pitched, purring noise at the back of her throat, and then relaxes once more, head pillowed on Sasuke’s blanket-clad inner thigh. They lie head-to-foot, naked and sated, the smell of sex still lingering in the air.

Sasuke is on his side, his face pressed against one side of her abdomen, his hand curved around the other. His eyes are closed, and his mouth is pulled into a not-quite-smile of tranquility. It’s far too early for any kind of kicking to be felt – for anything to be heard – but it doesn’t seem to matter to Sasuke. Sakura’s own smile is gentle as she reaches forward, brushing his hair back from his face. He cracks his right eye open and there’s that brief look – soft, content and happy – and then he closes it again.

It’s a look that’s reserved only for her and, she knows, their future child, and which encompasses everything. Even though he rarely says it – only when she has him reduced to panting, overwhelmed gasps as she did minutes earlier – she feels the unquestionable love he has for her. Seeing it fills her with warmth from the inside, because it’s something she never truly believed she would experience.

It makes her feel guilty for asking him, once, if the only reason he wanted to be with her was to repopulate his clan. Sasuke was, by then, a changed man.

Such a difference from the man in her dreams.

She wonders about him. His temperament, his motives, his relationship with Shachi…

“Why do you think he chose her?”

“Hm?” Sasuke’s voice is low and rough from sleep.

“Indra,” Sakura clarifies dimly, gazing up at the wooden ceiling. “He washes up in this strange land, tries to kill her, disappears, then comes back. And her father offers him practically the world, anything a guy back then would want, and he throws it back in his face over Shachi. A girl he barely even spoke a hundred words to.” She shakes her head in confusion. “That’s something a person does for the one they love, but I don’t…do you think he was even capable of it at that point?”

“Capable of?”

“Love.”

Sasuke is silent for a long moment, leaving her wondering if he intends to answer the question. Then he says, “I don’t think it was possible in the way you understand it.”

“Meaning?”

“After being betrayed – or rather, after deciding he had been betrayed – by Hagoromo and Ashura, he would have been more guarded than ever. He wouldn’t have been capable of feeling for her what…” He trails off here, his voice becoming more quiet, more furtive, “For what I feel for you.”

She doesn’t acknowledge the admission beyond a soft smile – he gets defensive and grumpy if she makes a big deal out of moments like this.

Instead, she returns to the topic. “So why choose her?”

“She did help him. He may have seen it as repaying a debt.”

“But he also said she reminded him of being weak. And she was weak. Wouldn’t the likelier choice have been the older sister? The one with status?”

“A man like him would chose a bride more suited to his purposes. You told me she had the ability to use chakra – which she learned just by observing his teachings,” Sasuke points out. “To members of my clan, Shachi would be the more sought-after candidate.”

Sakura considers this, and then nods. “That make sense.”

“I don’t believe it was the whole reason though.”

She shoots him a confused look.

“He might have seen her as a parallel of himself,” Sasuke continues, thoughtful. “A child mistreated by family. In his view, he was betrayed by his; this girl, she’s the scapegoat of her own kin – and for an utterly underserved reason, based on what you’ve told me.”

“But in that case, wouldn’t it make more sense to kill her family? Why agree to a marriage with her? An actual link to these people?”

“I have no doubt he had some kind of long-term motive. However…I suspect it may have been different than anything he actively planned.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s entirely possible, she provided him with something he didn’t even realise he was missing,” Sasuke tells her, staring off into the distance. “As far gone as he was, he needed something to ground him. When Indra first awakened his abilities, he was strong because he was protecting someone precious. His brother. And he remained strong, even as he became more drawn to the darkness, because he always thought he had the support of his father and brother. When that was gone – when Hagoromo named Ashura as his successor – for the first time in his life, he was truly alone. When you have as much power as he did, and as much hatred, you need something to justify your actions – some goal that makes everything else you do worthwhile.”

She knows now that he is speaking of himself, and not Indra. Of how his love for his brother drove him to commit horrible acts.

“Then he meets this girl, and she’s obviously drawn to him, and she helps him,” Sakura suggests. “And he keeps seeing her, and he knows she’s in a bad situation, so he starts to feel what it’s like to have someone trust in him again.”

It sounds far too plausible, and Sakura shivers. She doesn’t like the idea of Indra using Shachi’s misfortune for himself, but at the same time, she knows that the other woman – this shrinking violet – would see it as an opportunity to escape. In a way, the two are saving each other, even if they don’t know it.

“Hm.” Sasuke nods here. “She is someone who will be utterly loyal to him – both because of who she is as a person, and because as a wife, it is her duty to be subservient to his will.”

Sakura lifts her head and shoots him a sardonic smirk. “Oh, so I have to be subservient to you now?”

“…I refuse to answer that question on the grounds that I may incriminate myself.”

“Damn right,” she nods, falling back, and then squeaks indignantly when he tweaks her left nipple in retribution. She slaps his hand away and then jabs a finger in his general direction. “Don’t start something if you don’t intend to follow through.”

Sasuke snorts. “Who said I didn’t intend to follow through?”

眠り

The wedding approaches, and for the first time in her entire life, Shachi finds herself treated according to her station.

She is bathed in scented waters and anointed with rich oils, adorned in silks and jewels, and fed the finest foods that her servants tease will ensure she bears healthy children.

Older Sister lingers resentfully in the background, while father busies himself with the preparations. Whatever he felt for her in the past, whatever he feels for her now, his greed for the power Lord Indra can provide has increased tenfold since seeing what the young man can do. He pretends like he has never resented her, calls her his “beloved child” and introduces her to visiting dignitaries.

The wedding is meant to be lavish, a way of showcasing Father’s current wealth, and offer hint of what it might become. In this, he is able to stand up to Lord Indra’s more frugal nature. For his part, the prospective bridegroom is nowhere to be found and makes no effort to involve himself in the affair; he continues to train in the courtyards up until the day of the ceremony.

That morning, she is woken at dawn and bathed. Her handmaidens draw long black ribbons of henna across her forehead and face, crisscrossing around her neck and again above her breasts, winding down her arms and legs as if she has been encircled by a snake. Her hair is braided with freshly picked cherry blossoms, and golden rings are fitted around her wrists, neck, fingers and even one through her nose. It all feels heavy and cumbersome but she knows better than to complain. The bridal gown is of red silk, the only garment she has ever worn that was not one of her sister’s castoffs, and the final touch is a purple, rhombus-shaped jewel set in the centre of her forehead.

Father walks her down the aisle at a quick pace, as if worried that the longer he takes, the sooner his future son-in-law may change his mind. Older Sister holds her veil for her, and as she goes to sit at her place, sneers quietly, “Do not think your life will be without hardship.”

Lord Indra stands at the front of the assembled guests, bored and irritated, and he doesn’t even acknowledge her when she is beside him. The high priest begins the ceremony, raising the sacred marriage cup before them, his words washing over her.

Shachi’s mind is strangely blank at this, either from disbelief or fear for the future, and Sakura feels more present in the moment than she has in months. The marriage ritual is very different from any she has ever seen, from her own wedding to Sasuke, and while she is uneasy about the circumstances, she can’t help being fascinated.

The priest places a smooth, obsidian rock – taken from the sacred river of their land – and wishes them an enduring and lasting union. He pours wine and honey as well, wishing fertility and health, and then takes their hands, lightly pricking their palms over the rim of the cup, to signify the mingling of their blood now and in the future. Then, he passes it first to Lord Indra, who will be master of the union.

Her bridegroom takes a tip – barely wets his lips – and passes it back. His expression never changes, and he still doesn’t look at her.

Then the cup is in front of her face, the priest reminds her of her duties as wife now. She begins to lift the cup to her lips as well –

Lord Indra chokes suddenly, and doubles over.

There is stunned silence all around, the high priest stares in wide-eyed horror, and there are gasps from the other guest.

“My lord?” she whispers, reaching for him. “Are you…?”

His eyes snap toward her, flickering red and black and she gasps. But it isn’t the Sharingan that have her shocked. Instead, she rapidly takes in the sight of his features – pupils dilated, mouth slackening, a bluish tint around his lips.

“Poison!” she cries, because she can’t do anything else here. “He’s been poisoned!” Her head whips around, looking for someone who might help. “Fetch a healer!”

Father appears shell-shocked, slow to realise what is happening, and Older Sister –

She stands to one side, smirking and with a look in her eyes that is all-too-knowing.

“You…” Sakura – Shachi? – realises. “Why would you – ?”

Indra begins to convulse, and the answer never comes. Instead, she falls to her knees, trying to hold his flailing arms as he convulses. Shachi is terrified, that fear returning her to full control, pushing Sakura’s awareness down again, but she refuses to allow this.

You can stay out of this right now, or he’s going to die!

She focusses her attention – sees the cup dropped by the priest, liquid spilling out. The sacred rock as rolled a few inches away as well, leaving a strange, chalky residue.

So that’s what it was. Poison in the marriage cup. Indra wasn’t the only intended victim.

Her mind flips through a mental catalogue of poisons, all while calculating the amount of time it will take before he dies. Given how fast he reacted, the chalky nature, the blue veins on the mouth

“Ainu,” she determines. It’s a relative of aconite, albeit much more potent. There isn’t much out there that can save him, and in the limited time she has, she doubt’s she’ll be able to find –

Then she freezes, remembering herself.

No way. No way could it be that much of a coincidence.

Her hands fly to her hair, tugging out the delicate blossoms there. Cherry blossoms have some healing properties, but aren’t used very often in antidotes –

Except in cases of ainu poisoning.

She doesn’t pause to dwell on the improbability of it all. Instead, she begins to crush up the petals – in her fingers at first, then an idea occurs to her and she puts them in her mouth, chewing them into a pulp and leaning forward to press her lips against his. As she pushes the petal paste into his mouth, she wills her chakra into him as well, calling up every bit of her concentration to do so. She visualises her energy moving into him, chasing the poison through his veins and overtaking it.

She doesn’t find out if she succeeds or not, because that’s when she suddenly loses her control. All of her concentration, all of her focus in helping him, recoils like an elastic band. She is once more, no more than a passenger, and Indra gives one last violent tremor, and then goes still.

Someone emits of a moan of grief.

It takes a stunned second for Sakura to realise the sound came from her. To understand that her dream self is weeping, throwing herself over Indra’s chest. This man, who she saved, who in demanding her hand offered her a future away from the abuses of her blood kin, and now he has left her before there was even a chance.

Tears streaming from her eyes, she looks up as Father demands of Older Sister, “What were you thinking? You’ve ruined it all!”

“I have done nothing but save you from a charlatan,” she replies airily. “He had no interest in becoming your right hand, Father, he would have taken his students and left you with ease. And if he truly intended to honour your wishes, he would have accepted the bride you offered, not that.” She tosses her hair. “Now, we have men who have sworn oaths of loyalty to you, who know of his teachings, and they won’t tempted to disappear with their wandering master.”

Father’s expression becomes thoughtful at this, and he nods slowly.

“Besides,” Older Sister goes on, a cruel set to her mouth. “He gave me insult, in public, and that is something that cannot be abided. How dare – ”

But her words are quickly and brutally cut short.

A bolt of lightning rips through the ceremonial hall, through her shoulder and out her heart, leaving a bloodied and black hole in its place. Shachi screams in horror, staring at the shocked expression on Older Sisters face as her body crumples to the ground. Father’s bellow of surprise turns to terror, and she understands why, because Indra is alive.

He shrugs her off and stands, moving like the lightening that just passed through her sister’s body, and grabbing Father by the throat.

“Those who break oaths are scum. Those who betray their own blood are worse than scum,” he growls. “And that cup was meant for her as much as it was for me.” It’s the only warning he gives before twisting his fingers, snapping the man’s neck. “A man who makes a move against me makes a proclamation that he is my enemy. And I will not allow my enemies to live and take a second opportunity to weaken men.”

Eyes still blazing red fire, he turns to the stunned guests.

“Your lord is dead. Either rise up and avenge him, or flee. One of those choices will lead to a swift death, so choice wisely.”

As he takes a few steps down the procession toward the door, there is a flurry of movement. Guests and members of the court scatter, tripping over each other in their finery. She is left on her knees, gaping at his back, unsure what just happened.

Then, as he did before, he turn to face her once more.

“You have saved my life twice,” he tells her coolly. “And so I will offer you a choice. An opportunity. Save yourself. Forget this farce of a ceremony and ties you agreed to for their sake. Leave this place and seek a happier future, with a man who will offer you the respect and fondness you desire. Or –” his eyes darken back to black here, “come with.”

Her mouth parts in surprise at this.

“If you do, know that from this moment, you will be completely mine. And I am not a patient man. I am neither gentle nor kind, and your life will be one of duty. You will bring forth children to whom I can pass on my legacy. So long as you are loyal and obedient, I can make you a goddess by my side, but if you falter I will make their deaths look enviable.”

Terror and confusion make it hard to understand what he is saying to her. For several seconds, she can only stare from his intent face down to the corpses of her father and sister, turning over his words in her head.

And then it makes sense.

He is giving her a choice.

She has never, in her entire life, known what it is to make a decision that is not based on the will or needs of another. For the first time, she is free. She gets to decide what her destiny will be.

The gesture brings tears to her eyes, because she knows he is not a man who operates in choice. There is his will and death, but here he is, offering her the chance to leave that behind. And with the same certainty that he could stand against any of her father’s vassals who would challenge him, she knows he would let her walk away to a better life if she chose.

She wonders, as she takes his hand, if he realises how terrifyingly easy it is to make her decision.

__________________________________

つづく

To be continued in another prompt :)

I hope you enjoyed the story! As part of the SasuSakuFestival, please go to the ssfest page and vote, like and/or reblog, it would be majorly appreciated!

クリ

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