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#ignore the coloring its awful but i cried so here's a set for it
hakkikun · 2 years
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❝I always lied to you and asked you to forgive me. Deliberately keeping you at a distance by my own hand. All because I didn't want you to get caught up in any of this. But now, I believe that perhaps you could have changed father, mother and the rest of the Uchiha.❞ ✧ NARUTO SHIPPUDEN Episodes 138 & 339
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deadpuppetboi · 6 months
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Goretober Day 2: Rot/Decay
The alarm sounded, mimicking a crying bird, as the young teen rushed away, cards in hand and tears in their eyes.
Their lungs burned as they took sharp in-and-out breaths, while their legs felt like jello. They went around every corner they could find, attempting every door they could locate to swipe the cards and find a way out. Whatever stood in their way was either disregarded or bypassed entirely; nothing was going to keep them from leaving this place once and for all.
They turned to another corridor, scolding themselves as they recognized the inside, then going back to check if they had missed anything.
This place was like a maze.
A confining and perplexing maze with seemingly no way in or out. Just a copy and paste of halls, doors, and thrown papers all over the place, with that awful alarm wailing on and on.
Willow paused to take a breather, smoothing their long black hair back as they took in their surroundings. Their black gaze trailed to the cards they had collected since their departure. They held three cards, all of different colors and levels, that would allow the teenager to pass through any door that allowed them to do so.
They huffed in anger as they turned to another drab and empty hallway with what the teenager mistook for another door. Regardless, they moved forward, pulling out one of the cards to check whether it opened the door.
They hadn't anticipated the door, or rather the elevator doors, to open. As recognizable masked figures covered their vision, the teenager took a step back, preparing to flee before the sounds of firearms being raised were overheard.
"Stop!" A commanding voice demanded as Willow froze and reflexively raised their hands in the air. "Don't move!"
"I wasn't planning to," Willow snarled.
Armed men in gray and black rushed out of the elevator, rifles lifted and aimed at the adolescent as they surveyed the area. Willow criticized themselves as they were forced to give up the cards in their hands, give up their one chance of escape, and be brought in once more.
"Clear," a guard cried out as they walked down the corridor with one another.
"Clear," another guard cried out as they moved forward, taking care not to make themselves a target.
Willow was shoved against the wall, face pressed into the cold, their hands were wrenched back, and the familiar feeling of metal dug into their skin. When they were thrown to the ground, pistols still aimed, they clicked their tongue and let out another lengthy sigh.
"Don't start," one of the soldiers said as they regarded Willow, "consider yourself lucky, if you ran any further you'd be facing God knows what in this place."
Willow scoffed.
"Rather deal with that than this shit," they hissed as they were restrained by another guard.
One guard spoke into his radio in a low but pleased tone.
"Scp-8356 has been captured; prepare the containment chamber for its eventual return."
The other end of the line gave a 10-4, thereby ending the conversation. Willow didn't care; what they did care about was that they had missed out on the opportunity to find the escape. However, this was not the first or, most likely, the last time they had fled their confinement; their minds had set up another strategy to get out of here.
It couldn't be as huge as Willow had imagined. There has to be an escape route; it couldn't have been bending and shifting their path to confuse them.
There was an entrance and an exit, but the teen was stranded in the middle.
And, as before, they were apprehended and thrown into the same cage, where they were presumably told their privileges had been terminated. Another cycle to begin, trapped in a cage, asked the same old questions and presumably subjected to another experiment to evaluate their ability.
Their irrational and God-awful abilities.
Willow remained silent, their head down as they groaned and closed their eyes. They clinched their fists and sighed in frustration, ignoring their boring garments that adorned a sign they'd grown to despise.
A drawn circle with three arrows crossing its contour and heading to the center.
Secure. Contain. Protect.
Fuck that.
Willow felt the back of their eyes burn, and they battled to hold the tears at bay.
They were about to cry when they heard a scream from the far end of the hallway and a sudden burst of bullets. They flinched, their head snapping to the sound as the guards around them did as well. With their weapons drawn, a few made their way to the source of the noise before it turned deadly quiet.
"What's going on, Ramirez?" one guard exclaimed.
For a long time, there was silence, causing two guards to walk forward and investigate what had occurred. Two guards remained with Willow, keeping their rifles fixed on them to prevent them from fleeing. Willow watched as the two guards trained their weapons at the end of the corridor, scanning for any blind spots to see what had happened.
They proceeded a few more paces, forming what Willow imagined was a yard, before coming to a halt. One guard coughed, while the other smelled; they appeared perplexed for a few seconds before beginning to examine their surroundings.
"Smith," a guard yelled out next to Willow, "report!"
One of the soldiers in front of them turned back, as if he was about to say something before it occurred to them. It was a dark and goopy sludge that bubbled slightly as it made contact with the guard's helmet.
"The hell-"
He automatically went out to touch the unusual substance, his head thrown back to see the source before something else fell.
It was a big glob of the same substance, but this time it had totally disintegrated the guard's shield. Once through, the man let out an ear-splitting cry as he grasped onto his face. Everyone took a step back in horror as the guard slumped back and continued to scream. Eyes shot up, weapons pulled, a strange black vacuum bubble emerging through the gaps in the ceiling.
Willow watched in terror as two withered hands peered through the seething void, grasping at the edges and pushing themselves out. As the onslaught proceeded, the guards opened fire, bullets ringing out and loud bangs pricing Willow's ears.
Nonetheless, sickly laughter resonated through the corridors.
"Oh God-" A voice screeched before the sickly patched thing plummeted from the ceiling and landed on him. When they made contact, the guard's garments began to melt like paper in front of a fire before latching onto his skin. The guard, like the guard before him, let out a piercing scream, his throat scratching in agony as his body began to tremble.
Willow began to draw back, their hand behind their back, their gaze fixed on the beast before them, and they neglected to notice the guards attempting to stop them.
"Don't move," one guard said, but Willow made their way up.
"Forget it," the other guard snarled as he continued shooting at the rotten man approaching him, "it doesn't matter now!"
Willow didn't seem to mind their discussion as they moved their hands over to press the elevator button. They kept pressing on it as the rotten old man got closer, oblivious to the gunshots that penetrated its skin. It only laughed at it, at the anguish, and at the exhausting attempts to halt it.
Willow hammered on whatever buttons they could reach with their limitations as the elevator slowly opened, bypassing the doors. The seemingly melting figure began to sink into the ground below, squatting slowly as another void began to develop from beneath. The guards were perplexed before two hands appeared from beneath them, gripping their ankles and dragging them down like fish on a hook.
Willow stumbled back to the corner as they both shouted as the elevator began to close its doors.
Willow watched as the old man glanced at them, his once-thin smile widening and becoming vicious as the doors finally closed. The elevator began to rise, Willow working quickly to loosen the handcuffs in order to liberate themselves. They were successful in digging the metal into the wrists, causing them to hiss and curse as they struggled on.
They hadn't noticed the bubbling from behind them.
The elevator continued to move, slightly clicking as it approached the floor from above. Willow had hoped that they wouldn't have to confront that beast face to face. They attempted to break the handcuffs to release their hands before a hand grazed their back.
Willow leaped forward, bending their heads back to see the same old man they had seen earlier, now worn and filthy beyond repair up close. Its smile was as wide as it had always been, with cracked yellowed teeth squeezed together like glue and wrinkles pulling at the edges of its skin as it laughed hauntingly.
Willow lurched to the other side of the elevator, eyes wild as the hands behind their back struggled with the buttons.
The old man began to emerge from the nothingness, laughing as he looked at the adolescent before him. It's horrible skin bubbling with pus and cysts, breathing haggardly and gurgling from the back of his throat.
It went onto the elevator level and started walking over to Willow.
"Wait, no- Stop! Stop! Stop!" shouted Willow.
The beast extended one skeletal hand toward the adolescent, tempting them with its lethal touch. Willow could feel the corner of the wall grind into their back, immobilizing them; all they could do was stare in terror as the hand-stretched over and grabbed their shoulder.
For a moment, Willow felt nothing.
And then they felt a sudden prick.
Then the prick turned into a sharp pain.
And that sharp ache evolved into a searing sensation that seemed to run the length of their arm.
Willow let out a terrible scream, their eyes wide and watering, their nerves exposed, they yelled out as their garments and skin burnt as if a fire had grazed them. They tried to back up, trying to get away from the old man, only to have another hand stretch out and grab their injured arm, volatile fingers burrowing like clay into his burning skin.
Willow screamed again, their throat now tight from the pain, and their eyesight blurred.
Their arm began to fizzle, like boiling water in a kettle, and their skin began to bubble and rip, displaying their tissues. As the pain intensified, their shouts became mute, the old man's fingers gripping their decaying flesh and peeling it away to show the bone beneath. Which had disintegrated beneath his touch, his laughter booming as he ripped apart the teenager's arm as if it were a puzzle piece.
Willow collapsed to their back, crying silently as fresh tears streamed down their flushed cheeks.
They'd gone into shock, only experiencing pain pulses as they gasped and shook slightly. The handcuffs on their hands were dissolving from the acid dripping from the old man's flesh. They heaved in disgust as a lump developed at the back of their throat as they crawled back as far as they could, smacking the elevator doors.
The black material ate away at their skin, continuing its lethal touch as the old man looked down at the adolescent with sadistic delight. It lifted up the teenager's lifeless arm and shook it back and forth, teasing them as they yelled out in agony as a new wave of pain overwhelmed them.
They attempted to reach down and grasp the adolescent once more to prolong their agony before something happened.
Willow felt something rip through their scorched skin. Something sharp and white went through them like a bullet, ignoring how their melted skin tore off in clumps. They hissed as the white frames began to reassemble into a particular shape. It began to expand and crack together into a familiar structure, and the upper arm, forearm, elbow, wrist, and fingers began to reassemble themselves.
Muscles grew from the freshly created bones while reddish tissue burst out and bound together like a spider web. Before long, pale skin began to coat the newly created muscles, coating them and restoring the fingers' nails.
Willow held up their repaired arm in front of their tear-stained face, gasping slightly as pins and needles surged throughout their limb. More tears streamed down their cheeks as they tightened their fists and gently stretched their fingers as if to regain their composure.
“Ow. Ow. Ow.”
The old man slowly turned his head to the side, as if perplexed by what had just occurred. He stared down at the dismembered limb he was carrying before tossing it to the side as if it didn't matter anymore. Its smile twisted and widened, revealing its decaying gums as he reached across to grab Willow once again.
Food that wouldn't spoil was exactly what he needed.
Willow screamed, flinching at the notion of having to repeat the previous horrific event.
A ping was heard, and the elevator doors began to open.
Willow got themselves up and rushed away without hesitation, ignoring the numbing sensation that ran down their arm. The beast simply looked up and watched as the teenager rounded a corner and spirited away, leaving the old man in his wake. It laughed and dug its way through the floor, leaving another ugly void it constructed and controlled by hand and thought.
This cat-and-mouse game had only just begun.
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rocorambles · 3 years
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Lost and Found
Pairing: Yuji x Reader
Summary: You’ve always wondered what happened to that pink haired boy who had become your closest friend in the very early years of your life and you finally get the answers you’ve been searching for.
A/N: This is for the Anilysium Server’s SFW collab. Masterlist can be found here!
The first thing you notice about Yuji is his pink hair. There are lots of kids your age playing in the park, laughing and talking to each other in the sandbox, on the swings, at the playground. But it’s that shocking head of pink that grabs your attention and with childish innocence and curiosity you make a beeline for the boy you don’t know, ignoring your mom’s warning to stop running. And it’s with embarrassment that your mom chases after you, profusely apologizing to Yuji’s grandfather when you grab a tuft of that soft pink hair in your little fist in awe.
But fortunately for the both of you, the older man just smiles and waves away your mom’s mortification and Yuji giggles, light brown eyes sparking as he grabs a strand of your hair in return, commenting on its color.
It might be the strangest greeting either adult has ever seen, but it seems to work as you both release each other’s hair and instinctively reach for each other’s hands as you race towards the sandbox, chattering about what the two of you can build together with the little plastic buckets and shovels sprawled about.
Yuji’s always been a social child, boys and girls naturally drawing towards his sunny disposition and outgoing nature. So it’s not shocking to see how quickly he’s befriended you. But what is interesting is how attached he is to you and his grandfather smiles in amusement when Yuji instantly searches for you first when he goes to the park each day, flat out ignoring the excited cries from his other friends to join them, either perking up or pouting depending on if you’re there or not. And to both his and your mother’s entertainment, you seem equally enamored. The two adults exchange knowing smiles when you practically drag your mom into a sprint upon seeing your new best friend.
Your parents take turns taking you to the park depending on their work schedules and on the weekends the three of you all go, enjoying a day off as a family. The Itadoris get to know both your parents well and the adults picnic and chat amicably and easily as Yuji and you romp and run around the park.
But it was only a matter of time before your curiosity got the better of you and for once Yuji is quiet when you ask him why it’s always his grandpa who brings him to the park.
“Where’s your mommy and daddy?”
There’s no malicious intent and you quirk your head in confusion when he doesn’t immediately answer what seems like an easy question to you.
“I don’t have a mommy and daddy.”
You’re not sure what to do or think of that reply, so you easily move on to your next question full speed ahead in a way only children can, leaving the weird feeling surrounding Yuji and you far behind. And this time it’s Yuji’s turn to cock his head in confusion with your next inquiry.
“Do you want to get married when you’re older?”
“Married? What’s that?”
“Married like my mommy and daddy! It’s when two people really like each other and want to spend the rest of their lives together.”
The concept of a mom and dad aren’t foreign to Yuji. He knows it’s normal, knows he’s the odd man out even at his young age with only a grandpa to take care of him. But he’s never dwelled too much on why he doesn’t have a pair of parents, fully satisfied and happy living with his grandpa.
But marriage...that’s a new concept he can’t quite understand, something he’s never seen firsthand or grown up with in the household. And he listens in awe as you ramble on with your explanation.
Is that why your parents always seem so happy together? Is that why grandpa sometimes seems so sad? Because he isn’t married? Yuji wants to be happy too!
“Let’s get married!”
You stare wide-eyed at the enthusiastic boy staring intently at you, surprised by the decisiveness in his tone.
“I really like you and I want to play together with you forever!”
Well when he puts it like that…
You grab his hands in yours and excitedly nod your head.
“I really like you too! Let’s tell my parents and your grandpa!”
Three sets of mouths gape at the two of you when you determinedly stand in front of where the adults are seated, hands entwined as you announce that the two of you are going to get married. And then there’s laughter and your parents and Yuji’s grandfather are cooing and shaking their heads in amusement at how adorable the two of you are.
“Marriage is for when you’re older, so Yuji and you have to wait a little longer until you get married, okay?”
“Okay!” you both scream before running off to play on the slide, promise already pushed to the back of your little heads as you shriek and giggle about who can get down the slide faster.
Life continues on and despite how months pass and then years, the two of you never tire of each other, only seeming to become closer and closer. So it makes it that much more jarring when Yuji suddenly disappears.
Your parents don’t know what to do, cursing themselves for not exchanging numbers with Yuji’s grandfather and their hearts break watching you patiently sit alone on a park bench, refusing to play with or meet anyone else, telling everyone you’re waiting for your best friend. They hope it’s just a one day thing, but one day becomes two, two becomes three, and when Yuji and his grandfather never appear for an entire month, you also stop going to the park, the location only causing you more distress than good.
Fortunately this happens not too long before you enter middle school and your parents sigh in relief when you become too busy acclimating to a new school environment and making new friends to continue crying over the sudden loss of your best friend. Sadness is more fleeting in your youth and they’re grateful for this, warmly welcoming the new friends you bring back home after school to study with.
You never forget Yuji. You don’t think you could ever completely forget the boy who had been your first ever close friend. But he begins to become a distant fond memory, a mystery you think you’ll never solve. You think of him from time to time, especially as you get older and gossip about cute boys in high school, giggling and asking each other how many kids you want when you’re older, who you’re going to marry.
A wistful smile spreads across your face and you remember how sure you had been as a child that Yuji was going to be your husband, confident promises from two children who didn’t know the first thing about marriage and love. You wonder what he looks like now. Is he as happy and easygoing as he used to be? Is he as loud and talkative? Does he have a girlfriend?
You get your answer sooner than you had expected and you freeze in the middle of the busy Tokyo streets when a familiar shock of pink hair enters your line of sight. The boy’s back is turned to you and you tell yourself you’re being overdramatic. It’s Tokyo. People dye their hair all types of colors now. So what if someone else has pink hair?
But your heart tells you differently. It’s been over a decade since you’ve seen that little boy, but you swear it’s the same exact shade of pink you remember grabbing in your tiny hands back then. And before rationality can catch up to your soul, your body is already moving, drawing closer and closer to that broad back.
“Yuji?”
The name comes out softer than you intended and you wonder if he heard you. But then he’s turning and your throat begins to choke as a pair of familiar light brown eyes lock with yours. There are millions of people in Tokyo, hundreds swarming around the two of you as they make their way to the next destination. But at this moment, it’s only the two of you and before you know it he’s rushing towards you and you gasp at the feeling of a calloused thumb gently brushing your face.
“Don’t cry. Please don’t cry. Oh my God, I can’t believe it’s really you.”
You don’t even realize the tears streaming down your face that Yuji is desperately trying to wipe away. Oh, that’s why he looks so blurry right now and you give him a happy watery smile before flinging your arms around him, soul at peace when you feel him return the embrace.
He’s so different from the young boy you knew. Taller, bigger, stronger. And yet, despite the many years that have passed, you can’t help but feel like not much has really changed at all. It feels completely natural for him to lace his fingers with yours like he used to and you let him lead you to a nearby cafe where he prattles on and on about what he’s been up to since you last saw him.
It feels surreal, like a rose tinted dream, and you tightly clutch at his hand even when you’re seated across from each other, afraid that if you let go, he’ll disappear and you’ll wake up all alone again. Turns out he’s just as talkative as he used to be and you find comfort in the familiarity of his tone despite the fact that his voice is a few decibels lower.
His grandfather suddenly got so sick that they needed to send him to a hospital and with no other adults to take care of Yuji, he couldn’t go to the park and tell you what had happened. You only cry harder when Yuji becomes teary eyed himself when he tells you how he went to the park almost everyday when he was old enough to go himself in middle school, hoping to find you so he could explain what had happened all those years ago. And Yuji joins your watery breakdown when you tell him how you waited a month for him (eternity for a young child), how you sat alone and never played with anyone else because you were always hoping that he’d show up again.
When your drinks and food arrive, you sniffle and laugh, drying your eyes, one hand each still firmy locked in each other’s grasp on the table.
“No more crying. We’re going to make up for lost time.”
Your parents are stunned when you bring Yuji back home with you that day and there’s more crying when they find out what had happened and of Yuji’s grandfather’s death. But they’re quick to welcome back the boy in their little family and Yuji becomes a common sight in your household and at your dining table, joining your families for meals and birthdays, studying with you, watching anime and playing video games late into the night, helping your mom with cooking and your dad with chores around the house. And the confirmation that he’s part of the family is only solidified when your parents tell you that all four of you will be going to visit Yuji’s grandfather’s grave together to pay your respects.
There’s not a single dry eye as you all picnic and sit in front of the tombstone and Yuji gratefully accepts the forehead kisses and hugs your parents shower him with, never once letting your hand go as you chat to Itadori-san’s spirit. You give your parents some alone time, letting them talk at length to the old man they had grown so close to while Yuji and you had played.
The two of you reminisce on those carefree days, teasing each other about who can build a bigger sandcastle now. You giggle and ask him if he remembers promising to marry you, joking about how silly and innocent the two of you were then. And you turn to Yuji, expecting to see him laughing with you, but there’s not a hint of humor on his face as he resolutely stares at you, light brown eyes concentrated as they gaze at you.
“I still want to marry you.”
You gape at him, waiting for him to break character, laugh and make fun of your dumbfounded expression. But it never comes and instead he tentatively grabs your hands, holding them in his, thumbs brushing soothingly over your trembling knuckles.
You’ve never seen Yuji nervous before. You don’t think you even thought it was possible for him to be afraid of anything. But standing in front of you, light brown eyes uncharacteristically flitting about as he tries to find adequate words, he looks so vulnerable, so sincere, so genuine. And you wait with bated breath, hope fluttering in your chest.
“I like you, like really like you. I know I said that when we were kids, but it’s still true, just like it was true back then. We lost a decade together and I know we’re still making up for that lost time, but I can’t help but feel like what we have hasn’t changed a bit. If anything I like you even more now…”
He trails off and your chest feels like it’s about to burst in fondness when you watch him trail off, uncertainty and embarrassment obvious in the way he shifts from foot to foot, a pink flush gracing his cheeks.
“I like you too, Yuji. Like...really like you.”
You giggle at the pout he gives you at the teasing tone of your voice as you use his words against him. But then it’s your turn to shift your weight from side to side as you also try to wrap your tongue around the feelings Yuji’s stirred inside of you since your reunion.
“I think I know exactly what you mean. We aren’t little kids who only run around and play in sandboxes and playgrounds anymore. There’s a giant gap between then and now that we’re trying to bridge. But I feel like reuniting at this age and seeing how well and easily we connect even now only makes me like you even more. It’s like our souls have grown together in a way despite the distance, like we were always destined to be joined at the hips.”
You stifle a chuckle at the way Yuji perks up, looking all the world like an eager puppy who’s spotted their precious owner, anxious energy surrounding him as he waits on your next words.
“So I guess what I’m saying is TBD on marriage, but if you’ll have me, I’d like to try dating.”
Your sentence isn’t even fully complete before you watch in mortification and giddiness at how quickly Yuji drops to one knee, the picture perfect of a man about to propose (if it weren’t for both your high school uniforms making it very obvious that this isn’t a typical marriage proposal).
“Will you be my girlfriend?”
There’s only one answer and you simply utter a “yes” that turns into a squeal as Yuji practically lunges at you, sweeping you in his arms and twirling you around.
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hpalways · 3 years
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Broken Petals || Kazuha
Note: This is a hanahaki disease Kazuha oneshot! So heads up, angst is waiting hehe
Some days, he could hear it, crawling right out of him. Other days, it would be serene as the rippling waters below him. It usually altered between the two, distorting his reality for a few while the wind tickled his ears and the trees warned him of the inevitable. He was connected with the outside world, allowing them to guide him on all aspects of his life, because he longed for freedom. But this one very thing, he shrunk away from their touch, too stubborn to rescind the very thing that kept him going.
His eyes trailed to the [h/c] locks that furled with the breeze, to the gentle smile that was locked on your lips as you pulled at the wagon through the fields. Being the small townsperson you were, you worked in the fields of Inazuma daily until you had nothing left to lose. It was a difficult life, but most had no other choice, shouldering burdens to carry a family back home. Your mother sick and your brother too young, you were the one to take care of everyone. 
But deep inside, he sensed something more from you. It was a longing of freedom, just as he did. Each time he approached you, he could hear relief in your breath -- relief from the harsh labor that always came to haunt. 
"Do you need help?" he asked quietly, extending a hand to the handle of the wagon you lugged. 
You shook your head, gratefully smiling nonetheless. "You know it's always going to be a no. Besides, I'm almost done anyway. Instead, why don't you tell me a poem like you do sometimes? That, in itself, helps me a lot."
Pondering for a second, he watched your figure for a silent moment, red hues drinking you in. That was what he always loved about you. You were so selfless, so graceful, and so beautiful. You didn't need to be a noble to show off such attributes to everyone -- you didn't need to wear silky robes to become the person everyone looked up to. Nothing you did was ever taken for granted, because you lived your life with a smile, despite never being able to achieve your true dream. 
In the dark shed, he realized how tight spaced it was. Cheeks glowing warmly to be in close proximity to you, he stayed on the side to see you shoving the large wagon back. He dug his heels into the cool dirt when you turned to him, wiping sweat off your forehead happily. "No poem today? Aw, that's too bad." Stepping up to the samurai, you pat his cheek in a friendly manner. "Your presence was enough, so that's okay. Oh... I shouldn't dirty you in my hands. I'm sorry about that." Just as you were retracting your hand, he instinctively latched his fingers onto your arm to stop you. [e/c] irises widened momentarily, bewilderment coloring your features. 
There was nothing romantic about this -- not at all rosy like the poems he made up with his thoughts on you. He let out a sigh and released your arm. "My apologies," he whispered, stalking right out of the shed before you could utter a word. "I need to get going now."
His trek back to his home was a quick one, with stealthy footsteps from all his training as a samurai. The sun was setting warmly, casting shades of orange and pinks across the skies in an ombre fashion. 
Though each step was quick, the heavier it got as it went on. 
He thought about the Vision Hunt Decree and how he would have to escape from Inazuma soon. No matter what, he couldn't stay here, not when all his aspirations were kept in his vision. After what his dear friend went through to fight against the Decree, Kazuha could never sit back and allow the officials to rob of him. 
If he were to leave Inazuma, then there was one thing he wanted to do, to wrap things up and cut clean ties.
Arriving at his home, he walked into the cold building. Just before he could go in deeper, an unfathomable pain spread through his torso. Releasing a gasp, he crumbled to the floor, clenching his stomach and curling up into a ball. Salty tears clung to the corner of his eyes, blurring his vision and setting the world on fire. He was burning along it, fireworks going off internally, trickling red, red, and more red, that soon grew black. 
His nails curled into the wood planked floors while he whimpered, the agony becoming unbearable. Getting into a fitful cough, every sound he let out wrenched at his soul, tearing it into pieces. They took their time, shoving an arm down his esophagus and cackling in joy at his suffering. 
One last cough stopped the pain. Something flew out of his mouth, daintily spinning in the air like a lone ballerina. It was a petal, coated in thick blood at the edges.
Another one. 
Numbly staring at the sight, he thought that it looked beautiful. It was almost as beautiful as you, a soft texture to its surface, yet stronger around the edges. It was almost as beautiful as you, but nothing could ever match your beauty. 
He was going to endure this. For you.
The next day, he decided he had to rip the band-aid off. Time was less on his side by the day and soon he would have to leave. 
Fortunately, today you had a day off, so you invited Kazuha out to stroll around the paths of Inazuma. Of course, he agreed to it, knowing that this was the opportunity he was waiting. 
The two of you aimlessly wandered within the stretching paths, taking in the purple petals that sat prettily among branches and listening to the song of noisy birds. How stunning it was today, causing the corners of your mouth to lift up in sheer excitement. Your eyes lapped it up like a curious child running through the fields during free time, observing every little thing that failed to be inspected as a farmer. Staring at you, his heart squeezed. There was nothing more he wanted than to be by your side. 
"The Vision Hunt Decree is growing stronger by the day," you suddenly brought up, sorrow taking over your usual face. "You're leaving, aren't you, Kazuha? I know how precious that vision is to you."
But you're just as precious to me, he wished to say. "Indeed," he said instead, glancing up to the wispy clouds. "I am being called to leave. I don't believe it will be too hard to sneak out of here."
Your eyes watered and you opened your arms to wrap him into a hug. Skin brushed silk and your fingers clenched tightly to his back, trembling in sadness. Your head leaned into his shoulder, breathing him in. He let out a breath in surprise, heart pounding at your warmth, your skin, your touch. "I will miss you so much. I will miss your poems and your comforting voice and the time we spent fooling around like nobodies."
That was when he came to a realization. He was selfish for holding onto you, for even thinking that you would come with him when so many responsibilities held you down. Your situation and his were different, leading you two onto separate routes, never to be met again. 
He didn't want to let you go. It was driving him insane. It was driving him so insane a hand plunge into his chest. 
"Sometimes I yearn for more than what I have... more than what I deserve," he muttered, pulling away from you and putting a gap to the distance from the light of his life. 
"I do too," you agreed, wiping your tears with the back of your hand. "Come visit me when the Decree is over, okay? Promise me."
How could he give you false hope like that? Even if the Decree were to be lifted, how could he ever dare face you again after such heartbreak? He knew you didn't love him the way he did you, but he chose to stay ignorant about it. And now... because he came to terms with it, it stung like hell just to be by your side. "I promise," he lied, the words slipping from his lips like slippery honey running down. Too sticky to hold on. And too sweet to ever be true. 
"I love you, Kazuha," you murmured, planting a kiss on light colored locks, the action erupting goosebumps all over his body.
Those were the words he dreamt of hearing from you. He cried because of those dreams, but he cried even more because the meaning behind them were not the kind he sought. 
Soon enough, you left, your back turned on him and growing smaller in the distance. He watched you without ever taking his eyes off of you, feeling the same pain burst into his system. He continued to keep his eyes on you when he crashed onto the ground, wheezing in raspy breath. A waterfall of tears slid down his cheeks, combining into one at the bottom of his chin, his features contorted from torment. 
He would endure this for you. Always. 
A kick to the gut sent him reeling and he doubled over, hugging himself as he coughed, over and over again. A petal flew out... and then another...
A flurry of petals escaped his mouth, sprinkling the sky of petals. This was more than what he would normally get. 
Coughing turned into hacking, succumbing him into the earth. He was being suffocated, suffocated by a love that was never his to begin with. With one last cough -- a clean petal rested on the side of his cheek, representing you. Fluttering his eyes shut, he decided that he would endure this, even death, for you. 
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•When You Fall Asleep On Them w/ Oikawa, Kenma, Atsumu, Terushima, and Tendou•
warnings: a few curse words
genre: fluff
characters: oikawa, kenma, atsumu, terushima, + tendou
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•Oikawa•
your exhaustion was clear on your face as you slumped down against the wall of the gym, settiling your tired body on the floor
you loved the seijoh boys to death but they really wore you out sometimes
to be fair, they weren’t so bad most days you guys had practice
but every so often they had you so drained by the end of the day you could barely keep your eyes open, like today for example
“Y/N-chan!”
you recognized the sweet voice meeting your ears but to acknowledge it would require energy you just didn’t have
oikawa slid down beside you, hair still damp after rinsing off his post practice sweat
he knew how exhausting everyone could be and honestly he was surprise that you hadn’t quit the position, but he was glad you decided to stick around for so long
an arm snaked its way around your shoulder before giving your arm a few gentle rubs,
“I think everyone worked really hard today, don’t you?”
to tired to respond, you opted for a simple nod before leaning your head on oikawa’s shoulder
he was suprised at first, not really used to this side of you, but a smile found it’s way onto his face as he felt your warmth slowly take over him
eventually, your breaths slow to a steady rhythm, signaling to oikawa that you finally stopped trying to fight the exhaustion that had plagued you
he maneuvered your figure so that you were lying in his lap, eyes fluttering ever so slightly as you subconsciously allowed yourself to adjust to the lighting change
affection was the only thing written on the boy’s face as he watched soft breaths flow in and out of your parted lips
a few moments later, the rest of the team started filing out of the gym, confusion quickly filling the air as oikawa smiled down at your sleeping form
iwaizumi seemed the most agitated with this development,
“What the hell did you do to them, shitty-kawa?”
“Hm? Me? I didn’t do anything at all. If you wanna put the blame on someone it should be on all of you, poor y/n-chan has to deal with so much.”
“Cut the crap, they have to deal with your sorry ass the most.”
a light laugh escaped his lips before he peered down at you once more, brushing stray hairs away from your forehead
“I guess you’re right, in that case i’ll lock up and walk them home when they wake up. I wanna let them rest a little while longer.”
iwaizumi sighed and reluctantly threw him the keys to the gym before leaving with the rest of the team
as soon as the door to the gym was shut, oikawa took a quick glance around to make sure there was no one remaining before leaning down to place a soft kiss on your forehead 
he knew that tomorrow he would never hear the end of this, but in that moment he couldn’t care less, he was happy just being there with you
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•Kenma•
you loved spending saturdays playing video games with kenma, it was your favorite activity to do after such a long and stressful week
even so, by the end of the week you were drained, and sometimes you got sleepy
especially when kenma began playing a more lowkey game and his sighs of frustration and mumbled strings of curses became absent 
silence tended to fall over the room when that was the case, causing your brain to shut down faster then you wanted it to
you sat next to kenma and peered over at his switch, watching with lidded eyes as his character moved about the screen
the colors began to swirl together as you were dragged deeper into sleep
kenma was too focused on the task at hand to notice your sleepy state, let alone the way your head fell ever so gently on his shoulder
after a while he returned his character home and paused the game, handing the switch to you,
“Here Y/N, it’s your turn.”
still feeling the device heavy in his hands he peered down at your sleeping figure, just now realizing why the atmosphere seemed quieter then usual
he froze and a soft blush crept on his face before he set the switch aside
you had fallen asleep on these days before but never so close to him and now he had no idea what to do
he didnt want you to be uncomfortable but he also didnt want to risk waking you up and ruining your much needed sleep
eventually his body moved for him as he crossed one leg under the other and gently moved you so that you were lying down on his thigh
he scrolled through his phone while you slept, mindlessly running his fingers through your hair as his eyes danced along his screen
he knew when you woke there would be a string of apologize falling out of your mouth but he didn’t mind the soft snores that escaped your lips 
besides, the two of you had the rest of your lives to play video games together
all he cared about in that moment was that you were taken care of
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•Atsumu•
you and atsumu had ate lunch on the roof every friday since the two of you had become friends in middle school
it was a long standing tradition, one that the two of never missed no matter the circumstances
it was peacful, no one else but your friends ever knew so the two of you were never bothered
and it was always a nice way to relax and enjoy each other’s company without having to worry about the twin’s fighting, kita lecturing you about table manners, or suna just being a plain instigator
the two of you typically spent the period laughing and conversing but that particular friday, you lacked the energy to even keep your eyes open, let alone act so lively
your exhaustion was plain to see and definitely gave atsumu some room to poke fun at you,
“Sleepy, aren’t we Y/N? I mean, I can see your under eye bags from here.”
you angrily mumbled something under your breath at the statement before rubbing your eyes in attempt to wake yourself up more
atsumu ruffled your hair and laughed at your antics, throwing a few more snarky comments at you
he returned to his lunch soon enough, continuing the story he was previously retelling before you could throw a fit from your lack of sleep
as he was reaching the end of his tale, he felt his legs being tugged at, jumping a bit at first before he realized your hand was the one attached to his ankle
“Whatcha doin there Y/N?”
you ignored his question, choosing to pull his legs until they were lying straight and settling yourself down to lie in his lap instead
“Tsumu, wake me up before we have to get to class, please.”
as you began to slip out of consciousnesses, atsumu felt his eyes begin to water
if anyone else saw him, they would’ve made fun of him but he couldn’t help himself, he felt so happy that you trusted him enough to be this vulnerable around him
he knew he could be a pain in the ass sometimes but he never felt like a bother when he was around you, you loved him for who he was
it was a miracle you had remained friends with him for so long but as long as you did, he would do his best to make sure that pretty smile always returned to your face
before he could wake you up with his cries, he cleared his throat and began to softly rub your back and he stared out among the trees,
“No problem Y/N, you can count on me.”
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•Terushima•
you had practically got on your hands and knees and begged terushima to help you study for your upcoming exam
he was one of the smartest people you knew and with how awful you were with the subject the test was on, it would’ve be a crime not to ask him for help
luckily for you, when you timidly asked for his help, he agreed to take some time out of his day to tutor you this week
which is why you felt awful once your thoughts beginning to haze and your eyes began to grow heavy
you couldn't even pay attention to the anxiety that had previously been gnawing away at you, let alone whatever the hell terushima was going on about
in your defense, school was absolutely exhausting today and you didn’t expect yourself to be this out of it by the time you arrived at terushima’s house
he noticed your fatigue right away, he way your head swayed back and forth as if you were in a daze was hard to miss
his first instinct was to laugh at how adorable you were but he chose to take a more gentle approach to the situation,
“You alright there, baby? We can take a break if you need one.”
you shook your head and gripped your pencil tighter, trying your best to copy down notes without falling face first into your text book
he smirked and playfully rolled his eyes before sliding more notes in your direction, 
“Suit yourself.”
not even ten minutes after you expressed your determination to the boy, terushima felt a weight fall onto his shoulder
he let out a chuckle at your unconscious state, knowing that this was soon to come 
he wrapping an arm around your shoulder and carefully pulled you down onto the bedroom floor with him, comfortably repositioning you 
in this new position, your head was on his chest, one of his arms wrapped around your torso while the other sat comfortably behind his head
“If you were tired, you could have just told me.”
although he knew you could hear him, the words left his mouth in a whisper before pulling you close and closing his own eyes
in all honesty, he didn’t mind this series of events, just happy to have you here with him
and besides, this gave him an excuse to schedule another study date
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•Tendou•
carnivals and fairs came to your town quite often and every time they did, tendou loved to bring you along
the two of you had loved to go ever since you were little kids so the memories it brought back was enough of a reason to blow your money on tickets and food
it was a chance of the two of you to forget about any worry or zees and just let yourself be kids again
and to tendou, it was always worth seeing the smile on your face as you glanced around at the scenery, eyes gleaming under the flashing lights
as much fun as they were, he knew how much they tired you out 
every time the two of you ran off to one, he always ended up taking you inside at the end of the night and helping you through your nightly routine, but he didn’t mind this in the slightest
he was happy to help and besides, you were the clingiest when you were on the brink of sleep, which he found absolutely adorable
“Y/N, did you have fun tonight, hm?”
he took a glimpse of you in the passenger seat before returning his eyes to the rode ahead, one hand on the steering wheel and the other settled comfortably on your leg
mind clouded with sleep, you took the hand that sat on your knee and held it in yours, examining the polish you had painted on them earlier that week through blurry vision,
“Mhm.”
tendou took another glance at you before grinning at your tired state,
“I’m glad, i had lots of fun too! We’ll have to bring Ushiwaka next time, he’s never been to one of those-“
before he could finish his sentence, he felt his hand being hugged to your chest
turning his head to the side once more, he realized you had curled up on the passenger seat and were now fast asleep, cuddling his arm as if it was a stuffed animal
a laugh escaped his lips at how quick you were to drift off to your dream land
as his eyes focused on the dimly lit pavement, he admired how sweet your display of affection was, feeling your love spread throughout his entire body
he slowed his speed, careful not to hit any bumps or holes on the way home in fear of waking you
once the two of you got to his house, he gently carried picked you up and carried you inside, setting you on his bed as soon as he stepped though the door
before he could grab a blanket and head to the couch, your arms found their way around his torso as you buried your face into his chest before drifting back into your deep sleep
a smile spread across his face before placed a kiss on the top of your head and carefully lying down next to you, allowing himself to close his eyes and enjoy this moment with you
••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••
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gaysimpsstuff · 3 years
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Flightless Birds Chapter Five: First Man Falls
Chapter One Here
Chapter Two Here
Chapter Three Here
Chapter Four Here
Remember I do not condone any of Hawks' actions in this fiction, and if this triggers you please put down your device and seek comfort. You are free to vent to me if you wish.
Read through the warnings before reading this, please.
Summary: Y/n sees an opening to get out of the situation they're stuck in, and attempts an escape. Things go wonderfully until they don't.
Word Count: 4.5K
Warnings: Blood, injury, crying, panic attack, sexual harassment, Keigo being the absolute worst he could be, forced vomiting, glass injury, gaslighting, choking, violence, abusive relationship, manipulation, blackmail
Other: Not me watching Sanders Sides while making this-
Taglist: @smolchildfangirl @combat-wombatus @cathy8taffy @1small-frogs @catcherisvibin @waffleareniceandfluffy @mandalorian-baby-bird @theblueslytherin @hawksadmirer @assassinslittlesister @deepcollectorphantom @thesubtlewhore @popcatx0
"Good morning Birdie~" You shuddered at the sound of his voice, trying to ignore the feeling of his fingers dancing down your spine. "C'mon wake up, baby~"
His hand moved along your body, and you were silently grateful for the thin pajama shirt he'd slipped onto your torso last night, protecting your skin from his fingertips. He tugged your body closer to him, and you bit back a hiss of discomfort.
"Baby?" His voice wavered a little, and you felt him shake you slightly
"M'awake..." you murmured, keeping your eyes closed to feign exhaustion. "Jus' gimme a minute." You should feel exhausted, you couldn't sleep at all, not with your captor's body so close to your own, anything you did could cause him to sit up and check on you, at the same time, he seemed amused when you were uncomfortable, as if he didn't really care about you as a person, just you as his toy.
"Aw, did my baby bird not sleep well last night? Poor darling, it must be the mattress, don't worry I'll get a new one for you, I'll take the one from your past home."
The way he spoke, as if he wasn't aware that he was the cause of your inability to rest peacefully, and as if your home was only a figment of your past, not the place you longed to return to.
As if this room was your new home.
Even if you could return home, you knew you wouldn't feel safe there, he could track you anywhere, why was he even going after you? You'd barely exchanged a few words with him during your first interaction and now he was under the impression that you were his mate, and he was keeping you safe by locking you away from the rest of the world.
He was delusional.
He was crazy.
And you needed him to get his hands off of you before you screamed.
"I-I'm hungry-" you started, only to feel his hand slip under your shirt. "W-wait, what are you doing?" you exclaimed, hand flying to his wrist to get his skin off of yours.
"You don't get to demand anything of me, darling~" his breath was hot against your ear, and you felt his lips pressing against your skin as you tried to squirm out of his grip.
"Please let me go!" you whimpered, gasping when he rolled his hips against your leg.
"Where are your manners, Baby? What's my name?" You squeezed your eyes shut, still trying to push him off of you.
"Sir please don't touch me!" You choked out, and you felt his hand leave your stomach, and his weight lifted off the bed. You curled up, sucking air into your lungs as best you could.
"Your welcome." he spat angrily, you didn't need to roll over to know he was glaring at you with ferocious intensity.
"T-thank you-" you whispered, curling into yourself more.
"And if you're hungry, you just have to ask me to make you breakfast, I can't trust you to make your own food yet."
"I'm not hungry anymore."
"Too bad. It's morning, you haven't eaten since early yesterday, I can't let my perfect darling starve now can I?" You felt his hand grip your shoulder, forcing you to roll over and face him. "Gimme a kiss~" he tapped two fingers against his cheek as he lowered his face towards you.
You clutched the sheets beneath you, frightened, numbing your brain as best you could to press our lips against his skin and pull away as fast as you could.
"Good bird~" he cooed, and you heard the floorboards creaking as he walked away, the door slowly opening as he left the room. You pressed your face into the pillows, lip quivering as you held back tears.
-
"T-thank you, Sir. T-the food was delicious." You shakily handed the empty plate back to the winged man beside you, trying not to focus too hard on the loopy smile on his face.
"You can call me by my name you know, Sir is just a formality," he said, taking the plate and resting his hand on yours. You tugged your hand back to your chest, not wanting to make contact with him.
Calling him by his name?
Admitting he was a person?
That he was human, living and breathing next to you?
Impossible, this monster had no name, he was just a filthy creature that had snatched you away, and you were left with nothing but the dream of rescue by another hero, the police, or Izanagi.
You knew this monster's name, of course, he'd told you, but thinking about it caused so much discomfort and confusion, as monsters don't have names.
But you knew of a few other words that would calm your racing heart, and soothe you into a spell of comfort and love.
Izanagi was one of them.
Just thinking about the blue-haired man, remembering the sound of his music, his voice, his skin surprisingly soft against your own, his eyes that would soften at the sight of you, like a warm, fuzzy blanket, and not like a knife to your throat.
You would never call this monster by its name, it could never get any kind of humanization from you. It was difficult enough to call him 'sir,' as 'sir' would be a waiter, a stranger who dropped his keys that you would return them to, a teacher's assistant, a hero, someone to respect, someone worth something.
This monster was not worthy of being called 'sir.'
But 'daddy' was even worse.
Daddy was someone who would take care of you, an actual father, a caretaker, maybe even something more intimate.
But his name was worse than both of those.
Sir and Daddy were faceless.
A name was not.
"I-I'd rather call you Sir," you mumbled. "It's respectful, isn't it?"
"Yes, but it's dehumanizing. I'm not someone to respect, I'm your mate. Call me by my name." He moved closer to you, setting the plate down on the counter. You moved away from him in fear.
You longed desperately to tell him the truth.
That he wasn't a human, wasn't worthy of having a name, that he was a monster.
"Aw, is that what you really think of me, Birdie?" Your head snapped up, staring at the open door and not at him.
"Did- was- I didn't- I'm sorry please don't hurt me!" You wrapped you arms around your head, shaking.
It didn't feel like you were in bed, swathed in a warm comforter, belly full with (surprisingly) tasty food.
You could only feel his eyes on you, and the collar itching too tight around your neck, and the open door, so close, almost as if he was teasing you with freedom, never to actually give it to you.
"Remember the second punishment?" his voice was low, and you could feel it vibrating in your stomach despite him being the one who was speaking.
You shook your head quickly, in all that had happened, you hadn't been able to memorize everything. You heard him sigh, standing up and getting off the bed. You sank lower into the pillows, forcing your eyes to follow his shape.
He wasn't heading to your side of the bed.
He wasn't going to touch you or beat you.
He was leaving the room.
You relaxed, lowering your shaking arms to your lap.
You were shocked that you hadn't cried yet.
-
It felt like hours and hours later when he returned, and yet it was all too soon, having to watch his body move into the room, slowly walking towards you, a glass of water in one hand and a wet handtowel in the other.
He set both items on the nightstand, golden eyes flicking to you. You never imagined that such a beautiful color could ever seem so cold, so harsh, so horrible.
"Don't drink this yet," he commanded, moving to the closet, pulling something out of it. He returned to you, throwing the blankets off of you, revealing the pajama pants he'd forced you into the night before.
He'd changed you last night, ripping your shirt so he wouldn't have to take off the collar, pulling a soft button up onto your body, and when your wings didn't fit into the holes, he just took one of his feathers, sharpened it, and cut the holes bigger.
Just another reminder of his power.
He didn't even need to find knives to be able to cut your skin.
You felt the mattress shift as he sat down, waving for you to sit on the edge of the bed, you reached up to unbutton your pajama shirt, accepting the button up he handed you and pulling it on quickly.
Next was the pants.
That wasn't so bad.
You reached to accept the new pants from him, only for something smaller to be pressed into your hand.
Clean underwear.
You looked up at him, horrified, did- did he really expect you to take off your underwear in front of him, to reveal a part of your body so private, just to cover it up again with something he got for you?
Something that you couldn't help but notice smelled like him.
"You need clean garments, Darling~" he cooed. "I won't touch, but I can't promise I won't look."
You shifted your body away from him, slipping your underwear down and pulling the fresh pair on as quick as you possibly could. Finally, he gave you the pants, and you shuffled into them.
"Such a good birdie, so good for me~" he purred, pressing his face against yours and rubbing like a cat. You flinched away from him, and his purring shifted to a scoff. "Except when you're not. You called me inhuman, a monster. Take your punishment."
He stood, grabbing the glass off the counter, handing it to you, demanding you to drink it all. You glanced up at him in confusion, it was just water after all, how could drinking a glass of water be a form of punishment?
You put the cold glass to your mouth, tipping it up and letting the water flood your mouth.
Just a moment later, you spewed it all out onto your captor's clean shirt.
It was saltwater.
The man in front of you growled, grabbing the glass from you and forcing your mouth open, he plugged your nose shut, and the liquid-filled your mouth, running down your throat as the salt scratched you raw.
Tears filled your eyes as you scratched at his wrist, the last drops of water leaving the cup. He dropped it to the floor, and you lifted your feet unconsciously when you heard the glass shatter over the floor.
The monster forced your lips clothes, rubbing your throat until you swallowed. When you did, he shoved you onto the ground, onto the glass.
The shards pierced the skin of your feet and legs, you grabbed the nightstand, praying the collar wouldn't tighten and choke you. You felt your stomach jump up into your throat, and your body jerked forward, all the food you'd just eaten coming up to cover the floor.
When you finished vomiting, you realized he was gone.
Leaving you alone in the room, sitting in a pile of broken glass, vomit, blood, and tears.
He really was a monster.
You needed to get out of here.
-
Seven days after your kidnapping, he came home wingless.
One week, it felt almost like destiny, forcing yourself to play by his rules, and it was by playing his game that you would get out of his clutches. Away from this monster.
"Sir, are you alright?" you asked softly as he stumbled into the bedroom, a bucket of KFC tucked under his arm. You noticed the bruises littering his skin, the cut on his lip, and most importantly, the absence of his wings.
He limped into the room, shoving the bucket of food into your arms and collapsing into the blankets next to you. He turned his head, looking at you, he seemed miserable.
It took all your strength not to smile.
"Sir?" You lifted your hand, biting back disgust as you pressed it against his shoulder, right on a bruise. You heard him hiss in pain and you brought your hand back to safety by your side.
"Villains," he grumbled, eyeing you. "I just need to rest, you should eat." he turned his head away from you, relaxing a little. You sighed, knowing you needed the energy if you were going to run from this monster. You shoveled the food into your mouth, setting the bucket aside.
That was when you heard it.
Almost like a growl, rumbling and making the bed buzz underneath you. Then it was a soft breath, air puffing against your arm. Your eyes fell to the monster's body, realizing he had passed out. You sucked in a breath, glancing around the room, you could do this.
You looked at the only pocket on his coat with a zipper, noticing the imprint of something against the tan fabric. Your hand snaked above the blankets, two fingers pinching the zipper, tugging it down to open the pocket.
You froze when the sleeping man shifted, moving his body just slightly away from you. You held your breath, waiting for his eyes to open.
But they didn't.
You'd never been happier to see closed eyes.
You unzipped the pocket further, and a small piece of metal fell out. You snatched it up quickly, examining it. It was a loop, with three keys on it. A gold one, a silver one, and a rusty skeleton key. You pulled the gold key off the loop, trying to be quiet to not wake your captor.
You moved it behind your collar, feeling around for the lock you had discovered the other day. You located it and fiddled around with the key to try and unlock it. The teeth didn't seem to want to fit into the hole.
You cursed inwardly, putting the gold key down and trying the silver one, almost instantly hearing a soft click. You bit your lip to keep from smiling or squealing, slowly undoing the clasp and removing the collar.
The cold air of the room hit the skin on your neck, beads of sweat rolling into your collar. You set the collar down gently so as not to disturb the feather, knowing he would wake up immediately if anything touched it. You slipped the keys into your pocket, silently slipping out of bed.
It felt like only a second later, but you had finally gotten out of the bedroom you'd been locked in for the past week. There was the pretty vase, right in front of you, Begonias, Butterfly Weeds, and a Hibiscus flower bobbing in the slight breeze from the open window.
You dashed down the hall, finding a large living room with a grand piano, giant TV, fancy modern kitchen, and you didn't have the time or patience to examine everything. All you could care about was the huge glass door, showing you the way to the balcony.
His wings would take a few days to grow back.
You could still fly.
You patted the keys in your pocket, not bothering to hide the wide smile on your face as you pulled the glass door back, stepping out onto the balcony.
You squeaked when you felt a drop of water on your head, realizing the sky was slowly darkening. You spun around, feeling the water soak your skin, clothes, and feathers, turning and taking flight, free of the shackles the monster had put on you.
You knew exactly where to go.
-
It was pouring when you arrived at his doorstep, and even if you dried yourself for hours, you were sure there'd be at least a little bit of you still wet.
His door hadn't changed in the past week, it still had that old dent in it from when a couple of kids tried to knock down the door, and the scratches from that dog that wanted to get in.
And the doorbell was the same too, with the little note attached to it saying it was broken, and asking someone to knock, even though he'd gotten it fixed two months ago.
It was calming to see his handwriting on the paper, the little smiley face he'd drawn next to the 'thank you.' Your hands were shaking as you pressed a finger against the doorbell, hearing the chime alerting him that someone was at his door.
Your wings were wrapped around yourself, trying to keep warm as best you could, and you ignored the way your heart was racing.
You were finally away from him, and you were finally seeing him again.
You pressed the doorbell again, jumping when you heard a loud noise inside the house.
"Godamnit I'm coming, I'm coming! I swear if it's one of you door-to-door salesmen I am going to punch you in the face." You pressed your hands over your mouth, it was his voice, he was still here, the monster hadn't killed him!
The door slowly creaked open, revealing the man you'd been thinking about for the past week, his blue hair tied up in a bun. He looked exhausted, not dressed the way he usually was. He was wearing a hoodie and sweatpants, he looked like he hadn't slept in days.
"Alright so waddaya want-" he looked up, freezing when he saw you. His eyes widened and his mouth fell open. "No- it- I- Y/n?"
"Izanagi-" your voice was hushed, eyes watering as you stared at your best friend. A moment later, he was clinging to you, body pressed up against yours as he held onto you, shaking.
"Holy shit, Y/n I- I was so scared the police wouldn't tell me anything and they threatened me and- and holy fuck I- I'm so glad you're okay!"
He buried his face into your neck, breathing in the smell of your shampoo, letting out a sigh of relief that you still smelled like you.
"You- you are okay, right?" he asked.
You were still just staring at him, trying not to cry. You slowly shook your head, glancing over your shoulder.
"Okay, come in, let's get you dried off, and then you can talk to me okay? Hey, please say something."
He cupped your face in his hands, rubbing his thumbs over your wet cheeks, taking in the sight of you.
"I'm so relieved you're alive." you breathed.
"Of course I'm alive why wouldn't I be?" you shook your head, not wanting to speak. You felt like there was a block in your throat keeping your words from leaving your mouth. Izanagi pursed his lips, ushering you into his house, shutting and locking the door behind him.
He encouraged you to take a shower, telling you he still had some of your clothes to wear. It was nice to feel the warm water on your skin instead of cold, for some reason your captor refused to get warm water for his showers, preferring to force you to take ice-cold showers just like he would.
It was great to put on your clothes again, clothes that smelled like you, clothes that wrapped comfortably around your body, clothes that closed fully in the front. Holes in the back that fit your wings perfectly instead of being open too wide or not wide enough.
You walked out of the shower, finding Izanagi on the couch, holding a mug of hot chocolate, he passed it to you when you sat down.
"So... are you going to explain everything now?" you took a deep breath, starting the long story.
-
You could barely remember the last time human skin felt comforting instead of traumatizing to you, but laying next to Izanagi reminded you of how things used to be; when you were safe. His arm around you wasn't there to force you to stay, but to keep you protected. His body against yours was a reminder that maybe you could be safe from the monster. His breaths didn't strike you with paralyzing fear, scared witless for when he wakes up but instead calms your racing heart.
You were safe last night in his arms.
He let you cry, telling him about how a pro hero kidnapped you, trying to get you to love him. You didn't say which hero though, you simply couldn't utter his hero name or his real name, and you felt that you'd never respectfully call someone 'sir' ever again.
He hugged you, holding you, and told you he wouldn't let you go again, not even to the police. He'd make enough money for the both of you, and he would take you to work with him, you would never be out of sight, at least until you were both certain that the threat had passed.
With the monster, the idea of being stuck with him was terrifying, but it was something you relished with your blue-haired friend, being able to be safe and protected by his watchful eye.
It was the first time you slept well in a week, eyes slowly fluttering open to gaze at the ceiling. The blankets were comfortable against your skin, and you rolled over to nudge Izanagi awake-
Only to be met with an empty spot.
The sheets weren't even warm.
You shot up, scrambling out of bed and racing out of the bedroom.
"Izanagi?" you called out, praying he was just in the kitchen making breakfast, but he wasn't there.
That wasn't to say there wasn't someone in the kitchen.
"Hello, baby bird~" the monster cooed at you, lips curled upwards in a prideful sneer. "How'd you sleep?"
"What are you doing here? Where's Izanagi?" you shouted, backing up slowly. Your eyes scanned his body, realizing he'd regrown his wings enough to be able to fly.
"Y'know, I was real upset when I woke up and found you gone, and I was even sadder to find my keys missing. But I was impressed you'd managed to sneak out at all, I really thought my cameras would alert me to movement in the living room." he ignored your question, stalking towards you at a steady pace. "But I'm certainly not impressed with where you chose to go, Fujikawa was the first person I suspected to have stolen you away from me, Yuu was the second. You probably should have gone to your old workplace, or maybe even a Library!"
He was laughing now, eyes flashing in the fluorescent lights of Izanagi's kitchen. You made a dash for the door, wings already spread. You heard his footsteps slamming against the hardwood, chasing after you.
You threw the door open, taking flight into the open sky the second your feet hit the concrete. You went as fast as your wings would let you, shooting off like a bullet in the opposite direction of Izanagi's house.
You knew it was no good, he was on your trail now, he was stronger than you, and his quirk had more uses, there was no way you could escape.
But fuck, you would never let him just have you, you were desperate to fight for your freedom, to find a way to get away from him, maybe find another pro hero, or even a fucking villain, you would fly even after your wings would feel like falling off, you were prepared for stay airborne for multiple days if it meant getting the monster off your tail.
You were ready to fly all the way to America to get away from him.
But you only made it a couple streets before his body slammed into yours, forcing you both out of the air. You screamed, kicking and clawing at him the whole time you fell, desperate to get away from him, desperate to get freedom back.
He swooped up right before you both hit the ground, before slamming you onto the asphalt of the street, both hands pressed up against your neck, thumbs pressing against the front of your neck.
You struggled beneath him, hitting him everywhere you possibly could, his legs keeping you from kicking him. He sent two feathers after your arms, forcing them down to the ground, rendering you helpless to him.
"You are fucking pathetic." he spat. "I thought you were kinder than this, but you didn't even think twice about him." Your eyes widened when you realized who he was talking about.
"You just wanted to run away from me, you didn't think about where he was, what I might do to him, to both of them. You're a fucking selfish asshole who couldn't give two shits whether their friends live or die. When I threatened Fujikawa's life, saying I'd kill him if you went near him, you didn't try to protect him, no. You went straight to him, begging for your safety. Whining like a fucking baby!"
You were starting to get lightheaded, feeling his claws dig into your skin.
"Please-" you choked out
"Oh, please save me, Izanagi! Save me from this monster!" He mocked, rolling his eyes. "Fucking pathetic. Have you ever thought that maybe they needed saving from you? That you were the monster? Maybe I was saving them from you?"
"No-"
Suddenly, his weight was lifted off of you, and he stood over you, golden eyes piercing your soul. You wanted to scramble away from him and take flight again, but you didn't have the strength.
You gasped, sucking air into your lungs as he slowly stepped away from you, scoffing.
"You're worthless. What is it that you do for those friends of yours? And what is it that they do for you? Exactly. You know you're just a burden to them. I'm the only one who really loves you. Those two have been waiting for a chance to get rid of you, but they're just too nice to do it. You don't deserve them."
"You're a monster-" you panted, sitting up and glaring at him.
"Takes one to know one," he growled. "Monsters like me deserve monsters like you. I want to hope there's at least a little bit of you that cares about Fujikawa, otherwise, his blood will be needlessly spilled. I don't want to hire a cleaning crew to get it out of my carpet."
Your eyes widened, realizing where Izanagi was.
"No- no please no- don't kill him please!" you begged, tears brimming in your eyes, you crawled over to him, tugging on his pants. "Please don't kill him!"
"Pathetic." he kicked you away, and you lay on the ground, sobbing, too weak and scared to move. "If you really want him alive, you'll return to me willingly. You have until midnight tonight. If you don't return home by then, your friend will die."
With that, he turned away from you and shot off into the sky, leaving you crying on the floor.
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kikilefangirl · 3 years
Text
New Beginnings For Late Bloomers
Bucky Barnes x Reader
(Word Count: 2.4k)
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You answered the Wakandan prince and princess’ call almost immediately. You quietly and swiftly made your way from your room, taking the familiar route south to the lab.
King T’Chaka’s death was so recent that his presence was still very much felt around the palace. Everyone, of all ranks, collectively mourning the loss. As you passed through the halls, you thought of his children—you couldn’t imagine losing your father, especially in such a jarring way. You bristled before turning the corner, bracing yourself for whatever was on the other side.
A pale skinned, dark haired man appeared to be sleeping in a large tube. Beside it, Prince T’Challa and Princess Shuri were in deep conversation with another white man, this one blonde. He stood opposite them and face to face with you.
You weren’t one for rudeness, but you had never seen a white man in person before, and it was strange. You found yourself switching back and forth between the and his sleeping friend. The first and second white men you had seen up close. They both had white skin tinged with pink, and their hair really was bone straight. The blonde gave you a warm smile, maintaining a slight recline and dropped shoulders.
You weren’t very good at interrupting or with strangers; your shyness was a terrible hindrance, and it was a wonder you even had friends in the royal family. The stranger’s reaction saved you the trouble, causing both siblings to do the same. Immediately, your eyes drifted the man in the tube, lightly pressing your fingers on the glass.
T’Challa cleared his throat and gestured at the blonde, “Y/N, this is Captain Rogers.”
You nodded at him and followed his downward gaze––to the other white man. Because you were closer, you could see his breath fog up the glass in front of his nose.
“We need you to watch over Sergeant Barnes while he is within our borders,” Shuri said. Though he looked relatively peaceful, what this Sergeant Barnes was like when he was awake must be hard.
“Your daily tasks will be to tend to him.” T'Challa explained.
Your gaze softened when you glanced at Captain Rogers. His concern was plain to see, enough to make you muster up whatever courage you had to speak.
“I will do as I am asked. Sergeant Barnes will be well cared for during his time here.” You replied. You gave him a small smile.
The man nodded at your reassurance, and you excused yourself. You had a lot of work ahead of you.
The sound of giggling and shuffling feet took you out of your reverie.
You were greeted to the sight of children laughing and chasing each other on the river bank. You smiled at their antics, but had to shoo them away. They were playing outside of Sergeant Barnes’—erm, Bucky’s hut while he was sleeping. You noticed how little the man allowed his body to rest, and you did your best to prolong it.
You knew the kids had broken his sleep, so you entered his hut, anyway. As you expected, the man was on his back looking at you with heavy lidded eyes.
“Please, try and go back to sleep,” you whispered, averting your gaze.
Out of the corner of your eye, you saw him tilt his head back on his bed. You took the opportunity to light an incense on the outer edge of the hut while you went about your daily tasks. It was the one that usually lulled him back to sleep, but Bucky was wide awake.
You occupied yourself with menial work in an effort to ignore his eyes on you. You were taking out an old blanket but when you touched the other side, you felt a thick, runny liquid. The harsh smell of iron hit your nostrils almost immediately.
Blood.
“I had another one after you left.” A raspy voice called from behind you.
You quickly wrapped the blanket in your arms, doing your best to hide the sight. Bucky was sitting up; he may have been looking at you, but his eyes were much farther away. The color wasn’t familiar to you, but the distant sadness in them was. You could see fresh scratches poking out from his tunic and the slight grimace on his face.
Gently, you set the blanket back down and grabbed the tin of shea butter from your supply bag. You unscrewed the cap and scooped the product out. You made your way to his bed, sitting on your knees beside him.
You pulled the cloth down to reveal the familiar nub where his arm used to be.
“Your head therapy with Dr. Amari has been switched to Tuesdays and Thursdays, for now. Shuri needs time to grieve the king and the mind must come before the body, in your case. ” You said softly, applying the shea butter evenly and without fanfare.
Bucky was leaning away from you, but he nodded nonetheless. You never had to yell or shout to get his attention––he always heard you, no matter how quiet you were.
When you were done, Bucky offered you a tired smile, but you couldn’t return it. You felt your face get hot and averted your gaze. It was different when you had nothing more to do, and he was just staring at you.
“I will get you new bedding and clothing when I return.”
You darted out of the hut as fast as you could, only stopping to let out the breath you had been holding.
“I don’t know if your treatment is working, Shuri.”
The princess was busy working on a new project. With heavy protective goggles on, and a wicked grin, there was no telling what she was up to. Carefully, Shuri shut the lid on it, and spun towards you.
You held up the bloody fabric, and Shuri frowned.
“Ah, Y/N, Sergeant Barnes’ brain will take more work than his body.” She said, scanning the blanket.
“He claws at himself while he sleeps.” You replied. The memories of his episodes were so clear in your mind. For a man who was fairly quiet and calm, in those moments he was mechanical and unflinchingly cruel. It was the first time a cold feeling settled in the pit of your stomach and it was truly awful.
Shuri was periodically glancing up at you as she read Bucky’s file. The farther she read, the more the princess looked puzzled. She clicked her tongue, then suddenly clapped loudly. The sound made you jump.
“Shuri!” You hissed. The girl was bouncing on the balls of her feet, animatedly. An especially devious smirk made its way onto her face.
“He is from New York City, ah! The city where dreams are made of!” She sang. Her off key version made you cringe at first, but a smile soon replaced it.
The Wakandan princess’s bubbly mood was the thing you enjoyed most about her. She was always so excited to explore and plot anything she wanted; it was refreshing to see.
“Take Sergeant Barnes to the market! It is a city environment to remind him of home.” Shuri exclaimed wildly.
Your eyes widened in horror at her suggestion. Shuri lit up, her ideas kept coming.
“He needs you to go with him. It can be a date!” You nearly choked.
“Princess Shuri!” You cried out. It was actually more of a high pitched squeak.
You gazed down at the blanket. It’s rich brown color was tinged with a darker one. The sickly smell of blood—Bucky’s blood—still invaded your senses. Your job was to care for him while he was in your country’s custody.
You sighed and agreed.
Bucky knew something was wrong the second you found the blanket.
The slight downturn of your chin as the realization dawned on you—he should’ve buried it when he had the chance.
The scratches were deep this time, but Bucky healed fast. It had been just over eleven hours since they happened. He had since changed into new clothes, so as to spare you from seeing the gashes, but he didn’t have the tools to get rid of the blood on hand.
Bucky heard your approaching steps, and went out to greet you. It was the height of the late afternoon heat; the dark haired man could see you approach through the vapors.
He knew it had been a long time since he’d been around a woman as Bucky, not the Winter Soldier. That was the exact reason why he wasn’t used to how you looked then. Your deep brown skin glowed as you came closer. A gold armband sat on your upper left arm, shining in the sunlight. You had on a green two-piece, decorated in bright Wakandan prints.
Bucky missed his phantom limb during times like this. It meant he was still capable of being the smooth, confident guy from Brooklyn and not the mess he truly was. He shifted his weight, bracing himself for your arrival.
“Would you like to come with me to the market?” You asked.
You wouldn’t look up at him for more than a second, but you did sit near him during the escort over. On his left side, too.
Once you two made it to the market entrance, it was in full swing. Hundreds of people were mingling through the stalls. A woman was haggling a tailor for a shoddy job he’d done. The smell of spices and roots hung in the air.
You snuck a glance at Bucky, giggling at the curious stares he received. And what a strange sight he was—a very white man in Wakanda. It was unheard of.
“I was told you were from New York City. Manhattan?” You said.
Bucky turned to you, mildly offended.
“Brooklyn, doll. Real different.” He said. You watched him inhale, taking in the bustling vendors and patrons.
You put a slight pressure on his shoulder, leading him to a street show. The performance was fun and free as the drummers played their sing song rhythms. Even you felt the urge to sway your hips to the beat.
A crowd had gathered, stomping and clapping as they went along, growing more boisterous as the dancers went on. Lost in the moment, you failed to notice Bucky’s balled fists and his blank stare. The only reason you did, was because in the middle of your small dance, you bumped into a hard body. The way you bounced off of him jostled you back to reality.
You got him some water, pouring it on your hand and then on his forehead. The cold shock worked, but with it came those scared, disoriented eyes. Ordinarily, you wouldn’t try and steer the big man any direction. You never could, Bucky was just kind enough to oblige most times. This time, he seemed so splintered, he followed without protest.
You led Bucky into an empty alleyway.
“I’m sorry. Please, let me take you back.” You said, apologetically.
You thought it would help him, not this. You leaned back on the wall opposite to him, waiting for Bucky to decide what to do. Slowly, heavy breathing subsided and he lifted his head from the ground.
“I don’t want you to think I didn’t like it. I did. But the people and the sounds and the—I know I was raised in a big city, but it’s been a long time since then.” Bucky said, finally.
He met your concerned gaze and almost looked relieved. The man stood up to his full height in one swift motion.
“I don’t think I like them anymore.” He admitted in a low, gravelly voice.
Your heart sank at his omission. Bucky had no idea who he was anymore, or what made him happy. He needed some peace that didn’t come from his place at the river, that was too familiar.
“I know a place you might enjoy, but it will take time to get there.”
Bucky had complete faith in you, and nodded imperceptibly.
It was a quiet ride up the mound.
By now, it was nearing dusk. The sky was a vibrant mix of purples and oranges and reds. Bucky hadn’t spoken again, and you hadn’t pressed him.
“It’s an undeveloped hot spring, Prince T’Challa and I found it together as children. No one will bother us here.”
You stalked through the heavy foliage with a clear head, muscle memory guiding the way to the cave. You were very aware of Bucky’s silent presence behind you. He navigated the vegetation with ease, carrying the food and water in a basket.
You huffed just taking the towels and blanket, and he looked unfazed. The both of you finally reached the mouth of the cave as soon as the last rays of sunlight faded. You watched as Bucky’s face darkened in the dim light.
“There are lights on the far end, vibranium powered so they will last.” You said. Bucky had far better sight than you, and he successfully found and turned them on.
He pointed the bright light toward the cave ceiling, setting off a series of shadows and patterns above you. You smiled softly, satisfied with your work. Bucky was still shook up from the market, but once he stepped into the hot spring he physically seemed more comfortable.
“Don’t stay in too long, it could be dangerous,” you warned him. A blast of warm air hit you, and you laid down on the blanket.
“Got it.” Bucky replied.
Occasionally, you heard the sound of water sloshing around, but you were too lazy to turn your head. There was no one around for miles to interrupt the calm, so you finally closed your eyes.
You heard water streaming to the cave floor as Bucky drew nearer. You thought nothing of it, until you felt warm, sopping wet hands wrap around you. You gasped the intrusion—if you hadn’t known who it was you would’ve screamed.
Bucky pulled you into him. Your face rested on his bare chest, catching the heat emanating from his warm skin. You didn’t have time to freak out.
What he did next wasn’t quite like a cry. The noise was so soft you thought you misheard it at first. It was a strangled, ghost of a sob.
“I-I can’t stop saying I don’t know.”
Bucky clung to you, letting all of his frustration and pain roll off him in waves. You took your cheek off his chest, the warm water leaving your face hotter than normal.
You stopped Bucky before he could recoil—gripping his shoulder.
“Horrific things happened to you Bucky, and I am sorry for that,” you started, staring off at the hot spring behind him. Steam rolled off its surface and wafted upwards and into nothing.
“You are rebuilding yourself and that is alright.”
Bucky peered down at you with a hardened kind of fascination. His eyes raked over you and he broke out in a grateful smile. A true smile.
“Thank you.”
He paused as he regarded you, dropping his shoulders.
“Doll? Can I kiss you?” The request sent you toppling over on the inside. You swallowed hard.
“Why?” Your voice was small. It was the cost to stare Bucky in the eyes while you asked. He needed to see how dead serious you were. You could be fragile, too. You blinked rapidly in anticipation, trying to concentrate over the roar of blood rushing through your veins.
“You never asked me to be someone, now I can be someone else.”
Your jaw dropped. You mustered all the courage you had and met his lips. The kiss was hesitant and soft. There were no expectations, just a sweet moment for two people that needed more of them.
268 notes · View notes
myelocin · 3 years
Text
ij(y)&m | miya a., akaashi k.
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synopsis: love is enough, until you think that it isn’t. to love and to lose; then whether to dive into the sea of ocean eyes or look into the skies in search of the sun.
genre: hurt/comfort, slice of life, longfic, happy ending, love triangle
wc: 17,500+
characters: miya atsumu, akaashi keiji
a/n: this is a commissioned piece by @23soong | i still can’t believe u trusted me w this giant fic but ilu i guezz
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commissions | ko-fi
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(April 16, 2021 | New York City.)
You like to eat cake.
The color lilac, ocean eyes, and the sky. The lyrics to Ayahuasca, and the hidden metaphors where the poem you uncover always looks like a different scenario than the next person. You know what you like, and it’s only this and that. Other days, when your reasoning is a little swayed, you suppose you can afford to think that you like this plus that.
It was a difference only you understood.
(—understand, you mean.)
(You always know what you understand.)
You like cake because you enjoy sweets, and that one shade of violet that borders right in between periwinkle and lilac, because it never looked like it was too much. It didn’t blend into the background like some of the warmer colors, nor make too much of a bold presence like the depth of scarlet. You suppose you like where you’ve always been, after all.
Being content with your own security had always been one of your stronger suits. There wasn’t a wall, nor a fortress around you, but even when you’re out in the open you felt okay. The shade in between lilac and periwinkle was enough because it was you.
Chocolate over cheesecake, because you’ve never been much of a fan, and that bakery down the end of street fifteen minutes away instead of the one right across where you lived. The windows were always tinted in the shade that gave away its age, but you suppose it was its charm. The old auntie who sits by the counter always wears her apron, even if all the pastries to be sold for the day were already prebaked and arranged on the front for display.
There’s an old comfort found in that auntie’s bakery, you think. You still don’t know her name, and you know she only smiles at you because you’re probably a regular by now. You know the pen she’d had clipped to her apron is the same one from eight months ago, probably never used, because the seal’s still intact by the cap. There wasn’t a table that you could call yours, nor a spot in the fall you would stare at and daydream on your rougher days. There was no music, to dull out the sounds of the world outside—but now that you actually give it a little more thought—that’s what gave you the most comfort.
It’s a known fact that when people tend to slip into a state of reclusion, they would search for a space in a world that they can cocoon themselves in. External factors, there, but ignored. Phone often switched to silent, where the spot they stared at along the cracks of the wall would show them a world they could live in—momentarily.
(And that was the problem—at least you think.)
A safe space, they say. And it had always been valid. When your sister would talk about the boy in her dreams who loved her under the rain, you can tell that she felt safe. Sometimes she looked a little farther away despite physically being with you in the moment, but she always looked warm—so you would just choose to sit shoulder to shoulder beside her, and let her be.
People worked differently; a simple this or that situation, and it’s always going to be like that.
Your comfort is just this.
Auntie’s bakery fifteen minutes away, where you’re some random seat inside because in all the years you’ve been coming here, you could never really pick a spot. The table by the window was nice, as was the one by the shelves. The AC hit you in the way you appreciate the most wherever you chose to settle, anyway.
A slice of chocolate cake on Mondays, then maybe again on Wednesdays, but Saturdays could also mean red velvet if you were feeling like it. The bells by the door sound out your entrance every time too, but even if one day there were gone, it wouldn’t make much of a difference. Having a constant was okay, but not necessary. You’re here because you liked their selection better than the one closer to your place, and that was that.
Auntie’s bakery wasn’t your cocoon that kept you away from the world, but you liked it that way.
You found comfort in taking a seat in one of the ten tables inside, and setting your bag on the chair beside you as you got comfortable. You liked moving your hair to the other side, and slumping your shoulders because you know you'd enjoy this little break you decided to give yourself.
You had chocolate two days ago, and even if there was a new option for carrot cake today, you still bought chocolate again. You can hear the conversation from the group of teenagers outside the window every time the doors would open and the sounds of the world outside would filter in. The sound of traffic and life was dulled by the walls, but not muted. There’s still no music in the bakery, and you can sometimes hear every time the auntie behind the counter would shift and tap away at her phone.
This was your slice of comfort.
You didn’t escape the world, but you find yourself still. There was an underlying of connection that you found with the world when you’d have your one slice of cake after a job well done.
So you like to eat cake, because you deserve cake.
You finish the schedule you’d set for yourself, written in bullet points from top to bottom—additional notes scribbled in the margins so you wouldn’t forget, and spreadsheets written so that you keep yourself in line.
You like to eat cake, because it’s a reminder that you’re doing your part as a little cog in the machine that is this world. It’s not escaping that gives you comfort, but rather, the reminder that you’re still in this world, and you’re doing just fine.
(So you deserve your cake.)
-
Until some days where you feel like you don’t.
-
Your childhood looked something like this:
Air conditioned rooms, sniffling instead of crying, and the lilac blooms outside your window. There’s a sky, infinite as she’s always been, that watches. Sometimes she cries, but in your corner of the world, it’s more common to see her smile. Sometimes you wonder what she smiles about, but 7 year old you liked to think that she smiled for the same reasons you do.
A cool breeze in the summer, and paper kites folded every sunset. Your dreams of ocean eyes every time you’re close to the shore, as if it’s a foreshadow to the future still to come, but you’d always only stand by the edge and watch—never wading too far in.
It wasn’t a fear of the water, nor the depth, but you just always had a nagging thought behind your head that the waves would never truly be for you. You loved the sun, and the sky too much to give in to the waves.
Perhaps it’s a metaphor for something later on in life; perhaps it isn’t. You’ve never been curious enough to try to think much about it.
Ever since you were young, your idea of love never changed much from your initial thoughts.
Love felt like it should just be what’s written under the bullet points of your life schedule. Love, supposedly, looked like ocean eyes and dark roots for hair. He’d be a little more on the reserved side, and would conquer the world with you.
People always tell you that love should conquer the world for you, but it felt like too much of a selfish dream. Your whole life, you moved with a sense of purpose in mind. You buy cake after a job well done, because you know you’ll only deserve it by then. You do things only because you’ve done certain things, and it’s always been as black and white as that.
(It works.)
You’re in high school and you sit next to your best friend’s boyfriend from seven to five. You have a circle that loves you as much as you do them, and you still treat yourself to slices of chocolate cake from a bakery down the street. Their cake has a generic taste, you think, but it could be better.
Still, you settle. Settling is okay.
The idea that things would always be just okay in the black and white was okay. Your everyday life, and routine, looked like this. The people around you act like this, and you—in return, feel like this.
You laugh when things are funny, then cry when they aren’t. You appreciate the notes you’d find in your locker: the doodles and scribbled reminders alike. The difference in the handwriting and color choice of the sticky notes only reminds you that you’re part of something that isn’t just you.
You will always love your shade of lavender, or lilac, or periwinkle, but you found sentimentality and love in shades of peaches, scarlet, greys, and serenity blue too.
Routine is the kind that looks more lax than rigid, because bursts of serendipity still find you anyway.
-
(March 13, 2015) Hyogo
Because it’s in your final year of highschool, where the idea of what it initially was is thrown right out the window.
Miya Atsumu.
Brown eyes that are the complete opposite of every hue of the ocean, and his god awful piss yellow hair.
When you meet him, there’s not much to romanticize about it. He sat a few seats away from where you are, and parked his bike purposely close to your sister’s by the gate. He raised his hand to the questions he didn’t know the answer to and would drag his chair beside your desk to say hello even when you’d turn away to focus on your paper during breaks.
Love was an abstract sort of thing, so you could guess that his peculiarity fits.
You were all the shades of lilac while he offered you the pale yellow of every sunshine you found solace in ever since you were young. The color on the opposite end of the color wheel, Miya Atsumu truly was your contrast.
He ate cheesecake and didn’t hide his face when he sneezed. He’d roll up his sleeves and fight the next person without thinking to talk it out first and scribbled his ideas from the center of the paper instead of listing them out from top to bottom, or left to right like you always did.
But he was the start.
“Hi, Len.” he said instead of the standard “hi, hello; what’s your name?” greeting, and it even if it baffles you how he got your name before you even had the chance to introduce yourself—you didn’t think you had it in you to be mad about it.
Third year highschool Miya Atsumu with the god awful piss yellow hair and black undercut smiled in the way that had the left corner of his mouth rising just a little higher than the right, and you were fucking hooked.
You didn’t show it at first, but you were hooked. He had the kind of lilt in his voice that you always thought was more endearing than attractive, and would often lean back in his seat with one arm slung over the back of his chair as he waited for you to finish up with your review for the day. He liked all the things you thought were okay at best, but he was who stayed.
Libraries were for those who found a little comfort and familiarity in the silence, and he was a wildfire. He fell asleep waiting for you as you studied, but would always have a whole lunchbox of soft snacks for you to munch on while you did your thing, checking off the bullet points of your list.
On Saturdays, he was the person waiting for you at the bleachers by the track field with a towel and water bottle, cheering you on as if he understood the sport. When you’d pass him, he’d wave, and holler at you like you just won even if you’ve just been running laps for warmup.
He was never a hello, because he was a whirlwind that caught you off guard straight from the start. Some would say this is like serendipity, and perhaps it is—he is—but you like to think that maybe he’s just part of the black and white of your life. You liked what you liked, whether it correlated with your plans or not, and it really was as simple as just that.
-
In high school you always liked to eat cake after exams. You liked chocolate because it was sweet, and you’ve always been the person who had a sweet tooth.
You write left to right, from top to bottom and keep your letters beside to eachother in print, because it makes sense.
Miya Atsumu, the boy who was the pale yellow to your lilac, was the one who offered you a pen when you’d misplace yours, even if he only had one with him in his bag.
And you liked him, you suppose, because you just do.
-
(March 13, 2020) | Tokyo
Miya Atsumu was blunt, and freeing.
He was the sky, and not the sea, but love—later on, became the realization that you’re just freefalling.
After the initial introductions, there wasn’t a point where either of you felt like you were still supposed to be somewhere else. Like something you didn’t know had even been out of place sliding into it, instead of clicking. The skies would open, not just for you but for him as well.
While you saw all the colors of the sun and of the golden hour, Atsumu saw the shades of lilac in the earth.
What becomes is the love that’s felt in the silence, and on the way home.
It’s your voice that he hears chastise him to put down the donut and share it with Osamu when he’d been planning to leave him a third of the last at best. It’s the four letters of your name that he scribbles in the corners of receipts mindlessly, but would still fucking deny it every time he’d get caught.
Atsumu and his bike rides to school, along with his habit of catching up to you just to get off and walk beside you if he sees you nearing the gates.
A silent sort of company in the morning beside someone who was basically known at the most perfect personification of what noise would look like if it were to be redesigned into human form.
True love, and serendipity he thinks, is this. It’s you and all the witty remarks you’d make towards him, telling him to go away, that he never ends up taking seriously because you’d be blushing red before he even gets a chance to react.
The reaction he comes is delayed, but the epiphany that it’s you who becomes the face to love, isn’t.
You were the who when it came to answering the who, what, when, where, why, and how of love.
The what was answered love. The when, is yesterday, when you spilled a little bit of your chocolate milk on your desk and cursed in the way he never would have figured you saying, and today, when you looked out at the skies and smiled your private sort of smile towards the palette of the sunset.
The where was everywhere. Love, as you, in the sidewalks leading up to the gates, and on that desk on the row ahead, diagonal to him.
The why, was this. (It was everything.) (Running, then leaping. Flying, then soaring.) (Everything.)
He finally finds truth to the poems he usually tended to ignore in love songs, but it was great.
And the how, finally, was answered with a shrug.
How did he love you? Atsumu would always shrug because he just does.
Always, always does.
-
Along with the high, comes facing the reality that you must also fall. For the longest while, you’re climbing, climbing, climbing¸ until eventually, there’s nowhere else to go but down. The real face of love looked somewhat like that.
It’s one foot after the other, and steps towards the sky. There’s no staircase with a solid ground leading up, nor wings clasped behind you to lift you up even with through the absence of a breeze. (But love had you flying.)
It’s seeing the sights you’ve seen your whole life not with a new set of eyes, but a new vantage point. Atsumu’s the sun, all the while you still felt as if you were the child forever glancing up towards it. They tell you to never look at light straight on, but his glow never had you blinded.
Atsumu gave you clarity, showcased on a silver platter.
You understood all the priorly misunderstood parts of your life, where it felt like a new kind of exhilarating. Like having knowledge at the palm of your head, the world became as infinite as it became yours.
(And yours alone.)
Your hands that only grabbed just what was yours were suddenly reaching too far in the cookie jar. Greediness has never really been you, but eventually the fall—your fall—from the high looked like crumbs on your hands and shirt, and the absence of what once was where it should still be.
Atsumu never said a word, because it never was that way.
Still, you closed your eyes while still in the air. The view was right there, and Atsumu was beside you through the climb, the high, and the period where you just glide, telling you to open your eyes and look but you only did—for just a fraction of a second.
It’s the heaven that sits above the clouds that terrify you, you think. The unspoken truth that was kept as a hush is suddenly right in your ear screaming.
“He’s holding you to the clouds,” it taunts, then continues, “—But what have you given him in return?”
Atsumu’s never heard the demons in your head, nor was aware of its presence in the first place, but he always seemed to just have a way of knowing what to say, exactly when to say it.
Like now.
He’s sat in the bleachers, high on life, while you’re high on adrenaline. Six thirty in the summers meant the sun was just beginning to set, so he smiles, knowing that you’ve always thought of this moment as yours.
(And his, he adds mentally, a whisper to himself—a validation that you are his as much as he is yours.)
Truly.
“Hi Lena,” he grins; one side quirked up higher than the other, and under the bloom of scarlet and amber, he’s beautiful. “What’s your name?”
You’re laughing, as if you don’t carry the weight of all your demons on your shoulders. Amber against your deep brown eyes, and he’s caught. Like always. Fucking entranced, like always.
“Hi ‘Tsumu,” you voice back, leaning close and laughing at the way he scrunches his eyes close at your sudden display of brevity. It catches him off guard every time. He loves it, as much as he does you—but he’s still a boy inside.
You laugh anyway, pressing a kiss on his eyelids when he keeps his eyes closed, and you smile, softly, when you notice the way his shoulders relax.
“What’s your name?” you echo, then you’re both laughing at the inside jokes that you admittedly could never get sick of.
“I really don’t know,” he stretches further, enjoying the ay the moment became not just yours, but also truly his, with just a couple of words and some laughs. “I just can’t remember, Lena, but what’s your name?”
You laugh, throwing your hair up in a quick bun, before taking the seat beside him.”Atsumu we sound stupid.”
You don’t turn to return his stare, but you feel his eyes on your profile before he even tries to make something off of it. He smiles, and you feel that too.
You’re beautiful, he thinks to himself. A thought that comes to him more frequent than remembering the kanji for his own name, and Atsumu knows he’s rooted himself way too deep to even try to think of letting go.
“Fuck the status quo or whatever that shit says babe,” you hear him laugh in return.
You’re both sat shoulder to shoulder, eyes towards the sun, and the world feels like it only exists to be yours. (and his.)
A moment, where in your eyes, it feels like it’s just (him) and you.
Just him.
Love, as just Atsumu, because he has a way of being your forever anything and everything. A whirlwind of some sorts; a spontaneous wildfire wrapped with the pretty shades of serendipity, and it feels so right.
It’s quiet, but it’s the nice kind of quiet. The demons in your head are hushed, but if you know they’re probably just slumbering, you’re still overwhelmed with a newfound sense of comfort. The source feels like it’s meant to flow infinitely, and you smile—until you don’t. You remind yourself the virtue of never taking more than you can bother to use, so as you turn your head, watching him soak in the light once again, it takes so much inside you to remember that and fight back the urge.
“Don’t you have practice tonight?” you ask, curious.
His sports bag was placed beside him, and it takes you a little while to notice that he’s decked out in his training gear. The time on your clock tells you it’s six forty five, and you’ve always known that practice started at five.
“I do,” he hums.
You turn in response, poking his cheek before pinching it. “Then go.”
Atsumu sighs, in a too-dramatic-voice for a man who was well beyond those years, but you suppose that that was just one of his charms. “Wanna stay actually,” he pouts leaning his weight against yours, to which you’re quick to groan at, nudging your shoulder to try to get him away.
His chin settles on your shoulder anyway, but his other arm is quick to anchor you around the other side, making sure that he’s still holding you up, more than you holding him up. Atsumu’s face is close to yours, as is yours. It’s a position he’s always liked. When he looks at you, he can see the little dots on your face that other people never could get to see unless they were this close. When you blink, you do it slow, like you’re savoring the sight in front of you, and his heart thrums in a tender sort of happiness because even if you never looked much like the sentimental type, he knows you well enough to know that you really are that.
Atsumu juts his bottom lip, like he’s tired, and you laugh.
“Tsumu, go.”
“Tsumu,” he counters. “—stay.”
“Actually,” he corrects himself, shaking his head. “Lena,” he smiles. “Stay.”
-
“You don’t have to do anything,” he adds. “Just stay.”
His words hit you before you could even try to pull your walls back up, knowing that it’ll hit a spot you aren’t exactly keen on confronting just yet.
Just stay, his words echo in your ear, and you suppose that that’s really all you could do. Moments like this where love overwhelm you the most has you fearing love the most, if you were being honest with yourself. There was a fear that comes with love, because at the root of it all, love will always just be a risk.
The higher the climb, the harder the fall they say. The more you give, the more the world will take. You look at Atsumu, who faces you with his pouted lips and sunset painted across two pools of baby brown. He closes his eyes and leans forward, knowing that you’ll kiss his eyelids before you even say it. Like the earth letting itself pulled by gravity, you’re beckoned towards the sun, falling into orbit as time—the human concept of it anyway—begins to move slow and all you can do is spin in circles and marvel at the being that is the light.
“I love you,” he says, and he’s honest.
What terrifies you is the honesty in your voice too, when you reply with an “I love you,” of your own.
The higher the climb, the more painful the fall, you think. When Atsumu opens his eyes and allows for the silence to remain and blanket the piece of the world that is yours and his, you see that you’ve already made it to the highest summit.
The more you give, the more the world will take.
But the thing is, you don’t know what you’ve given him. Your hands are empty beside his, but he holds them anyway. You’re so fucking in love and it terrifies you because what is the earth next to the sun? It stays in a distance so it doesn’t burn, but now, even as you’re face to face with the being that embodies the essence of the light and life itself—you aren’t burning.
Then it hits you.
He is your everything.
You gave yours, so what else could the world take other than him?
-
And because love also wields the power to make you more fearful than you are in love, you admit to yourself that you’re fucking scared. Atsumu says “I love you,” again, and holds your empty hands in his that holds nothing but still feels all the ways full at the same time. It’s suddenly hard to swallow, and you’re cold.
The summit is beautiful, but you are cold.
You close your eyes, walk forward, lose your footing, then just freefall.
The scary part is, even if you do that, you know Atsumu will just think of it as an adventure and jump right after you—riding the current with you, even though you’re venturing into what’s unknown.
Still, you close your eyes.
You pull the parachute first, imagining that you’ve hit the ground before the winds would even get to you.
-
(March 13, 2021)
The funny thing about heartbreak is, Atsumu thinks, is that you recognize its presence before you see its face.
He felt you fading.
Fading from something, but it never fathomed to him that it was from him. You never pulled away when he held his hands, because he made it a point to consciously remind himself to wipe them clean beforehand every time so he supposes it wasn’t that.
“Are we okay?” he asks anyway, when you’re in his car, staring out the street that’s a couple ways from your house. Six-thirty’s already passed, and the skies are in shades of grey instead of the marmalade and amber the sunset always brings.
Atsumu’s voice is a break in the atmosphere, that you think wasn’t tense, but the way his voice quivers in the way only you can point out has you thinking otherwise.
You swallow.
“We are.”
Atsumu exhales, and at the way his voice seems to sound a little more amplified than usual, you realize that the engine’s turned off. Regardless of the nagging voice in your head to stop dragging this out, you turn away anyway.
You love him, and love to love him. You love kissing his eyelids when he naps on your thighs and associating him with the little things just because.
(You turn away, prolonging the inevitable, because you don’t want to associate him with the end—just yet.)
You think to yourself that you don’t deserve this—him—because he deserves better, but you want to have just one more bite. Fists clenched in the pocket of his hoodie you wear that still smells like him, and you want to cry.
Atsumu sighs again, tired. When you look at him, he’s already staring at you, for god knows how long now, and you wince because he looks exhausted.
“Are we?” he asks again, and when you open your mouth to try to find a couple words to string together as a reply, nothing comes out.
“Lena,” he says, and his voice is loud.
He’s only been whispering this whole time, and you’re aware of that, but it’s still loud. His car’s in park; the engine’s off, and when you shift your position from side to side to try to find your place, you can hear the fabric ruffle against each other.
“Len,” you hear again. “Lena.”
“Talk to me,” Atsumu says, and you’re baffled at the way that his voice sounds like a plea.
“I am talking to you,” you mumble. You shift again, but you’re still not comfortable; you don’t want to look at him. You don’t think that you deserve to look at him.
But his voice still comes to you, soft. He’s saying your name; again and again, but it still sounds like a fucking plea. Your shoulders shake, but you still it before he notices. The bullet points that come after the list you write left to right, from the top going to the bottom doesn’t give you an answer as to why he’s fucking pleading.
“Please look at me,” he’s whispering now. (Still loud.)
What is there to plead for?
“What’s wrong, Tsumu?”
“Babe, you gotta talk to me.”
The zipper drags across the plastic of the door, and makes a sound. Internally, you flinch right as you shift your position again because you’re still not fucking comfortable.
You look at him, then blink. He’s staring at you, desperate for words you don’t have, and suddenly your hands feel so empty.
What do I give you?
He shivers when a breeze floats in through the window, while you don’t. Then you blink again. Right, you think. This is his jacket that he gave you. He’s sitting beside you, at 23:10, half an hour away from his apartment, knowing full well there’s traffic in Tokyo regardless of the fucking hour.
Your thoughts, a battle between what can I even give you? and look at what you’ve given me.
“Tsumu I think this is it,” you suddenly whisper, the feeling of being so out of place finally dawning on you.
You keep shifting, uncomfortable in your position, because you’re not supposed to be here. You buy yourself a slice of cake after a job well done, but when you look at Atsumu—what have you done?
What have you given for you to receive so much?
His hoodie’s still warm, and your fingers clutch onto the fabric.
Atsumu stares at you, and even if you want to look away, you can’t. He holds your gaze like he’s held your heart for years now, and you know this won’t be a situation easy to break out of. His grip had always been solid despite the lack of bruises that tell the world of its presence.
“I think,” you sigh, swallowing down the urge to say it’s a joke, to take back your words.
“I think—“ you say again, but hesitate. Atsumu watches you nod your head, the look in your eye so far he doesn’t know if he can catch up by now. You’re whispering your words, the most of what you say phrases he can barely even understand, but he listens to you anyway.
You want to cry again, the tightness in your chest increasing tenfold, and the feeling of discomfort reminding you that you’re not supposed to be here. You don’t deserve this slice of cake, but you’re greedy.
Balled fists, hazy thoughts, and you’re cracking. You aren’t breaking, but you’re cracking.
The fallout is the same.
You nod your head again, and Atsumu watches, his eyebrows scrunched up and drawn together, as you seem to arrive at a conclusion without even letting him in the conversation. The haze clears from your eyes, and by the looks of it you’ve already rooted yourself someplace you don’t even want to stand in.
He tries to say your name, but you’re still shaking your head.
Then you’re shrugging off his jacket. Atsumu opens his mouth, still fucking confused because what are you doing?
You held his hand yesterday and kissed his eyelids goodnight three fucking hours ago.
“What are you doing?”
You hear him, but that’s all there is to it. You know you should be listening to him, but only the definition of the words register in your head. The meaning to be deciphered in the situation remains unseen, when the only thoughts in your head revolve around the fact that your hands are still so empty.
You think about what he says, though.
What are you doing, Lena?
He watches you unzip the zipper from the front, and hear the audible click when you unbuckle your seatbelt. He’s still watching, mouth parted in the silence in disbelief at what he thinks is the goodbye scenario he’s always avoided thinking about. You’re leaning forward, then it’s the left arm out before the right.
A breeze comes again, and even if your eyes are elsewhere, you catch a glimpse at him from your peripherals as he’s shivering—again. Frustration bubbles up in your chest, welling up into tears, but you don’t cry.
You remind yourself that you shouldn’t cry.
Balance was what kept the world in orbit, so therefore, you must only take, if you give.
Rewards are reserved for accomplishments, but what have you fucking offered?
Atsumu’s given you the world, but you still face him with empty hands and just an I love you.
Love was your certainty and your lifetime kind of truth, but what else is there? When Atsumu tells you he’s all yours, it’s enough, but when you do—why does it feel so little?
You take the risk, then the plunge, and look at him. When he blinks, and keeps his eyes shut just that while longer, you have to fight the urge to kiss his eyelids like you’ve always done. His hoodie’s folded on your lap now, but you still smell your honeydew on it.
How many times does he have to wash it to get the smell out? you think.
Atsumu swallows his words, his retaliations, because he knows you’ve anchored yourself before you even hit the water. If you had always been anything—other than the fact that you are always his everything—it was the fact that you are resolute.
So he lets you speak.
He already offers you his love even though he looks at heartbreak in the face.
And it’s your face he sees. Faraway eyes, your shoulders tense, and a shiver that makes your fingers tremble in the slightest. He sees every detail play out in slow motion, and even if his heart is hammering in his chest, just as yours probably is, he thinks to himself—you’re beautiful.
You, as the face of love from the hello, and still you, the face he puts to heartbreak as he listens to you say, “I think I have to let you go.”
‘Let what go?’ he thinks. When you let go of something, it’s to get rid of the bad—the dead weight.
Was he the dead weight?
“It’s for the best,” you say. (For your best, you think.)
“I don’t think we can keep doing this anymore.” (I don’t think I can keep doing this to you anymore.)
“I think this is the best for us.” (For you.)
“What—“
“Tsumu,” you say, cutting him off. Your voice doesn’t quiver but your hands hidden from his point of view clench then unclench.
“Atsumu,” you say again, this time with a smile. It isn’t forced, because you don’t think that you ever had to force a smile for him, but at the sight of him watching you, heartbreak written across his face, your heart can’t help but crack in the same pattern.
It runs a little deeper, you think. The kind of deep where you aren’t sure if even the scars will fade overtime.
“Lena—wait—“ he tries to interject, but you’re already opening the door and walking outside.
He knows your look when you’ve decided, and he knows that it looks something just like this. Still, he bites his lip, hoping that this would just blow off come daylight. He knew you had always been the type to feel the things that come, but never really dwell on it enough to process it. There was hesitance when you accepted things from others, and it never escapes his line of vision when you’d just duck your head a little lower when you didn’t have anything to offer back.
When he says I love you, he means it in both the verbal and in the silent way he tries to communicate with you.
Like leaving traces of himself in every little piece of everything, so that it’s there for you to have and just know.
“I love you,” he says again, and again.
In the silence, but you don’t hear it. On the walk home, you feel it but you turn away.
 -
This is the painful part of love, you think. You know that you’re frustrated, and that everything you hate which unfortunately comes with love is brewing so strong in your chest, that no words come out.
You tell yourself that you’re mad, but when you look at the mirror you turn away.
“My name is Lena,” you say, and you begin. In the world—or your world at least—chaos is swirling so in order to find organization for it, you close your eyes and center your thoughts on the first fact to keep you grounded.
“I like to eat cake, when I deserve it, because I still am victorious,” you say, then add, when a flash of pale yellow comes to mind, “—sometimes.”
“Yeah,” you say, then turn the corner to walk into the kitchen so sit at the table. You remember the slice of cake you bought this morning, meaning to save it for tonight, remembering that you just finished your exams after cramming for nearly two weeks.
In hindsight, you really should have expected it though. Your sister did mention that she just started her period the day before, and usually you never minded when she ate a couple of stuff that wasn’t yours—and you know this is isn’t the reason why you’re crumpled down on the kitchen floor with one fork in hand and no cake in the fridge, but you are.
You’re crying, and flustered, and the words that come out of your mouth sound more gibberish than coherent. You think that you’re saying Atsumu’s name, beside an apology, but truth be told you’re letting yourself go and blank out.
The cold air from the opened fridge hits you on your knees, and you really should be getting up by now to shut it close before your sister comes home and pokes at you for it, but you really can’t be bothered to think about caring.
This is the fall that comes with love, and what was taken was what you were given.
It’s you who gave him back, because the thoughts in your head are busy telling you that even if love was enough—was it really?
Were you enough was the ugly question you don’t face, so you close your eyes and convince yourself that you’re crying because of a fucking slice of cake and not because of the sun.
You ignore the memory of walking home, and still feeling Atsumu’s presence watch you with eagle eyes as he slowly drove with you down the sidewalk – “just so I know you’re home safe, at least give me that.”
-
Give, you think.
There was nothing that you had given him, and Atsumu had deserved something even greater than eternity itself.
-
It’s in the same hour of that same night where Miya Atsumu, who wore red eyes and slumped shoulders, that was standing outside the bakery an hour and fifteen minutes away from his place, wondering which kind of cake you’d like the most out of the thirteen in the display.
-
(September 13, 2021)
Time moves at a weird pace.
Yesterday feels like yesterday, and today feels just like today. It doesn’t move slow, because you know the clock keeps ticking, but still you move. Sunrise comes before sunset, but you stopped looking up and watching the in-betweens colors before that final stroke of marmalade, or even five thirty’s golden hour.
Gold reminded you of the sun, so you looked away. Love had you blinded, and you wanted to look at the world with the lens of practicality instead of the colored ones this time around.
Atsumu was still around, for the most part of it.
Graduation came, then summer, and you know even without you he kept blooming. Towards the end of the year, right before graduation, you still saw the posters on the wall, and heard his name in the announcements. There was always a congratulations right before, followed by a “we’re proud of you,” that never flew past your line of attention.
He deserved it, you think.
Miya Atsumu deserves the whole cake, and not just a slice, because he continuously still gives—his good deeds going well past just the title of a job well done.
You, on the other hand, both kept your distance and thoughts in order in the beginning.
He still said hello when you passed by him in the halls. The awkward timeframe right after a breakup didn’t spare either of you too. With you, opening your inbox and rereading the old messages; debating whether you should just archive the whole conversation or delete it altogether, then seeing Atsumu typing something for a whole five minutes before the indication stops and a message is never sent.
Where you’re stuck wondering what he could have said, because you know Atsumu’s always been the type to not only wear his heart on his sleeve, but rather, shout it out instead.
You never fit that bill, but you (love)d him anyway.
If you were being honest—at least to yourself—it took long, before Miya Atsumu became just the name of a contact in your phone, the text history buried at the bottom. Seven months’ worth of texts piled above his last, “hey, i’m outside,” that you never could bring yourself to delete.
For a while, you think, you deserved that slice of cake.
Just a slice, and not the whole thing, but for that while—it was all yours.
-
(December 2021)
Akaashi Keiji didn’t come into your life until another three months after you shut the book and pretended you never read its contents. You say you know the end, but really, you never flipped past page 223 despite the book ending at 416.
The end was a page that was skimmed over, and never really read through. A dog eared fold on the corner, instead of a bookmark, for the sake of it sitting on the shelf, looking finished. In the moment, you know it isn’t finished, and you’ll probably stumble upon the book again at some point, later down in time, but perhaps if you give yourself enough patience, you’ll forget that it was left to be unfinished in the first place.
Miya Atsumu was a story you started, where you read the start in a third person POV, then left it midway when you took the reins and rewrote what you think the ending would be from a first person perspective.
I am not enough for you, you said. I will take off this jacket and leave it here, because I haven’t offered you anything.
I will leave, and let you go because you deserve more.
(But it’s I love you, as the thought, that still will always remain.)
-
You have your books and bullet point notes, the days after today written in a list: from top to bottom with just a couple of scribbles along the margins. Akaashi met you like serendipity used to dictate, and this new book started like how it should have.
“Hello,” because that’s how it should start. Followed by a “how are you?” because that’s usually the next thing to say.
The conversation’s light before it dives deeper, and you think to yourself that you like it like that because it follows order. Atsumu gave you half his bento box two hours after you first met, while Akaashi offered you a napkin and his extra fork when yours fell.
Often, your friends would tell you that it probably wasn’t a good idea to compare the dynamic of the two, and you agree because if you were outside this situation you would be advising the exact same, but when you do things from first person, a lot of things become that much harder just because.
This wasn’t love, nor was this the replacement of love, but you can’t help but admit that Akaashi Keiji was the prince charming you wrote about in your diary when you were a kid. He was the ocean eyed prince charming every teenager dreamt of, and this was the slowburn kind of pace that love should be.
Atsumu barreled into you and made himself be known as the yellow in the color wheel opposite of your purple, and even if it didn’t clash, nor blend, it had a presence.
You think to yourself that Akaashi was all the shades of ocean blue, while you were that kind of purple right in between lavender and periwinkle.  You could stand next to him at the train station, or be squished next to eachother in the train during rush hour, and people would take one glance and assume you’re together.
Situating yourself beside the shade next to yours in the color wheel felt right. Blue to purple, or purple to blue. It worked. Neither of you had to jump far, or take a leap across the wheel, but only take a step and you’re right there.
He wasn’t love, but you didn’t let yourself think that he could be.
It’s two more years of this until your master’s is done, so you suppose reading a side story wouldn’t hurt much.
Only that this side story was getting a little more complicated than you initially just planned out. You jumped into this story without the thought of grabbing a bookmark, and Akaashi Keiji had been the type of person you knew hated dog eared bookmarks.
“What are your thoughts about this?” he asks you one day though, so completely out of the blue that it has you whipping your head to the side to stare at him, wide eyed. You’ve known him for a while now, and he was okay. Perhaps just the word great, at best, because whether you looked at this from a first person point of view or a third, your words would still be the same. Objective thoughts led you to thinking of coming to a conclusion based on the rubric of your childhood, and Akaashi fit the bill.
Maybe not your bill now, but he still fit it.
Akaashi Keiji was who your should have been prince charming looked like, with the ocean blue eyes and poetry for words.
Even though he asks you that now, when you’re seated in the passenger seat of his car parked outside your apartment building, you still can only bring yourself to just blink. You stay true to the fact that you are surprised, and you do admit that, but that’s all there is to it. Nothing feels like it’s leaping out of your chest, and there’s no flutter of anything in your stomach.
His words register in your head, but so does confusion.
“This?” you parrot, trying to find meaning through the limited context he provides.
Akaashi nods, hands still at 10 and 2 on the wheel, while his foot hovers over the brakes. You can see that the car’s in park, but he’s tense. He lets a couple more seconds pass—that felt like it was stretching a lot longer than what it really is—before inhaling and turning to face you.
“Yeah,” he nods, looking like he’s saying it to himself rather than towards you. “This,” he confirms, then after it looks like he convinced himself, he looks at you, and nods again.
You stare at two pools of the sea, that immediately has you wondering if it’s either the Atlantic or the Pacific. Your feet that had long been digging into the warmth of the sand on the shore are suddenly hit with the first cold kisses of the water, and you’re caught.
“This,” you sound out, and by now you’re already well aware of where the conversation’s headed. The both of you still skirt around the words anyway, the silence quickly settling in.
He’s breathing in and out, steady, and tapping his finger against the steering wheel—steady. You’re sat beside him wearing a jacket that’s always been yours, and the AC in his car is just the right kind of cold. When you shift, you’re not exactly comfortable enough to want to stay, but you aren’t uncomfortable to the point of wanting to leave right away either. The space between the both of you feel appropriate, and you know even if he leaves later, his place is only a ten minute drive away.
Convenience, you think; it’s an appropriate word to describe this.
So you turn to face him.
Ocean meets earth, and you’re aware of the cold waves touching your ankle now. You’re nodding your head when you hear the click of his seatbelt unbuckle, then keep your eyes on him when he leans close.
It’s like staying on the edge of the shore, hesitant for the long while, before the moon beyond the daylight loses patience and calls for the tide to favor the yearning of the sea as it grants the tips of its waves to reach further inland.
From your seat, you watch as the ocean comes to you.
Your hands are empty, still, but you did finish that paper two days early so you suppose a slice of something is okay.
“This is convenient,” he finally hears you say, and Akaashi wants to say something else, but he shuts himself up when he sees you finally look at him, like you found an answer to a question that’s boggled with your head for a while now.
He knows there was always something unanswered that bothered you, but he never had it in himself to breach past the boundary the both of you had situated right in the middle just for the sake of asking.
He was curious, but they did say that curiosity had its ways of killing the cat.
Akaashi doesn’t want to be killed—and because he didn’t want this to be killed either—he chose to keep his silence.
Still, he still has it in him to hesitate. The moon can only push the tides so much, and the water will only go so far to where it rarely ventures before it must recede back to where it should be come daylight.
It’s daylight that you yearn, and he sees that.
A faceless kind of sun—that he can only guess is the answer to all the questions he knows you still have.
What’s above the both of you is the gleam of moonlight now, he reasons, so he goes as far as he can and waits. You’re still standing by the shore—still sitting completely still—until he watches you break out of the hesitation laced with your thoughts, right as you move.
“What are we doing?” he hears you whisper, so Akaashi begs for the moon to push him forward just a little closer.
(He hopes you don’t pull away.)
“We’re doing what’s convenient,” he offers, a set of words strung together at the very last second that he knows is just a crafted lie, then prays for the best.
You’re nodding your head, and you give yourself just those few more seconds as you weigh your thoughts, deciding what’s still okay and what isn’t.
You think back to the bullet points of your journal, and mentally recite the facts written in an organized list.
You like to eat cake, and treat yourself a slice after a job well done, because that’s only when you deserve it. You (love)d Miya Atsumu for a whole novel of your life where the reason fell under just because instead of the specifics you try to fit in places for the sake of accuracy and detail. Miya Atsumu was the sun that was always with the sky, and you were never blinded even if you did always stare at him directly in the eye. (Next to that part is always a quickly scribbled why—but you don’t know the answer to it just yet.)
(You say you should really be getting back to it later, to fill in the blanks, and give it some closure—but you aren’t ready for a closure.)
(You aren’t ready to open page 223.)
Then next on the list is Akaashi Keiji. You had two classes with him and went to the same university for your masters and the most you know about him is that he likes his coffee with just a splash of caramel. He lives just a ten minute drive away from you, and he’s okay enough to share a laugh with on weekdays and breakfast with on weekends if you had class together that day. He’s okay with 7am lectures, even if he did have bags under his eyes, and he’s the type to always carry a bookmark with him or at least just a scrap of paper to fit in between the pages because he hated the idea of just folding the corners as substitute instead.
It’s not that he’s convenient, but rather this is convenient.
You got along well, and you suppose that you’re comfortable enough with the ocean to wade deep within it and still not drown.
“I won’t do anything you don’t want me to,” you hear him murmur, so you take a step and wade in a little deeper.
Ankle deep, and you’re unbuckling your seatbelt as you shift and fully face him.
Ocean blue, and the waves are swirling, swirling, swirling—you’re pulled in. Waist deep, and the water’s cold enough to wake you up and remind you that it’s fine. You’re fine, and you can breathe; you aren’t overwhelmed, and when you stretch your fingers and try to feel for the sand beneath the waves, you can still feel it. There’s a certain security found in being grounded, then you’re thinking to yourself that whatever this is, is okay.
You try to stare down, and face the waves, and will yourself to not think of the sky.
There’s no daylight, and the sun slumbers, so the waves around you heed to the call of the moon and move back and forth, in motion, but still, around your waist.
So it’s you who buckles your knees in waist deep water and pull yourself under.
It’s the feel of the water, cool and not exactly cold that greets you, as you push yourself forward, grabbing the collar of his shirt before pressing your lips against his.
Akaashi sighs against your lips, as if he’s already discovered the ending to a story he conceptualized himself but never really had the courage of writing out.
He’s kissing you right back, and it feels good—for the moment.
You try not to think of the nagging feeling that pokes at you again and again, saying that the warmth of the sand under the sun in daylight feels much more like home than the cool feel of the water.
-
You’ve always known to yourself that there was the undeniable contrast between Akaashi and Atsumu.
Comparing the two wasn’t a bright idea—it was stupid, if anything, and didn’t help with shit, honestly speaking. (You always were honest to yourself.)
Akaashi hummed his praises, and never was the type to really shout them out. He called you when he’d pull up to your building, instead of wait outside the door and surprise you with a couple pieces of chocolate and a cheesy grin that you swore to hell and back you hated to boot.
Atsumu was everything unpredictable and freeing, but Akaashi was predictable in the way that eventually grew sentimental. He, alone, had forever been great. You knew well that there was so many things he could take pride in, and never bothered to hide your compliments when it came to his achievements, because you knew he deserved the recognition.
Akaashi spoke to you in metaphors, while Atsumu told you like how it is. You admit to yourself, that even if there were some days where you liked the challenge of trying to understand what was written underneath the underneath—the days where you just wanted to hear it as it just is were just as equal.
For the next few months after the first, time still moved okay. Sixty minutes was still an hour, while twenty four hours was still one whole day. Whether Akaashi’s hand was on yours, or if his lips were on your neck in the car, time still just moved.
Your heart skipped a couple beats, when his thumb would always caress the corners of your lips before and after he kissed you, and your cheeks would bloom into all the shades of scarlet when he’d whisper your name in between the kisses that never felt rushed.
But it was just that.
You felt the rush of what love was supposed to be—the hype that it never failed to bring—in the car.
At 11PM, in the parking lot of your apartment building, the height of love thrived on the fumes of serendipity for an hour or two every couple of nights, and would trickle fast when you’d open the door and tell him goodnight.
Atsumu was goodnight, my love, with the cheesy smile and your montage of eye rolls but secret blushes when you’d turn your back and make your way inside your house. Akaashi, on the other hand, you think is just your goodnight, then go, because at the end of the day—because of convenience—the both of you are somehow dragging out the goodbye.
So you part from him, wipe your lips, and try to ignore the way his thumb lingers just a little longer on the corner of your lips. You turn away when the look in his eye turns softer, because it shouldn’t, and pretend like you didn’t just see the shift the both of you have been trying to get away from.
Just two years, then goodbye, you tell yourself.
This isn’t love, Akaashi thinks to himself, hand on the wheel and foot on the gas pedal instead of the brakes. He watches you walk past the hood of his car, the hand that was just balling up the collar of his shirt only moments ago raised to give him a goodnight wave as you walk past, and shit, he thinks.
He still smells honeydew even after you’ve shut the door, and he can’t help but notice how silent the car feels despite the low hum of the air conditioner blasting inside his car.
Akaashi sinks into his seat, forehead pressed to the steering wheel, before he sighs his deep exhale.
“Ah,” he mumbles. “Shit.”
This wasn’t supposed to be love.
-
If there was one thing he excelled at above the rest, and kept as a constant since day one, for Akaashi it was playing it safe.
This route was set to be the one he’d take when he’d drive home, because it was safe. Traffic was inevitable in the city, but this on had the least turns. A couple stoplights, and some convenience stores would be in every corner as well as a gas station at every couple of miles was convenient.
Safe, like choosing just plain vanilla for his cake flavors ever since he turned old enough to pick out his own cake, and safe, like just a splash of caramel in his coffee to lessen the bite of espresso.
You were what challenged him to walk a little ways outside the circle he’d always deemed as safe.
He didn’t run away from it, on the other hand, because he realizes that it’s curiosity that made him take the bait. You weren’t just the girl who shared a couple subjects with him and wrote her notes in the same order, the letters written in print instead of scribbled with questionable cursive.
Truth be told, it was before he even took the risk that night and begged for the moon to let him reach just a little further in the shore for him to unconsciously begin redesigning the face of love into the contours of your face.
You looked like love.
What it could just possibly be at the start, until he waded too far into the shore for that thought to turn into the beginnings of certainty.
And when Akaashi Keiji was certain, he took no time in looking for somewhere to bury his roots as deep as he can possibly go in.
It started with noticing that some weeks you prefer red velvet over chocolate mousse, then making a mental note to himself that you prefer the bakery on the east side of campus than the one on the west. You never made too much conversation with the teenagers that worked there part time, because he understands that there’s never really a point in doing that when you could just be on your way, but he took note of how you’d smile a little more towards the uncles that trimmed the hedges on the garden outside.  
In his eyes, not only did you look like the textbook definition of love, but you also looked like his dream of what love is supposed to be.
It’s supposed to be looking at someone, doing something so mundane, and realizing that having a name beside you written in a book that was supposed to just tell your journey wasn’t all that bad—at all.
And all it took was a Sunday morning, on the twenty first of some month he can’t quite recall in the moment, for him to catch a glimpse of you making your way to the library with a cup of what he knows is just boba in a coffee mug in hand. The sky behind you looks like it opens, as if there’s something with it that’s always been with you, and even though you’re at a distance—in his eyes, you’re glowing.
You smile at the uncle who’s trimming away at the hedges to your right, then right before you make a turn, you’re raising your hand as a good morning and giving him a smile.
And fuck, Akaashi thinks.
He holds a heart that beats, where for the moment it’s not because of the fact that he still needs to breathe.
He’s okay, and this is okay.
He thinks to himself that there’s a chance, because the both of you work. So it just means to say that this, can too.
“Okay,” he exhales, the whisper more as a reassurance to himself than to anyone else. The world covered in daylight slumbers at his words, and as he stands, his own schedule in place, he wishes for the blessing of the moon to push him with the tides back into the shore again.
“Tonight,” he texts you, instead.
“I’ll pick you up tonight.”
-
(March 13 2022)
In shades of grey, Akaashi Keiji loves you.
Grey car, oceanic yes that look grey under the stormy nights you’d always meet him in, and the rainclouds of tonight blending the skies into the muddled shades of one palette. Making out in his car, a couple times a week, because even if he wanted to hold your hand and kiss you out in the world—you always did pull back.
But he has this, and for an hour and some minutes, has you.
Your palms on his chest, where his breaths are huffed out and fucking heavy. There’s smoke out the engine, the air conditioner’s blasted in just the way he knows you like, but it’s those hazy eyes of yours he could never read that stare at him.
Or towards him, rather.
Akaashi thinks to himself that it’s always looked as if you mean to be staring at someone else other than him, living through the moment that was somewhere else but here. He knows love is meant to be screamed at the top of his lungs, so he tries to at least do that.
He’s never really thought the rest of the world should know, because all he really wants is for you to know.
Words don’t come out, and his hands are under your shirt before they even try to run through the skin of your neck like he usually does. Cold palms flat against the curve of your back, and you’re confused. Akaashi’s staring at you, breath held as he holds onto your smell of honeydew for as long as he can like it’s the lifeline he needs. Your eyes are even hazier, looking like you’re even more lost, and he’s frustrated.
He kisses you again, pulling you flush against him, until eventually you’re pushing at his chest when the center console begins to dig into your skin a little too much.
“We can go upstairs?” he usually tries to suggest, and now, looking at your red lips and mused hair, he wants to ask the same question again, but because he thinks he knows you like the back of his hand, he also knosws that you’ll just wave him off with a half hearted no chuckled out instead.
This is just a pit stop, and he knows. He is just your pit stop, and even if the agreement was the same on the flip side, it bothers him that he fucking knows.
“Someone will see us,” a thing you say, because he’s just your for now.
Akaashi Keiji, in your head, is going to be your almost mistake, almost enemy.
(And you don’t want to hate him. It’s not that his limbs have been too entangled with yours for you to come up with that decision, but rather, it was just how you just didn’t want to hate someone you shared slices of your truest you with.)
“Someone will see us, Keiji,” you warn again, ducking a little when a group of people make their way out of a building and head in the general direction of their car.
Akaashi knows that you’re aware of the tinted windows he had installed just two weeks before, and that they fucking worked, so why were you still hiding?
What is there to hide?
So it’s him saying, “I don’t care,” that lights a kind of flame in his gut. They travel up to the veins, reminding him of their existence.
It’s a risk, he thinks. He holds your face in between his hands, shaking. You allow yourself to finally tremble with him, because broken has been the only side of you that he’s ever known.
Akaashi’s frustrated, again, because watching you watch him in the dim—despite the haze of your dark brown, he still tries to jump at the chance that perhaps this could be love.
He wants to know what you look like in every shade in between black and white. There’s a lot of pastels and violet blended in with your choice of wardrobe, so it fits.
Akaashi wants to hear the sound of your voice at twenty three, and not just at a zero or a hundred. He knows your heart breaks a little more when October 5 around the calendar, but he wants to know why.
“Someone is going to fucking see,” you’re hissing now, but you still don’t pull away.
Akaashi knows he’s just the getaway car, but he still keeps his foot on the pedal, always ready to go when you are.
He sees the look in your eye and recognizes the tendrils of goodbye before it’s even completely thought out from your end, but he shuts his mouth, swallows his own doubts, and kisses you like you’re his.
(For tonight, you are.)
(Under the moonlight; away from daylight; within the waters, ever drowning in the depths—you’re his.)
So Akaashi locks his doors, starts the engine, and kisses you again and again and again and again like the world within this little space is all the world will ever be. He drowns out the voice in his head that tells him to pull away; to push you and himself away, because this isn’t okay—but tonight he is selfish.
“I don’t fucking care,” he repeats; in between the kisses and the façade.
“Lena I don’t care.”
You don’t understand, but at the same time you do.
You’re still kissing him anyway, and leaning into his touch. You only look at him when he opens his eyes, to pull yourself back into the water and away from the memory of daylight and sun and fucking sand because not yet—you think. You don’t want to think about the word deserve, just yet. There’s a fire that’s been lit in your veins, and the world feels like it’s kicking you off of somewhere again so you could just soar.
It’s not the same, the voice in your head cries.
And it’s not.
Love, is Miya Atsumu and daylight. He’s the whole tier of cake always put on display that you mean to buy, but never do because you feel like what you carry with you would never be enough. He’s the masterpiece against the skies, against the backdrop of your world, and he deserved nothing short of the greatness that he is too.
Akaashi’s lips are on your neck, where he mumbles your name, once, then twice, but never enough to feel like he’s endgame. There will never be a number to match to that what could be enough, you think, so you let it be and leave it at that.
Akaashi Keiji isn’t a secret, but you still shield whatever you have from something. You think you shield it from the sky, but some days has you feeling like it’s really meant to be understood as working like the other way around. He’s kissing you, still, then when his lips move to kiss the side of your forehead you still.
You know he means to leave a kiss on your eyelids, but you keep your eyes wide open—staring at him. It’s the ocean blue, but you’re not being pulled away, swept out to sea this time, because there’s no current. Within the depths, you see a reflection of the skies that always watch, and the clouds above look like they mean to weep.
Your toes hit the sand underneath the waves, and you take one step back—closer to the shore.
You’re not there, yet, but you’re headed there. Akaashi looks at you, looking a little more broken than whole, and while there’s an apology at the tips of your tongue, he beats you to the punch by saying “What’s wrong?”
He knows he’s asking a question he knows the answer to, and he probably shouldn’t be doing that, because it will only bring more harm than good at this point, but he says it anyway. At every chance that falls on his hands here he can at least try to make his presence be known, to root his name and him into the grounds of your earth, he’ll do it.
Pinpricks that poke and prod at his chest before they dig a little deeper, and a whole lot fucking deeper when you turn away from him and pull away, taking with you your traces of honeydew and love.
“Nothing,” you answer. A lie. You both know, but neither of you confront the clear sins of the other. “Nothing,” you say again, solidifying your answer.
The list comes reappears in your head, and the facts that you’ve been gathering lay themselves side by side beside you in the most cohesive order.
You like to eat cake when you did something worth celebrating for. Fact.
Your name is Lena, and there’s a lot about the lyrics to Ayahuasca that sends you spiraling. Fact.
Fruit tarts over cheesecake, because even if you didn’t mind cheese all that much, cheesecake felt weird. Fact.
Miya Atsumu, forever and always; spring to winter, will always be love. Fact.
You let him go because he deserved better. Fact.
You mark the pages of a book you haven’t finished reading by folding the corners of the pages into the little triangles resembling dog ears instead of buying an actual bookmark, while Akaashi Keiji, does the same. Fact.
Your truth is that even if he stares at you right now, with the eyes of a man in love, you know that the sinking feeling in your stomach is the fact that you think as if he’s just meant to be with you in the moment, but not after it passes.
“Keiji, I’m sorry.”
-
It’s the way you looked as you said the words instead of the words itself that sticks in Akaashi’s head the most. He’s up, awake at 2 in the morning, tossing and turning in bed, frustrated. There’s a misplaced sense of anger inside, but he knows it isn’t towards you.
He isn’t angry at himself, nor you, nor the two fucking words that sounds like a consolation prize if anything.
Akaashi sits up, back against the headboard and ponders to himself if this is the kind of extremity Bokuto had to face whenever he was going through the motions. It’s the kind of fire that bubbles up but never explodes. First, he remembers. Then, he’s angry. Next, he’s swallowing down the words he wants to say because the problem is—he doesn’t know who to say them to.
He could call you and ask what your fucking deal was, but he knows that’s out of pocket. Your deal had always been the black and the white. He knew you as someone who appreciated it most when things fell into what was in accordance to the list you always write in order. It’s always been either this, or that, and he should have drilled it into his head at the very least.
Then after those thoughts eventually settle into his head and accumulate into a pile in front of him, the anger that already had rose to the neck area suddenly simmers down.
Then, finally, Akaashi realizes, as the exact moment settles in—he’s just tired.
He’s a little sad, and tired. Slumped shoulders, tired eyes, and thoughts a whirlwind of just you, you, and you.
This wasn’t part of his norm, he thinks, but he thought you were. He thought all there was to you were boba or juice shoved in a coffee mug and friendly hellos to the uncles who trimmed the hedges. You were the color lilac despite having a love for all the shades found in the rainbow. There was probably a semblance of love, in your life, before him, but he knows that inn this part of your life—he was bound to meet someone who’ve had endings of their own.
He sighs again, realizing the truth that he doesn’t want you to be just an ending for him to reminisce over with a group of strangers some time later.
And of course, Akaashi Keiji was the type to demand answers, because it’s only minutes later here he finally makes up his mind, standing up in a rush and picking up his phone as he dials your number, the digits memorized despite your contact having been long saved.
You don’t pick up after the first ring, but it’s only two am and he sees your game activity on discord so he knows you’re up. He’s tapping his foot, a little impatient, but because tonight he made the abrupt decision to suddenly be selfish—just this once—he didn’t care.
The second ring still rings, but there’s silence. Your status changes from online to do not disturb, and by the third ring, he hangs up, and grabs his keys.
-
To be fair, you did count down from ten to one.
Akaashi’s at your door before you can even say hello. He doesn’t look like he’s lost much sleep, taking into consideration the fact that you already are well aware of how little he even sleeps, but it’s you who leans by your door and says hello anyway.
He shifts in his place, left leg supporting his whole weight before the other. You watch, somewhere between amused and indifferent as he parts his lips once or twice, shutting them close each time before he eventually just settles with looking away and murmuring, “Wanna go for a ride?”
“To make out?”
He looks at you, then sighs. “Just wanna talk.”
-
And to be fair on your end, even if he did say that, there really isn’t much talking going on. The both of you are only wearing your pyjamas, just a couple hops away from going to bed—until this—obviously. He’s driving around the street of the neighborhood park nearby in circles; the one with the two stoplights on either ends, and just one corner as the only way that lead to your house, while his route was the turn a couple more ways ahead.
He misses the turn to your home every time. It’s a fifteen minute walk at best, and truth be told, if you were already sick of this, you would have long gotten off and started walking already, but you suppose that tonight you were a little more patient.
There’s a lot of factors that have to deal with Akaashi being patient with you too, so you could guess that it’s safe to assume that this was just a give and take situation.
You give him your words, while he gives you his.
He gives you his time, then you give him his.
There’s a balance that needs to be maintained, so while he gives you silence, in return, you do the same.
Until he breaks it, saying, “What happened back there?”
“It is what is is, Keiji,” you hum, head turned to face the window to your right.  
“We were working out,” he reasons, and you widen your eyes, looking at him, baffled. “What are you talking about?”
“I thought we had an agreement, Ji,” you retaliate.
“We didn’t say anything, Lena,” he scoffs.
Scoffs, you think. Then it fucking dawns on you that he was actually already wading in the deep end, too fast, too hard.
You shake your head, always having been resolute with your decisions, as you were transparent with your intentions. Akaashi, on the other hand, seemed to just squint right through it and look at the mirage instead of the actual desert that was right there.
“But it was still said,” you tell him, and when he stops the car near the sidewalk just to gawk at you, it really fucking hits you that he was way too deep in something that was only waist deep in hindsight.
“That’s what you think,” Akaashi tells you, but he doesn’t sound angry. He doesn’t sound tired either, so it messes with you in a weird way to realize that this is just his truth.
“I can’t tell you what you can and can’t think just like how you can’t be putting words in my mouth that I never even said, Keiji,” you bite back, flustered and frankly a little appalled at the bluntness off his words. When you stare at him, you try to give it some reason that maybe he’s just tired, or maybe he just had a bad day and was spewing shit out of his mouth at best, because at the moment, absolutely nothing is making any fucking sense.
But then he’s sighing, tired. The back of his head thumps the car seat headrest when he leans back and loosens his grip on the wheel. The streetlights flicker, but stay, while the stoplight with the corner that has your turn on it signals yellow.
You bite the bullet and turn to him, but still slow yourself down.
“I’m sorry,” you say. “I didn’t mean—“
From his peripherals, Akaashi sees the stoplight further up ahead that leads to his turn blink from green to red.
He pauses.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m—fuck. Fuck, okay,” he continues, pausing to rub his face with his hands. “I’m sorry, Len, I didn’t mean to go off like that.”
“I think,” you begin, exhaling, and frankly feeling a little more worn out. “I think we were looking at different stoplights this whole time.”
Akaashi laughs, finding it a little out of your character to be speaking in metaphors, especially knowing that that was always his sort of thing. He nods, anyway, a little past worn out, and just fucking tired at this point. It dawns on him that it is three in the morning, and he’s pulled you out of your apartment just to try to find a common ground in something that had been completely one sided from the start.
You’re yawning, in your spot just beside him, but you still look at him anyway with blinking eyes that look more sleepy than anything, but he supposes he’d rather take that kind of look over frustration or sadness.
He fights the urge to tuck in the strand of hair behind your ear, looking away when you blink a little too long, because he knows that his lips will never find a home against the skin of your eyelids he knows he’ll still periodically think about from time to time when nostalgia decides to visit him a little later down the road.
He remembers his stoplight’s at red.
“This kinda feels like a breakup,” he laughs anyway, giving himself this little bit to stay in the moment and pretend like car rides with him, and you, will still be an okay thing for tomorrow.
“Does it?” you smile, slowing down, and thinking of yellow.
Yellow.
He smiles, but doesn’t say a word, and the conversation ends just like that.
“Let me drop you off at least,” he says, and you shake your head, eyes cast towards your stop light as the countdown to green begins to tick.
“I think I wanna take a walk.”
“At three AM?” he prods. “Alone? In Tokyo?”
It hits green, and you stifle a laugh, a little drunk on the kind of adrenaline that doesn’t make you feel like running, but rather, soaring, instead.
“Yeah,” you snort. “At three AM, alone, in Tokyo.”
He knows he probably should have said something to at least get you close enough so that your building can be seen, but by the looks of it, your mind’s already long made up as you open your door, and walk out, shutting the same door softly behind you. Akaashi’s quick to lower the windows on that side, tilting his head as you do the same, leaning down give him a little smile.
“I really don’t mind dropping you off just so that I know you’re safe,” he says.
“And I really am okay,” you laugh, waving him off. “No need to be so nice, I just probably broke your heart.”
“Probably’s an understatement,” he laughs, but waves you off when you look like you’re about to say something.
“Why are you being nice to me? I didn’t do anything to you,” you laugh again.
Then you watch as Akaashi shrugs, smiling the kind of smile that you think he does when he’s alone as he looks at your stoplight turning to green ahead instead of the one on his. “You don’t need to do anything for anyone to get stuff, Len.”
“—You really don’t.”
-
It isn’t as much as looking at heartbreak straight in the face, Akaashi thinks to himself. It was really just a matter of pulling his head out of his own ass and realizing that the first look of a break of his mundane isn’t what fate has in store. Serendipity works weird, he realizes. People say it’s the happily ever after you’re supposed to be craving for, but he realizes it’s a lesson.
You were a lesson, to which the exact words he can’t exactly have a solid grasp of as of now, but he knows in time he’ll find them.
The reality of heartbreak is that it just comes, for the sake of being there. It doesn’t trickle slow, or give a warning. In his case, Akaashi realizes that it’s just there because it’s the result of something.
He’s driving down a street, passing your turn, where he has to peel his eyes away at the sight of you walking past a no U-Turn sign, because it just hits him that you were never for his to cradle to begin with.
There’s not much about you, but he can just about tell that you look like the kind of woman who holds on to the best kind of book, shoving it away during the best part, because you’re afraid of the inevitable that the story will still end.
He taps at his steering wheel, coming to another stop at the red light of his street, where he turns on his signal to turn to the right when he’s given a go. For a moment, his eyes flicker towards the passenger seat, where you were just hours ago, in the exact same moment where he was high on something and thinking that the world was just made of 2.
Akaashi looks at heartbreak in the face, but it’s just fragments of you, and a couple sentences he can’t connect to each other, and just like that he knows that this little slice of your life will just be a piece of a puzzle he isn’t a part of.
It’s okay.
It will be okay.
But right now the light’s red, and he allows himself to feel that it isn’t. He tells himself that it’s not because he isn’t enough, but rather, he’s not enough for the kind of fulfillment you were looking for. Perhaps love and happiness looked like the skies, and not the seas, because that would explain why most of his memories with you always involved you facing the clouds, as if caught in a daydream.
Akaashi laughs to himself, a little dryly, when the lights turn green and he’s easing off of the brakes. His world will always be in motion, and he’ll always be headed towards something—but right now he thinks of the moment as a metaphor that he’s heading out of something.
Out of the first phase of love; where it’s just an idea and not exactly it.
He was the getaway car, but it was okay. In shades of grey he supposes he’ll always see you, but perhaps one day he’ll find the perfect shade of orange to let the blue in his eyes finally come into a full bloom.
-
It’s in the exact same moment that you pass by the no U-Turn sign that you’ve always just ignored on your street, where a lot of things hit you.
First is the memory of Atsumu.
At first, you feel bad, because you know you probably just walked out of a situation that had to deal with you breaking a heart instead of healing it, but your truth had always been your truth and there was no point in sugar coating something whose end was prewritten right from the start.
So you shake away the thoughts, and remember Atsumu again.
It’s undeniable, that who he was had always been your truth regarding what love would always be. Miya Atsumu as the gold to your lavender, and even if the color wasn’t just your neighbor in the palette, standing beside him fit.
It fit, but just saying that it does doesn’t feel like it’s enough.
The No U-Turn sign stares at you in the face, so you stop.
You’re standing in the sidewalk again, like all those years ago, and even if you’re pretty sure that you just broke a heart only some moments ago, the only name running through your head in the moment was Atsumu’s.
Love was as ugly as it was beautiful. Selfish as it was selfless.
No U-Turn, so you keep walking.
You pull back from the waters, and ignore the moon, and stare at the skies, pretending that you’re in the presence of the sun where the sky that blankets your side of the world is bathed in the colors of daylight. Every shade of the sky saturated, where the sun looks more of a gold than a blinding yellow.
You laugh, briefly recalling the time when he decided to let you be with the spiral of your thoughts, and it’s tonight where you come into a full realization that he only did that because he knew this was the something you needed to go through yourself before even letting him in.
Your thoughts drift, and you look up to the sky, searching for the big ball of light, because in your heart, you’re calling for love. You’re alone in the streets, at three in the morning just loitering around in your pyjamas that don’t match in any angle, but love is what drives you to keep walking home.
No fucking U-Turn, and it hits you like a damn truck.
Miya Atsumu will always be the love that you’ll still find in the silence. In every shade of yellow and gold, and every walk home. He’s the presence—or a fucking entity, you laugh to yourself—that drives slow next to you who decides to take it slow and just walk home, talking the long route on the sidewalk.
There are streetlights that glow in the distance like fireflies, and you’re suddenly thankful for the burst of light.
Light, like your Atsumu, who will always be the face of your love.
You don’t know if you deserve it, but it truly had to take reading a damn side story and coming into terms that the most you could ever give the rest of the world was an honest I’m sorry.
“You don’t need to do stuff for anyone to get stuff,” you hear Akaashi’s voice chorus in your ear again, so you smile to yourself, not exactly changed, but a little enlightened at most.
Change and acceptance doesn’t happen overnight, but like love, who came into your life like a rush, epiphanies also held the nature of just arriving without warning.
The tears that begin to dribble down your face afterwards worked sort of like that. You recall sitting on the floor of your kitchen, tears on your hands, down your cheeks, on the floor, and on your shirts. You told yourself again and again that you were crying because of the cake and not because of how unkind you were to yourself, because even if your hands were empty—you know that word is only subjective at best.
You’re walking down the streets now, along the streets with the lights that look like fireflies at three am and you could just feel Atsumu smirking beside you if he was here.
Tears that feel warm, but it’s liberating.
Nothing strikes you one minute, only to change you a whole 180 in the very next because it just doesn’t work like that, but what does stay is Akaashi’s words. They swirl in your head again and again, like a broken record that has you realizing isn’t playing such a bad song at all.
Love is as selfish as it is selfless.
You loved Atsumu selflessly, but now you want to hold on to a semblance of him again—albeit it just being a memory, for now, and love with the intention to take.
It’s to accept, he would correct you, if he was there, but then again, those will always just be the words that you are yet to hear.
But for now you walk along the sidewalks and reminisce. You reminisce the view of the summit, and the feeling of being so high up. You think of Akaashi and the ocean blue eyes you thought were just great at best, and whisper another apology into the universe you pray will deliver your words to the rightful ears, because right now, you just want to love selfishly.
There’s a book on your shelf with a dog eared bookmark on page 223, and you think that tonight you’ll pull it out and at least dust the cover.
When you look in the mirror, you know that you’re in love and that fact alone is as undeniable as the truth that your name is Lena.
It’s okay to be in love, and a little broken, and it’s okay to eat a slice of cake just because.
You’re crying still, when you stumble out your door again, Atsumu’s hoodie around your frame, as you drive to that only bakery in town, forty five minutes away, because you know that they sell the best kind of red velvet.
The funny thing about epiphany is that once the smallest bit of it strikes you, it keeps coming. Reality is messy, you think, and your eye opening moment doesn’t happen like how it does in the books where every moment plays out one before the other in perfect order.
There’s a method to the madness that is life, where the order is called spontaneity because the very nature of it is to defy just that.
Serendipity that’s always found you through the face of Miya Atsumu and the amber skies that were yours and his every six thirty. Eyelid kisses and I love you, just because. Climbing from one straight to a hundred, and even a fucking thousand that quick because love is as much of a whirlwind as it is a slow burn.
You tell yourself time and time again that all you do is take without giving, but at this point it’s the universe that wishes for you to understand that there is no such thing as ever giving too little.
Love, as selflessness and purity will keep giving because even if you open your hands and offer it nothing, it will only smile back fondly, telling you that you are always deserving—as you are.
You surpass the word enough—as you are.
You are loved—as you are.
There will always be someone who will sit behind the door and eat cake with you in the silence.
-
Right now, it’s just you, but you make do anyway.
You’re in the driver’s seat of your car, frankly a mess, primarily because of three things.
The first, you’re finally feeling everything you’ve told yourself you shouldn’t be feeling—all at once. Second, the cake is really good, and you don’t feel guilty about eating it this time around.
And third, the auntie selling you cake commented that there was a gentleman just last week who wore the exact same kind of jacket that you’re wearing, buying all thirteen flavors of cake and taste tested each one on the table by the window. She asked him if he was waiting for someone, and apparently he’d always say that he is, but she was just taking her time getting caught up in a little something, but “she’s worth the wait,” he’d repeat.
“She’s worth a lot of things, so waiting a little bit is okay.”
Apparently he would buy everything but cheesecake, even if he did stare at the piece a little longer, looking like he wanted to try.
You’re crying at the thought that there was still a piece of him that was all you, even after all the one sided conclusions you didn’t even talk him through with.
“Okay,” you say, whispering to no one but yourself in particular. The container with your one slice of red velvet is on your lap, while there’s an unopened one that’s the mango cheesecake you would never in a million years order, in the passenger seat of your car.
“What do we do now?” you say again, looking at the reflection of yourself in the reflection of your windshield.
You’re nodding your head, the words to write beside the bullet points in your head already listing themselves out in a neat line, written in print. You shake your head afterwards, for the first time without the presence of anyone really, overwhelmed with all the things you thought would be your end, showing you all the epiphanies you’ve been pretending you never saw all this time.
There’s a comfort found in listening to the sound of your own sniffles in the car, your own arms around you like the anchor Atsumu’s have always been, and just like that you break down again because not only are you in love with him, you’re also giving yourself the kindness your soul has been needing to realize that you need to love yourself just as much too.
It’s not easy, but it’s tangible.
Accepting love, as the selfless something, and not just a factor that worked like the give and take system was also not right here, but in time you’ll be right there with it where it’s tangible.
“I’ll eat cake today, just because,” you finally say, and at your first bite of red velvet, the weight of your demons lessen just a little bit.
 -
April 16, 2024 | New York City, USA
-
Miya Atsumu has always thought to himself that love worked in an oddly sadistic way. It came without explanation, stayed without boundaries, then would just fucking up and leave like it didn’t just build a whole world and there would be no consequences.
Thankfully for him, love was the one thing that never left.
He saw you through a myriad of what you think are your lessons, and Atsumu smiles at every candid memory of you.
He saw you think to yourself that you were falling for ocean eyes, then saw you again, a few months after what he assumes was the fall out, at your graduation.
You wore your cap the other way the first time, and he chuckles, snapping a photo from the distance—to which you rapidly turn your head towards his direction at—a feat of yours that he can never guess how it was made possible. He was there, from a distance, cheering when your name was called, and you walked to the stage. Lilac flowers and every slice of chocolate was something he dedicated forever to you, and every time he’d close his eyes before a serve he would lightly tap at his eyelids reminding himself that that will always be yours and his.
-
The future is where time moves slow, and then it doesn’t.
The demons are there, but you suppose that it’s because they’re sort of a lifetime deal. Somedays you’ll still look away from the slice of cake you’ve been meaning to eat after a job well done, but the better days also come right after the plunge where you’ll drive yourself to the auntie’s bakery located in the OK part of New York at three in the morning just because.
You were connected to the world, despite your demons, and it was okay.
New York had went from just a postcard on your wall to the skyline that greeted you every morning before you went to work.
The smell of coffee and the feel of sunlight at 9am. Love, as the something you can still hear in the silence, because it works just like that.
Silence, as the word that’s nothing more than the absolute contrast to what New York is, but it was you dulling even the noise that comes with Time’s Square to realize that this is the kind of atmosphere good for you.
-
And because serendipity works like a bitch, it really shouldn’t have surprised you when through the crowd, it’s still Miya fucking Atsumu who you see staring back at you like he’s found you far longer than you found him.
(Perhaps there’s more than just truth to that.)
You don’t think you want to cry, because the love that’s always been there still feels the same, and when you walk towards him, a pace like your usual, you feel weightless.
There’s a comfort about meeting smack in the middle, and you think that this is it. You gave your twenty steps while he gave his. Maybe some days he gives you a little more than just twenty, and maybe some days you’ll find yourself in bed, taking zero steps while he’ll go as far as flying some thousands of kilometers just to be with you.
You let serendipity be, as you stand before him, feeling like no time has passed.
A little over three years has passed, but see the same streaks of amber in his eyes of earth, and you think that love, also has a face that looks timeless.
And it’s this.
It’s you, and it’s him—in a city that uses noise that works like silence.
It’s New York and the sea of lights. Miya Atsumu and his dopey smile, that somehow still crossed more than just a couple oceans to a land foreign to him, and he still managed to come to you halfway, like a whirlwind.
An unprecedented presence that you welcome anyway, because love, you suppose, will forever be so many things.
It’s one face that one name that holds all of that though, Atsumu thinks.
He’s looking at you, where in his head he’s already laughing because your lipstick’s smudged on the left side, the culprit obviously being the piece of croissant looking a little lame in your hand.
“I love you, still, but I think you know that,” he says immediately, as if he’s just continuing a conversation.
(In a way he is; the last you talked to him, you never really heard a reply. You said goodbye and then you left, and Atsumu never got a chance to get a word in.)
And as if he read your expression, he laughs, hands low on his waist as he stands in front of you, present. “I wanted to tell you that then so I’ll say it now too I guess. My voice has got a little deeper so it probably has more effect now.”
You shake your head, already past the state of disbelief considering the rollercoaster that is your life. “It still has the same effect,” you mumble, croissant long forgotten.
You think that you want to cry again, but Atsumu’s grinning and you feel breathless.
It’s like mercy that greets you after you think you’ve done nothing but sin—you’re breathless but your lungs feel full.
So it’s Atsumu walking up to you, looking at you like you’re his daydream, saying “Hi Lena, what’s your name?” that grounds you back to the earth after freefalling from the summit.
The world has always looked different from the view at the very top, and even if you closed your eyes throughout the fall, there was a certain comfort you realize only now and that’s the fact that the whole time you were falling—it was the sky that held on to you and never let you go since.
“Hi ‘Tsumu,” you say back, closing your eyes when you lean in halfway as he reaches forward and pulls you the rest of the way, towards him—towards love, and towards home.
“I’m sorry I don’t have something with me right now to give you,” you mumble out anyway, and your heart bursts at the feel of his hand stroking the back of your hair, as his voice anchors you down again to keep you from floating right by your ear.
He kisses your eyelids, then your forehead, and the white noise of New York has you feeling both connected and safe.
“You’re okay,” he says. “You’ve always got me like how I’ve got you, and I’ve never thought there was anything more that I could try to ask for other than that.”
“You are everything that love will always ever be and that’s it for me, Len.”
He smiles, and while things still don’t fully click into place because healing has a habit of doing just that—you also let yourself feel the lightness of just this.
“You don’t need to do anything. I got you,” he says. “You got me too,” he reassures, and you believe him.
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solalunar-eclipse · 3 years
Text
Sonic Boom - S3E1
Episode title: Friendship 101
Word count: about 3000 words
Author’s Note: I’m trying a rather new format for this fic, since it’s based on a TV show with various songs and camera angles. If you have any comments about whether it works well or not, please let me know!
(Also, the theme song choice is all thanks to khinesthetic, who used it here and inspired me to put it in this fic.)
Next
[cue Mr. Blue Sky by ELO (0:00-3:45)]
[The show opens on a zoomed-out view of Hedgehog Village from above. Stone walls separate the village from the wilderness outside. There are large spaces at several points throughout the structure for entry and exit. A large patch of grass with benches scattered about sits at one end of the village, and a marketplace made up of wood-and-cloth stalls runs along one of the walls. Houses are grouped in seemingly random clusters throughout the town, and the (in)famous Meh Burger stand sits all on its own, with picnic tables spread across its wooden flooring. As the music progresses, the camera begins to zoom in on the village- then on one of the streets in particular- and rotates down to eye level to face…]
Sonic the Hedgehog walked through the streets of Hedgehog Village with a bounce in his step, occasionally dancing to the music playing through his earbuds. As he wandered throughout the town, he passed the usual people running their stores, arguing over botched orders at Meh Burger, and, at one point, Aqua the Rabbit absolutely freaking out over the loss of a single follower on Angstagram (the latest social media network for moody teens).
He did a 360-degree spin before winking and pointing finger guns at Amy Rose when he spotted her haggling with the local grocery store owner. She paused briefly to wave at him with a smile. “Hi, Sonic!” she called, completely ignoring the irritated fennec in the process.
Then, the music froze and changed to something extremely ominous as she turned around to face the shopkeeper once more. A dangerous gleam appeared in her eyes as she pulled out her signature hammer. “Now then, about those prices you’ve been setting lately…”
The song cut back in as the view switched back to Sonic, who was now moving away from the scene at a slightly faster pace.
Really, though, he was more than happy to see his other friends not long after. Knuckles and Sticks were currently busy rummaging through the town’s garbage together, excitedly chatting about the latest piece of interesting junk they’d found, while Tails was fixing someone’s broken rain gutter (and attempting to ‘improve’ it in the process, which meant that it could now measure the amount and intensity of rainfall in a storm- a very useful, though unfortunately unwanted improvement).
Surprisingly enough, as he continued on his way through Hedgehog Village, he managed to get people from a few different places to wave back at him when he said hello. Although perhaps it wasn’t quite so surprising when one considered that this was one of the most cliched opening sequences that could possibly happen in any movie or TV show. Ever.
And of course, the only logical outcome of this scene led to everyone beginning to stop their usual activities and gather in one of the few open spaces in the town, clearly prepared to break into a fantastic musical dance number straight out of Broadway. Incredibly, this was one of the few moments in which everyone in the village seemed to be able to get along…
...until Eggman’s latest giant robot slammed feet-first into the ground, sending everyone off-kilter and scrambling for cover. Shrieks of panic rose in place of the music as the villagers fled the scene to hide in their houses. The dramatic entrance didn’t just ruin the mood, it absolutely crushed it with the sheer force of its impact.
And that was, obviously, when the show really began.
[cue In Your Face by Shockwave Sound (0:00-1:04)] 
[Each of the five members of Team Sonic appears on a black screen with their name spelled out in their signature colors (blue, yellow, red, pink, and green) and does a couple of cool fighting moves, followed by snippets of scenes featuring them from previous episodes of the show for about eight seconds each. All five of them then appear together in their usual fighting stances, emphasizing their status as a team.
The Eggman logo then appears in an ominous, glowing red, backlighting the doctor himself and all his creations- before the lights flick on to reveal him alone in his evil lair with a green screen behind him, at which point he shrieks and covers the camera with a hand. Then, neon blue electronic lines begin to appear across the screen and the camera spirals to follow them, selecting one particular line to trace. Not long after, said line ends at a circle which, with a flash, turns into the words ‘Sonic Boom’. Beneath the title, it says ‘Ancient Secrets’ in neon blue.]
[Then the music ends, at which point the episode title- “Friendship 101”- appears for a few seconds in the same color before the show itself returns.]
Sonic scrambled to his feet and zipped over to Tails, pulling him up from where he’d fallen after the robot’s overdramatic arrival. Amy managed to do the same with both Knuckles and Sticks simultaneously, which let Sonic stare for a moment, startled, and then promptly resolve to remember not to get on her bad side anytime soon.
Soon enough, the team had scrambled into their usual positions, ready to fight. Amy and Sticks kicked the battle off by handling the various smaller robots that threatened to get too close to their team, never faltering (and in fact seeming a bit gleeful in the badger’s case) despite the sheer number of enemies. Knuckles, meanwhile, launched Sonic bodily into the air for Tails to catch, before picking up a boulder about the size of a house and lobbing it directly at the robot’s chest.
“Hey! Easy with the boulders- QuakeBot took a lot of effort to make, you know!” Eggman shrieked from above, hovering in the relative safety of his Eggmobile. 
(Relative, in this case, was of course in comparison to mixing absurdly volatile chemicals in a lab, bothering Shadow at any and/or all hours of the day, or being on Tails’s bad side when the fox had a glue gun. The doctor still remembered that situation all too well, and currently ranked it as far more terrifying than merely being punted into the stratosphere by kids under half his height and about a third his age.)
Sonic paused to stare at Eggman from where he was currently dangling in the air. A smirk began to spread slowly across his face. “…what did you just call it?”
“You heard me the first time!” the doctor roared, now incredibly embarrassed. “I named it that since it makes the ground shake when it moves, like an earthquake??”
General laughter came from the heroes assembled on the ground and in the sky.
“Argh! Nobody appreciates my genius around here! Now, QuakeBot, stop standing around and start attacking!”
“I suggested TerraBot, since it still has to do with earth and is a play on the word ‘terror’, but nobody ever listens to my ideas, now do they?” Orbot muttered irritably to himself, tucked inside the Eggmobile.
“I listen to all your ideas!” Cubot offered encouragingly.
Orbot’s mouth shifted into a small smile. “Thanks, Cubot.”
Meanwhile, Sonic had been pulled into a spin by Tails, who whirled the hedgehog around before letting him shoot downwards toward the robot in a spin dash- only for him to get caught and sent flying into the nearest house.
He shook off the surprise quickly (and apparently sustained absolutely zero damage despite having literally crashed through a house, because superpowered teenagers), darting back over to the group. “Well, uh, guess it’s time for Plan B then!”
Crickets chirped in the ensuing silence. Even the robot had stopped moving to hear what he had to say.
“And the plan is…?” Amy prompted.
Sonic folded his arms with a huff. “I dunno, I thought you guys would have one!?”
The pink hedgehog rolled her eyes at that. 
Tails piped up. “I have an idea! Sonic, you’re going to need to be curled up for this, okay?”
The hero promptly did just that, before emitting a muffled “mmhmm?” from inside his layers of quills.
“Alright then, Amy, I need you to hit Sonic with your hammer right at the side of this house.”
Sonic’s blood ran cold. “Whoa whoa whoa, wait a second can we maybe rethink thiaaaaaaaaAAAAAAAHHHHH!”
He ricocheted all over the palace like a pinball, slamming into several key points of the robot thanks to Tails’s rapid calculations. However, the robot was sadly unaffected by his screaming at a pitch that came dangerously close to shattering glass.
The robot was easily disabled and the attack overall quickly repelled after that. Thankfully, it took Sonic only a moment to recover from his impromptu stint as an out-of-control projectile and get back to fighting with the others…complete with a “Let’s do that AGAIN!” moment, which was met with a resounding no from both Amy and Tails. 
Their ears were both still rather sore from last time, after all.
After Eggman was punted all the way back to his island by a well-placed kick from Sticks, though, the crew was about to head over to Meh Burger for a post-battle meal when they discovered that they had an entirely different problem to take care of. The villagers, who were beginning to come out of hiding after the attack, were furious upon seeing the damage dealt to their homes and stores.
“How could you let this happen?” one shouted.
Before long, the villagers found themselves a more specific target when the owner of the house that Sonic had smashed into pointed her finger directly in his face. “This mess is awful!” she cried. “And it’s all his fault!”
Within seconds, a mob of people had descended upon the overtaxed teen.
“I’ve never known a hero so irresponsible.” one fumed.
“How dare you!” the fennec from earlier roared.
The elderly wolf of the village shook her cane at him. “Shame on you!”
Sonic could feel himself beginning to tense up as the villagers turned their ire on him. Whether or not he’d admit it to anyone, he needed two main things in order to be his usual heroic, cheerful self: open space and positive reinforcement. Right now, he was getting exactly the opposite of both of those.
And he was not feeling good about it.
He looked briefly over to his friends for help, but Sticks had already vanished, Knuckles and Tails looked more nervous than anything, and Amy was already walking towards him with that look in her eye…
“Sonic, next time you do need to work on making sure the robot doesn’t catch you, you know-”
A streak of blue shot out of the village, leaving nothing but a scorched trail of grass and the snap of a sonic boom behind.
Sonic didn’t slow down until he reached the mountains- which technically wasn’t very far from the town at all, so he ran quite a bit more after that until he ended up in the middle of the jungle. Then, he sat down with his back to a tree and his arms around his knees, feeling very unheroic and overall pretty lame.
The blue hedgehog frowned at the dirt. Honestly, some days it really did feel like nobody seemed to like him. The only person who ever even suggested he was important on a regular basis was Tails, and Sonic didn’t blame him at all for not jumping into the middle of that crowd. Tails was only thirteen to his seventeen and a half years old- not exactly an age when he should be expected to go toe-to-toe with a crowd of angry adults.
Still, though. When being a hero got him all risk (no matter how low) and no reward...it was difficult for him to keep hold of that core feeling of “I can make the world a better place to live in!”, which, despite all his other claims, was truly at the center of what had motivated him to start fighting against Eggman so long ago…
[The scene morphs in a manner which shows the lighting shifting so that the sun is overhead. A sound effect of birds chirping plays over the scene change. This implies that it’s been several hours since he first fled the village.]
Sonic was still lost in thought when the snap of a twig in the bushes made him jump to his feet in surprise. The surrounding vegetation rustled ominously for a moment...only to reveal the four members of his team in front of him. He watched them all cautiously, his expression tense. More than anything, he looked ready to run at a moment’s notice- something which only served to make his friends(?) seem a little more distressed. “Uh…hey, guys?” he began tentatively.
“Sonic, I…” Amy began forcefully, before stopping herself. At first, it looked like she was about to scold him again, but then suddenly her face fell. “Listen, Sonic, we’ve all been talking a lot about what happened back at the village…and there’s something I want to say.” She gave a slightly tired sigh. 
“I know we usually like to make jokes and witty commentary, but...sometimes, the world’s just a difficult place to be in.” she said. “...so we really do need to talk about serious stuff occasionally, even though I know it’s tough for you to even mention how you’re feeling. Unless, you know, it’s ‘great!’ or ‘cool!’ or something like that.”
Sonic cringed at the mere idea, looking more and more like he thought running away was the preferable option here.
“So what I wanted to say was that in a world where there are too many people trying to beat you down...what I was trying to do was tell you how to be more tolerant, because I thought that would help. I figured you can’t change how other people are going to be, just yourself, so I hoped that might make things better.
“But...I’m not actually a licensed therapist- yet, anyway. So I might have been wrong on how I went about that. Maybe...instead of telling you off for not being able to stop all those people...in the future I’ll pull out my hammer and tell them to knock it off already. Does that sound better to you?” she asked.
The blue hedgehog froze. “Ames…I...” he croaked, trying his best not to think about why exactly it felt like his throat was so tight all of a sudden.
Sticks folded her arms. “I like that plan! Those people are way too crazy sometimes…and you guys know I have a verrrrry high tolerance for crazy.”
“We can make the villagers quit bugging you together, just like how we fight Eggman!” Knuckles added encouragingly. “It’s always better that way, isn’t it?”
There was still one person who hadn’t spoken yet, though.
Suddenly, Tails crashed full-force into Sonic, squeezing him in a hug that for once he didn’t pretend to hate. “You know I’ve always, always, always got your back, right, Sonic? No matter what?” he asked, looking up at his older brother. “Even if I don’t always know how to do it right.”
The blue hedgehog simply nodded, not trusting his voice to help him maintain his ‘cool guy’ status.
“It’s okay if you don’t feel up to talking about it now, though.” the fox added understandingly, stepping back but still leaving a hand on his arm. 
“But!” Knuckles added. “We won’t tell anyone if you ever decide you do need to get some stress off your chest every once in a while!” He smacked his own chest with a fist for emphasis.
“Nobody needs to know.” Sticks growled, the camera suddenly showing a dramatic angle of her face as the lighting dropped noticeably.
“Uh…that’s kinda dark.” Sonic said, holding up a finger with a bit of a confused frown, which let the lighting and camera angle zip back to normal.
“Anyway!” The pink hedgehog clapped her hands together, turning to face the group as a whole. “What do you guys think about heading over to my house and watching some movies? I’ll even…” She sighed, her whole body slumping. “…make some messy, simple, unprofessional chili dogs. In my state-of-the art kitchen. I know Sonic probably could use a pick-me-up right now, after all.”
“Thanks, Ames! You’re the best!” the hedgehog in question said cheerfully, the promise of good food and great companionship boosting his mood significantly.
Then, his posture shifted once again into something a little more vulnerable. “And thanks to all you guys. For, y’know, everything.”
“Of course!” Amy chirped.
Tails smiled at him. “No problem, Sonic.”
Sticks folded her arms. “That’s what a team’s for, ain’t it?”
“Of course it is!” Knuckles said, in that rather confusing manner where nobody was actually sure if he understood anything about what had just happened.
The echidna actually walked over to Sonic after that particular declaration, though, placing a hand on his shoulder as his face became uncharacteristically serious for a second. “Really, Sonic, we can all help you out, alright? Nobody gets to yell at our leader without getting yelled at back!” he declared, punching a fist into his other hand.
The hedgehog blinked twice before looking up at his friend. “You…just called me the leader?”
“Well, duh! That’s why everyone calls it Team Sonic, right?” Knuckles asked with a smile, letting an awkward (but genuine) grin spread across Sonic’s face.
Within seconds, the hero found himself squeezed in a big hug from all sides by his friends- and then actually lifted off the floor through a joint effort from Knuckles and Amy. 
“Guys- come on! I can’t even move here!” he cried out, his legs flailing so quickly they made a vibrating noise in the air. “Guyyyyssss….” he whined, though nobody seemed to care much about his halfhearted complaints (judging by the happy expressions on their faces).
Then, the episode began to end, as evidenced by an iris out transition. The slowly shrinking circle paused for a moment on Sonic’s current expression, highlighting it against the otherwise black screen. He now sported a sheepish, if slightly pleased smile, complete with a faint pink blush on his face from all the positive attention. 
Clearly Sonic liked being, well, liked far more than he let on.
Then, the circle snapped closed with a pop, and the credits began to roll.
[Voice Actors: 
Roger Craig Smith
Colleen Villard
Travis Willingham
Cindy Robinson
Nika Futterman
Mike Pollock
Kirk Thornton
Wally Wingert
Bill Freiberger
Original creation by:
Evan Baily
Donna Friedman Meir 
Sandrine Nguyen
Bill Freiberger
Takashi Iizuka
Writer/editor:
Solalunar “Sol” Eclipse
Thank you for watching reading.]
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abaikgirl · 3 years
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Family Outing
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Happy Father’s Day to Sir Nighteye! Have a cute little fic under the cut of Nighteye spending the day out with his kids. (I will continue to ignore canon so I can write all the fluffy interactions I deserve!)
---------------
Togata had been the one to suggest they go to the arcade that day. Mirai had been fitted with his prosthetic a week ago and Togata and Midoriya had insisted they do something to celebrate. 
When Mirai asked why the arcade, Togata explained that Eri had never been to one. Before he could suggest they go somewhere else, Mirai agreed. It broke his heart to think about all the things Eri had not experienced yet and he wanted to be a small part of fixing that. 
So he met them at the address Togata had sent him and was immediately greeted by Eri’s smiling face as she launched herself at him. “Nighteye-san!” she cheered, hugging his legs. “I’m so glad you could come with us today!”
He put a hand on her head with a smile. “Me too. Thank you for inviting me.”
“She’s been talking about it all week,” Midoriya told him. “I think she was more excited about seeing you than experiencing the arcade.”
“Well, we’ll have to change that,” Mirai said. 
Eri held onto his hand as they entered the building. At first the loud noises startled her and she tightened her hold on Mirai’s hand. “Is it too loud?” he asked. 
She frowned and looked at the floor. 
“We can go somewhere else, Eri-chan,” Togata assured her, kneeling down at her level.
She shook her head, looking determined. “I want to try.”
Mirai admired her courage. “Let’s make a deal then. If you change your mind or need to go outside to rest, just say ‘break time’ and we’ll go, ok?”
The idea made her relax and she nodded. “Ok.”
It had been years since Mirai had been to an arcade, not since his early hero career. Togata and Midoriya led them around and let Eri try out any game she wanted. They asked multiple times if Mirai wanted to join in, but he declined, more content just watching the three of them have their fun.
After about twenty minutes, Mirai began to feel winded and Togata didn’t miss the way he clutched his side as he sank down in an unused console chair of a fighting game. Midoriya and Eri were playing a drumming game and didn’t notice. 
“Are you alright?” Togata asked. 
“Fine,” Mirai insisted. “Just tired.”
Togata gave him a stern frown that Mirai suspected it was supposed to be an imitation of him. “Why didn’t you bring your wheelchair if you’re having trouble getting around?”
“I don’t need it,” he told him. He tried to stand, but his prosthetic hand failed to properly grip the back of the chair so he ended up just sliding back into the chair clumsily. 
Togata watched with concern and Mirai refused to meet his gaze. “I’m alright, I just need to sit for a bit.”
Midoriya and Eri finished their game and came over to them. “What’s wrong?” Eri asked. “Are you not feeling well, Nighteye-san?”
“I’m just taking a short break.”
Midoriya glanced from him to Togata, the wheels turning in his head as he tried to puzzle out the right thing to do or say. Mirai noticed Midoriya was still very jumpy around him, as if he couldn’t fully relaxed. An understandable reaction given their history and Mirai wished he knew what to say or do to help him feel more at ease. 
But he wasn’t a people person. That was more All Might’s thing. 
Midoriya seemed to have come up with an idea because he perked up and looked around. “How about we play a game that has chairs?” he suggested. “Eri-chan, you said you wanted to try that racing game didn’t you?”
“That’s a great idea!” Togata replied. “Then we can all play and Sir can sit down.”
Mirai tried to insist he was fine and they didn’t have to include him, but Togata and Midoriya were persistent and before he knew what was happening he was seated at a colorful console. Eri kicked her legs uselessly as she sat in her chair beside him, trying to reach the pedals and failing. Mirai gestured for her to come and sit in his lap. 
“Let’s be a team. You work the wheel and buttons and I’ll handle the pedals, ok?”
She nodded enthusiastically and set about selecting her character. Much to Midoriya and Togata’s dismay, Mirai and Eri made a very good team and beat them all three rounds. 
“We won again!” Eri cheered, hugging Mirai. 
He laughed and hugged her back She was so easily pleased. 
He caught Midoriya staring at them and blinked in confusion. “Is something wrong?”
“Uh...no,” he stammered, looking away. “I guess I’m just surprised because I’ve never heard you laugh before.”
“Really?” Togata cried. “That can’t be right. Sir laughs all the time!”
“Not recently,” Mirai admitted. “But since we’re not working right now, I guess I am more relaxed.”
He felt a bit more energetic and they resumed their circuit of the arcade. Mirai stayed with Eri as she played a game that bounced balls across panels while Midoriya and Togata wandered off. When the game finished, Mirai and Eri went looking for them and found the two boys at a UFO catcher. The prize slipped from the claw as they drew closer and they both let out cries of disappointment. 
“I’m so sorry,” Midoriya said. “I’m usually pretty good at these, but I guess I’m out of practice.”
“What are you doing?” Eri asked. 
As they explained the point of the machine, Mirai saw Midoriya had been trying to win an All Might plushie. “It’s an exclusive for only this machine,” Midoriya explained. “But that means he’s also the hardest to get.”
“I can get it for you,” Mirai declared. 
“R-really?” Midoriya cried, lighting up with excitement. 
“Are you sure?” Togata asked. “I mean, I know your other hand isn’t that coordinated yet...”
“I’ll be fine.” Mirai put in a coin and began lining up the claw. He used to visit these sorts of places to try and get all of the All Might merch that were exclusive to only the UFO catcher machines, so he was very practiced at getting difficult prizes.  
He lowered the claw and scooped up the prize. “You got it!” Midoriya cried, pressing in next to him. 
Mirai smiled and dropped the prize into the bin. He retrieved it and held it up. “See? Easy. The trick is knowing the angle to get the prize at.”
The three of them gazed in awe at the prize. Mirai handed it to Midoriya. “Here you are.”
“For me?” he cried. “But you were the one who won it.”
“I already have one. Besides, I won it for you.”
Midoriya took the toy and held it like it was the most precious possession he owned. “Thank you so much! I’ll treasure it forever!”
After a few more games they decided they were ready to trade in their tickets. They pooled their winnings together so Eri could get something she wanted from the prize bin. Mirai sat on a bench just outside, taking a break from the fun to sit and rest for a moment. 
The three of them emerged and he turned to them. “Did you find something you wanted, Eri-chan?”
She nodded and held up her prize for him to see. 
It was a small plushie, smaller than the All Might one he had won for Midoriya, but the face was unmistakable. It was a Sir Nighteye doll, an unofficial one since he never approved merch to be made of his hero persona, but it wore a little black suit and yellow tie, its little stitched face looking grumpy and stern. 
Mirai looked from the little Nighteye to Eri. “Are you sure you don’t want something else?” he asked. 
She shook her head, her white hair flopping around. “I wanted this one because you were one of the heroes who saved me. So now when you’re not around, I can have this to make me feel safe.”
The declaration was so pure and so unexpected, it pierced him right through the heart. 
Midoriya jumped. “S-Sir, are you crying?”
“I’m alright,” he insisted, wiping his eyes. He pulled the three of them into a tight hug. “Thank you, all of you. Today was wonderful.”
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the-black-bulls · 3 years
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Hello! Original "William is classist" anon here! 😀 It's not just because his squad is strictly noble (though Luck is a good example that he did have other options). It's also that he continuously failed to address the classist bullying toward Yuno in his squad and showed consistent disregard for human life in such a way that disproportionately affects the lower classes.
On bullying: William is the captain and sets the example, but his entire squad was cruel toward Yuno except for Mimosa, a new recruit. William may have been a commoner, but he embraced nobility and its classism wholeheartedly, and this is portrayed in the people that he surrounds himself with.
As for the disregard for human life. Aiding in Patri's plan will hurt the lower class more than the royals, who have greater means of defending themselves. Also allowing Patri to blame all of humanity for crimes of the royals is majorly classist. We know for a fact that William has the knowledge to know that Patri's hatred of ALL humans is completely unjustified when only the ones in power hurt the elves. In addition, he made Langris, who is as unhinged as Luck (if not worse when it comes to killing civilians) the vice captain, which puts even more commoners and such at risk. At that point, it's not just that he's politely ignorant. He's making a series of choices that show his true colors.
It may not be that he's consciously thinking "I'm better than them," but his actions speak louder than his words: and as for words, he is the biggest liar in the series.
Oh finally you showed yourself, “William is Classist” Anon. Do you know how many replies and asks I got because of you? 🤨 (jk)
OK to be perfectly honest I’m not well familiar with William’s character and the only source I take is the manga. I don’t see the anime as a reliable source with character because most of the time it changes things or adds things that don't work with the original source. So I’ll be only talking about myself and my own interpretation of his character based on my personal reading, this will get long and excuse me to use your ask for this half-assed William meta but I have to get this off my chest.
Fair warning: long meta.
For starter William may not be a straight up bad person, but he’s still not a good person. He’s also not a good captain but we will talk about this later. William is a kind and likeable man by nature and he has a tragic backstory, so I can see why people may sympathize with him. However I’ve always seen him as straight up selfish and ignorant and hypocritical person who’s more flawed than you’d think and I love this about his character because humans aren’t perfect.
William only cares about two people, Julius and Patri. He becomes captain for Julius, his dreams is Julius’ dream, he wants to redeem himself for Julius first and foremost. He cares about Patri too, probably even more. He cherry-picks the magic knights with elfin souls for Patri, he commits treason and genocide and other awful crimes for Patri, and he keeps himself silent for years despite Patri’s clear danger (I mean he literally leads a terrorist group) to the kingdom because Patri always comes first. He cares only about two people and is only loyal to two people. For this reason he did not make any move until he found himself between two options, the best of which was bitter, so he gave up his responsibility and asked them to solve the matter, with his concern being only directed toward Patri and Julius, not the kingdom or his squad.
This makes him very selfish and ignorant and hypocritical in the sense that his priorities lie with his personal desires. He protects the kingdom while secretly helping terrorists, he leads the best squad and they idolize him but he doesn’t seem to keep an eye on them or is straight up being ignorant, “as long as this doesn’t harm our reputation it’s ok but don’t do it again" is the reaction I expect from William upon learning that Langris tried to kill civilians, and he doesn’t get any close dynamic with them or with his fellow captains. William also knew that he was doing a big mistake but didn’t stop, and it’s not that he “now” regrets his action, William always regretted his actions and saw them as sins since the very beginning, but again never stopped. He’s flawed to his core and I don’t get how people can see him any other way. This is why he’s one of the most interesting character in the series because I can see where he comes from.
Now all of this will make up for a great character, right. Well, nope. Unfortunately the story narrative failed to address his actions. He got little to no consequences. He didn’t even have to talk or show remorse, his inner thoughts were directed for Patri and Julius with no regard to the kingdom, and then when it’s the moment of his judgement Julius did all the talking and took some responsibility of William’s actions (sorry but why?) then gave him a second chance, then William cried and it was over and we moved to other things and, to quote my reaction when I read that part, What The Hell. This moment killed my interest in both William & Julius. There were so much that should be explored, like the captain reactions, the GD reactions, William’s inner thoughts because even if he’s a flawed person he isn’t a monster and I’m sure he has things to say and think about after the black bulls mess in the trial and y’know the kingdom getting destroyed--- *sighs*
Now back to the main topic, should all of this make William a classist person or not? It’s up to how you see his character. I see him as neither, or both depending on the situation. He’s so messed up with little focus so I can’t make up my mind on this topic. I think the “canon” wants you to see him as not, but his actions give you a different impression, so I don’t know. Man, he reminds me of Nozel, and I’m not fan of Nozel, but that’s a topic for another day.
OK this will be my last comment on this topic this is a black bulls blog damnit ask me stuff about them plz (jk lol), y’all are welcome to share your opinions through asks or reblogs but please spare me from the replies drama 😅
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writtenjewels · 3 years
Text
Werelion part 1
The Moon Lion was said to be roaming tonight. Dorian heard about this strange beast and how no one could capture it. He wanted to see it for himself and spent a great deal of time researching rumored sightings and known territory of the beast. Most of the reputable claims had it mostly in Ferelden, favoring the Hinterlands due to the large open plains.
Among other things, the beast was said to be unusually large. So far no hunter could take it down, though whether that was due to the lion's size or its unpredictable nature remained unclear. Some managed to see it but sightings only seemed to occur during moonlit nights, thus earning the lion its name. In appearance, it would have been more accurate to call it the “Gold Lion”, as its mane was nearly blonde in color. Or so those who saw it claimed. They also claimed that it was large enough to swallow a man in a single bite; Dorian knew better than to buy into such fancy.
It was a reckless thing to do, but Dorian set off on his own and cast spells to trap the beast. He was no hunter but if he could take the thing and put it in some sort of menagerie, then it could be studied and admired. Dorian waited a safe distance away for his magical traps to spring. If his research was to be believed, the lion would take the bait he laid out for it.
It was nearly midnight when he felt his spells going off. Hoping that it wasn't a bear or some other more ordinary animal, Dorian hurried to see what was there. The beast prowling in the magical trap nearly took his breath away. The lion was indeed gigantic, rivaling a brown bear in size and weight, its mane just as blonde as the stories claimed. Dorian felt in equal parts awe and terror staring at the snarling thing. He drew a bit closer and the beast turned toward him. It bared its teeth and roared, clawing feebly at the magic holding it in place.
“You're all right,” Dorian soothed. “I only wanted to get a look at you, you gorgeous thing.” He would swear the beast was glaring at him. Its eyes were golden-brown and were fixed on him as he came right up to the magical trap. It growled deep in its throat, pacing restlessly back and forth.
Now that he had the beast, what was he to do with it? It was amazing and certainly should be protected from any hunters. But how was he to transport it anywhere? The container alone would have to be massive, and it would need many horses to pull. Dorian should have thought this through. As he thought it over the lion was growing more and more restless. It started pawing at the trap again, snarling and growling.
“I know, I know, you want to be set free. But you must understand, I want to protect you. A lovely thing like you is too good a prize for hunters to ignore.” The lion stopped pawing and stared at Dorian. “Hm, I would swear you actually understand me,” he mused. The lion's growl was a bit lower, almost like it was trying to make an assertive noise. “Do you?” Dorian wondered. “Do you understand me?” The lion sat back on its haunches and continued staring at him.
It did seem like those golden-brown eyes were watching him with measured intelligence. More than a typical animal's, anyway. All the more reason for Dorian to keep the beast safe from hunters. Time dragged on and the lion grew restless again. This time its noise sounded pleading as it pawed at the trap.
“If I let you go, I may never be able to capture you again,” Dorian pointed out. “Would you rather be killed?” The lion let out a low rumbling noise, ears flicking like it was thinking this over. Suddenly it turned around and raced to the opposite end of the trap. Dorian cried out as the huge thing rammed its body up against the magic caging it in. It let out a yowl of pain and collapsed. “Damn it all, can't you just be still?” Dorian complained, hurrying to where the beast dropped and casting a sleep spell. The lion let out one last feeble noise before finally settling.
There now, that was better. The only thing he could think to do was call in a favor to help bring the beast to some sort of menagerie in Orlais. That still meant days of travel and him without any sort of transport other than the single horse he rode to get here. Clearly he should have put in a lot more planning.
The first light of dawn was peeking over the horizon. The lion shifted, though that should have been impossible with the sleep spell. Dorian watched in growing confusion as the creature's body seemed to shrink and lose its fur. His mouth opened, jaw slowly dropping as the form continued to change in front of his eyes. When it finally stopped, Dorian found himself staring at a very naked, very human man.
“Maker's breath,” he awed in a whisper.
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hysterialevi · 3 years
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Hjarta | Chapter 21
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Fanfic summary: In an AU where Eivor was adopted by Randvi’s family instead, he ends up falling in love with the man his sister has been promised to despite the arranged marriage between their clans.
Point of view: third-person
Pairing: Sigurd Styrbjornson x Male Eivor
This story is also on AO3 | Previous chapter | Next chapter
THE NEXT DAY
THRYMR’S TOMB
“They’re here, my lord.” The messenger said from the doorway, awaiting his king’s response.
Kjotve chuckled and lounged in his chair, allowing his feet to rest on the war table before him.
“Of course they are. It was only a matter of time.” He went quiet for a moment, sliding a rock along the blade of his battle-axe. “...Is Gorm with them?”
The messenger’s gaze shifted to the floor. “N-No, my lord.”
The other man didn’t seem surprised. “I expected as much. That boy was dead the minute he allowed himself to fall into their hands. They’ve likely hammered his head on a pike already.” Kjotve sighed and set the rock down, leaning forward in his seat. “No matter. We’ll manage without him. How many people are we dealing with?”
“It’s an army, my lord. Both the Raven and Bear clans are here. They’re attacking the fort from the southern half of the island. Sigurd Styrbjornson is leading the charge. Dag is nowhere to be found though.”
Kjotve nodded to himself, quickly formulating a plan in his head. “He’s probably dead. I knew something was amiss when Dag’s reports came to a sudden halt.”
He rose from the chair and stretched his arms, resting the axe’s hilt on his shoulder. “Tell our men to prepare for war, and make sure everyone is ready. If Sigurd loses this battle, the power of the entire kingdom will shift, and his family will lose their claim to the throne. He won’t accept defeat easily. We’ll have to throw everything we have at him.”
The messenger bowed. “Of course, my lord.”
Kjotve began striding towards the door. “In the meantime, I think I should get a look at this ‘army’ for myself. I’ve never known The Raven Clan to be a formidable opponent, but they’re not an enemy to be underestimated. Keep your eyes sharp, and your axe at hand. This isn’t going to end smoothly.”
~~~~~~~~~~
MEANWHILE
THRYMR’S TOMB, SOUTHERN HALF
“Heave!” Sigurd bellowed, his voice towering over all the commotion.
The Raven Clan let out a unanimous shout and rushed forward with the battering ram, gripping the mechanism so tightly that their knuckles turned white. The wooden planks of the bridge groaned underneath their weight as they charged towards the fort, trembling from the footsteps of a hundred warriors.
Meanwhile, the Bear Clan marched alongside them and formed a shield wall around their allies, taking the brunt of any arrows that came raining down from the battlements. A series of thunderous war chants echoed from the sea of raiders flooding the gates, and within moments, they were already bashing it down.
“Heave!” Sigurd commanded once again, urging them to charge. The warriors took a few steps back and pulled the ram into position, holding it in place before letting it swing.
The front of the mechanism immediately broke free from their grasp and soared into the braces holding the gate together, causing an array of splinters to fly from the surface.
A few of the supports could be seen bending in the face of the ram’s power, and by now, a unit of Kjotve’s men had gathered on the other side, preparing to welcome the incoming horde of enemies.
Before Sigurd could carry out a final charge however, the shadows of multiple archers blotted the ground beneath his feet like phantoms emerging from the night, drawing his attention to the line of arrows growing above. He gazed upwards into the sun’s blinding light, and yelled another command.
“Shield wall!”
Upon hearing the order, the Bear Clan instantly got into formation and locked their shields together, creating a shimmering shell above their companions. A wave of arrows came bolting down soon after, and rapidly buried the army below under a hurricane of metal.
A number of Sigurd’s warriors were shot dead within seconds despite their attempt to deflect the attack, and much to his dismay, the battering ram suddenly found itself short of some men. The surviving raiders pushed on with any energy they had left and stepped over the handful of scattered corpses now littering the bridge, bringing the ram one step closer to success.
Taking advantage of the opening that followed the archers’ assault, the Raven Clan drew the ram back to its starting point and awaited their prince’s command, keeping the mechanism raised with a Herculean amount of strength.
“Heave!” Sigurd ordered one last time, signaling his men to rush forward. They tightened their grip and practically hurled the ram into the gate, shattering the remains of the barricade into pieces. Shards of wood violently erupted from the site of impact, and shortly after, the Raven Clan was storming the entrance.
“Find Kjotve!” The prince roared. “And send that argr dog into the jaws of Garmr himself!”
Barreling into the fort with a symphony of war cries, the Bear and Raven Clans began tearing through Kjotve’s men like a legion from Hel, cutting down anything in sight as if the spirit of Thor had possessed their very minds.
The sound of axes clashing rang across the battlefield like the shrill voice of a valravn and colored the air with mayhem, drowning out the agonized shrieks echoing from Kjotve’s army.
Meanwhile, Sigurd took hold of his longsword and jumped into the tempest swirling around him, butchering foes left and right in a haze of fury. 
All of his bottled-up rage, grief, and pain came pouring out in every strike, and soon enough, he resembled the man who visited Ingrida in her dreams. His eyes practically glowed with the sparks of a vengeful flame, and it didn’t take long for the god of war to start shining through his actions.
He no longer felt any fear; any doubt. The only thing that guided Sigurd’s axe now was the desire to honor those who had fallen. Thora, Dag, Ulfar, Eirik -- this was for all of them. This was to ensure that their deaths wouldn’t be in vain. This... was for his clan.
“Aarrgh!” A familiar voice shouted, causing Sigurd to glance to his side. 
In the distance, he spotted none other than Eivor himself burying an axe into the chest of an enemy raider, baring his teeth like a feral beast on the hunt. His eyes had been pried open by claws of adrenaline, and it was clear from the blood splatters staining his armor that he had already taken down his fair share of Kjotve’s men.
What the young warrior didn’t notice however, was the raider sneaking up from behind him.
“Eivor!” Sigurd exclaimed, dashing in his direction. “Behind you!”
The prince raised his sword in the air and slammed it downwards with an adamant amount of force, practically knocking the enemy’s head right off their shoulders. They dropped to the ground in an instant, and sank lifelessly into the mounds of snow.
Eivor took a moment to catch his breath, still processing the swift chain of events.
“...Thank you, Sigurd,” he said through labored breathing. The older man offered his hand and helped the blonde viking up to his feet, keeping an eye out for anymore men that may have been skulking in his blind spot.
“Don’t mention it.” He flicked his eyes around a bit. “Have you seen any sign of Kjotve?”
Eivor shook his head. “Not yet, and I doubt he’ll reveal himself anytime soon. He’s probably somewhere in the fort, using his men as a shield.”
“Then let’s make sure he has none to hide behind.” Sigurd stepped away from his lover, gesturing to the rest of the battlefield. “I’ll stay here and fight alongside our warriors. You focus on finding Kjotve. We cannot let him escape a second time.”
“Of course. Oh, and Sigurd?”
The prince paused. “Yes?”
Eivor’s expression softened with affection. “...Please, be careful.”
Sigurd returned the sentiment. “You as well, love. I’m not leaving this fort without you.”
~~~~~~~~~~
A WHILE LATER
Sprinting across the reddened snow like a madman, Eivor charged through the war-weathered fort as he searched for Kjotve, trying to ignore all the chaos surrounding him. Everywhere on the battlefield, the young man saw nothing but men and women from both sides falling to their knees in defeat, quivering in the presence of death.
Their anguished cries blurred together in Eivor’s ears, and their bodies began to topple over like trees being cut down. Not a shred of honor or bravery graced the morbid scene before him, and instead of finding glory, he found no more than a desperate desire to cling onto life.
It reminded him of when he was a child. Everything was identical to that horrid night when his parents died, and the sound of Kjotve’s name only enhanced the vividness of the awful memories he carried. He felt like the exact same boy who had fled from that ruined village -- only this time -- there was no one to save him.
He was alone... and so was Kjotve.
Taking a moment to gather his composure, Eivor strengthened his resolve and firmly held onto Varin’s axe, marching directly into the hellish atmosphere ahead. Foes of all sorts blocked his path with a multitude of threats -- including arrows and fire -- but none were enough to scare him off. 
No matter how vicious their bite, or how large their shadow, Eivor refused to waver. He had spent so long trying to find Kjotve in this realm of ice and blood, that absolutely nothing would stop him anymore.
He came here to put an end to this war, and he would.
“Where are you, Kjotve?!” Eivor roared, prowling through the embers. “Come out and fight me! I know you’re there!”
Stomping through bedlam, the young warrior wildly swung his axe at the raiders standing in his way and struck them down one by one, stopping at nothing to find the man who had hunted him for all these years. His thoughts raced with the struggles he had endured to reach this point, and the voices of those he’d lost continued to sing in his head, urging him to keep going.
A primitive fear of death wracked the very core of his soul, but even then, Eivor couldn’t bring himself to retreat. A newfound defiance had been bred in his heart despite the dangers ahead, and in a strange way, his fear pushed him further.
“I will find you!” The Wolf-Kissed bellowed at the top of his lungs, lodging his axe into an enemy’s neck. “You think you can hide forever? You’ve taken my home, my parents, my sister, my honor! You no longer have any power over me!”
He carved his way through yet another group of foes and let out a ferocious shout, bashing his axe with so much force that sparks danced off the blade upon impact. By now, there was nothing but a trail of corpses lying in Eivor’s wake, and in the distance, he could see an all-too-familiar silhouette gazing down at him from the battlements above.
They didn’t move a muscle, nor did they say a word. They simply stood there in silence, watching as the tension in their kingdom finally reached a breaking point. The battle-axe on their shoulder was enough to tell Eivor who it was, and for a moment, the world seemed to stop when they made eye contact with each other. 
They both knew why the Wolf-Kissed was there. They both knew what he wanted. Even though they had spent decades straying from the fire Kjotve sparked all those years ago, they had finally found their way back to one another, ready to guide this saga to a close.
Strolling away from the battlements, Kjotve turned on his heel and began heading down the stairs, beckoning Eivor to follow him outside the fort. It didn’t look like he had any additional men in his company, and for the first time since their initial encounter, the younger man didn’t get the impression that this was a trap.
They were both eager to bid farewell to this lifelong rivalry. The Nornir had planned for this day all along, and soon enough, the ending to their story would be scrawled in blood. The only question that remained -- was who would provide the ink.
~~~~~~~~~~
OUTSIDE THE FORT
THRYMR’S TOMB, NORTHERN HALF
Treading carefully through the gathering storm, Eivor approached Kjotve from behind as the older man awaited his arrival, quietly taking in the view of the crumbling fort. Despite being outside its walls, the two of them could still hear the sounds of battle seeping through the cracks of its weathered stone, howling from beyond the veil of snow.
It was like a different world out here. Not a single soul disturbed the barren landscape, and the merciless weather had almost wiped out the scene of the war entirely. Only Eivor and Kjotve stood on the icy plates of Thrymr’s Tomb, and if they listened hard enough, they could practically hear the gods calling out to them, whispering in a tongue that evaded their comprehension. They were alone in this place, and somehow, the idea of that brought comfort to Eivor’s nerves.
They had an arena all to themselves, and that was just the way Eivor liked it.
“Here I am.” He announced, stopping in his tracks. The island’s river lay not too far away from him, filling his ears with the sound of rushing water.
Kjotve turned around at the greeting, giving his opponent no more than a glance. “...Here you are.”
The Wolf-Kissed took a few steps closer, careful not to provoke him just yet. “You waited for the enemy with your back turned to them? I can’t tell if it’s courage or hubris that drives you.”
A chuckle fluttered from Kjotve’s lips. “For all your flaws, Eivor, I know how much you value honor. You wouldn’t attack a man from his back.”
Eivor’s brow furrowed in anger. “...But you would.”
“A trait of mine that many look down on, no doubt. And yet, here I am, one step away from conquering the entire kingdom. There is no honor to be found in war, so I don’t bother with it.”
Kjotve took hold of his weapon. “But enough. We didn’t come here for idle chatter. You’re here for one thing and one thing only. Aren’t you, Varinsson?”
Eivor felt something spur inside him at the sound of his father’s name. “...Let’s bring an end to this, Kjotve. Enough running. Enough fighting. Just you... and me.”
“Eager as always. So be it. You’ve been a thorn in my side for long enough. I’ll gladly send you to the Corpse Hall. It’s just a shame that you won’t be able to see your father again, isn’t it?” He displayed a small smirk. “The price of honor, I suppose.”
Gripping the hilt of his axe with both hands, Kjotve slowly readied his stance and locked eyes with Eivor, watching him like a beast studying its prey. Meanwhile, the younger man began circling his opponent and held his weapon out in front of him, waiting for the right moment to strike.
The world around them was still with a deathly silence. 
It seemed as if the very heavens had come to a halt to witness the grand spectacle, and even the ocean itself had fallen into a trance-like serenity. There was nothing to distract them, or divert their senses, and the battle at the fort had long since departed from their minds.
The gods had finally granted Eivor his chance to reclaim Varin’s honor, and he didn’t intend to waste it.
Lunging forward with a sudden surge of vigor, the young warrior landed a number of blows on Kjotve’s armor before springing back and evading the counter-attack that followed, forcing him to roll across the ground.
He pushed himself off the ice and quickly returned to his feet, whirling around to face the giant striding towards him.
In the blink of an eye, Kjotve heaved his axe above his shoulders and slammed the bearded weapon down onto the snow, missing Eivor’s head by no more than a few centimeters.
The blonde viking jumped to the side and used the opening to swing his axe at Kjotve’s face, causing the blade to slice straight through the lobe of his ear. Blood instantly came pouring down from the wound and onto the fur of the king’s cape, painting the hairs with a vibrant layer of red. A handful of droplets also plummeted to the ground beneath, marking Kjotve’s every move with a fresh trail of blood.
As for Eivor, he carried on with his assault and relentlessly threw one attack after another, refusing to give his enemy the chance to breathe. Unfortunately for him, a man of Kjotve’s stature was not so easily bested, and the Wolf-Kissed soon found himself on the receiving end of a direct hit from the other man’s weapon.
The gargantuan axe bludgeoned Eivor in the stomach and sent him soaring backwards, causing the wind to be knocked out of his lungs. Thanks to his armor, the blade didn’t make contact with his flesh, but he had still been struck with enough force that his abdomen now writhed in pain.
He stumbled for a moment due to the sensation and attempted to regain his footing, only to be kicked back down when Kjotve jabbed the tip of his boot into his gut. The king then proceeded to bash Eivor’s axe out of his hand by punting it from his grasp, allowing it to slide across the frozen terrain.
“Heh,” Kjotve said with a laugh. “Is that the best Varin’s son has to offer? All these years of tracking me down, and you’ve already been rendered defenseless.” He tilted his head in a patronizing manner. “I almost pity you.”
In spite of the soreness now spreading throughout his body, Eivor simply responded to the taunt with a feral war cry and yanked a dagger from one of the sheathes on his back, plunging the blade into Kjotve’s foot.
The king instantly roared in agony and toppled to his knees, unable to ignore the newfound pain now clutching his leg. Eivor tackled him to the ground as soon as he was staggered and climbed on top of him, desperately trying to press the dagger into his throat.
Due to his lighter physique however, Kjotve easily shoved the weapon away from his neck and pushed Eivor off of him with a punch to the cheek, creating a small distance between them. Eivor took this opportunity to retrieve his axe and returned to his feet, assuming his original stance. Not too far away from him, Kjotve did the same -- only now -- he had been cursed with a limp.
“...You won’t kill me that easily.” Eivor panted out, his breath turning into mist. “I’ve fought for too long to let you walk away now. Even if I die for it, this war will end today. You won’t leave this island alive.”
Kjotve sighed and approached the wounded viking, using his axe as a support.
“Ah... just like your mother. Fighting til the very end. An admirable mindset to have, but one doomed to end in futility nonetheless.” He straightened his posture, clenching his jaw in pain. “You’ll fall, Eivor. You, your clan, your king... you’ll all join Varin and Rosta soon enough. And then, Norway will be united under one crown -- mine.”
Trudging in Eivor’s direction, Kjotve carried on with his pursuit despite the injury he had just sustained and prepared to finish the other man off, prowling towards him with bloodlust in his gaze.
Just as the two of them resumed the fight however, a sudden growl reached their ears, leading them to come to a pause. They diverted their attention to the blizzard surrounding them and fell silent, trying to peer through the wintry fog.
For a while, there was nothing. No footsteps, no figures, no movement. Not even a shadow. 
The environment appeared just the same as before, and after a few moments of waiting, Eivor began to wonder if the disruptive sound had just been a trick of the mind.
Before his doubts could fully settle in though, the sound of a raven’s caw abruptly pierced through the air, echoing across the land like a summon from the gods. Synin herself emerged from the sky and started gliding down towards her companion, rescuing him just like she did when he was a child.
Perplexed by her arrival, Eivor stared at Synin in shock and watched as she soared over his head, vanishing into the storm beyond. At first, he didn’t understand the meaning behind her intervention or what she hoped to accomplish, but once she departed from the island, it all made sense.
Out of nowhere, a pack of white wolves leapt out from behind the fog and charged towards the barbarian king, allured by the scent of his blood. Their fangs glimmered viciously with ropes of saliva, and their eyes swelled at the sight of their next meal.
“What the--?!” Kjotve exclaimed in surprise, brandishing his axe at them. “Where’d you come from? Stay back!”
Pouncing on Kjotve, the wolves overwhelmed the colossal king in spite of his attempts to fend them off and immediately started tearing at his flesh, thrashing him around like a rag doll. The growing discomfort in his foot caused him to collapse to the ground, and before he knew it, the feral beasts were feasting on him without mercy.
Initially, Eivor felt a sense of relief upon seeing the wolves finish his job for him, but after a while, there was a certain emotion building up in his chest that he just couldn’t suppress. The sheer amount of agony behind Kjotve’s screams was enough to shake him to the core, and surprisingly, he found himself beginning to pity the man.
Eivor hadn’t forgotten what it was like to be attacked by a wolf. Despite the fact that he had carried his scar for over a decade, the terror of that night still remained vivid in his head. 
He may have hated Kjotve with every fiber of his being, but even then, it was difficult for him to condemn someone to such a torturous death. Humanity was a trait often lost during war, and the last thing Eivor wanted was to lose his own.
He had come here to reclaim his father’s honor. To restore peace. 
The suffering of others was something he wished to end -- and it all started now.
Rushing towards the wolves, Eivor waved his axe at the beasts and threatened them with a series of shouts, hoping to distract them from Kjotve. At first, they merely challenged his actions and growled in response, but were easily scared off once it became clear he wasn’t backing down.
Waiting for them to clear the area, Eivor guarded Kjotve until the wolves disappeared from his sight completely, and kept his eyes sharp for any other animals that may have been roaming around. The wolves didn’t show any signs of coming back to finish their meal, and for the time being, it was just the two of them again.
As for the fallen king, he had been transformed into nothing but the mauled scraps of an abandoned feast, and left in a pool of his own blood. Bits of bone could be seen peeking through his skin, and his hands trembled both out of shock and pain.
Eivor gazed down at the ghastly sight, unable to hide his disgust.
“Your breath hasn’t faltered yet.” He said, admittedly impressed by Kjotve’s survival.
The other man whimpered, croaking out a short reply. “...You... you saved me. Why? D-Didn’t want the wolves... to claim your prize...?”
The young warrior shook his head. “You mistake my mercy for malice. I may despise you for everything you’ve taken from me... but it is not my place to carry out your judgement.”
Kjotve scoffed. “...Then... whose is it?”
Eivor knelt beside his enemy, looking directly into his eyes. “Wherever you go from here, it is the gods who will determine your fate. The only thing I can do... is send you to them. You’ll die as you lived. Without honor.”
He positioned his axe under Kjotve’s chin, eager to finish this once and for all.
“Goodbye, Kjotve. This world will be better off without you.”
Yanking the blade across his throat, Eivor executed the king in one swift move and freed him from his suffering, watching as the life drained from his soul. His body fell limp soon after the killing blow, and a final breath escaped from his lips.
...Eivor could scarcely believe it.
Kjotve was dead.
Kjotve was actually dead.
After countless years of grief, loss, and sacrifice... the war had finally come to an end. Just like that.
There were no cheers of excitement, or horns of fanfare. There was only the deafening silence that had been left behind by the dead.
Was this truly what victory felt like, Eivor wondered? Was this that glorious moment that had been spun in so many tales, and sung by every bard?
He didn’t feel like a hero, nor did he feel any pride. All he felt was a blossom of relief like none other, and the crushing weight of endless regrets. 
A beam of contentment was starting to shine in his heart now that Kjotve had officially been slain, and Eivor didn’t wish to spend anymore time on this forsaken island. The only thing he longed for was the warmth of Sigurd’s embrace... but he didn’t even know if the man still lived.
Wandering away from Kjotve’s corpse, Eivor left the king buried in the ice and allowed the gods to take him from Midgard, not even sparing a second glance. A wave of memories flooded his head as he drifted back to the fort, and for just a second, he could’ve sworn he saw his parents watching him from across the river.
Eivor had no doubt that their appearance was merely a result of the battle’s ordeals, but even in his dazed state, he was able to make out the faint figures of both his parents.
They were standing side-by-side, wrapped in each other’s arms and observing Eivor as he made his way back to the clan. They didn’t move, they didn’t speak -- all they did was gaze at him from behind the curtains of snow. 
It was almost as if they wished to tell him that their spirits were finally at peace. They had endured a lifetime of torment trapped in Helheim’s depths thanks to Kjotve’s betrayal, and now, they could sleep, forever in each other’s company just as they were in life.
Eivor’s job was done at last, and he could move on from the grief that had burdened him for so long.
“...I did it, father.” He whispered, watching as the mysterious figures faded from his vision. 
“You’re free.”
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“Until today I have written only in my diary - but I have done it faithfully, every evening, ending the day close to you. I have put nothing in it but the detail of each day of a monotonous life, but I have written nothing but for you, directed to you, colored by you. This departure was a wrench and I wouldn't have wanted to write you the awful pain and the kind of cowardice I was in. When the earth broke away from us, and later, after Gibraltar, when the coasts of Spain, and with them Europe, moved away, I was nothing but misery. But the day after tomorrow we will be in Dakar and I will be able to post a letter.
For two days we have been on your ocean. The waters are no longer blue but green. At midday, under a vertical sun, round and pale in a gangue of mist, we have passed the "Tropic" and sailing towards Dakar, I have the impression for the first time that I am going to meet you a little, towards the letter that I hope. This long silence, this depressing ignorance will stop. May my letter also bring you hope and life, a love as great as this tireless sea that has accompanied me for so many days, my cry to you, darling, and trust.
May I not forget this: it is not on the 20th that I arrive in Rio, but on the 15th. Calculate the flight time and write, please, so that your letter may wait for me and accompany me. Then we will not have had those twenty days of silence that I feared so much. For my part, I will write to you immediately. But do I need to tell you! Life on board is monotonous, as you can imagine. I have a strict, naked cabin, but I love these cells and the destitution. I can't imagine life any other way, outside of your presence.
I get up at 7:00. I go to the morning sea, have breakfast, take a bath, go to the pool (three fathoms wide, and water up to my stomach), bask in the sun, and then work. I have lunch, watch the sea at noon, get some sleep, work, have dinner and finish the day in front of the sea. The weather has been good, the sea has only risen from Gibraltar. I like those big events on board: a sail of fishermen, or a troop of dolphins, free and proud. The cinema sometimes: American turnips that I left after a quarter of an hour.
And conversation. Don't worry, we're not spoiled for pretty women. At my table: a professor from the Sorbonne, a young Argentinean, and a young woman who's going to join her husband. We say nothing, we smile, and we part. The young woman confides in me. I attract confidences, which is unfortunate when the confidences are so banal. I did what you asked: I took care of myself. For the first few days, all I had to do was lie down during the day to sleep. I was exhausted, almost sleeping while eating. But the baths, the sun, the sleep, the boredom on the edge, my wisdom too (no alcohol) and everything was back to normal. I'm fresh brown, dressed in light, and I'm thinking that maybe you'd like me right now. But I try not to tell myself that, I'm sick of your absence.
Every minute I imagine what this trip would be like if only you were here. You, the sea around us, far from the world and its cries, in the wonderful silence of the nights, and everything would be transfigured. But that imagination hurts. It awakens desire too, which sometimes I want to stifle inside me. In the meantime, I am here, in front of this sea that helps me, and it alone, to bear everything. When the day comes to an end on this immensity, when the moon sets a milky river rolling its thick waters towards the ship, or when the morning sea is covered with mane, there, alone on the deck, I have my appointments with you. And every day my heart swells like the ocean itself, full of that tormented and happy love that I prefer to life. You are present, docile, abandoned as I am, and then I can't love any more.
Over there it will be harder. But everything will go quickly darling, another appointment will come. I am waiting for this time and your letters to begin. Write me the details, tell me what you do, what you are, what you think. Don't forget my trust, and that your trust is the only way to answer it. Tell me everything, omit nothing, even what may distress me. There is nothing about you that I cannot understand that my heart cannot accept. I know now that I will love you to the end, against all pain.
I have never judged you, nor hated you. I never knew that I could love you, but I did so with all my strength and experience, with what I know and what I've learned. It's only me that I hate, sometimes, when I see you unhappy, or hostile. That's what you must remember. The image I have taken of you has now gone through many pains and many joys. It won't change again. This dear face is mine, it is what I would have taken away, what I would have received more precious in this life.
Wait for me, my love, my savage. You're here tonight as never before. I can't breathe from the tears that go up to my throat when I write to you. But I imagine your smile, I see it also in this photograph in front of me and I begin to hope again - this taste of happiness is very strong. But the happiness that comes to me from you pays for everything. Where are you, my love. I am wandering on all this water that separates us, I am calling you and I would like you to hear me, and I would like this cry to take you away, out of misfortune at last. I kiss you from afar, farther and farther away! Do not forget that I am not leaving you, that I am following you step by step, and that I am watching over you, for you and close to you.”
— Albert Camus to Maria Casarès, Correspondance, July 5, 1949 [#67]
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(submission) The Undertow
(tws for temporary death, drowning, and separation)
    The tide washes out.
    False opens her eyes to a brand-new world, filled with life and color. Around her, a coral reef stretches as far as she can see. Fish dart between the branches of the reef and through the pitted rocks underfoot.
    What’s odd, though, is that she’s stuck.
    Something, she thinks, is very wrong. She glances down at her body, which is wrapped in the rough branches of some sort of calciferous red growth, and as much as she struggles, she can’t move, the surface rubbing against her skin.
    Behind her, she hears a frenzied splashing. She can’t turn around all the way, so she shouts to whatever’s behind her.
    “Get away from me!” she yells. If it’s a drowned, maybe she can scare it away. If it’s something worse...well. She wasn’t expecting a death this early in the season, but it had to happen at some point.
    Luckily, it’s just a human that calls back. 
    “False? Where are we?” asks Stress, her distinctive voice putting False back at ease. What passes for ease when you’re stuck in a coral reef, anyways.
    “I...don’t know,” False says, enunciating each syllable with careful precision, considering the options. “This is glitched, I suppose.”
    False can almost see Stress’s face brighten. “Oh, shame. Well, our dear admin will have it fixed in no time, then.”
    “Yeah, I’ll send him a message. Maybe he can teleport us out real quick.” She sighs. “We’re going to have to restart the world, probably. That’s annoying.” Taking out her communicator, which is only slightly waterlogged, she swipes it open and types out a quick chat to Xisuma. 
<FalseSymmetry> o/ 
<FalseSymmetry> x we’re stuck in coral. tp please?
    The two women wait. Five minutes.
    “Might as well start trying to get out of here!” Stress says, her voice a note cheerier than usual. It’s forced.
    False snaps out of her thoughts. “Sure.” She takes her fist and slams it down on their colorful prison. “Oof, that hurt,” she says, peering down at the spot where it made contact. “And barely a dent!”
    “Guess we better get working, then,” replies Stress, who’s trying her best not to sound too downhearted.
    They do. It’s not going great when Stress notices a bit of a change in their environment. “Falsie...do you think it’s possible the water might be getting the teensiest bit higher?”
    False nods grimly. “Yep.”
    Stress grimaces. “Oh boy. And Xisuma still hasn’t replied?”
    “Nope.”
    “Ah.”
    A moment passes in a nervous silence while the duo continue to chip away at the coral.
    “You don’t think he’s ignoring us, do you?” Stress says, a small quaver creeping its way into her quiet words.
    “Of course not. He’s probably just...busy.” False stops and cocks her head. “You know. I bet if our spawn is glitched, other peoples’ might be as well.”
    “That makes sense, I suppose.”
    A small wave washes over them. When they reemerge, coughing from the salty water, they find that Stress can no longer keep her chest above the ocean.
    “This isn’t going to be a pleasant way to die, is it?” asks Stress, hands bleeding from the abrasive reef. 
    False shakes her head. “No. It isn’t.”
        The ocean is not a kind place. It never pretended to be. The two Hermits just happened to be in its way, and that was not the ocean’s fault. 
    The tide rolls in, just as False’s hand finds Stress’s.
    The tide washes out.
    Their newly-respawned heads break the surface of the water, gasping for air. This time, they’re face-to-face, and the coral is yellow. False wonders if it’s slightly softer than the previous kind, or if she’s just imagining it. Either way. Small blessings.
     Their eyes meet, and they pick up where they left off, only a touch sore. They don’t talk much this time around, except for Stress’s question about the message to Xisuma. And yes, False double-checked it was to the right person. She sends it again in the main chat.
 <FalseSymmetry> anyone there lol?
    Silence. On all fronts. Stress is making good progress on this new coral, until they both have to stop to fight an inquisitive drowned. Not an easy feat, but they manage, though the duo lose more hearts than False would like.
    Stress manages to get a leg free and starts kicking with renewed vigor, until she’s finally out. The water is lapping at their mouths now, as Stress frantically tugs at False’s cage.
    “C’mon,” Stress mutters. “We’re almost there…”
    A wave knocks them both underwater, and by the time Stress resurfaces, further away from False, the blond Hermit is completely submerged. 
    Stress thinks that she has never swum faster in her life as she races toward False, hoping against hope that there’s somehow still time to save her.
    She dives down to False, who is wriggling around frantically. She tugs against the coral, but she knows it’s too late. False lets out a scream, bubbles escaping to the surface, but points to Stress’s left. She’s confused, but she looks anyways--and the trident from the dead drowned is sitting placidly on a piece of sponge, unseen by both of them until now.
    Stress pushes off the battered coral, so close to breaking, but too far, all at the same time. She scoops up the trident and swims back to False, who’s starting to slow, eyes rolling up in the back of her head. With a mighty swipe, she clears the rest of the prison, and drags the unconscious False to the shore.
    Stress retches, the ocean coming out of her lungs in short bursts as she collapses on the warm sand. Next to her, False lies prone. She doesn’t know what to do. Should she put her on her side? Wait, isn’t that for drunk people?
    Hopefully, False will sort it out on her own. Hopefully. In the meantime, Stress realizes that the sun is setting. She needs to get them in a shelter, ASAP. There’s no time for even wood--she just digs out a small hole in a nearby hillside, and, breathing heavily, brings False’s body into it. It just barely fits both of them, but she’s grateful to have it.
    Stress can’t even think about dying again, if it means having to get out of that ocean. Thankfully, she doesn’t have to; False stirs to wakefulness sometime in the middle of the night, greeted with a motley chorus of zombie groans and drowned gurgles, plus a few others that neither of them want to try to name.
    They huddle together in the small chamber, wet dirt and cold stone stealing precious body heat. When morning comes, they stay there for a little while. Neither one wants to be the first one out, but eventually False stands up, the joints in her spine cracking like fireworks. She peeks her head out, but there seems to be no imminent danger at the moment, so she cautiously ventures onto the beach from their escape. A spider lies perched in a small tree nearby, but she leaves it be. As she looks out over the glimmering water, alight with the sun’s first rays, she sees the broken branches of the coral that trapped her and Stress, waves gently carrying away the scattered shards. She watches them for a second, and as she does, the tide washes out.
    The tide rolls in.
    They’re so careful. Neither one of them wants to go back to the awful enclosure of stony coral and risk having to repeat the experience. Monsters are run away from, shelters are dotted around the map like flowers, and their armor has never been more prized. The duo have awful luck mining, though. They barely get enough for decent gear, but Stress reminds False that they’re lucky. Judging by the death messages that scroll through the chat like clockwork, not everyone has been as fortunate as them. And at least they have each other.
    Or they did, before Stress falls into a soft bed of bone-chilling powder snow, along with a few creeper friends.
    False doesn’t ever want to see that same look on Stress’s face ever again. It’s imprinted into her mind now, a mix of surprise and awful resignation.
    She types out a frantic message on her communicator. It doesn’t work. It hasn’t worked for weeks now. She knows it doesn’t work, and Stress does as well. But it doesn’t stop her from imagining where her only companion is right now, sending her chat after chat, begging her to come help her escape from the watery grave.
    False considers respawning. Back where Stress is. She could help her then.
    False would consider herself a practical person at heart, but she has never before been in a situation like this. Hermitcraft has never had a situation like this. She considers her options, falling back against the rough trunk of an oak tree, leaves raining down on her impassive face.
<StressMonster101> drowned.
    She’s taking too much time. There’s no more room for error. Only action. Rustling through her pack, stuffed to the brim now with the remains of Stress’s inventory, she realizes that she has to find a way to get these items back to Stress. If she manages to escape on her own, they can meet up halfway there, and if she doesn’t, then False will have her work cut out for her. 
    It’s a backtrack of nearly two weeks. False does it in four days, not stopping to rest. She wishes desperately for a saddle, but when she happens upon a meadow full of horses, she grabs the nearest one, swinging herself upward onto the back of a very unwilling participant. False doesn’t care. The horse accustoms itself to her surprisingly quickly, and though False’s legs ache from the non-stop bareback ride, she knows she’ll get to Stress sooner with it. Turns out, golden apples can make a horse go through the night.
    She names the horse Salvation. Sal, for short.
    The journey gives her brain too much time to think, so she doesn’t, just hangs on to the death messages in the chat. It’s gruesome, but they reassure her that Stress is even still in this horrible world. 
    Sometimes, there’ll be a lull in the terrible rhythm, but those never last for long.
    During a quick break, she gets bored and puts a braid in Sal’s mane, then uses a few of the nearby flowers to decorate it. She doesn’t realize until she re-mounts him that they’re alliums.
    The tide washes out.
    When False finally arrives at their old beach, she nearly cries in relief. Instead, she screams out Stress’s name as she jumps off of Sal’s back. Stumbling into the waves, she repeats her cry, voice already starting to go hoarse.
    “Stress! I’m here!” False shouts. “Stress!”
    She’s up to her neck now and there’s no sign of her. Maybe she made it out. Maybe False would believe that if she hadn’t just seen her death message on her communicator.
    False treads water, weaving between the elaborate natural structures that make up the reef. She’s almost about to give up when she hears a weak cough, and rounds the corner to find an emaciated Stress, hanging from the coral wrapping her body like an exoskeleton.
    “Stress, Stress, I’m here,” says False, wrapping her arms around the other Hermit’s body as tears start to stream down her face. “Oh my g-d. We need to get you out of here.”
    Stress looks up at her, the first sign of movement she’s shown since False laid eyes on the woman. “You came for me,” she whispers. “You really came.” Her eyes flutter shut.
   The tide rolls in.
    Stress wakes to a gently crying False, who’s sitting beside her on the beach. Attempting a smile, she nudges the other Hermit. “Doing alright?”
    False smiles at her. “Never better.”
    She lets out a whistle. “Ok, so, correct me if I’m wrong, but you managed to get here quite quickly, if you came all the way from where I left?”
    “Sure did.”
    “How?”
    “Well, meet Sal,” False says, pointing towards the forest behind them. “He was a big help.”
    Stress squeals, and she thinks she can almost feel her eyes getting bigger. “Are those flowers?” She hobbles over to the horse, latching onto his neck. “I love him!” 
    False laughs, and Stress thinks she’s never been gladder to hear someone do so.
    “But seriously, though.” False pauses for a second. “I think he’s going to be pretty important if we’re heading towards spawn.”
    Stress nods. “Yeah, I think that’s a good plan. Bound to be a bigger concentration of Hermits there, right?”
    “Exactly. Listen, this time we’re going to be super careful about beds. I’ll make sure we upgrade our armor as much as possible. I’ll do better--”
    Stress puts a finger up to False’s lips, startling her into silence. “Nope. You did the best you absolutely could. I will have absolutely no self-blaming on this road trip.”
    “Road trip?” False asks, nose crinkling.
    “Absolutely.” Stress responds. “This is Hermitcraft! We’re here to have fun and make friends. And I see only one direction for that.”
    “To spawn, then!” False laughs, mounting Sal and hauling Stress up after her. 
    “To spawn!”
    The ocean watches the two ride off with mild interest. They’ll be back, after all. Sooner or later, they’ll always be back. No one can leave for long. But for now, it has other...friends to take care of, and the tide, as always, washes out.
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The Couples That We Know
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Technically speaking, they’re not supposed to be dating. Each other, at least. 
For Killian Jones, there are plenty of reasons to like working at Pendragon Publishing. Good pay, vaguely acceptable benefits, not-that-bad coffee in the break room. But there are also some things he kind of, sort of...hates. Namely the way dating his co-worker is possibly against the rules, and how that means they can’t go to the annual holiday party. Together, at least. 
So, enlisting the help of their best friends only makes sense. Pretend to date other people, avoid any hint of suspicion, and drink all the wine Pendragon’s party-planning committee can offer them. Perfect plan, really. 
----
Rating: Still teen, still with some kissing Word Count: 6.1K AN: As promised, the onslaught of Christmas fic continues. This one somehow has secret dating and fake dating because I know no trope limits. Also it almost sort of follows the prompt @the-girl-in-the-band-tshirt​​ sent in, which was "we’ve been celebrating our wedding anniversary on the wrong day for the past nine years." Attempts to follow the prompt were almost made. 
Also on Ao3 if that’s your Christmas jam. 
----
“You know, for this to work, you’ve got to actually stop staring at her. At least without quite so much palpable longing.” Opening his mouth, Killian has every intention of announcing how little he’s staring, but that would be a rather awful lie and it’s probably wrong to lie at Christmas. Or at least two and a half weeks before. Plus, Mary Margaret’s face makes even the thought of saying whatever he hadn’t entirely come up with impossible. 
“You going to give me detention?” “I’m seriously considering it.” He sighs. Dramatically. Nearly lets his chin slump towards his chest, which would add more than a fair share of melo to that aforementioned drama, and—“You think this is a dumb idea?” Mary Margaret’s eyes widen. 
Her lips practically disappear when she pushes them together that way, and Killian has to bite the side of his tongue so he doesn’t make some sort of teacher-based quip again. He really cannot afford to get sent to detention. Metaphorical, or otherwise. 
“There’s no possible way for me to tell you, again, how dumb this idea is,” Mary Margaret says, and that might be the most scathing string of words he’s ever heard out of her. Telling Emma suddenly becomes something of a necessity, and that’s a problem. 
The crux of their problem, really. 
Eyes flitting up, Killian ignores the wholly out-of-character sound Mary Margaret lets out when his gaze darts across the room and lingers on hair that’s looking shinier than usual, as if it’s trying to distract him and overwhelm him, and both things happening simultaneously is almost too much for his brain to deal with. When he’s had two glasses of wine, already. 
It’s not the best wine, actually. Killian’s not surprised. Pendragon Publishing is not especially well known for its money-spending efforts, and the annual holiday party is no different. Funded by some half-hearted party committee, that is very likely controlled by just one person, that same person does not appear to have an eye for decorating. If the copious amount of mistletoe hanging everywhere is any indication. 
And the whole thing exists to drive Killian insane. Both the mistletoe, and the party. Or so he will argue. When Mary Margaret inevitably points out what a dumb idea this is, again. 
She’s totally going to say it again. 
“It’s going to work,” Killian mutters, but it sounds inherently unenthusiastic, and Mary Margaret’s eyes cannot widen anymore. They’ll fall out. Which will cause a scene, he imagines. 
And they’re trying to avoid that. 
Or, well—avoid breaking the rules, technically. They don’t want to do that. Because Pendragon might host shitty holiday parties, but it’s one of the most well-known agencies in the Tri-State area, and both Killian and Emma like their jobs. They like each other too. 
Deciding to date wasn’t really part of the plan. But she makes him smile, and he considers the ability to make her consistently laugh one of his better talents, and they’re really good at kissing each other. Which is something they’ve been doing for far longer than anyone realizes. Months, actually. With post-work dinners, and weekends spent together, and Killian has started to find it harder and harder to leave her apartment in the morning, because he keeps staying at her apartment all night, and not proclaiming several rather life-altering strings of words is becoming more and more difficult. 
Which brings them right back to the crux of the problem. Pendragon’s holiday party, and its presumably boxed wine, and dating other employees isn’t explicitly mentioned in the employee handbook, but it’s very likely frowned upon and showing up here together wasn’t a feasible option. No matter how much he wanted it to be. 
Showing with other people, though. That made sense. 
It made—sense adjacent. 
“Did I tell you that you look nice?” Tilting her head, Mary Margaret’s gaze turns appraising and she wasn’t particularly pleased about having to take her ring off. It hangs on a chain that’s only occasionally fallen over the front of her dress, and David thought the whole thing was hysterical. 
He sent “Mary Margaret 101” facts to Killian all week. 
“You don’t have to actually woo me,” Mary Margaret counters, but there’s a bit of color on her cheeks that doesn’t have anything to do with the heat in this rented loft. It’s very warm. 
“No woo’ing, just facts. Should that dress look familiar, though?” “Depends on how often you’re rummaging around the back corner of Emma’s closet.” “Not that often, but—” Mary Margaret nods before he can get the rest of the question out, smiling over the top of her glass. Filled nearly to the brim with wine that may actually be capable of eroding paint. It’s so bad. That’s probably not a metaphor for anything. 
“You’ve really got to stop staring, it makes you look like a crazy person,” she adds, and to prove how capable he is of following direction Killian’s does the exact opposite. Back towards his girlfriend, and there wasn’t really a ton of planning before they dove into the deep end of this totally legitimate, absolutely will not blow up in their face plan. 
Will’s arm is slung over Emma’s shoulders. “Can’t clench your jaw like that, either,” Mary Margaret mutters. Keeping the laugh out of her voice is seemingly impossible. 
And rolling his whole head is juvenile, but Killian’s starting to feel a little drunk. Without any of the fun benefits. His head hurts. “Should have come up with a list.” “I could if you want.” “I do not, no.” Mary Margaret’s smile is a hint more honest, that time. It really is a nice dress. “That’s what I figured,” she says, tugging on his tie familiarly. “But you look like you’re going to challenge your own best friend to a duel.” “Swords are a requirement for that, aren’t they?” “Alexander Hamilton.” “Excuse me?” “Dueled with pistols, so—” “—Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays?” Snickering, Mary Margaret bumps her hip with his and there are at least ten unopened texts from David on Killian’s phone. Demanding update for what he was regularly referring to The Great Idiot Romance of 2020 . Although, he never mentioned that in front of Emma. 
Who very likely would have won that duel, should it have occurred. 
“Alright,” Mary Margaret sighs, like she hasn’t already agreed to a whole night of this, “we should probably mingle, if we’re going to make this look legit.” “Say legit again, please.” She sticks her tongue out. 
“Not a very good argument, Ms. Blanchard,” he chuckles, shifting his hand to the small of her back and he supposes he should eat something. To sop up all the wine. Her expression doesn’t change. Might get more scowl-like, if anything. 
And there’s likely no reason for Emma’s neck to twist the way it does, except something else vaguely melodramatic that Killian cannot think about for the next four hours, but she does and he stands up a little straighter. Presumably, at least. Mary Margaret’s reproachful tongue click is very loud. 
But then Emma’s eyes are widening as well, and her lips are slightly twisted and Killian does a God awful job of winking at her. 
He swears he can hear laugh — across the whole loft. Four hours at this stupid thing, max. Then he’s going to make out with his girlfriend. For possibly four hours straight. Which he imagines is a record of some sort. 
“Food,” Mary Margaret declares, fingers back on his tie and she makes him eat four bacon-covered somethings before they leave the table. 
To mingle. As is required by polite society and Mary Margaret Blanchard soon-to-be Nolan, and Killian quickly loses track of the number of people they smile at and the few others they nod in the general direction of, and he really should have been better prepared soon-to-be to evolve into a problem. He’s not. And Aurora’s gasp catches him off guard.  
“Oh,” she cries, hands flying to her cheeks in the middle of a group of editors congregated by the floor-to-ceiling windows, and at least that’s kind of picturesque. “I didn’t know you were engaged, Killian!”
Every one of his muscles tenses. Freezes, making Killian’s ability to stay upright all the more impressive, and it’s nothing except instinct when his gaze practically flies towards Emma. 
Who immediately tugs her lips behind her teeth, Will’s eyes widening to a size that would be comical in any other situation. 
Mary Margaret’s jaw works — trying to find an excuse, or an explanation, but there’s not any of those things and Killian finds himself nodding again. “Yeah, yeah,” he stammers, “that’s, uh—we are totally engaged.”
“Selling it,” Mary Margaret murmurs through clenched teeth, and he considers it an exceptionally large miracle that he doesn’t point that out. She’s not doing a good job of playing her role now, either. 
Aurora doesn’t notice. Another miracle. ‘Tis the season, or whatever. “So,” she presses, “have you set a date or—” Strictly speaking, biology was never one of Killian’s better school subjects, but he’s starting to wonder just how much stress the muscles in his neck can continue to cope with, and he’s all too aware of how much he’s beginning to resemble a bobblehead.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, we’re, uh—” Licking his lips doesn’t help their overall state, floundering under the expectant stare of half a dozen coworkers who are now heavily invested in a wholly fake relationship, and Mary Margaret’s hand threatens to crack several of his knuckles. When she laces her fingers through his. 
“Thinking next winter,” she says, sounding more honest than anything else they’ve told these people. “City’s basically all decorated for us, already, you know?”
Aurora does know, it seems. 
Her nod isn’t as erratic as Killian’s, is far more enthusiastic — complete with wide eyes that practically announce her interest, and the hammering of his heart against his ribcage makes it difficult to hear the footsteps that are moving towards them. 
Will looks far too entertained. 
Emma’s lips are still missing in action. “Couldn’t help but overhear,” Will drawls, and the duel is starting to sound very appealing, “sounds like congratulations are in order.” He’s going to kill him. Killian’s going to let go of Mary Margaret’s impressively tight grip, and he’s going to use both of his hands to strangle his best friend. Or at least ensure that he’s deprived of enough oxygen that he doesn’t continue talking. 
He will enjoy it. Thoroughly. 
Lifting her eyebrows when neither Mary Margaret nor Killian respond to this supposed stranger’s proclamation, Emma’s exhale is inappropriately loud. Rife with guilt, and an emotion Killian can’t quite name because being jealous of her best friend’s engagement to someone else is as absurd as anything they’ve done tonight, but it’s also kind of nice and— “Aurora, this is Will,” Emma introduces, and he’s actually got the gall to smirk in Killian’s direction. Before thrusting his hand forward, smiling a bit more good-naturedly at Aurora, who only looks slightly confused. 
That’s fair. 
All of this is flying off the rails, and Killian briefly considers how much of a scene it would cause if he barreled into the kitchen demanding better alcohol choices. It’s probably not worth it. 
“Nice to meet you,” Aurora says, like an actual human. With normal, human thought processes and presumably fewer holiday-based lies to deal with. “We were just talking about Killian and Mary Margaret’s wedding.”
Blood floods his mouth, and Killian’s only slightly worried about running out of tongue to bite before the night is over. Mary Margaret’s fingers somehow tighten even more, threatening the blood flow to his entire right hand, and Emma is very interested in the state of her shoes. 
“That’s absolutely what it sounded like,” Will grins, “when’s the happy day?” Glaring without making it obvious is actually difficult. Killian widens his eyes, but that only makes the width of Will’s mouth increase — like some literary cat, and Emma’s eyes keep closing for prolonged periods of time. Like at least several seconds. 
“Next winter,” Killian bites out, “we’re getting married next winter.” “Decided on a location, yet? Gotta get that stuff in early from what I’ve heard.” “Have you just?”
Will nods, shoulders shifting ever so slightly. Like he’s trying very hard not to laugh. It’s not entirely working. 
Maybe they should apologize to Aurora. 
“Oh yeah, yeah,” Will says, “wedding industry’s cutthroat like that. Plan months in advance, and even then you might not get your first choice.” “That’s definitely true,” Aurora agrees, and maybe Killian will just topple over. Sit down on the floor and drink an entire box of wine, and he doesn’t think anyone else notices when Emma pinches the bridge of her nose. “When Phillip and I got married, we went through a couple different venues before we found one that worked with our date.” “Sounds hectic,” Killian mumbles. Talking was a mistake. His voice doesn’t even sound like his own, Emma’s gaze snapping up in unspoken warning, and he’s worried he’s using up his miracle supply. So as not to cry out at the overall force of Mary Margaret’s fingers. 
All five of which were apparently blessed with mutant-type strength. 
“Luckily we’ve got that covered,” she says, brightly and only a little disingenuous. 
Emma blinks. “Yeah?” “Yup. Did you know you can get a permit for a Central Park wedding for like fifteen bucks?” “Wow, that’s—that sounds really nice, actually.” “Depends on whether or not it snows, but—” Mary Margaret shrugs, and none of them are lying anymore. Well, at least not quite as blatantly as five seconds before. Will’s smile almost looks legitimate. 
“You’re thinking of an outdoor wedding?” Aurora asks. “In the winter?” Another shrug, hints of color rising on Mary Margaret’s cheeks. “Early December, and we probably won’t be outside for very long. Mostly just the ceremony, and some of the pictures. There’s a certain kind of romanticism to the city in December, isn’t there?” Aurora doesn’t look overly convinced. Killian barely notices — is admittedly very preoccupied with the look on Emma’s face, and how it almost feels a little wistful and maybe just as romantic and not kissing her is somehow a victory and loss all at the same time. 
“You know,” Aurora says slowly, like she’s about to impart a crucial piece of information on them, “if we’re being honest, I am actually surprised this is happening.” One of Killian’s fingers flutters. Where it’s tangled with Mary Margaret’s, and Emma hasn’t blinked in years. Possibly longer. “Weddings? Or another wonderful event put on by Pendragon?”
“Bet they didn’t try and find this venue that far in advance,” Will mumbles. Emma closes her eyes. That’s like—half a blink, at least. 
Aurora shakes her head, still looking far more serious than the situation requires. “No, no, no, well...you and Emma are always together at work, aren’t you?”
Breathing is a challenge. 
Gritting his teeth less so, the overall tension in Killian’s jaw threatening to do permanent damage. Emma hasn’t opened her eyes yet. 
“We’re friends,” he reasons, and if he were actually engaged to Mary Margaret he’d be almost offended by this whole conversation. 
Lying likely robs him of any right to relationship-based offense, though. 
“Oh no, no, I know,” Aurora says, without sounding entirely honest, “and I’m sure it’ll be a gorgeous wedding. Just—if we had to guess, I think most people at Pendragon would have thought it’d be the two of you.” If nothing else, this night has provided a massive insight into all the facial expressions Mary Margaret is capable of making. At least half a dozen that Killian was previously unaware of, including the current one — a mix of disgust and appropriate scandal, and Killian resists the urge to point out that he and Emma probably couldn’t date, even if they wanted to, which they are, but that’s...that’s beside the point. 
Entirely. Like a different hemisphere from the point.
Aurora gives a tight-lipped smile.
“When did you and—” Will clicks his teeth, effectively redirecting the conversation. “—Phillip, was it?” Aurora hums. “Guessing you two didn’t get married in the winter, did you?” Whatever else she says gets lost in the buzz between Killian’s ears, the overall state of his heart continuing to threaten the structural integrity of his ribs, and Mary Margaret gives his hand several squeezes. To recapture his attention and whatever professionalism he’s barely clinging to, and she’d been right about romanticism. 
Of which he’s clearly bordering on hopeless at this point. 
Emma smiles. 
And Aurora excuses herself eventually — Phillip appearing like an unknowing brunette knight in conversational-armor, all four of them nearly exhaling in tandem. 
“So,” Will says, “scale of one to ten, how much did we suck at that?” “A forty-seven,” Mary Margaret replies, head lolling onto Killian’s shoulder while he finally lets out the scoff that’s been bubbling in the center of his throat.
“Next winter, huh? For real?” She makes a noise that’s presumably some sort of agreement, and Emma’s smile doesn’t waver. “Thinking about it. If Scarlet will double check with Belle about taking pictures in front of the library.” “Public property,” he replies, “don’t have to double check.” “But can we go inside at some point?” Killian asks. 
“Wimping out about temperature already?” “Expressing concerns, like Aurora who is—” “—A wedding genius, apparently,” Emma mutters, and Mary Margaret’s shoulders shake. She still hasn’t touched her wine. Eventually that will prove important. 
“Got a lot of opinions when it comes to other people’s plans, at least.”
“Eh,” Will argues, “did we give her much of a chance to delve into those opinions, or was Killian too busy making eyes at Emma?”
Continuing to open his mouth without actually saying any words is frustrating. For Killian. And the state of his heart, which cannot seem to find a rhythm anymore. Especially when Emma flushes, and threatens to stare a hole into the floor and of the two dresses she owns that are currently making the rounds at this party, the one she’s actually wearing is better. 
Probably because she’s wearing it. 
“I told you,” Mary Margaret grumbles, without any of her previous ability to chastise. She sounds almost amused. 
“Although,” Will adds, “Emma’s not doing much better, so—” Huffing out a breath only serves to flutter the few strands of hair that frame either side of Emma’s face, and that’s only vaguely messing with Killian’s perception of...reality, maybe. “Ok, you do not get to point out my own,” she leans closer, like that will help the volume of her next few words, “fake relationship shortcomings.” “Why not? It’s making all of this endlessly entertaining.” “I’m a better fake date than you,” Mary Margaret says. “You had to use your own wedding plans because you can’t take your ring off.” “That is nice!” People likely don’t turn the way Killian’s brain has already convinced him they do, but every one of Emma’s teeth is visible when she grits them like that and both of their potentially-obvious fake dates look properly ashamed. 
“Sorry,” Will grumbles, while Mary Margaret twists her heel and whispers, “no more wedding talk, I promise.” Emma laughs. That’s—surprising. And it’s not quite the laugh Killian’s also started claiming as his, but that feels almost possessive, and she’s definitely carrying less tension between her shoulders than he is. “I think that ship has sailed,” she says. “Should have thought about your outfit beforehand.” “Killian likes the dress,” Mary Margaret smiles. 
“Yeah, well Killian likes me, so…” Tugging Emma against his side, Will lets out another noise that will only garner them more attention, and people are starting to dance. The party fund could not afford a band. Or a DJ. Or anything more than what sounds like slightly muffled speakers and someone’s Spotify premium account. Killian hopes it’s premium, at least. 
Hearing ads in the middle of this instrumental Christmas music might be the last straw. For his sanity.  
“Well,” Will says, “if Mary Margaret’s going to start planning weddings, then I guess I do have to step my game up. C’mon, Em—let’s show ‘em what we’ve got.”
“And what do we have, exactly?” “Impeccable rhythm, and the lingering knowledge of a Groupon dance class.” “Do people still use Groupon?” Emma challenges, and Killian loves her an absolutely ridiculous amount. For several thousand things, but at this very moment, it’s mostly how her voice causes Will’s eyes to bug again and his tongue to poke between his lips and maybe the whole night isn’t a total disaster. He should tell her he loves her. 
Sooner rather than later. 
“My girlfriend,” Will replies, “who will totally be able to sneak Mary Margaret and David into the New York Public Library to avoid frostbite and ensure very pretty pictures, presumably on that fancy staircase they’ve got.” “Nothing sets the tone for a winter wedding like some casual breaking and entering,” Killian says, barely containing his grunt when Mary Margaret’s foot shifts. On top of his. 
Emma rolls her eyes. 
They’re just playing the soundtrack to A Charlie Brown Christmas now. 
“We’d appreciate whatever rules Belle could break for us,” Mary Margaret promises, “and will not mention that she’s the only person still using Groupon. Like, in the world.”
Will’s tongue is going to dry out. “Get on my fake date level, almost-Nolan.” “Shout that louder, please,” Emma groans. “And does the staircase not have a name? Fancy staircase cannot possibly be the acceptable vernacular.” “Probably not, because no one actual uses the word vernacular in actual conversation. Now you’re just trying to show off.” “Sound suspiciously like you’re impressed with my vast vocabulary, Scarlet.”
“Product of your profession.” “Grand, I think,” Killian says, fully prepared for Emma’s slightly parted lips. He will argue he’s prepared, at least. One of his knees does threaten to buckle though, and Will’s current eye-roll rate cannot possibly be healthy. 
“The profession?”
“The staircase.”
“Oh. That’s pretty lame, actually. It doesn’t have like a—staircase sponsor?” “Not that I’m aware of, but the entrance hall is called Astor Hall.” “Similar to the place of the same name?” Will quips. “Or—” “—The guy from the Titanic?” Mary Margaret finishes. “Why do you know about this?”
Killian lifts one shoulder. The one not currently providing rest for Mary Margaret’s head. “I know everything, a good fake-girlfriend would know that.” “And a legitimate girlfriend would dispute that,” Emma says, “plus, the Astors own or have endowed like half of New York. This is not impressive knowledge, and don’t get Mary Margaret talking about Titanic, she’ll start waxing poetic about Leonardo DiCaprio.” “I do have a longstanding crush on Leonardo DiCaprio,” Mary Margaret admits. “If I start quoting things about a real party and point out that Kate Winslet was willing to dance, will that get you guys to move?” Will demands. “Because we’re starting to draw attention and that’s probably not going to help our quest.” “It’s a quest now?” Killian asks. 
“Way more dramatic that way, so yeah.” “Please don’t start quoting Titanic at me,” Emma requests, pulling on the front of Will’s jacket and it’s a testament to their dedication to this ridiculous plan, or quest, that he wore a jacket. No matter how bad a plan it might be. 
Or quest. Whatever, honestly. 
“Alright,” she continues, “show off the lessons, or I’ll make fun of you for the foreseeable future.” Will winks. Not well, but possibly better than Killian is capable of, and he’s going to blame the wine. “Prepare to be absolutely wowed, m’dear.”
Rolling her eyes doesn’t do anything to shift the smile off Emma’s face, although she does look at Killian before she moves and the jealousy clouding his overall sense of being is as antiquated as the music and as absurd as anything else. 
Impressive, considering their overall barometer for absurd. 
“When do you think Aurora got married?” Killian asks, rolling his head towards a sympathetic-looking Mary Margaret. “Spring? June? That’s cliché, right?” “June,” she echoes. “Probably required her dozen bridesmaids to help her hand-make table favors, too. Just to really drive the point home. You want something else to drink?” “Yes, obviously.” Narrowing her eyes slightly when she nods, makes it more difficult to look at her — but that might also have something to do with the amount of alcohol Killian’s already consumed, and he really does appreciate how often Mary Margaret keeps making him eat. Even when it appears everything on this catering menu comes with bacon. “Don’t do that, ok?” he asks, at least two of their allotted four party-hours later. 
She lifts her eyebrows. “Keep texting my fiancé?” “Maybe you are the worse fake date.” “Well, you’re speaking in tongues now, so—” Shrugging, Mary Margaret’s shoulder doesn’t collide with Killian’s, but he’s also starting to feel a little buzzed. And hating bacon. And possibly happiness. On principle. 
Will and Emma keep dancing. Which also keeps them from having to interact with anyone else, but his buzzed-mind doesn’t care, and this whole thing was mostly his idea and that’s starting to really annoy him. 
That might be his base setting at this point.
“Bacon,” Killian clarifies, “don’t allow the national obsession with bacon to affect your food decisions when you—” Footsteps move by them, curious eyes and he’s not a frog, so his blood cannot possibly run cold. Plus, it’s honestly way too warm in this room. “We,” he amends, somehow rushing over two letters, and Mary Margaret noticeably sags against his side. “What was that about this being a dumb idea?” “Ah, getting fired at Christmas-time sucks. How will you buy us all presents, then?” Laughing helps loosen the knot of emotion that’s been growing increasingly tight in Killian’s chest, and the ends of Mary Margaret’s lips quirk up when he kisses the top of her hair. “Bacon is vastly overrated, though,” she adds, “people are obsessed with it.” “It’s weird, right?” “Definitely. Should I apologize for getting you engaged against your will?” Kissing her hair again is easier than responding, because responding might force Killian to contend with a lot of life-type plans he’s only half concocted, and he really should tell Emma he loves her first. Like, more than he realized. 
Until he had to pretend he didn’t. 
“Nah, but you can explain it to David because I don’t want my story to get interrupted when he inevitably starts laughing.” “You wanna dance?” Smirking at her does not have the same effect it has on Emma. And that’s definitely a good thing, but Killian’s drifting towards melancholy and the music isn’t instrumental anymore. Michael Bublé is a Christmas requirement, though. 
He flips his wrist. 
“Sweep you off your feet, Miss Blanchard.” She’s closing in on Will for number of pointed, if not passably amused, eye rolls. Still, Mary Margaret’s hand lands in his, and Emma’s eyes definitely drift towards them — which is as bad as it is good, and Michael Bublé’s version Santa Baby might actually be the worst thing that’s happened to any of them. All night. 
“Not exactly the pinnacle of music, is it?” Killian mumbles, and Mary Margaret hasn’t stepped on his foot. Or pointed out how close they linger to Will and Emma, both of whom look as unenthused by the music choices. 
And maybe it’s because he keeps staring, or possibly because Will is not the asshole he likes to pretend to be, but Killian is not entirely prepared for his friend to spin his fake date closer, or mutter something about cutting in that makes Mary Margaret laugh and Emma’s jaw drop and she steps on his foot. 
It’s the best thing that’s happened to him. All night. 
“We are not good at this,” Emma says, but she doesn’t sound all that upset about it and the buzz between his ears lessens. Turns into something warm and hopeful, and she’s close enough that he can smell her shampoo. 
“Something to be said for effort though, right?” “I’m not sure we’re making much of an effort.”
Nosing at her hair proves her point, but Killian’s—an idiot, and willing to blame romance, and the holiday season, and all the wine. So much. Even more bacon. God, he hates bacon. “Scarlet’s not subtle. And you look incredible.” “Do those sentiments go together?” “No,” Killian answers, “but true all the same.” “Flattery will get you everywhere.” Twirling her away, only to bring her back just as quickly, Killian doesn’t try very hard to avoid the smirk. So, he’s kind of a glutton too. For punishment, and poorly-timed emotions, and there’s a rather obvious glint in Emma’s eyes that leaves him breathless. Plus, she sort of slams back into his chest. “God,” she grumbles, “lacking some grace, huh?” “Eh, we’ll get there.” “Will we just?” He only realizes what he’s said when he notices the way her voice drops — rasped between lips that are redder than usual, and difficult to hear over goddamn Michael Bublé, and he’s totally staring at her lips. Obviously, he’s sure. “Yeah,” Killian nods. “Guaranteed.”
Part of him worries. Suddenly, Immediately. Overwhelming—ly. But Emma doesn’t move, and they’re more swaying than dancing now, and Mary Margaret’s footsteps are rushed. In a dramatic, everything is blowing up sort of way. 
That sucks, admittedly. 
“What are you—” Emma starts, but Mary Margaret just shakes her head. Yanking on Killian’s sleeve, she threatens to rip the fabric and he’s never heard her use any of those words. 
“Why didn’t you tell me?” she hisses. 
Killian tilts his head. “Be more specific.”
“Lance Sinqua is here. Is he supposed to be here? Why didn't either of you tell me he was going to be here?”
“He works in acquisitions, I think.” “I thought you knew everything,” Emma teases, and he has to bite the other side of his tongue. To stop from kissing her. 
Making out, more like. “I’ve had a lot of wine,” Killian reasons, “Should I be more concerned about why Sinqua being at his own holiday party is a problem?” Swatting at his side with both hands, Mary Margaret all but snarls. Emma looks appropriately surprised. “I know him,” Mary Margaret says, pausing between every word for emphasis. “And he has seen me.” What feels like the weight of several words and half a dozen ridiculous plans and/or quests fall into the pit of Killian’s stomach. Where they immediately crush a variety of internal organs. “Will’s distracting him now,” Mary Margaret explains, “but—he doesn’t know David personally, just that I’ve got a boyfriend—” “—Fiancé,” Emma corrects lightly, but the tone changes again and Killian’s never gone into shock before. He assumes it feels suspiciously like this. 
“I do not care; at all. Just—Killian, you’ve got to come. Now. Like right now.”
Nodding hurts his neck again, but Killian’s legs move on their own and his hand finds Mary Margaret’s and thinking about the look on Emma’s face isn’t healthy. Makes him want to stand on a table, or something equally absurd. Shout several things from several different rooftops, and he wonders if she’ll have to wear a red dress for the wedding. 
The real one, not whatever one he and Mary Margaret are going to lie about.
And to his credit, Will’s attempts to run distraction do look admirable. Moving hands and a nearly legitimate smile, while Lance nods in interest and continued conversation, and Killian squeezes Mary Margaret’s hand. In what he hopes is solidarity. 
“Hey,” Will exhales, as soon as he sees them, “here he is.” Killian’s cheeks ache. “Present and accounted for. You must be Lance, Mary Margaret said you’re old friends.” “Ah, I don’t know about old,” Lance objects, “but certainly the rest of it. I didn’t know she’d be here, would have asked you guys for drinks before or something.”
There’s really no word for the sound Mary Margaret makes at that. Part squeak, and what sounds like an admission, but that says a lot more about Killian’s growing guilt and residual jealousy and—
“How long have you two been engaged?” 
Racking his brain, Killian’s had too much to drink for this. He’s dimly aware of Mary Margaret swaying closer to him, Will’s grimace all but broadcasting how unprepared they are for that particular question, but it also seems like he’s trying to tell Killian something. He does not understand. Fuck boxed wine, quite frankly. 
He opts for honesty. 
Sort of.
It worked for Mary Margaret, after all. 
Sort of. 
“We’ve, uh—” Killian starts, “—been engaged only a couple of weeks, but...we’ve been dating since March.”
Will’s shoulders droop. His eyes turn imploring, but he can’t actually say anything and Lance is, so it absolutely does not matter. “March?” he echoes. “Your friend said it was kind of a whirlwind romance. Got together in the summer.” His mouth does more than open. His jaw drops, nearly to his ankles and shoes that he actually got polished because this party isn’t super important, but Killian wanted to look nice on his fake date and Mary Margaret’s hand is the only reason he doesn’t fall over. 
“Ah,” Killian breathes, “right. That’s—yeah, that’s right.” Lance doesn’t look convinced, either. He should go talk to Aurora. Who keeps glancing at Emma, like she’s got like SONAR. Joke doesn’t even make sense. In Killian’s head. 
“We’ve been celebrating a bunch of different anniversaries,” Mary Margaret cuts in, speaking so quickly it’s as if that lie jumps out of her mouth, does cartwheels and then gets a four from the Russian judge for lack of proper execution. “Y'know...romance, and everything. He’s uh—Killian must be thinking of when we met.” Lance quirks an eyebrow. He might hate Lance. He definitely hates Lance. “You’ve only known each other since March.” “Oh my God,” Will mumbles, scratching behind his ear. And really, that’s not what does it. But it’s certainly a tipping point, or a metaphorical straw, and Killian nods once before he lifts Mary Margaret’s hand to his mouth, mumbles thanks against her knuckles and marches directly towards his actual girlfriend. 
Who is standing directly under the mistletoe. 
It’d be more impressive if she wasn’t, honestly. 
And the music doesn’t stop — although Killian can’t really hear it either, an arm finding Emma’s waist, and her hands landing flat against his chest and someone cheers. Will. It’s definitely Will. Heads turn towards them, surprise coloring more than a few of their co-workers faces, while others look...less so. 
Killian doesn’t bother dwelling on that. He’s got more important things to do. 
“I’m pretty ridiculously in love with you,” he says, Emma’s eyes getting brighter and her lips as distracting as ever. Several of the less-than-surprised faces aww. Audibly. Which doesn’t quite make sense, but he’s still not dwelling and—“Not admitting to dating you is driving me nuts.” “When is your lease up?” “What?” “Were those words confusing in that order?” Emma asks, infusing the question with false confidence that he can hear perfectly and she should have confidence in spades. At least when it comes to this. 
Maybe if they get to keep their jobs. 
“A little,” Killian concedes. “Are you—do you want me to move in with you?” “A ridiculous amount.”
“That’s admittedly not the best adjective I could have used.” “Eh, I won’t get particular with syntax.” “Stop showing off,” Will yells, “and kiss other directly on the mouth!”
There’s a general hum of agreement — even while Lance continues to look a little confused, and Aurora looks a little offended, both of which makes sense because they were fairly awful liars, and someone’s given Arthur a microphone. So the owner of Pendragon Publishing can tell them, “Literally everyone knew, you both suck at not making out in the break room.”
Heat wafts off Emma, climbs up Killian’s neck and takes root in both of his cheeks and Arthur is not done. 
“It’s not encouraged. Intra-office relationships, usually way more trouble than they’re worth, but, well—all you really need to do is sign some paperwork with HR and maybe find some other corners that are less obvious.” Nodding slowly only makes it more obvious the kind of strain all of Killian’s muscles are under, but he can’t come up with a feasible response to that and Emma’s fingers curl. Into his shirt, and he imagines that makes it easier — when she yanks him forward, lips slanting over his and she doesn’t have to push up the way she normally does. Still, Killian’s fairly certain he hears one of her heels pop out of her shoes, and if this is how it feels when a heart beats its way out of a person’s chest, it’s actually fairly comfortable. 
“I love you too,” Emma mumbles, against his mouth. So, the only reasonable response is to kiss her again. Several times over. 
And they do fill out paperwork, eventually — the story of the fake date fiasco, as David comes to call it, perfect fodder for Emma’s maid of honor speech, and proof positive of the inherent romanticism of the city at Christmas. 
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