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#anyway i want to cry i have never drawn lace in so much detail
lady-of-the-lotus · 3 years
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Songxiao + Xuexiao (past) - M - read on AO3!
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Song Lan doesn’t notice anything wrong at first.
He can’t speak, his tongue gone. There’s no speech to slur, no words to stumble over.
It’s only when he leaves the inn one morning, two months after Xue Yang set him free, two months after Xue Yang, with a mocking smile, had decided it was crueler to let him live than to put him out of his misery and dropped him hundreds of miles away from Yi City—it's only then that he notices.
His left-side vision is dimming.
He reaches up, touches the holes left in his skull by Xue Yang’s nails.
Fine. You’re fine…
But the fingers on his left hand are clumsy as they grasp the heavy stick he carries for protection now that Xue Yang has Fuxue.
Fine…
Fine, despite his inability to focus on anything too complex, despite his difficulty remembering names and faces.
A blessing, that part. Let the memories of his years as Xue Yang’s slave fade…
But even if he has trouble recalling the details, he can still remember the emotions. The guilt, the grief, the helplessness.
The hate.
And he can clearly remember every word he said to Xiao Xingchen on that wretched day six years ago when he had turned on him, blaming him for the slaughter of his temple. They ring in his ears as he tries to sleep, haunting his steps.
“Your fault, all your fault—”
Song Lan knows better now.
Too late. Too late to apologize. Too late to do anything but guard Xingchen's corpse.
It takes him a year to find his way back to Yi City.
He doesn’t have to eat, at least, but before freeing him Xue Yang had maliciously altered him to need sleep, and he has to walk the entire way without a tongue to ask for directions or shelter. There are entire days at a time where he heads in the wrong direction, forgetting where Yi City lies, sleeping on the side of the road. His legs are clumsy, brain damaged by Xue Yang’s nails, but he can move, at least, struggle back to Xiao Xingchen’s side, protect him from Xue Yang's desecrations.
It’s late winter when he arrives at Yi City.
Snow has begun to fall, smothering the city in silence. The streets are empty, haunted by ghosts and memories of the dead, but the snow chokes all sound from any creatures making a home in the ruins.
The sun is setting in a riot of blood and fire when he stumbles into the Coffin House courtyard in a nightmarish echo of that terrible day all those years ago, the day he’d come to Yi City only to see Xiao Xingchen sitting beside that monster, smiling at the animal, laughing—
Xiao Xingchen sits on the steps beside Xue Yang.
Peacefully watching the snow fall.
Smiling.
Laughing.
Alive.
Song Lan ducks behind a coffin. His heart would have frozen, if it still beat.
It can’t be.
Xiao Xingchen is dead—has been for years—Song Lan has watched Xue Yang scream at his corpse, bathe it, dress it, touch it—watched him try ritual after ritual, sacrifice after sacrifice, spell after spell—
Xingchen e appears thinner than he remembers, as if he’d desiccated in death, and his grayish-white skin is mottled with purple. A white eye patch covers one eye, but a dark brown eye is set in his right eye socket.
“How do you feel, daozhang?” Xue Yang asks Xingchen, and every muscle in Song Lan’s body goes rigid at the sound of that hated voice that’s haunted his waking dreams. “Better than yesterday?”
The smile drops from Xingchen's face. He glances down at the ground, the snowy courtyard like a pool of blood in the light of the setting sun. Xue Yang lays a hand on his arm, and a shudder passes through Xingchen.
“It’s alright, daozhang,” Xue Yang says, and he speaks so soothingly that Song Lan wants to lunge at him, beat him to death, but he can’t get his limbs to move. “The more we do it, the better you feel. Take my yang…” And suddenly he’s leaning into Xiao Xingchen, mouth on his mouth, hand between his legs.
And Xiao Xingchen is on his back on the porch, one hand—one hand tangled in his hair—chest rising and falling sharply as Xue Yang—
As Xue Yang—
A moan of terror from Xiao Xingchen, moving beneath Xue Yang as if trying to thrust him off of him, and suddenly Song Lan is beside them, his stick slamming into Xue Yang’s skull.
A crack, and Xue Yang tumbles down the stairs, staring lifelessly up at the red-streaked gray sky.
It’s over now, Song Lan wants to say as he kneels beside Xiao Xingchen. I’m here, you’re safe—
He reaches out a trembling hand, fixing Xingchen’s robe, and Xingchen pulls away from him, eye wide with shock.
“What happened?” Xingchen asks, his voice thin and hoarse, as if it hasn’t been used in a long time. “Chengmei—”
Xue Yang! Song Lan wants to say. Not “Chengmei”—
Xiao Xingchen looks up from Xue Yang’s body, sees Song Lan’s face.
A smothered gasp.
“Zichen?” he whispers. “Zichen—”
He reaches up to touch Song Lan’s face, and Song Lan pulls away instinctively. Xiao Xingchen’s hand drops to the stairs, but his eye continues to drink in Song Lan’s face.
“You came back for me,” he says.
Song Lan nods. He wants to gather Xiao Xingchen in his arms, hold him close, be certain it’s not an illusion borne of the holes in his brain, but while his touch aversion has faded after death dulled his senses, it hasn’t completely dissipated.
But Xiao Xingchen falls forward onto his chest, sobbing tearlessly.
“I killed you—I thought I killed you—”
Song Lan holds him at arm’s length, drinking in the familiar face he never thought he'd see again—not like this. Xingchen’s face is bone-white, with dark bruises around his good eye and gray veins lacing through his ashen skin. A single tear leaves a crimson track on his cheek like the trail of blood Xue Yang’s head has left in the snow.
“Why don’t you say something?” Xiao Xingchen says, desperation creeping into his voice. “Why don’t you speak—”
Song Lan opens his mouth.
Xingchen looks away from the useless stump that had once been Song Lan's tongue.
Song Lan removes his hands from his shoulders.
It’s fine, he mouths. It’s not your fault, it’s not your fault…
Wordlessly, Xiao Xingchen rises and disappears into the house, returning with Fuxue and Song Lan’s horsetail whisk. He hands them to Song Lan and sits beside him, still without speaking.
They sit like that all night, watching the snow cover Xue Yang’s corpse as it lies sprawled at the foot of the stairs. A single candle illuminates the porch, the courtyard a wall of black dotted with whirling gray snowflakes. Xiao Xingchen makes sure not to touch Song Lan, sitting a good handbreadth away from him, but despite his deadened senses Song Lan thinks he can feel Xiao Xingchen’s warmth.
His imagination, he knows. Xingchen’s undead body must be as cold as his is…
But he enjoys the phantom heat anyway. Is warmed by the knowledge that Xingchen is back, Xingchen is alive—as alive as he is, at least—
At dawn Xingchen tears his gaze away from the snowy white mound at the foot of the stairs and rises.
“We should bury him,” he says.
Shaking his head, Song Lan gets to his feet and turns away from the mound.
Xiao Xingchen extends his hand, lets it hover over Song Lan’s forearm. “Please, Zichen. He brought me back. He kept me from…he kept me whole.”
He hurt you, Song Lan wants to say. He deceived you. He killed you, he—he touched you—
But he nods and digs a shallow grave on the side of the road. Heaves Xue Yang into it, covers him with dirt and snow, and stands a respectful distance back while Xiao Xingchen stands over the grave.
Bows his head.
Song Lan closes his eyes. Xingchen's compassion had been one of the things that had drawn him to him, but this was a step too far.
“We need to find A-Qing,” says Xiao Xingchen when he returns to his side.
Song Lan looks up sharply from where he’s been examining the mud splattered on his hem. She’s still alive? he writes in the snow.
“Xue Yang dropped her in Hebei. We were going to go find her together…”
Song Lan’s grip tightens on Fuxue’s hilt, the joy he feels at knowing A-Qing is still alive in some form tainted by how Xiao Xingchen says together.
Song Lan knows Xue Yang. Had spent years as his slave, with only a tongueless A-Qing to show him any kind of compassion.
Xiao Xingchen, it seems, still sees Xue Yang as Chengmei, at least in some way, for him to believe that Xue Yang would ever bring A-Qing back.
She’s probably dead, Song Lan wants to write, but then he remembers how Xue Yang had let A-Qing remain in Yi City despite her obvious hatred of the animal, let her sit for hours on end beside Xiao Xingchen’s coffin, let her fix Song Lan’s hair when Xue Yang would leave him standing for weeks on end in the Coffin House courtyard.
Song Lan’s skin had crawled at her touch, but despite the many things that have faded from his mind, he’s never forgotten her kindnesses to him.
We have to find her, he writes, and Xiao Xingchen nods.
They travel for a month.
Walking, their golden cores gone. Nighthunting as much as possible. Song Lan is clumsy, his vision bad, and Xiao Xingchen is weak, but they’d made a vow to each other, all those years ago. A vow to never let a cry for help go unanswered…
Xingchen sleeps beside him, close enough to touch, if he wishes. Song Lan would like to, he thinks. Would draw Xinghen to his chest, reassure himself that Xingchen is real, is here with him.
But then he remembers Xue Yang on top of Xingchen, Xingchen’s terror—
A memory he wishes he can forget, just as he’s forgotten the names of many of the people from Baixue Temple (I should remember their names, he thinks. I shouldn’t be relieved that forgetting their names and faces dulls the pain of losing them—). But the vision comes to him in dreams, haunting him whenever he thinks back with pleasure to the sound his stick made when it shattered Xue Yang’s skull.
Song Lan’s touch would be chaste, but he can’t do that to Xingchen. He needs to help Xingchen heal, help him forget…
He almost asks Xingchen how Xue Yang brought him back one night, as they lie awake in an inn, unable to sleep through the crash of thunder and dazzling flashes of lightning.
How— he starts to write on the wax table he uses for speech, then quickly erases it.
“What is it?”
Song Lan takes the stylus again. It takes him a moment to remember the proper characters. I was just going to ask how you’ve been feeling. It feels strange to write those words. He knows he and Xiao Xingchen must have discussed things as mundane as this in the past, but the conversations he recalls with any real clarity are ones about ideals, about their future together, the sect they planned on founding.
“I’m fine.”
You’ve been quiet.
In truth, Xingchen, like him, has never been very garrulous. But he can’t very well say, You’ve been distant.
A different kind of distant than he remembers. There had always been something untouchable about Xiao Xingchen, but in the past it had been like a star fallen to earth, slightly out of sync with everything around it but glowing with pure white light.
Song Lan had found small ways to connect with that star. He had done all of the cooking, partially because he couldn’t bear to have anyone touch his food but mostly to find ways to take care of the most human part of Xiao Xingchen, taking pleasure when Xingchen, who had little interest in food, ate something he’d prepared for him. He’d covered him with blankets at night and handled all the little details when they’d traveled together.
But Xingchen is the only one who can speak with innkeepers. No longer eats, no longer gets cold.
No longer needs Song Lan.
“That’s not what you wanted to ask,” says Xingchen. He’s lying very still, lit by the flickering lightning, silky black hair spread around his white face. “Go on.”
It’s nothing.
Instead of pressing him as Song Lan wants, Xiao Xingchen takes him at his word and rolls over, facing the window. His bony purplish hand rests on the blanket, almost floats.
There’s an odd, almost waxy coat to the skin. As if it’s been rubbed with half-absorbed grease that left a dull sheen.
Song Lan wants to take it, examine it closer, but he can’t risk touching Xingchen, not after what Xue Yang had done.
Song Lan closes his eyes and tries not to think about drawing Xingchen close. It’s a warm night, spring come early, filling the room with heat, and Song Lan imagines Xingchen might almost feel warm…
Feel alive.
He notices the odd waxy coat again a week later. It’s a grim and overcast morning, but with more light than the night in the inn. Far hotter than it should be this time of year, the humidity wrapping his limbs in heavy weights.
Song Lan walks a pace or two behind Xiao Xingchen, discreetly eyeing his hands.
A definite sheen, and not just on Xiao Xingchen’s hands. His gaunt, beautiful gray face too, Song Lan notices when he returns to his side.
And—
Flies. Flies buzzing around his head, settling lazily down on his throat, his nose, on the thin rust-colored skin covering his knuckles…
Song Lan’s stomach hardens into a cold hard knot. He squints slightly, trying to sharpen the faded vision in his left eye, and Xiao Xingchen notices. Shoos the flies away and quickly puts his hand behind his back, but it’s too late.
“I didn’t want you to worry,” he mumbles in response to Song Lan’s horrified look.
How long have you known?
Xiao Xingchen swallows. Now that Song Lan knows what to look for, he can see the places where Xingchen’s lip has rotted away, where it’s—
Are those—
He looks away, but it’s too late.
Those are maggots in the hollow of Xingchen’s lip.
Xiao Xingchen steps away. “Let’s go, Zichen. There’s a ghost in the next town that—”
Song Lan takes hold of his arm, immediately letting go, but Xiao Xingchen freezes.
How long?
“As soon as you killed Xue Yang,” says Xingchen quietly.
A chill creeps up Song Lan’s spine.
“The cold weather arrested it, but now that it’s warm…”
Song Lan’s fault. All his fault. Just as the slaughter of Baixue Temple had been his fault, just as the loss of Xingchen’s eyes had been his fault—
“Forget it, Zichen.” Xingchen is walking now, as if trying to put distance between him and Song Lan. “Just forget it. It’s nothing…”
Song Lan runs after him, tripping, falling, scrambling clumsily to his feet. Not nothing! You’re dying—
“It’s fine.”
Song Lan wants to yell, scream at him, Your life is important! It’s not nothing! I only just got you back—
How? He writes instead. It takes him three tries to get the characters right, consternation making his memory even worse than usual. How did he keep you from—from rotting?
Xiao Xingchen glances away from the tablet. “He…he gave me his yang.”
He—
“Yes. I don’t know the specifics, he destroyed his work after I came back, I don’t know why, I don’t know…I….”
Dual cultivation? How is that even possible with two men?
Xiao Xingchen gives a soft sad smile. “He’s a genius. Was a genius.”
He forced you to—
“It wasn’t like that…”
What else could it be like?
Xiao Xingchen licks his lips, an old gesture of discomfort. His tongue dislodges one of the maggots, the writhing white creature falling into the collar of his robe.
“He kept me whole,” he mumbles.
Could someone else do it? Give you yang? Song Lan, as a fierce corpse, is full of yin. Yet another way he’s failed Xingchen. Had he not been a fierce corpse, he would have done anything to save Xingchen, no matter how revolting, but as he is, he's completely useless. Perhaps a woman—
“Only him,” says Xiao Xingchen shortly, and he heads down the road.
Song Lan remains behind, staring at the spot Xingchen had been standing.
He’d killed Xiao Xingchen.
Killed him as surely as if he had driven Fuxue through his heart.
Had Xue Yang been alive—
No.
Song Lan would never allow Xue Yang to come near Xiao Xingchen.
But he could have forced Xue Yang to figure something else out—
He’s been trying to forget them, but Xingchen’s words come back to him.
He forced you to—
“It wasn’t like that…”
But Xingchen had not been thinking clearly. Song Lan knows that. Xingchen, as always, is too compassionate for his own good. That monster had twisted his mind, forced him to allow him to—to touch him, just for the privilege of being kept alive—a life he’d been forced back into by that animal—
Song Lan follows Xiao Xingchen down the road.
They camp under the stars that night. Song Lan wants to make a fire, but is afraid of what the heat will do to Xingchen. Xiao Xingchen lies beside him in the tall feathery grasses, staring silently up at the clear moonlit sky, scattered with thousands of stars.
Like eyes. Like eyes watching them both. Eyes that know everything, have seen everything: watched Song Lan scream abuse at Xiao Xingchen, watched Xiao Xingchen blind himself for Song Lan, watched Xingchen leave—
The stars know that everything that happened in Yi City was Song Lan’s fault.
Know that Song Lan owes Xingchen more than he can ever repay him.
Know that Song Lan should have died in Baixue Temple with the rest of his people, the people he can barely remember, should remember—
Xingchen is silent, as if he too knows that Song Lan does not deserve to be there beside him.
Song Lan is seized by a sudden desire to tell Xingchen that he spent three years looking for him after their fight. That he hadn’t cast Xingchen off.
But that would be unfair to Xingchen.
Xingchen is dying, because of him. To tell Xingchen any of this now would be cowardly, the act of someone trying to lessen their guilt. Would place an unfair burden on Xingchen. Wouldn’t allow Xingchen to continue to fully feel the anger Song Lan knows he must feel towards him, Song Lan, the jinx who had brought about both of Xingchen's deaths.
Trying to calm his flurried thoughts, Song Lan draws in a deep breath for the first time in years, and his entire body goes numb.
The night is filled with the scent of rotting meat.
He forces himself to turn his head, glance over at Xingchen.
He is beautiful in the starlight, despite the rot. Despite the beetles nestling in his ear, the maggots in his mouth, the blackened lesions on his delicately-curved throat and the slimy red and purple spots marring his gray skin.
Silently Song Lan rises, goes to the nearby creek, returns with a wet cloth, and cleans Xingchen’s face. Wipes away the insects eating at his flesh, the writhing white dots on the yellow bone showing through on his hands and collarbones and jaw.
Something he can do for Xingchen, at least.
Xingchen opens his eyes when Song Lan is finished.
“Thank you,” he says quietly.
Song Lan nods and returns to his place beside him, making sure not to lie too close.
"I mean it." Xingchen reaches out, lays a decaying hand beside Song Lan’s, close enough for Song Lan to cover with his, if he chooses. “Thank you. For everything.”
Song Lan nods again. He no longer produces saliva, but he swallows hard anyway. He feels that phantom warmth again as Xingchen smiles at him for the first time since their reunion—his first real smile, the first one not touched by sadness, that same soft, gentle smile his faulty memory still remembers with painful clearness.
“I want to go to Baoshan Sanren,” Xingchen whispers, and the warmth fades, replaced by a ghostly chill. “And then we’ll find A-Qing…”
There is only one reason Xiao Xingchen would want to return to the mountain.
Song Lan knows that Xiao Xingchen would not risk breaking his vow a second time.
But it would not be breaking his vow to return home for burial...
Song Lan takes Xingchen’s slimy red hand and presses it between both of his, and nods.
It takes two months for Xiao Xingchen to find Baoshan Sanren’s mountain.
It’s more of a feeling Xingchen is following than an actual location, as her mountain moves every few years, and that inner spark has dampened with death and the decay that eats at his mind.
It’s at the end of the first month that his foot falls off, leaving behind a sharp shard of bone and rotting tangle of tendons and ligaments.
Without so much as a grimace Zichen helps him up, strong hands gently gripping Xingchen’s delicate waist, slipping his arm under him and helping him to the side of the road, where he fashions Xingchen a crutch with fingers that shake as they work.
He’s been touching Xingchen more and more lately. Cleaning the maggots from his skin, wiping away the ooze, bandaging the stumps left behind by his fallen fingers and toes and foot. Washing the foul liquid rot from his clothes, brushing the dead flies from his hair. Is willing to touch him despite his aversion to even the cleanest of touch, despite the decay.
Xingchen lets him. Zichen seems to need it as much as Xingchen does.
Xingchen can’t imagine the Zichen of six years ago would have done any of this. His friend has softened in this second life, grown more attentive, warmer, as if afraid that Xingchen’s frail body will crumble at the slightest frown from him…
Xingchen almost wants to laugh at that thought. That was what had finally happened today, excepting the frown.
Chengmei would have made a joke out of it…
"Need a foot?" he would have said, picking up the foot and handing it to Xiao Xingchen. "Get it? Like 'need a hand'? Admit it; that was funny!"
But best not think of him now. Should be easy enough to avoid thinking of him, given how Xingchen's mind is fading as his body falls apart.
Yes. Best not think of him now…
Think of him ever.
Think of his laugh, his stories, the joy on his face when Xingchen first opened his eyes.
Think of his mocking laugh, his cruelty, his fixed stare.
Of how quickly and brutally Zichen had killed him.
Of the surprising gentleness of Xue Yang's touch. The worshiping look on his face, as if he’d forgotten Xingchen could now see him. The warmth between his legs, Xue Yang’s lips nuzzling his throat, as if afraid to presume to kiss him on the mouth, as if unworthy now that the daozhang knew of his crimes.
Of how it felt to be so well-loved by someone so depraved, the one spot of light in another person’s darkness, his sole reason for being. The reason he was changing, becoming better, the reason he had spent six years trying to do something good, make up for his mistakes.
All of it as intoxicating as it was selfish.
How it felt to be forced to kill Zichen.
Xingchen rubs at his good eye.
The sad mound in the snow…
“Is it a ghost puppet?”
“I think so….it was shouting so fiercely a moment ago, but it should be dying…”
The clang of Fuxue as it hit the ground.
“Let’s go back and make food. I’m so hungry…”
Zichen used to cook for him.
He glances at where Zichen lies beside him, eyes closed. Chest unmoving, as still and silent as a true corpse.
Xingchen closes his eye. It’s hard to look at Zichen when he’s lying like this. A blatant reminder of what his friend has become.
Become because of Xingchen.
Not quite as bad as what you’ve become because of him…
He chases the thought away, as he has too many times before. His thoughts have been tangled and undisciplined since his return to life, a hectic jumble he can no longer control with meditation or breathing techniques.
Dying with Zichen watching over him is a better end than he deserves, after the countless innocents dead by his hand, after willingly lying back down with the beast—
With Xue Yang.
With Chengmei…
Zichen is not to blame for Xingchen’s current state. Not to be blamed for doing what he thought was right by Xingchen.
Not to blame for killing Xue Yang without hesitation.
Killing Chengmei...
How was he to know Xue Yang was going to help him find A-Qing? How was he to know Xue Yang had been trying to make up for what he had done, start fresh alongside Xingchen?
Xingchen knows full well there was no way Xue Yang could ever make up for everything.
But he had believed him when he swore he wanted to try.
Had to believe him.
Because if even someone as lost as Xue Yang could be better, could atone, that meant there was hope for Xiao Xingchen, too.
He speaks less and less as they near the mountain, even as Zichen grows more attentive, as if, in his solemn, subdued way, he’s anxious to bridge the gap between them.
But Xingchen is not pulling away intentionally. At least he doesn’t think so. It’s simply getting harder and harder to think straight as his mind decays…
The sad mound in the snow…
Stop. Stop...
Xue Yang cradling him, the warmth of his arms, the wild heartbeat vibrating through Xingchen, the hot splash of a teardrop on Xingchen's cold skin. "You're alive, you're alive, I did it, you're back, daozhang, you're here—"
Shifu is waiting for them at the foot of her mountain when they arrive, as if she had known they were coming. She looks exactly as he remembers her, tall and beautiful and deceptively stern.
Xingchen had not expected to last as long as he had. Had expected Zichen to bring his corpse to Shifu for burial. Had expected to spend his final moments beside his friend, had not expected to have to face Shifu as a walking corpse. Had not meant to break his vow again.
He’s surprised to find that he’s ashamed of what he’s become. But not for his sake, he realizes as Shifu stares at his monstrous face.
He’s ashamed on Zichen’s behalf. He can see the pain on Zichen’s face as he looks at Xingchen, the guilt.
It’s not your fault, Xingchen wants to tell him, but he can’t, not in front of Shifu. Not your fault...
He should have spoken earlier. Should have told Zichen that he doesn’t blame him, has never blamed him. Not truly...
He'll tell him tomorrow. Perhaps Zichen might even believe him...
Shifu says not a word about Xingchen breaking his vow and returning to the mountain again, at his bringing an outsider to her enclave a second time. Just reaches out to touch Xingchen’s face, staring at the slimy coat that comes away on her fingertips.
Silently she escorts Xingchen to his old bedchamber, meeting alone with Zichen while Xingchen rests.
Xingchen knows he should be looking forward to reuniting with his martial family, should sleep, meditate, something, but all he can do is lie in his familiar bed and stare at his half-blackened hand, three fingers already missing and the thumb beginning to wobble in its socket.
The missing fingers are in a qiankun pouch with his other dropped-off body parts, ready to be buried with him when the time comes.
He closes his eye as the hazy sunlight begins to fade, twilight filling the room with an eerie blue light, as if the room has been plunged underwater and he will begin to drown at any moment…
He drifts off into the nightmare-ridden in-between-state that passes for sleep nowadays, a sleep filled with bloated maggots feasting on his abandoned corpse as he floats, spirit-like, above his own body. Beetles gorge themselves on his rotting flesh, flies swarm his decaying face until his white skin is a liquid black mass of them. Worms curl around his exposed ribcage and dangle into his chest cavity like discarded rice noodles, twisting and writhing as they burrow into his bones.
The scene is lit by a fallen star, trapped on earth, lighting the skeleton with a lurid red glow, the once-pure white light tainted by blood.
Grasses sprout from his stomach, flowers, trees, vines ripping his skeleton apart with a cracking sound.
He can feel it, feel nature claiming him, feel the agony of snapping bone as he returns to the soil he never should have left—
He wakes with a cry.
Shifu stands beside his bed, a soft look on her face. The morning sun is dimmed by heavy rain, the room almost dark.
“He left you a note,” she says.
Xingchen sits up with difficulty and attempts to bow. “I—I don’t understand—”
She hands him the slip of paper.
I am sorry I couldn’t do more.
You will see me again.
Don’t forget about A-Qing…
The note flutters from Xingchen’s nerveless fingers, small greasy spots of rot staining the paper.
“He made me promise to heal you any way possible,” Shifu says, picking up the note. “For one who freed A-Xing, I have no choice but to oblige. But as an outsider, and a man, he could not be allowed to stay on our mountain.”
Xingchen barely hears her, staring at the wall. Then he looks up.
“Where is he waiting for me?”
“He will always be with you, A-Xing.”
A sinking feeling. “Where is he waiting for me?”
Shifu looks as if she wants to settle him back down in bed and pull up his covers like she used to when he was little. She had gone out of her way to tend to the children brought to the mountain. Abandoned baby girls, rescued by Baoshan Sanren. Xingchen had been the only male child taken in after Yanling Daoren left the mountain and become a tyrant. Xingchen had been born sickly and weak and not expected to survive even after being rescued from his basket in the foothills…
Sometimes he thinks he would have been better off fading away into the mountain all those years ago.
“You will know, when the time comes,” Shifu says. “Did you sleep well? You will need your strength. The procedure is a taxing one…”
Xingchen blinks. “Procedure?” His thoughts are increasingly, his mind rotting along with his body. "I don't understand."
“To replace your leg,” she says gently.
Xingchen glances down at his leg. It had fallen off several weeks after his foot, dislocating entirely from his hip socket. Zichen had carefully cut away the last scraps of skin connecting his leg to this hip, wrapped the putrefying limb with his cloak, and stored it away in the qiankun bag, carefully washing his hands in a nearby stream and giving Xingchen a gentle smile as he crafted him a crutch, as if to say, It's alright. I want to do this for you.
“My leg was rotted away,” he says. The words sound unreal on his slippery purple tongue. Rotted away. “It can’t be fixed…”
“I have a fresh one for you.”
“I don’t…”
There’s almost pity in her eyes. “There are many corpses around this mountain, unfortunately. Too many…”
He knows there’s something wrong about this, that they should be granting these bodies an honorable burial, but his dulled mind can’t formulate an argument.
After the first leg is replaced, his arm is as well, a week later, after it falls off into the stream with a gruesomely cheery splash while Xingchen attempts to scrape the putrid slime off his limbs.
Then his chest, his other arm, his other leg…
Shifu rarely leaves his side. She has him speak as much as possible, as if to distract his rotting mind from what’s happening to his body. Asks him endless questions about the world outside, from sect politics to the latest fashions, things neither she nor Xingchen care anything about, but it’s something. His knowledge is all years old, but he responds to her questions, glad of distraction.
“I want to go find Zichen,” Xingchen tells her one day, a month after he returned to the mountain. “Need to find him…”
“He will find you.”
“How…”
She puts a finger to her lips. “Quiet, A-Xing…”
And then one day Xingchen’s tongue bloats so that he can no longer form words. His throat is filled with writhing maggots, thick white larvae oozing from the split flesh of his throat, and Shifu, her face lit by sorrow, tells him they found a new corpse with an intact head, that she will transplant his consciousness, that he will still be himself…
“Better than you are now,” she says, shaking her head slightly, and Xingchen knows she’s picked up on his decaying mind despite how hard he’s worked to hide it.
He wakes a full week after the last procedure.
It’s raining again, a gentle cleansing rain that taps musically on the tile roof. Cool mists press against the windows, as if his room is suspended in a cloud, and off in the distance someone is playing a flute.
Silently he creeps from the bed, his new legs firm and strong, and pads across the room to where Shuanghua lies on the table.
He picks up the sword for the first time since returning to the mountain, the hilt solid and familiar in his pale, almost bleached-looking new hand. He has two eyes again, and though the vision is slightly blurred it’s sharper than his has been as his eyeball rotted, and his mind, though slightly fuzzy, is still faster and clearer than it has been in months.
He takes the sword over to the window, where the milky light is strongest. Chill damp radiates from the windows, ghostly fingers curling around the limbs that are not his own, as if trying to lure him outside into the haunted murk.
He draws the sword.
Holds up the shining silver blade.
Is about to look into the mirrored surface, inspect his new face, the stolen face of a dead man, when the door opens.
“A-Xing! You’re awake—”
Startled, he lets the sword fall from his hand with a clang reminiscent of Fuxue as it struck the ground of Coffin House courtyard.
Shifu holds out her hand commandingly. “Give me Shuanghua, A-Xing. You need to rest. Go back to bed—”
Xingchen tries to speak, can’t.
His tongue is gone.
“Back to bed, A-Xing, at once—”
Instead Xingchen stoops, picks up the sword, gazes back into the blade as if propelled by a force outside himself.
A familiar face stares back at him.
.............................
AO3!
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mobagehelllocal · 4 years
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“wendy?” “hello peter pan”
A/N: Hi everyone! I did say I was working on a personal piece, and I’m excited to finally share it with you! This features all seven dorm leaders (Im in awe that you voted for all of them together...). I don’t really want to say anything else. I want this piece to speak for itself.
Warning(?): angst, character death
Please enjoy! Er... or enjoy as much you can with it being angst.
--
One of the last things you had done together was visit a magical photo booth. It had drawn your curiosity because it allowed the person--with magic or not--to take a photo, and change the background to anything the person had seen before.
The way your expression grew tender as you saw it work its magic was a sight he’d never forget. When you had eagerly shown him the photo, he asked you what location you had chosen.
“It’s my favourite place.” you had said with such tenderness, it caught his breath. “I’d love to take you there sometime... if possible.”
“At least with this photo, I have proof...” you had clutched it to your heart, ‘that you were real. that this isn’t a dream’ went unsaid. He wanted to reach out to you--to comfort you, but then you had laughed. Nothing could keep you down for too long.
“Now enough with the sad stuff, let’s take another photo! Show me something from your homeland! Please?”  
When you had left Twisted Wonderland, he had assumed you had taken the photo as a memento of your time together.
He was wrong.
You had left it with him.
You hadn’t given it to him per se. He had found it slipped amongst his belongings that you had originally borrowed.
For sure, you had left behind this photo for a reason.
As a way for him to find you again.
Though you both stood front and center in the photo, the background was incredibly detailed. It proved how important it must’ve been to you--that you were able to see it so clearly and create such a vivid image.
It should be enough.
It had to be enough so that he could--
‘I will find you’
He blinked rapidly as he felt his eyes burn, and he felt something slip out the corner of his eyes, and dripped down his cheek.
His fist clenched, before he flinched and frantically smoothened the photo as he gazed at your beautiful smiling visage.
“I will find you,” he swore to your photo. “And I’ll tell you how much I...”
He paused, unable to say it.
Still unable to say it despite--
And he cursed that he never had the strength to tell you how much he--
--
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As the world pulled into focus, Riddle found himself standing in front of a sweets shop... The same sweets shop in the photo you had given him. He glanced down at the photo, and raised his hand to compare the image with the front of the store. He couldn’t stop the triumphant hum that escaped him when he reconfirmed what he already knew: the image and the place before him was identical.
He had succeeded in coming to your world.
“Bring the Prefect back, okay?” Ace had scowled. Behind him, Trey hid a smile, Deuce teared up and Cater was once--not on his phone.
“I will.” He said, with the same determination that had let him confront his mother--the same determination you had given to him.  
Now he just had to find you.
He turned his head from side to side. Where would he begin? He was stunned--your world seemed so much bigger. He wondered, was this how you felt when you first came to Twisted Wonderland? Before he could spend any time reminiscing that faithful ceremony, he heard a familiar voice.
“Thanks Grandma Sayo! I’ll see you later!” his head quickly looked back to the shop, and he easily spotted your figure. You had your head turned down as you ruffled through your bag, and he instinctively called out.
“--[Name]?” Your head snapped upright at that, and that recognition in your actions made him draw closer. His heart pounded, he had been spent so many months waiting to see you--to stroke your hair, to look into your eyes, to finally declare his love for you--and perhaps... ask you to return to Twisted Wonderland with him.
Yet the elation fades when he takes a closer look at you.
It’s not you.
It’s the same figure--the same feeling--but the hair is a shade lighter, and the eyes don’t have that same gravity to them. The gravity that pulled him to you. But there’s still recognition there--in those eyes.
This wasn’t you. He didn’t know this person but--
This person knew him.
“You’re Riddle Rosehearts.” There’s awe in the young woman’s voice. “Part of me always assumed... you...didn’t...” she stopped abruptly, and seemed to be taking him in.  
“You know me?”
“Of course.” the girl nodded her head rapidly. “She... used to tell us stories about you... and uh... Heartslavul?”
“Heartslabyul.” he corrected instantly, and the girl giggled. Sweet Queen of Hearts--she had your laugh, and something in his chest twisted at that.
“She said you were conscientious but...” The girl stared at him as if she saw a dream come to life.
“Wait,” he spoke slowly, and she tilted her head patiently. “she? Do you mean [Name]?” There’s a look of surprise, then a flash of realization, and sadness. He swallowed uneasily.
“Do you... know where I could...” his voice faltered.
“I’m... off to see her right now. Would you like to come with?” She studied him in a worried fashion, and he was originally offended--it’s not like he was going to hurt anyone but--he realized. She wasn’t worried about what he might do (like you, you had never been wary even when he had--), she was worried for him.
She was so much like you...
And Riddle wasn’t a top student for nothing.
He felt like he couldn’t breathe, he was clinging to that chance--that possibility--that this girl might be--just a sister or a cousin.
“Alright.” his voice is shaky and the girl shot him another look of concern.
He wished she didn’t.
He wished he couldn’t see how much of you was there in her.
--
“Grandma.” The girl who introduced herself as Rose--your granddaughter--called out. “There’s someone here to see you.”
Rose carefully placed a strawberry tart in his hands, before she nudged him forward. “It’s--”
“You don’t need to tell me Rose.” the scratchy voice from the big chair said. “I know who it is.” There’s a soft mewl, and a cat with brilliant golden eyes jumped from the side of the chair. “ Feed Ches, won’t you?”  
“Sure Grandma.” Rose shot him a smile of encouragement, before she gestured for Ches to follow after her--which the cat did. She shut the door behind her. It’s just Riddle and you in the room now.
There’s a moment of silence as Riddle stared at the back of your chair, stunned. He doesn’t know what to do--he doesn’t know how to react.
“I’ve been waiting a while, young man. Are you really going to make a frail old lady get up?” Your voice was weak, and he’s glad you couldn’t see him because he flinched immediately at how different your voice was.
“Sorry, I’ll...” he took a couple of steps forward, and after a deep breath, he turned to look at you.
Face weathered with age, hair like spun silver--but the brilliance in those eyes (despite how dim they were), and the way you smiled (despite the way your lips trembled)--it was you. It was still you.
In turn you studied him.
He was just as you remembered him in your dreams. Vivid red hair, startlingly gray eyes--normally sharp--now soft, sad. His skin is pale, and smooth. Still so very small, and young. He hadn’t changed a bit.
To him, it had only been months.
For you, it has been years.
He doesn’t know why, but he started to cry.
“Why are you crying, child?” you croaked out softly as you raised a hand to reach for him. He slowly knelt down, and when he felt the way your fingers carded through his hair--his heavy breathing turned into ugly sobs. You had never been the type to respond with such gentleness--not like this anyways. Back then--when he had gotten extremely emotional to the point his face would turn red--you would desperately distract him with jokes. Now, all you could do was brush his hair.
You had grown up. You had married. You had a child. You have grandchildren.
He felt left behind.
For some reason, he felt alone.
He had yet to graduate. He had barely started his life...
and here you were--at the eve of yours.
He--- ‘no, we’ he corrected himself, ‘we could’ve had so... much...’
“I’m sorry,” he cried, “I’m sorry--I was too late.” he sobbed, against your skirts. He felt your hand lower, and you pressed your wrinkled fingers against his cheek.
“Oh no... no no.” you frowned. “You... aren’t late...”
“Hush... You are right on time...” You brush away the tears spilling out of his eyes as he looked up at you. Your smile trembled, you looked like you wanted to cry too--but you weren’t. His heart tightened at that. What had he missed in your life that you--who felt and expressed all your emotions so vividly--now felt like you had to restrain yourself? He felt like such a child, crying before you like this.
“Come look...Riddle...” he unsteadily got to his feet to look in the direction you pointed. There were roses--brilliant white, and vivid red in the backyard. The sun was setting right beyond the hedges. It was a familiar sight.
Your last tea party with Heartslabyul had started at sunset--your favourite time of the day--and it had lasted all evening--with no one wanting it to end.
“Beautiful... isn’t it?” you whispered, “I wanted to see this... sight... one more time.” He looked down at you, to see the way your eyes fluttered shut. “I wanted to eat... strawberry tarts with you... right here...”
“[Name], I--” he swallowed, “I love you.”
Because Riddle does love you, and he will continue to love you. He had always planned on loving you until you were old and gray. Perhaps he hadn’t planned on it being like this--but the way his heart beats in your presence is enough for him to know: He will love you--until he too is old and gray. How could he not?
You exhaled very deeply, and you met his gaze with a steadiness he’s never seen in your eyes before. ‘Another thing he missed out on.’
“And I love you, Riddle.” you said gently, your eyes glimmered with the depth of your love. “Stay with me?”  
“I will.” Riddle’s shoulders shook as he reached to lace one of his hands with your own.
Your hands were frail and wrinkled--his was soft but still strong. He wanted so much to hold your hand as tight as he possibly could, but he worried about how much that might hurt you.
“Thank you.”
As the sun disappeared beyond the hedge, he heard you murmur one last thing.
“Riddle... let’s meet... at the rose garden... again... please?”
“Of course.” he choked out. “This time... I won’t let you go.” But your hand is limp in his, and he knows you’ve gone somewhere he can’t follow. The hand not holding yours clenched and the sweet treat in his palm crumbled.
Riddle cried again, for the time you could have had together.
--
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When Leona breathed in the air of this new world, he instantly caught a whiff of your scent. His ears flickered, he sought out the familiar cadence of your voice, as he tucked the photograph into his pocket. His brow twitched, before he turned to his left, as he let his instincts lead him to the scent with a smirk on his lips.
“Be prepared...” he chuckled in a low tone to himself, already looking forward to your expression of shock, indignation and eventually... perhaps even...
“--let’s have a playdate again. Is next Saturday fine?”
The scent is coming from a woman who stood over what seemed to look like a basket... with a baby inside. She looked scarily like you. She had your hair, and your skin tone. While she did smell like you--she didn’t smell exactly like you.
So, after the woman she had spoken to left the park, she turned around, and immediately met his gaze. She tensed briefly, her grip on the baby basket tightened. She turned away, as she chose to focus on the child, but she looked up at him again as he drew closer.
He stumbled when he caught sight of her eyes.
Deep green.
For a moment he could see--
“Yes?” She smiled falsely, and he went a little breathless at how much it resembled your own. He can just feel the punch that normally comes straight after one of those smiles. “Can I help you, sir?” He hissed softly, before he pulled out the photo in his pocket and showed it to her.
“Do you know where she is?” When her eyes fell on the photo, she instantly paled, before her gaze darted back up to his face.
“You... you’re Leona?”
He quirked a brow at that.
“How do you know me?” She hesitated a moment longer than he’s willing to wait. “Well, herbivore?”  
“My... My mother named me after you.”
--
Leona brought him over to their house.
“She’s been weakening these past few days.” Leona fretted, as she carried little Jackie (her own daughter) in her arms, “the doctor said she doesn’t have much time left... but she’s been holding out...”
They’re standing right outside the door to your bedroom.
“I had a feeling she was waiting for something.” Leona bit her lip the same way you did, and he could barely look at her. “I guess... it was a... someone all along.”
He made to grab the door knob, but he hesitated, and turned to look at the girl--your daughter. She tucked Jackie’s head into her shoulder, and nodded slowly.
“It’s alright, I’ve... I’ve had a moment with her.” She paused, “you should go in. Talk to her.” She purposely turned away, and he took this chance to duck into the room.
You’re sitting up, leaning against pillows, your gaze focused on something distant out the window. Your hair is gray in the light, your skin pale and wrinkled. Once he shut the door, you slowly moved your gaze to look at him and he could see the way your breath hitched at the sight of him.
“You could give... an old woman a heart...attack, looking...handsome as you... are... Leona.” the way you said his name was like a caress, it was filled with so much love, that he could barely breathe. “would you... come closer? Give this... old woman... another chance to... see your eyes?”
He shuffled closer, and after a moment of hesitation, took a seat on the bed, facing you. You raised a trembling hand. Noticing how slow and weak your movement was--he leaned down, allowing your hand to rest on his cheek, before rising to meet your gaze again, making sure to use his own hand to keep yours pressed against his face.
“There... they are.” you whisper very softly. “The eyes I dream... about... I always said... if I could see you again... I’ll spend it... memorizing... the color of... your eyes.” He feels your thumb brush the edge of his eyes, and the tips of his lashes.
“Leona has green eyes.” he murmured softly.
“What can... I say...” your eyes were going distant, your smile was just the slightest curl on your lips. “I have... a type.”
“Lazy men?”
“Ambitious,” she corrected halfheartedly, “with green eyes... Green eyes... must. I always... go back to your...eyes... Leona. I love... your eyes.” she paused, her eyes dimmed even further, tears slipped down her face. “Leona... I love you...” He raised his other hand to gently brush the tears away.
“... I love you too, [Name].” he said so gently, afraid that any louder will shatter this precious moment.  
“This is... very good... dream.” you suddenly said, “I don’t... often... dream... of you telling me... you love me.”
And he gritted his teeth at that, cursing himself. If he had been more open with his heart--if he had been more willing to tell you how much you meant to him--how much he actually loved you--
Would you have stayed?
Could he have had all the moments he missed out on--could he have all of that back?
He leant forward, pressing his forehead against yours.
“I love you [Name]. I love you.” He whispered fervently, “I... I should’ve told you that long ago.”
“You... should’ve.” because of course, you’d always been blunt with him, hadn’t you? “Leona... should’ve been...yours.”
He exhaled sharply at that.
“I’ve always... thought that... you know?” your hands brush against his lashes once more. “she... should... have... your eyes.” He kept quiet for a moment, before he indulged himself in your daydreams.
“Ruggie would go insane if there were two of me.” he muttered, and you let out a shaky laugh.
“Ruggie...would teach... her better.” you commented instead.
“Does she like sports?”
“Mhm... She’s... taking a break... for Jackie...”
“Jack would’ve taught her to be an upstanding player.”
“Why... do you... think... she... named... her...Jackie...” your breathing slowed, and your eyes were fluttering gently. “You think... Cheka... would... be... a great... uncle..?”
“Better than me.” Your laugh this time was breathless, and in soft puffs.
“Sorry... Leona... Mhm... Sleepy.”  
“It’s alright.” he tucks your silvery hair behind an ear. “I’ll let you sleep before me... just this once.” he shut his eyes, but he felt the way your feeble hand pressed against the edge of his closed lids.
“Leo...na...” He opened his eyes, to see your own--the most focused they were since he found you again. “There... we... go...” you murmured so softly, even he had to strain his ears to hear your words. “I want... to fall asleep... seeing... those eyes... please...”
“Of course. Anything for you.”
You go with your eyes heavy lidded, focused on him, with a heartbreaking smile.
--
When he shuts the door close, Leona is standing right outside. She looked up at him with sad green eyes--and if she noticed how swollen his eyes were, she didn’t say anything.
“So she...” Your daughter bit her lip, and her eyes watered.
He couldn’t help it. He pretended. Just for a minute. If he tilts his head just a little to the left, he’ll see the light hit Leona differently. Her deep green eyes sparkle, brightening them. They could’ve been his eyes.
She could’ve been his daughter.
He imagined that.
All the moments that could’ve been.
You at his side in Afterglow Savanna, and the way the morning sun would’ve warmed your delicate features as you laid in his bed. For once, he would wake up earlier, just to see that peaceful sight. The way you could’ve looked, dressed in the traditional wedding robes of his kingdom--with gold and bright gemstones decorating you as a princess. Your fingers, laced with his own, as he made love to you--giving you physically, what he always had such a hard time saying out loud. You, pregnant with his child. The nights he would spend, ear pressed against your round stomach--probably thanking whatever god there could be out there for rewarding an ungrateful bastard like him, with such bliss. Leona--as he wished she could’ve been--born with his green eyes, and lioness features. The joy you could’ve had, spending time together--lazy under the light of the sun as little Leona played in the gardens of the palace.
Yet, the sun of Afterglow Savanna will never reach you here. You aren’t dressed as the princess you should’ve been. There were no gods to thank--only gods to curse. Leona was fully human, and when the light fades, her eyes will lose the spark that can let him pretend.
His jaw clenched, his nails dug into his palms.
“Leona?” she tilted her head worriedly. He raised a hand, and when she did not flinch, he tucked a loose curl of hair (the color of your own) behind a very human ear. There must’ve been something in his expression, because she reached out, and wrapped him in a tight hug. He inhaled sharply, and he pretended just a little longer.
“Thank you,” Leona croaked into his ears. “for making mom so happy.”
‘Don’t thank me.’ he thought. ‘because I should’ve been able to make her happier.’ He doesn’t speak it out loud, and only holds on tighter.
The universe could give him minutes, couldn’t it? After all, it had already stolen a whole future from him.
--
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When he arrived at the beach in the photo, Azul’s shoulders slackened with relief. He had studied the photo endlessly--so he knew without a doubt that this was the right place. But really, more than that--the ocean, in itself, will always be a place of comfort for him.
It is his home, after all.
‘Well... that was wrong, isn’t it?’ the merman mused to himself, as he spent a few more moments gazing at that thin line--where the sky and sea kissed.
If a home were to be defined as the one place he felt most welcome, the most loved--as himself--then--
‘It would’ve been by your side... My home would be you [Name].’ he thought, ‘and this time for sure--what I failed to tell you then--many months ago--I will tell you now.’
“Only one of us can go?” Floyd had pouted. “That’s sad, right Jade?”
“Yes, Floyd.” Jade nodded gracefully, but he glanced up at Azul from underneath dark lashes. Jade had always been difficult to read, and for once--Azul is able to catch the conflict in his eyes. “But Azul has a personal stake in this too.”
“I will bring her back.” he looked down at the photo, crumpled from the amount of times he opened and folded it back down. “I have to.”
Azul inhaled the salty scent of the sea, which filled him with a sense of strength--one that often escaped him when it mattered most. When he turned around, he is startled by the sight of you. You too had an expression of awe on your face, like you’d never expected to see him.
‘What made you think I’d never try to look for you?’ Azul couldn’t help but yell inwardly, but outside he quickly composed himself.
“There you are [Name].” he said as a familiar smirk crawled up his face. Your face immediately shifted--first awe, then one of incredible misery.
“Are you that unhappy to see me?” he snorted, “for your information--it took a lot out of us to finally prepare the way here and back. Why I oughta make you pay me back for that.”
“I’m...” His eyes narrowed in response.
If there was one voice that haunted him the most at night--it was yours. He knew the timbre of your voice--from when you were happy, when you were angry, when you were sad.
That wasn’t your voice.
“I’m not [Name].” the girl in front of him finally said.
“I can tell. I know her voice,” she flinched at that, “who are you? her sister? or a cousin?”
“That is...” she avoided his gaze briefly, her eyes flickered off for a split second, before she turned back to him. “I’m her daughter.”
Azul’s world crashed down upon him like the unforgivable waves of the ocean, like the unforgivable jeers that plagued him since his childhood. Any strength he thought the ocean gave him, dissipated quickly.
“What?” he exhaled, he felt short of breathe, he felt his eyes sting. “You... you can’t be... we made sure... the spell is perfect--there should be no errors--”
As Azul rapidly began to mutter the spell and the theories around it, the girl attempted to touch him.
“Azul--are you okay?”
“Don’t you dare touch me!” He pulled back violently.
“You have to be lying.” He practically yelled at her--this stranger who wore the face of one of the only people he treasured. “It was perfect! Everything was perfect! Nothing should’ve gone wrong--”
In the next second he finds himself facing to the side, a throbbing pain on his cheek.
“You--”
“Oh shut it!” the girl yelled desperately, “Stop it Azul! We don’t have time for this!”
“What do you mean!?”
“She’s dying!”
He froze in response.
“What?” his eyes burn even more, and he could feel the tears trail down his cheek. “What?”
--
The girl introduced herself as Ash.
(”I was named after you... your surname.” she had said, cautious of the temperemental merman. “My twin sister on the other hand--she’s named Azul.”)
Then she had explained why she had found him at the beach.
(”When mama began to worsen, she told us she wanted to come here as much as possible. We were hesitant--it’s not very close by... but...” she inhaled, “Anyways... we decided we would try to bring her as often as we can--especially when the doctor told us she didn’t have much time left.”)
Eventually, Ash stopped walking.
(”What made you change your mind?”
“Pardon?”
“You said you were hesitant.” Azul spoke softly, “that you weren’t thinking of bringing her here often...”
“It’s... well, it’s hard to say no when it was one of her last requests before...”
“What... are you not telling me?” Azul managed to say, after he struggled to calm himself down.
“She--mama can’t speak much anymore.”)
“There she is.” Ash pointed out to a girl identical to her own, standing right beside...
You.
You weren’t faced their way, rather you faced the distance--your eyes stared at that same line he was, just minutes ago. Azul, Ash’s twin, quickly caught sight of them. Though she looked at him in the same way Ash did, she managed to pull herself together, and bent her knees to talk to you.
“Mama, he’s here. Just like you told us.”
‘So you had been waiting... of course... but... even after all this time? You never... gave up? On us?’ He felt his eyes throb, and his heart twist. His fingers dug into his palms--and it was only thanks to his gloves that he didn’t start to bleed.
“Ah...zzz...uh..l?”
His heart stuttered to a stop at that.
“Mama can’t speak much anymore.”
“Yes Mama.” The female Azul said, “would you like to see him?”
“Ahz...ul... Ah...zuhl.” He flinched at the sudden hand on his shoulder, and when he looked to his side--Ash was staring up at him with a sad expression.
“You should go.” He took a deep breath, and he stepped forward. He and the female Azul switched places. With another deep breath, he knelt down before you, and looked up into your face.
You had lost all the smooth firmness of youth, your skin thinned, with age spots dotting your face. Your hair was pure white, and glowed brilliantly under the setting sun. But your eyes...
“Az...ul...” His jaw clenched as he stared into your eyes--misty as they were, they stared into his own--and acknowledged him. “Azul...” those eyes seemed to say, “Azul welcome home... I’ve been waiting.”
He hissed as he tried to hold back his tears, but he couldn’t. He was always a crybaby after all. A crybaby in his youth, a cry baby in college--and he was still a cry baby. He had yet to grow out of it.
Here he was, unchanged still. He had yet to conquer his youth and adulthood--which he had planned, prayed, hoped--you’d be at his side for. To see him grow into the best version of himself yet.
But now he’s faced with having to let you go--right as he thought he would be bringing you back with him--triumphant.
He reached forward, and pressed a kiss against the thin, veiny back of your hand.
“[Name]... I’m home...” he managed to choke out, “I’m... sorry... it took me so long... I... I’m sorry I kept you... waiting...” Your other hand moved slowly, but you reach up, thumb weakly pressing his tears away. The hand in his own tightened briefly.
“Oh Azul...” your eyes said, “what matters is that you’re home.”
He gritted his teeth in response, his nostrils flared, as the tears began to stream down his face rapidly. He tried to look down, but the feathery press of your hand against his face made him look up again.
“Az...ul...” you whispered, “Az... ul...” your eyes too were sad--and they glistened with tears, tears that dripped down your face. “I... soh...rry... so..so...rry...” you stuttered. There’s a startled gasp from somewhere behind her, but Azul’s heart picked up when he heard your voice from so close--the voice he’d been longing to hear out of his dreams.
It has long since changed--due to age--but it still possessed all your warmth in it. It was still your voice.
‘They said... you couldn’t... but... had you been waiting for this too?’
“You don’t need to... it’s okay...” he tried to say, but you gently shook your head.
“I... made... you... sah..d...” his eyes burned at what you were trying to say, and his heart felt like it was being squeezed tightly. “I... wah..nt... Ahz...ul... hah...p...py...” He struggled to put a smile on his face, but his lips refused to work with him, and he felt his lips twist downward. “Ahz...zu...l... ple...asz..e... be... hah...ppy...”
“Do--doh...n’t...” you brushed your thumb against his wet cheek again. “Let... me... sto...p... you... Chase... your... dreams... prove... ehv...ryone... hwrong...”
“Never.... you were never... I... my dream, you were my dream... I wanted you to see me...” Azul cried into your hands, his tears soaked the blanket over your knees. “I need you... you can’t go. Please... you can’t... I... love you... I love you so much... I--”
He had been so ready for your future together. He was ready for the victories with you and the twins by his side.
Without you--all victories would become hollow.
You not being there--don’t you see that he’s already lost?
Why hadn’t he tried harder to hold onto you?
“Sil...ly... child...” you said, “I... will never... leave you...” your hands slipped off his face easily, and you curl almost all your gnarly fingers--except one--back. “I’ll... be... there...” you pointed at his heart. “because... I... love... you too... Ahl...ways...”
His heart skipped a beat at that--that you loved him--that you held onto such a flame, cupped it in your hands, and protected it all throughout these years.
Through your youth, adulthood--up to your old age. You carried him, deep in your heart, always waiting--always loving--never losing hope or giving up on that love.
That’s why... to honor you... he’ll...
“A...zul...” you mumbled, “I.. can’t... see... you... ah...ny... more...”
“T-tell... twins... I... miss... them... o kay... Ja... Flo...”
He rubbed your hands.
“I will...” Azul whispered. “They... will be sad to...”
“No...proh...mise... you...all... happy... Az-ul...?” your eyes fluttered.
“I promise... [Name].”
“Smi...y... for... me...”
“I am... I am...” he tried for your sake, even if he knew you couldn’t see it.
And you--ever so trustworthy of a villain--your face smoothened out as you closed your eyes for a final time, the last of your tears dripped down your chin. His hands trembled as his hold on your hands let him feel the way your pulse slowed then ultimately stopped. When it did, he let out an anguished scream that he had been holding in. He had wanted to be strong in the face of your last moments.
He remained knelt before you for awhile, before he finally managed to calm down. He got up slowly.
“Even at the end... you were a splendid... and mature woman.” he choked out, before he leant forward and pressed a light kiss to your forehead.
‘I will always carry you in my heart... I will always love you [Name].’ he vowed, ‘and I’ll spend all of this life--and the following ones--finding the one where we can share a lifetime together... I swear this.’
When he glanced up, he saw the twins hold each other tight, and his heart throbbed again at what he’d need to explain to the twins... They, who had cared for you as much as he had...
He shakily took a breath, and tipped his hat to your grandchildren. He looked at you one more time, and he savored the serenity on your face.  
Then he turned away from you--for the first and last time.
As he returned to Octavinelle’s dorms, Jade and Floyd were awaiting him.
“Azul! Where’s Shrimpy?” Floyd tilted his head, then bent forward to peek over his shoulder. “Did you mess up?” he frowned.
“Floyd.” Jade, ever so sensitive to the mood of the people around him, cautioned his brother--his eyes on Azul’s face. Jade leant forward to peer at the shorter man’s expression. “What happened Azul?”
He looked up, eyes bloodshot and he could only say one thing:
“She went somewhere we can’t follow.”
--
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“Kalim you...” Jamil’s expression betrayed his real feelings--for once. “Prepare yourself?”
“What do you mean, Jamil?” Kalim smiled brilliantly. “What do I need to prepare for?”
“You...” Jamil’s brows furrowed. “I... I don’t wish... to see you get hurt.”
“Hahah! You worry too much, [Name] wouldn’t hurt me.” with that Kalim waved his hand. “I’ll be back Jamil! And [Name] will be with me.”
“...” Jamil stared at the mirror with a conflicted expression, before he lifted his gaze up to the sky.  “She won’t hurt you... not intentionally at least.” He finally grimaced.
--
“Hey! Do you know who this is?”
“Excuse me, have you seen this woman?”
Kalim was a sight to see in the public park he was in. With the brightest grin ever, he walked up to people, asked them his question--and no matter how they would respond, he’d just shrug his shoulder and move on.
That is until his eyes land on--
“[Name]! I finally found you!” he said, joyfully, “Hah, Jamil thought I would get hurt or something--but I’m doing fine--” he paused, as he cocked his head to the side. “Wait... you’re not [Name].”
In turn the girl looked at him up and down.
“No... I’m not.” the girl shook her head, “I’m sorry.”
“No it’s fine.” his grin faltered briefly, and the girl felt genuinely bad for him. “I guess I’ll just keep looking for her.”
“Uh... well [Name] is a pretty common name.” the girl said awkwardly, “maybe you should mention her surname?”
“Oh, well it’s [Name] [Surname].” at his response, her eyes widened immediately. “Is something wrong?”
“That is... I know... someone with that name.” the girl chewed on her lip, and he’s struck by how identical she looked to you. He shook this off and instead focused on what she was saying.
“Really? You know someone?” Kalim grabbed her by the shoulders, and she yelped in surprise. “Where can I find her?”
“Before that... what’s your name?”
“Me? Oh I’m Kalim Al-Asim.” When her lips trembled at his response.
“Are... are you sure you want to see her?”
“Yes! Of course! I came here to take her back with me to Twisted Wonderland!” The girl shakily exhaled.
“That’s not possible Kalim.”
“What? Why? I have the spell, and I have a magic carpet!”
“My... my grandma is too old to travel.”
--
Al--as she introduced herself--let him into the house.
“Are you alright, Kalim?” Al shot him a concerned glance, and the longer he stared at her, the more he realized how much of her was you. It was in the concerned glance, the way she bit her lip and furrowed her brow too.
And for some inexplicable reason, he could no longer stare at her without his eyes feeling like they were burning.
He rubbed hastily at his eyes.
‘What is wrong with me?’
“Grandma, you have a guest.”
“Ah?” he heard your voice--hoarser now, and frailer. “Who is it?” Al glanced at him, before she tilted his head.
For some reason, he felt like he needed to brace himself--he took a deep breath, before he stepped through the door way. He blinked at the afternoon light that was streaming into the room, before he finally caught sight of you.
You were sat on a big couch, hair whiter than his, with a face weathered by age. Your wrinkled hands were laced together.
When he met your gaze, he found nothing but patience, and a sense of ‘finally’ in those eyes.
You chuckled gently.
“I’m sorry Kalim. I’m a bit too old to be a princess... and too old to go on adventures now.”
He hadn’t known what to do.
When Al had gently told him that time must’ve moved different between their worlds, he couldn’t believe it.
He had thought it might be some prank.
He didn’t believe in it.
He was ready to laugh it off.
He was ready to laugh with you.
And yet--
His lip wobbled, and as big fat tears slipped down his face--he did his best to smile.
Because you had always told him that his smiles made you happy.
‘And if what Al said was true... that you didn’t have much time left then he--’ Kalim inhaled sharply, trying to bit back his own sobs. ‘then I’ll do my best to give you something to smile about.’
“I think you’re still a princess, [Name].” and he laughed, “I also don’t think you’re too old for an adventure. Nobody is too old for one.”
Your expression warmed at that.
“Your smile is just as I remembered it.”
The dam broke, and he began to cry, as he crumpled straight into you lap.
“[Name]--!” he began to sob.
“Why are you crying, Kalim?”
“I--I’m late” he gasped, as he shook in your lap. “I should’ve... been here faster--I”
“Oh Kalim... it’s not your fault.”
“I wanted to have more adventures with you,” he wept, “I... wanted to show you a whole new world--I wanted to share Scarabia with you--I--” he swallowed, his breath short as he cried.
“Kalim...”
“I... I thought I could smile for you but--” he let out an airy laugh, “but I’m still such a child. Even now... I should be comforting you but--”
“I wanted to become a man you would want to spend your life with.” and you inhaled sharply at that.
“I knew I... I’m not the best.” he said, his hands fisted, “I’m not the smartest, I’m not exactly talented. I get distracted, I need help most of the time but I thought... if I brought you back I--I wanted to become a better person for you. I wanted to be someone you could trust, without a doubt.”
“Oh Kalim... listen to me.” you cupped his cheeks, and raised his head so that you could stare into his red eyes--normally dazzling with happiness, now just sad.
Your heart ache at the thought that this was because of you.
“Listen to me, you were always perfect. I would’ve always said yes.” you brushed your thumb across his cheek to wipe away the tears. “I would always trust you... don’t you remember?”
“I gave you my trust that time on the magic carpet.” you squeezed his other hand in your own. “I will always believe in you Kalim Al-Asim. You are already a great man.”
Then you smiled, and his heart skipped a bit, because against the light of the setting sun--he could imagine you, draped in the light of the Land of Hot Sand.
“Now won’t you smile for me, Kalim?” you murmured softly. “I’ve been waiting so long to see it again.”
With his shoulders trembling violently, he pulled back, and tried to grin--though his lips trembled, and the tears kept flowing--he smiled, for you.
It was the least he could.
“There it is, the smile I’ve been waiting to see.” you smiled in turn, and he had no idea why you thought his smile could give you so much strength--when clearly, yours could light up the world.
“Now... tell this old woman, how is everyone?”
--
When he goes back to the Scarabia dorm, he’s met by Jamil.
“Kalim. Welcome back.” Jamil’s eyes flickered around quickly. “Where is--?”
“--!”
“I’m sorry Jamil.” Kalim murmured, as he wrapped his arms around the only one he had left. “I know... I know... we aren’t friends... not yet because... but... please... can I pretend just a bit? I... I don’t know what to do.”
Jamil froze for a moment, ‘so I was right... she probably...’ Jamil gritted his teeth, before he reciprocated Kalim’s embrace.
“It’s alright Kalim. Just this once. I’ll let you.”
When Kalim began to cry in earnest, it began to rain in Scarabia.
Jamil only tightened his embrace, as his gaze shifted out the window, to see the rain only intensify as Kalim’s wails began to rise. 
--
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In the midst of a crowd of people in the museum, Vil naturally stood out. Impeccable blonde hair in a braided bun, glittering violet eyes, perfect skin, and his long dorm robes--he looked like a living, breathing artwork. Everyone stared, as this beautiful man gracefully crossed the room.
It wasn’t that Vil was unaware to everyone’s staring. In fact, he was more than aware of the number of people looking. It’s just that--
Well he didn’t really care about all of them. He was more interested in finding you, and taking you back with him.
“Ohoh! For Roi du Poison to be so determined...” Rook’s eyes glimmered in interest. “Isn’t this a truly beautiful sight, Epel?”
The young man blinked once before he turned back to Vil.
“You’ll really bring her back?”
“Yes,” Vil’s lips curled, “After all... I shine the best when she’s with me.”
‘So where are you now, sweet potato?’ Vil thought to himself, ‘this is the same location that was on your photo--but you are nowhere to be seen--’
“Excuse me.” a soft, incredibly familiar voice called out. It was a voice that sent Vil’s heartbeat into a craze. He whirled around quickly, “you looked like you were looking for something so--”
It was you--but it wasn’t--your baby hair didn’t curl the same way, your lashes weren’t that short and your lips weren’t that pouted.
“You--you’re not [Name].”
The girl froze mid question.
“How do you know my grandmother?”
Vil’s mouth dried immediately in response.
“What?” he asked, hoarse.
--
Evie, your granddaughter, hesitated briefly as she stopped in front of a door.  Her eyes flickered up to meet his.
They were an ugly color.
To Vil at least.
They weren’t yours, so to him--it could just mean that they might’ve belonged to--
“She should be inside.”
He grabbed the door and was about to push it open when Evie stopped him. He shot a vicious glare at her and she flinched, but after a deep breath, she looked up and met his gaze evenly.
“She... she doesn’t have much time left so....” she then reached forward to open the door, “please...” she paused, unsure what to say, but Vil had already entered the room.
There’s a single figure sitting at a bench in the center of the room.
She was faced away, staring at the biggest picture frame in the room.
“Ah.” Her voice echoed in the wide room. “Vil... I’ve been wondering when you’d get here.”
“Not an if?” he asked, and he felt his face twist into a terrifying expression when he realized his voice trembled.
“No.” He could hear the smile in your voice--and Sweet Queen, it had been far too long since he’d heard that familiar tone... “I always believed you’d be here one day.” Your hand left your cane, and patted the space on the bench next to you.
“Come, sit.”
He crossed the room easily in a few steps, before he finally took the seat next to you. Paying little attention to the surroundings--eyes honed in on you. When you look at him, there’s that breathless little gasp that you always did whenever Vil would meet you for your dates.
It had always made him feel even more beautiful than before.
In fact, you had always made him feel all the more beautiful... all the more loved...  
“You’re so beautiful Vil.” you said, with a beautiful smile on your lips.
He blushed.
Of course he did--who didn’t blush when the person you love the most--called you beautiful? Even he--who had long gotten used to the compliments--became much like a teenager gazing at his first love, in your presence.
‘That’s not wrong... you are my first love. You are the only person who has made Vil Schoenheit desperate to be called ‘beautiful.’ No one else’s opinion mattered in the face of your own.’ He thought, ‘do you know the full power you hold over me?’
“I must look like a terribly ugly sight to you.” you suddenly said, and his frown deepened at that.
Without a doubt--you’ve changed.
Your once thick, luscious hair has thinned, and became white, your skin was no longer as firm--and sagged around your jaw.
Your eyes were still the windows of your heart.
And right now, what your heart wanted the most--
‘Silly sweet potato, do you really think I could see you as anything but beautiful?’
“No.”
“Ah?”
“You are beautiful [Name].” Vil raised his hands, his slim fingers light against your brow, cheeks, and chapped lips. “You always will be.” There’s a glitter of surprise in your eyes, and Vil could barely stop himself as he gritted his teeth.
‘All women should be told of their beauty. Who was it, that forgot to remind you of this?’
“You will always be the most beautiful thing to me.” His voice was hoarse, “even now... you are beautiful.” Your eyes watered, and your cheeks flushed.
“Stop it Vil.” your voice shook, “I should be too old to be feeling like this.”
“Oh you foolish sweet potato,” Vil called out that familiar term of endearment, and your eyes met his beautiful lavender gaze. “you outshine everyone else in my eyes, you know? You are the most beautiful existence there is.”
You ducked your head, and he remembered the first time he had called you beautiful.
It had made your cheeks flush pink so prettily, that he resolved to tell you this only in private--so that your flush would be reserved for his sight alone.
There’s a bitterness in his heart, when he thought about the likely chance that this was no longer true--that there must’ve been another person who called you beautiful in this lifetime.
He was both jealous--of the one you shared your life with--and bitter, that it hadn’t been him, who saw you age so beautifully into the woman sitting before him right now.
“You’re just lying to make this old woman feel better.” you accused, gentle, but still disbelieving him.
“Nonsense.” he scoffed, as he took your cold hands into his own. He frowned momentarily at that, as he rubbed the thin skin, feeling the protruded veins across the back of your hand. “I know beauty when I see it [Name], and you aged beautifully. Never doubt that...” he trailed off, and you met his gaze.
“But?”
He inhaled, and exhaled slowly.
“But I wish... I wish I was there.” he confessed, “I wish I grew old with you.”
“You? Vil? Get wrinkles?” you chuckled, “I can’t imagine it.”
“Neither could I.” He said quietly, “but you know what I could?”
“What?” you looked into his eyes, curiously.
“I could dream of a future with you.”
You went still.
“You did?”
“Of course I did. I love you sweet potato--of course I--of course I thought of my future with you in it.”
You slowly turned his hand in your palm, your silver hair fell over your face, and he instinctively reached up a hand to tuck the strand behind your ear.
“Would... would you tell me what else you dreamed of?”
“Of course sweet one.” he leant forward to press a gentle kiss on your forehead as he began.
“We would get married after college,” he paused, “and we would’ve been the most beautiful bridegroom pair the whole of Twisted Wonderland would’ve seen.” At this you giggled lightly.
“We would both be insanely successful in our careers too, of course.” he studied your expression. “we would have children.”
“You want children?”
“Of course I did sweet one.” he murmured, “preferably with your eyes, my hair.”
“Not any of my children had my eyes.” you admitted, “but either way, I’d want them to have yours.” and his heart twisted even more violently at that.
“Then we’ll compromise. One can have yours, another could have mine.” he reached forward to press a finger to your lips, “I would’ve wanted them to have your lips though. I liked to dream of that.” He trailed off gently, his hand moved to lift your chin so that you could meet his gaze again.
“If I had the chance of all of that then... growing old would’ve been nothing. It would’ve been worth it--had it been by you.” he smiled mournfully, and you began to tear up at that.
“I... Vil... I dreamed about it too.” you said, as you began to hiccup. “I wanted to be with you too... I... I should’ve stayed... I...” your words become incomprehensible as you sobbed. “I was scared... that someone beautiful like you wouldn’t...”
“Don’t say that sweet one.” he tried to soothe, as he rapidly tried to blink his own tears away. “I should’ve... asked you to stay... I should’ve... told you how much I loved you then... how much I wanted to greet the future with you.”
Suddenly, you slackened against him and against his robes, you say the words that damned him further.
“I... Knowing this I... I’m so relieved... Vil... I... I think I’ve just been waiting... to know that... my dreams could be real.” Your tight hold on him loosened, and it’s his hands against yours that still keep your fingers twined.
“[Name]?”
“I’m... I’m suddenly... so exhausted... I...”
“It’s alright sweet one, I’ll stay with you.”
“Vil... I... I love... you...”
“and I love you, sweet one. Always.”
“...”
“Sweet one?”
“...”
Vil choked, and he let the ugly feeling wash over him, as a wail strangled its way out of his throat and he bawled against your still form.
Mascara, and the remains of his eye shadow smeared down his face, his lipstick ruined from the way he bit his lip.
Yet Vil couldn’t bring himself to care about how he looked--
‘Why would he? There was no one, who would ever speak of his beauty, and make him feel the way you did.’
--
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Standing right outside Idia’s bedroom, Ortho gazed at the shut doors worriedly.
‘He hasn’t come out since...’
--
It had taken all of his courage to find a way to your world.
It had taken all of his strength not to run away at the sight of the strange world.
So when he had seen a figure so similar to yours, he had attached himself immediately.
“[Name] I--!”
“Let go of me! Who do you think you are? Grabbing someone like that?”
You pulled away, and you looked at him with a mix of confusion and disgust. Around the two of you, people began to mutter, and he paled even further.
He wanted to start crying.
He wanted his bedroom.
He wanted you.
“It’s me... I-idia.” his lips trembled, and your eyes widened in response. “Did you forget me?”
“That’s...” your eyes flickered away briefly. “I’m sorry Idia, but... [Name] isn’t my name.”
“So I-- I grabbed the wrong person?” he gaped, in surprise, this time he really wanted to start crying.
“You,” your expression grew clouded. “you didn’t.”
“Then--what do you mean?”
“I’m not [Name] but... she’s... she’s my mother.”
He stopped thinking.
‘What?’
--
Idia had been at his project for days.
He was building a robot. Much bigger than Ortho’s. Much more complex too.
“This goes here,” he said frantically, “and this goes here...”
He glanced briefly at the robot’s sleeping expression.
“I’ll wake you up... soon.” he muttered underneath his breath.
--
The stranger--no, your daughter--had easily defended him as someone she mistook for someone else, and dragged him off. (Just like every time he had felt overwhelmed by crowds of people--and you had rescued him.)
“Come on!”
“Wait-- where are we going?”
“You’re going to see mom--hey!”
He jerked his wrist out of her hands, and stepped away quickly.
“I--” his expression was conflicted. “Why would she want to see someone like me?”
Your daughter huffed in response. (Just like every time you grew exasperated when he got distracted.) (But it’s alright, you would kiss him on the cheek, and cheer him on, and he’d promptly combust and--)
“Why do you think? She’s been waiting for a long time Idia.” and her expression grew clouded, “she doesn’t have much time left, so we need to go.”
‘What?’
--
“Sorry, sorry” he muttered underneath his breath, as he fixed up the robot’s parts.
“Sorry,” he would apologize, when he thought he was doing something painful to the robot--like adjusting the twist of it’s arm.
“I’m sorry I took so long.” He’d apologize as he attached a piece that should’ve been there earlier, but even Idia wasn’t sure who he was apologizing too.
--
“[Name]--!”
His lower lip trembled as he sees the way your eyes flickered lightly.
You were too lifeless.
Idia didn’t want to look--he doesn’t want to think about you like this, he doesn’t want to remember you like this.
He wanted to remember the warm care of your hand.
He wanted to remember the genuine kindness that showed through your smile.
He wanted to remember the way your eyes glittered with understanding.
He wanted--
He wanted--
“Idia...” your hands shook as you reach for him, “Idia... don’t cry.”
No--he can’t accept this reality.
--
He brought the robot to life.
He had inputted all of his memories of you into it.
He had inputted all your traits into it.
He made sure that the hand could warm, so he could hold it the way you held his.
He made sure that it could smile, so that it could give him, another chance to see your smile.
He made sure that its eyes could glitter, the way yours did, when you would meet his gaze from across the room.
--
Your hand is cold in his, and he exhaled against it--as he tried desperately to warm it back to the way it was--when you held his hand so long ago.
(Yet even cold, he felt how much you care, in the tender way you squeezed his hand--even if weak.)
Your smile lacked it’s strength, and the way your cheeks trembled was telling of how hard you were trying to smile for him.
(Yet even if it wasn’t as brilliant, it was all your kindness--that let you smile at him, even if you were the one suffering)
Your eyes were dim now, you couldn’t see him completely--yet you faced his direction, and you tried to meet his gaze.
(Your eyes are dim--but they’re still so full with that desire of yours to understand him, despite how he always had such a difficult time meeting you halfway)
These were the things--
These were the things that he--
That he truly-
Loved about you.
--
“Idia” the robot held his hand.
“Idia” the robot smiled at him.
“Idia” the robot met his eyes.
Yet no matter how much he adjusted her specs, her functions--
He could not duplicate the way your hand felt in his. Warm, but full of care.
He could not duplicate the way you would smile at him. Selflessly kind, and so strong.
He could not duplicate the way your eyes glittered when you find him. This robot will never truly understand him.
No one could ever understand him the same way you did.
--
“[Name]! [Name]!” he howled at the side of your bed, clutching your hand, pretending it was warm, pretending there was still a pulse.
He already had such a difficult time facing the world.
You had pulled him out of his room, and showed him all that it could offer him.
But now that you’re gone--what was the point of acknowledging a world without you?
--
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Malleus arrived long after sun down. He stood in place, as he studied the photo in his hand, before he slowly lifted his gaze to the house right in front of him. You had said to him once that it was your childhood home. It was still the same shape, but things had changed. For starters, it looked much older. The white concrete walls had dulled, into a much more dirty white. The flowers--deep violet flowers with thorns--climbed up the side of the house--farther than it had on the photo he had. There were lights inside the house, and very faint noise.
Malleus carefully folded the photo and tucked it carefully back into his coat, before he held his staff aloft, and used his magic to carefully unlock the gate. It swung, creaking loudly due to the rust it had accumulated over some time. As he stepped into the garden, the door to the house swung open.
He froze momentarily.
The girl held your face, and form. Completely identical, but the way this girl looked at him--it was nothing like the way you had always looked like him.
He doesn’t know how to feel--did you somehow change? Had you forgotten him?
Had he been a dream, that slipped from your memory?
He didn’t want to believe that this was you.
“Is there a reason you’re breaking and entering?” the girl who could not be you said. “Also, why are you dressed like it’s halloween? We don’t have time for this--”
‘This couldn’t be you. She had none of your countenance--your glow.’
“I’m here for [Name].” he interrupted, at which the girl narrowed her eyes in turn.
“What? What do you want with my grandmother? She’s exhausted, and has no time to see cosplaying men--”
“Grand... mother?” Malleus interrupted again, as he felt something cold clench at his heart.
“Yes.” the girl said, her irritation very obvious. “how do you not even know that if you’re looking for her?” His grip tightened on his staff.
“... Malleus... using the mirror to go to her world...” Lilia had hesitated, uncharacteristically solemn. “... you... you ought to prepare your heart for what you might find.”
“What do you mean, Lilia?” Malleus blinked apathetically at the older fae. “My magic will never fail.” The older fae studied him.
“That’s not what I’m afraid of.”
The lights in the home flickered, and the shadows grew around them.
“Let me see her.” he said, softly--and the girl heard the silent threat there, and refused to budge.
“Not until you tell me who you are.” her voice shook--she could sense there was something different about him, something otherworldly. It made her think of the time--when grandmother told her the story of her friend, the dark fae--
“Malleus Draconia.” he said, smoothly, and she paled in response.
--
The girl--Mal--stepped aside to let Malleus into the living room.
You were seated on a chair... with wheels. Upon their reentry, you hadn’t looked up.
“Who... was it Mal?” Your voice was calm, careful--with none of the bright cheer he used to associate with you. Before the girl could reply, Malleus interjected.
“It’s me.”
You didn’t seem surprised as you turned your head slowly.
“Tsunotaro...” you greeted, your pale lips twitched into a smile, and he inhaled sharply at that familiar nickname that no one would ever dare call him--except you. “Excellent... would you... take this... old woman... for one last... walk?”
And it dawned on Malleus why--the moment he introduced himself--your granddaughter had grown even more hesitant of letting him in. The one thing that really pushed her to let Malleus in was because he wasn’t being subtle about what he was willing to do to see you again and--probably because...
You had been waiting for him.
You were ready to go now.
You must’ve been for awhile.
The one last thing you had been holding out for--has finally arrived. He took a glance at the silent Mal, who frantically covered her expression to hide her watery eyes.
“I’m always willing to go on a walk with you, [Name].” he opted to say, gently.
--
Mal had directed them out to the backyard, before she hurried back inside the house.
This had left Malleus to push your wheel chair through the small garden. You two stopped right beside a bench, so he could sit beside you. As he turned his head to you--he’s struck by your mortality.
The white of your hair, the sagging of your skin, the age spots and wrinkles that bear the proof of your lengthy life. Once you held yourself upright as you declared yourself his friend. Now you were hunched over, with the galaxies in your eyes fading--leaving only the dark behind you.
Beside you--Malleus confronted the rest of his whole life.
He had always known he would eventually live past you. He wasn’t ready for that...
But he had thought to himself, that he would take a life lived with you at his side--rather than centuries musing on the possibilities.
It’s what truly, steeled himself to come to you now.
Yet he won’t have that.
“What... are you thinking... child?” your lips curled at the irony, and he let out a humorless chuckle.
“I’m still older than you.”
“But I’m... more mature.” you had laughed, and he could glimpse that your spark was still there, muted, but still shining.
“There might be some truth to that.” Malleus said quietly, “your shorter years just make it feel like you’ve experienced things I will never be able to comprehend.”
“Humans... and fae... we are very different.” you told him, and he nodded, graceful--accepting--this was the truth after all.
“Yet... I wanted to be selfish.” you looked up at him, your eyes taking all of him in--from the way his eyelashes tangled briefly with every blink, to the curve of his ears, and shape of his jaw. “I wanted to spend it with you Tsunotaro... of course... such a thing would never be.”
“...” he swallowed unsteadily, “I wanted to be with you too. I wanted to stay by your side... I wanted to see you live out all the days of your life in my kingdom.”
“What a beautiful dream.” You remarked softly. “I would’ve said yes.”
And he shut his eyes at that, because the idea of even dreaming about it--knowing of its impossibility now, was too much--it hurt too much.
Everyone around Malleus had always told him how strong he was.
That there was no spell he could not master, that there was no one who could ever hope to challenge him.
Surrounded by people who so fervently loved him... and feared him for his power--this became a constant truth to his life.
Yet you--no magic, and all mortal--made him realize that none of this was true.
At the end of the day--Malleus was powerless.
Powerless against you.
Powerless when faced with losing you.
He wasn’t prepared to watch a star blink out of existence.
He doesn’t know who he is.
He’s spent his lifetime being defined as an Heir, as a Magician--
You were that stranger who gave definition to the man known as Malleus.
He’s known what the world is like without you in it. He’s scared of being in that world that doesn’t have you in it.
He reached for your hand and laced his strong fingers through your much weaker ones.
“I loved you.” he paused, “no... I do love you. And I will continue to love you.” You looked back at him, and gave him such a heartbreaking smile, that he thought briefly a world without you should just be destroyed...
“I love you too Tsunotaro.... always.”
But the thing is. If the world should be destroyed--
Then that would mean an end to him.
And an end to him would mean--
That he wouldn’t be able to think of your smile anymore.
That he wouldn’t be able to think of the way your eyes glowed.
The way you laughed.
The way you greeted him.
The way you are now--solemn, peaceful, but still full of love.
He’d rather live, and be able to remember you in all your glory--rather than never be able to think of you again in that void of the end.
“Tell me... a story, Malmal.” you murmured. “Like all... those stories... you... once told me...”
“I’ll tell you of a new one.” he said, “of the girl... who thawed the heart of a dragon...”
--
“Thank you...”
“Human life is so ephemeral.” He murmured after you had gone, “and yet--”
“I love you, Malleus...”
He remembered that night--so many nights ago.
“Who are you?”
The way the stars in the night sky glittered in your eyes, holding a galaxy yet unknown to him. (A galaxy he had wished to explore further--yet will no longer be able to behold). The brilliance of your smile, as you greeted him every night after that. (Without it, the world dimmed and Malleus couldn’t find anything else that mattered--)
“Tsunotaro!”
There was no one--no human, nor fae who moved his heart the way you did. He’s certain no one ever will--not to the same extent as you did, oh so beautiful and incandescent as you were.
“--so beautiful.” When his eyes fall shut, he feels something drip down his cheek--and his hand raised instantly.
“Tears?” he whispered. “I’m crying?” He blinked rapidly, as more tears slipped down his pale cheeks. When he tilted his head back in an attempt to stop his tears, he finds himself staring up at the starry sky.
Unlike in Twisted Wonderland, the stars weren’t as bright. You had once told him how the pollution in the air had caused the stars to dim in this world. You had looked so sad.
His gaze slipped back down to you. You looked like you were sleeping peacefully--but he hated how he can see you pale, he can feel how your body lost it’s warmth.
‘You, light of my life, should never be anything but gloriously bright’ he thought, and he waved his staff once more.
--
The next night, the television played in the background as Mal stared into the skies with a cup of hot chocolate in her hands.
“This is unheard of,” the scientist on the news channel said. “but last night, stars that were never there suddenly appeared in the sky! It’s a new constellation--”
Mal smiled gently, as she found you there, in the skies, slumbering peacefully.
“--because of the positions of the stars, it seems like a sleeping woman.” the scientist had reported. “we’re planning on naming her--”
“Of course you’d become a star,” Mal whispered, “that’s just like you grandma... bright and shining.”
“Sleeping Beauty.”
--
672 notes · View notes
ranposlittle · 4 years
Note
Hi! I can’t see anything that says requests are closed but I’m sorry if I’m mistaken! Could you do a Dazai and (female) reader smut with lots of dirty talk and foreplay? I can’t find anything that really suits my... style of horny... I like when he’s kinda possessive and dominate so yeah... sorry if this is too detailed or just straight up weird 😖 and I have no sense of dignity so I’m not even going to do this anonymously lmao
Genre: NSFW
Tags: First time together, Dirty talking, Cunnilingus, Fingering, Foreplay
{ A/N: I gotcha, misty-mochiii~ 😉 haha I'm sorry, I know this is long overdue! I hope you can forgive me. I hope the foreplay and dirty talking is up to your liking~ my skills in the dirty talking department is really questionable so I hope it didn't reflected on my work very much haha! Anyway, feel free to request again! Thank you for your endless support! Enjoyyy! 💗🥰 }
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˚ * . ⊹ • ꒰꒱ • ⊹. * ˚
The warmth of Dazai’s hand on yours battles the cold wind of this fateful evening but it's nothing compared to the coldness of your sweating palm. The street you are strutting down on is dim but perfectly alive and busy regardless of the hour. Neon signs flash everywhere, tantalizing promises are written on them for every lovers passing by.
Your throat is dry and your head is pounding from the sound of your own heartbeat. Despite being in this part of the city before, it’s the first time to share a night with the man who’s holding you right now. Expectations failed to form and any attempt to think of one quickly bubbles up and evaporates out of your mind.
Dazai looked back and flashed you a familiar comforting smile and you smiled back, but the concern on your crooked eyebrows is not easy to hide.
Finally, you stopped at the love hotel by the end of the street. Your knees shook slightly as you step inside and the banging of your heart just became louder once a room key was dropped on Dazai’s hand. The whirring of the elevator and the footsteps you took towards your assigned room drowned out of your head. You’re nervous, excited. Feelings stirred and clashed with each second passed.
The click of the door as it opened pulled you back on earth. The room smelled of flowers and the air conditioning hummed softly in the background. Dazai walked in nonchalantly while you tremble. He guided you on to the bed, the soft hues of colorful lights almost making you dizzy. He sat down beside you, caressing your flushed cheek with one hand.
“You’re scared, aren’t you?” He asked in a hushed voice while your own is stuck somewhere inside your sandy throat.
“Isn’t this what you wanted? Or have I read your signals all wrong?” Dazai spoke as he leaned forward to place a kiss at the tip of your nose. 
You gathered your thoughts together to reply hastily in fear of the possibility that you might never get this opportunity again.
“No, I-” you drew a deep breath. “This is what I want. I want this.”
He hummed. “Good. I thought I had to stop when I’m already so hungry for you.”
You restrained a yip when Dazai pushed your body down the springy mattress. Not a second was wasted as he claimed control over you in an instant, pressing your wrists down while his lips ravaged yours.
Months of teasing and sexual tension between the two of you snapped in a blink of time. The fire that has been burning in the furnace of your core, now blazing brightly as it consumes the entirety of your being. You can barely feel the cold air circulating the room from Dazai’s hot breath fanning on your neck as he liberally taste every spot he could latch on. One of his hand eventually reached down to palm the building arousal on your sex, letting out your first loud moan of the night.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Dazai chuckled. His husky voice making its way to the inner corners of your ear. “Was I being too fast? That won’t do. This is our first night. I ought to do it right, don’t you think?”
A pleading look on your eyes was your only response.
“Don’t worry, my darling.” His lips made its way down on your neck once again. “I will kiss every inch of you before I fuck you.”
The sentence made you clenched. Your flesh ached more for him. Your skin turned paper thin, responding eagerly to every feathery touch.
“You wouldn’t mind if I remove your shirt now, would you? It’s in my way.” He threw you a smirk. There, you were left speechless. Only managing to watch as his fingers hooked and pushed your shirt up.
His hands stopped on the underside of your breasts. The cold breeze started to infect your exposed stomach before Dazai's sloppy kisses awoke the butterflies resting within.
Your head planted down on the soft pillow underneath you from the unexpected sensation. His tongue dragged its way up to the valley of your breasts, teasingly pulled your shirt completely off of you and ogled the dark lingerie you have underneath.
"You wore this especially for me, huh?" He asked, gently palming the thin lace covering, thumbs brushing innocently on your perked up nubs. "How thoughtful of you. And because of that, I'll be kind in return by not ripping them off."
True to his words, Dazai just pushed the fabric aside to come in skin to skin contact with your breasts. He kept his lustful gaze locked on yours as he went down and licked one of your nipples.
"Do you have any idea how long I've been wanting to do this?" An almost innocent smile was drawn on his lips as he continued. "I've always wondered what you're hiding under those clothes and I'm truly not disappointed. Such nice pair of tits you got here."
Dazai chuckled lightly, proceeding to knead and suck on your breasts, moving from one to another without a moment of pause. Your moans joined in with his, your head spinning from the sensation he keeps on building up inside of you. Dazai's hand found its way past your skirt and down to your underwear, running his middle finger up and down your slit.
"What's this? You're this wet already? Do you like getting your tits sucked this much?" Dazai asked rhetorically. Of course, you like it. No, you love it. Especially that it's him who's doing it to you. "What an erotic woman. I bet you already want my finger inside you, don't you?"
"Yes," you whispered. "I do. Please, I'm so wet, I might die if you don't do something about it now. Like, right now."
An amused laugh left Dazai. "Well, how can I say no to that?"
He shifted his hand from its current spot to slip underneath your panties. You inhaled sharply as his fingers slithered their way into your core, where everything is just slick and soaked.
"Besides," he added. "Good girls who knows how to ask get what they want."
A finger promptly entered you as you scream in delight. You peeped open your eyes to see Dazai devilishly watching you writhe beneath him as he fiddled with you like a toy.
"You're so tight down here. Seems like you haven't had a cock in you for a while now, hmm?"
You nodded weakly.
"Good thing I planned to use mine on you tonight, then. Such a tight pussy deserves to be stretched out every once in awhile, don't you agree?"
Another weak nod.
"And would you like me to do that for you? Do you want my cock inside you?"
This time, a much more enthusiastic nod.
"Hmm, and do you think you can handle it? Once I put it in, there's no way I'm going to stop fucking you. Think you can do it?"
"Yes," you gasped. "Oh, yes. God, yes. That's exactly what I want."
"That's the spirit," he smiled. "In that case, let's put one more."
Along came another scream from you. Your walls burned and stinged from the stretch but Dazai's fingers aren't faltering from driving in and out of you.
"And another one."
A third finger was carelessly shoved and your eyes shot wide open. You grabbed on to Dazai's shirt, hoping to keep yourself steady from the merciless assault. Through your dazed mind, you can hear nothing but your own trembling moans and the squelching sounds from your own sex. One more push and your climax came unraveling like yarn on Dazai's hand. Your face was nuzzled on his chest as your body spasmed and shook uncontrollably. It ended as soon as it started and you were left weak, holding on to him for dear life. His chest quaked from a dark snicker.
"Look how wet you are," he said, holding up the three fingers that from your frenzy, you didn't even noticed he's pulled out. "My fingers are totally soaked, they almost pruned. Amazing."
"Let me grab a tissue for you," you offered but Dazai was quick to pin you back down.
"Don't you even think that I'm already done with you, my darling. The night is still young," he uttered with a honeyed voice. "And since I've been good, I think it's time you let me have a taste of you."
"Dazai, wait! I'm still sensitive down there!"
The thought of being stimulated after such an orgasm was arousing, but also terrifying. Dazai paid no heed, just smirking before wetting his lips.
Any of your further protests fell on deaf ears as Dazai continued to pull your panties off before spreading your legs apart. You gulped thickly as he once more locked eyes with you, placing his hold on your thighs and gently licked you up. You legs trembled and your head fell backwards, the warmth and softness of Dazai's tongue was already bringing you another piece of paradise.
"Your pussy tastes so sweet," he commented in between the busyness of his mouth.
Fireworks seemed to crackle and pop all at once in the back of your eyelids when Dazai's mouth enclosed on your clit and the fast sucking motion sent your mind floating on the milky way. He moaned against your flesh as you grab a fistful of his hair and your hips bucked up, inadvertently burying his face deeper into you. Dazai's tongue was reaching places nobody has ever done before and it was when that the tip of his tongue probed your entrance, that got you crying out his name like a hopeless prayer towards the heavens. He suckled and slurped on your sore flesh until your legs quivered and your head went numb. You let yourself absolutely lost on the explosion of sensations below you when Dazai all of a sudden stopped to hover above you. The next thing you know, you're tasting yourself on his lips.
"You look so good spread open like this just for me," he said. "Would you prefer coming on my tongue or on my cock this time?"
There was a skip on your racing heartbeat as you hear the offer you've been waiting for all night. Despite your trembling jaws, you mustered what's left of your coarse voice and answered: "Your cock. Please."
"I was hoping you'd say that." Dazai smirked as he reached down to fumble with his pants. "Your moans turned me on so much. I might just come right when I enter you."
A gleeful laugh was in contrast of his voice– dark and husky in desire. Dazai made his point as you feel his rock hard erection rubbing on you clit. You gasped and he groaned; both of your bodies tingling in anticipation.
"Just look at what you did to me." He kept grinding on you and you can practically feel the excited twitches of his cock. "At this rate, I don't think I can hold myself back anymore."
With one calculated push of his hips, the swollen head of his cock slipped inside you. A long drawn out moan vibrated on your vocal chords as Dazai pushed the rest of his length within you, fanning the flames of your desire to its fullest extent. Your muscles stretched and clenched as he fills you up. Breathless whispers of how good you're making him feel drifted around your floating thoughts. Time seemingly slowed down, pleasure taking over and nothing mattered but the throbbing of your arousal against his.
"I'll make sure that after I'm done, you'll crave for my cock and my cock only."
One rough thrust started the rally of his animalistic pace. Your nails digged deep into his bandaged arm like you're holding on at the edge of a cliff. Guttural moans timed with every forceful push of his hips; he's aiming to make a mess out of you.
"After tonight, you won't be able to cum with anyone else than me," said a raspy whisper on your ear as slender fingers pressed on your hips, keeping you in place despite the unkind slapping of his skin on yours.
"You'll think of me even if you're with another man," he continued. "Everytime you touch yourself, every fantasy, every wet dream– you'll always think of me. Because no other man got a cock that feels this good on your little pussy, am I right?"
Stuttering curses, you answered. "Yes! Yes, yes, yes."
It greatly amused him. How helpless yet so lovely you look right now, sobbing and crying just from the way he pounds you. So, he decided to give you more. He promised himself that he'll wreck you in the most pleasant way, and he will accomplish that mission.
His cock plunged deep within your canal, the tip kissing the opening of your cervix. There was a change in his pace, hips bucking tightly, reaching a bundle of nerves that made you see the entire universe in a flash. Everything is getting all too much for you to come up with anything creative to say other than his name, some pleas for mercy and broken curses. But with utter cruelty, Dazai's lips connected with your nipple once again, sucking sharply and letting it loll around his tongue. With an arched back and legs locked around his waist, you screamed out your pleasure. You're now somewhere in the ether, riding a cloud between your legs. You've never been this high before but your body's still asking for more.
"Can I cum in you?" He whispered. He can see how much you're out of it so he continued, leaning closer. "I want to see my cum spilling out of you and right now, I'm ready to dump it all inside of you. You'd like that, don't you?"
An absent-minded hum of approval was all Dazai needed to straighten himself up, sling your legs over his shoulders and use you as he desired. A rough thrust after another, until you're shaking, warm muscles convulsing against his cock, your mouth opened to a big-o, and you were gone. Only throaty groans left your chapped lips, as one bomb sets off another, making waves and pulses all over your sensitized body.
The scene made Dazai beyond ecstatic, pushing his own orgasm to its peak. The composure he worked hard to keep up slipped in an instant. Random pulses of his hips gave it away, and once his semen began spurting out of his cock, he bit down on a soft spot on your calf, masking his low growls.
Dazai bottomed out on you, every stream of his warm cum collected inside your walls. You felt how it streamed down and filled you, a memory that you might save for any lonely nights in the future. You savored the moment of watching Dazai ascended and descended from his high, kissing his bite mark and smiling at you.
His erection was still mighty and solid inside of you despite the obvious exhaustion of the man who wields it. A weight pressed down on your body as he lay on top of you, heaving and panting just as hard.
With the promise of another round after a few moments, you closed your eyes and hoped that you'll wake up with his lips intertwining with yours.
240 notes · View notes
thenightgazer · 3 years
Text
Spark of Stardust
Chapter 2 : Under The Fair Moonlight After months of friendship, tonight is the first time for Vergil to visit Lyra's house for a tea... and some unexpected confessions.
Warning : parental abuse, drug abuse, PTSD, psychological/emotional abuse, munchausen syndrome by proxy
Part 6 of Tales of Apotelesma
You can also read this fic on AO3
Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3
~~~
He doesn’t remember how he ended up lying on the ground.  
He stares at the sky, only to find the full moon staring back at him.  
Where am I?
What am I doing here?
An agonizing wail distracts him from his own thoughts. If only he could move his body, it would be easier to find out what’s going on here. He starts to lose his sight as he feels something come out from his head, dripping to his ear, then to his back. He tries to glance at his surroundings in vain and realizes that his eyes are going to betray him again.  
Then he feels it— pain.  
A tremendous pain all over his body.  
The woman is screaming again. This time it is louder and sounds a lot more terrifying.  
As he struggles to move his body, with desperation creeping in his spine, he finally sees a glimpse of the woman’s figure. Standing on the rooftop of the house, she is trembling and sobbing. He can’t hear what she’s murmuring, yet something forces him to keep his eyes on her. It’s against his will, and he can’t do anything against it.  
To be fair, everything doesn’t make any sense to him since the beginning. He just wants to end this absurd dream.  
But now he’s sure of something; that he recognizes her face. He can see it clearly now. It all makes sense why she looks familiar since the first time he had this dream. The same cold, void eyes...  
… that belong to the late Asteria Crescent.
---  
The first thing that Vergil feels before he opens his eyes is someone else’s hand over his face. He stares blankly at the dark, which he soon recognizes as Dante’s hand blurring his vision.
He pushes Dante’s hand slowly without waking him up, recalling the memory before the twins ended up passed out on the Devil May Cry entrance floor.  
The party went smoothly. Kyrie loved the music box that Vergil gave her and wore the bracelet after he told her its function. The meal was delicious. The kids were well-behaved—more than usual—they even went to bed early with Kyrie. After that, they played poker and Dante suggested having a drinking game. Vergil was never a heavy drinker, but of course he was forced to join the game. In the end, they drank too much and could barely remember who won the gamble.  
Vergil doesn’t remember the details, but the last thing he knew was that the cards and the smell of alcohol were all over the place. The entire crew passed out. Succumbing to alcohol and an over-flowing fatherly instinct, Vergil moved Nero to the couch and put a pillow under the young devil hunter’s head. He said goodbye to Trish, who was half-asleep on the dining table. Then he dragged Dante with him, made a sloppy movement to create a portal to Devil May Cry before he eventually collapsed.
I shouldn’t have drunk that forsaken whiskey, Vergil curses himself.
The blue hybrid stretches his body and tries to get up feebly, kicking Dante’s waist. “Wake up, Dante. Don’t sleep on the floor.”
The younger twin replies with a soft snore.
Realizing that it’s going to be futile to wake Dante up, Vergil walks to the kitchen and grabs cold water from the refrigerator. His throat is dry and sore after swallowing too much whiskey. He empties half of the bottle while thinking about his weird dream again.  
“... Huston...” Dante murmurs in his sleep.
Vergil furrows his brow. “Who?”
“Play me... Elena Huston...”
Vergil puts the bottle on the table and back to Dante, grabbing his little brother’s ankle and drags him to Dante’s room clumsily. The alcohol still exists in his blood, making him slightly difficult to coordinate his movement. After struggling a little while to put the red devil on the bed and taking off his shoes, Vergil covers Dante’s body with a blanket. Foolish, meddlesome, slovenly little brother, Vergil grumbles, unaware of his opposite brotherly act of love he has done to Dante.
“Hey Verge...” Dante mumbles.
“What?”
“Thanks... you ... sleep... too...”
“Shut up, Dante. Just sleep.”
Vergil chuckles silently after watching Dante go back to unconsciousness. He laments the time gap between them. He didn’t have a chance to grow up together with his brother, but although he was indifferent to humanity, he secretly hoped that Dante was safe, wherever his brother would be. Even when he had defeated Dante for numerous times, he had never meant to kill him even for once.
Vergil cares for his brother more than he would ever admit.
He heads out from the room and takes a seat on the couch. When he’s about to take off his coat, he feels his phone is vibrating. He takes the phone to decline the call and shut the phone down, but Lyra’s name pops on the screen.
Coincidence?  
He picks the call.
“Vergil?”
“...”
“Vergil? Are you there?”
“I’m fine,” he replies, almost like a whisper. “Just a little... tipsy.”
Vergil hears her snorting. “I thought you hated alcohol? You said it makes you lose your control or whatsoever.”
“Let’s just say the crews made me do it.”  
“Even Vergil Sparda couldn’t escape peer pressure, aye?”
A subtle smile appears on Vergil’s mouth. “This is midnight, Stardust. You should’ve slept.”
“I did. Then I woke up and couldn't sleep again. I remember you said cambions don’t need to sleep, so I reckon you are still awake. How was the party?”
“What can I say?” Vergil massages his brow, relieving the pain on it. “Kyrie loved my present. Nero was more talkative to me than usual. Dante was less annoying. For the first time since I came back from Underworld, Mary didn’t glare at me like she wanted to kill me. Trish was civil. Nicoletta still wants to touch Yamato. Morrison still insists to give me his cigarette. The three little rascals asked me to read them Animal Farm and they left early for bed.”
A mocking snort comes out from the librarian. “Normally you would say ‘ It’s fine’ or something like that, but now you bother to describe the entire events to me—not that I complained though—it just convinces me that Vergil Sparda is sloshed for real.”
“... I’m just... happy, I guess. That everything went well.”
“Glad to know it,” there’s a short pause before she continues to speak. “Hey... do you know that there's this flower called butterfly pea?”
“Consider this is the first time I heard that.”
“It’s originally from southeast Asia. It has a pretty blue colour and if we brew it, we can have a blue tea. Bought a jar of it from Chinatown. In fact, I’m thinking of brewing it now, and... I think it would be great if I drink it with a friend,” Lyra chuckles nervously. “Would you mind coming for a cuppa? I know it’s midnight and you’re inebriated right now but—”
“I accept the invitation.”
There’s a gasp. “Seriously?”
“Yes. I’ll be there in a minute.”
“I thought you would decline it, but never mind! See you very soon!”
Vergil looks at the phone screen blankly after Lyra hangs up the call. Sounds odd. This is the first time she invites me to her house. What if this invitation has something to do with my dream?  
He remembers Lyra’s statement that she doesn’t believe in coincidence. It’s all but synchronicity, she had said.  
Coincidence or not, he decides to leave anyway.
---
Lyra’s neighborhood is always quiet. Surrounded by meadows and woods, her house is secluded and quite far from the central city. No one would have thought that there’s a small cottage here and someone lives there. Lyra had said to him once that she wants to live in solitude and avoid having some neighbors, or else she would go crazy by neighbors’ endless thoughts.
The door opens immediately after Vergil knocks. Lyra’s tender face shows up, smiling at his presence. She wears an oversized blue sweater and long pajama pants. But that’s not his main concern at the moment—it’s her stature. The moonlight helps Vergil to look at her scrupulously and realizes that he has never noticed how pale Lyra’s fair skin is, like she hasn’t seen the sun for a long time. Along with her dark eyes and shady smile, anyone could mistake her as a vampire.
“Welcome to my small and humble cottage,” the librarian chuckles after examining the devil hunter in front of her. “You look fine for a drunken man.”
Vergil shrugs. “Cut it out, will you?”
“Just messing with you. Climb aboard.”
As he follows behind her to enter the house, Vergil’s cautious eyes wander off to the house’ interior. The house is small with a cozy living room attached to the kitchen. The two doors beside the living room are assumed by Vergil to be a bedroom and a bathroom. He walks to the windows framed with burgundy drapes; the lace inner curtains remain drawn, allowing moonlight to enter the house. There he can see Lyra’s small garden, blooming delicately under the night sky.
“I always fancy stargazer lilies and munstead wood rose.” Lyra says from the kitchen.
“They look exquisite,” Vergil murmurs. “I can smell the fragrance even from here.”
Vergil still stands in his place, watching the midnight breeze swing the flowers. Some of its petals have fallen to the ground. The next thing he sees is the butterflies flying around munstead wood roses. It’s rare to find butterflies in this metropolis. Knowing that there’s still beauty worth living, Vergil is grateful that he isn’t dead yet. He spent most of his lifetime isolating himself from the world, loathing the beauty inside it because he thought it was worthless.
He glances to the kitchen where Lyra puts the kettle on the stove and takes a jar— he presumes that it’s dried butterfly pea— but seems like she’s having a tough time opening it. Trying his best to keep his dignity by not mocking her adorable struggle, he approaches her and takes the jar.
“The strange and powerful human being with the ability to move every object only with her mind, couldn’t even open a goddamn jar.” Vergil remarks in sardonic tone. “Is this what you call friendship? Acting as your jar opener and transportation device?”
Lyra taps her chin. “Tut-tut, Vergil Sparda. You forgot ‘personal bodyguard’ and ‘heat provider’.”
“I’ve never thought that you’re such an opportunistic capitalist who used your friend for your convenience.”
“Says a megalomaniac who raised a demon tree to fight his brother only to be kicked in the arse by his son.”
“... that's... it won’t happen again,” Vergil looks away as he gives her the jar. “Nero hasn’t succeeded in defeating me since I came back from the Underworld."
“Sure~ I believe you.” The teasing tone in Lyra’s word says otherwise, much to Vergil’s dismay. He decides to help her prepare the cups rather than to continue their banter as she puts the dried butterfly pea flower into the teapot. Lyra had told him to let her do all the work, but she finally gives up after Vergil glares at her while cleaning the cups with a napkin.
“You finally made your dream come true.” Vergil says, putting cups on the saucers.  
“What dream?”
Vergil points at a 36-strings lever harp beside the table in front of the sofa.
“Oh!” Lyra exclaims, turning the stove off and brings the kettle on the countertop. “Couldn’t afford to buy pedal harp, so I’m quite satisfied to have this one. Sugar or lemon? Plain blue tea tastes super earthy, only if that’s your preference.”
“Just lemon. Thank you.”
“Okay. Have a seat on the sofa. I’ll bring the tea right there,” she says.
Vergil takes his time to observe the living room, which he finds odd since he entered this house. This house is too... plain. Except for the harp, a chess board, some Rubik cubes on the table and an old radio on the kitchen counter, there’s almost no personal touch in this house. No family pictures, trophies, or even a bookshelf.
Considering she’s a bookworm, that’s terribly odd. But as she said, this cottage is small. He tries to ignore his hunch and turns his focus to admire the lever harp, plucking the strings cautiously and listening to its mesmerizing sound.
“You like it?” Lyra asks while putting the tray on the table and pouring the tea to their cups.
“It's magnificent,” Vergil takes his seat. “Let’s see if you’re capable of playing this astonishing instrument.”
“Challenge accepted!” the librarian drags the harp to her side. “Happy or sad?”
The blue devil stays silent for a while, staring at the cold fireplace before he glances at the window, remembering the moment when Lyra greeted him under the fair moonlight, causing his old soul to demand something soothing and nostalgic. “Play me Clair de Lune.”
Lyra nods cheerfully. “Easy peasy.”
It’s such a picturesque scenery, to witness Lyra hold the harp like she was born to play it. It’s the same bewitching phenomenon as their little adventure a few days ago when they stargazed together to see the Lyrids. He’s bemused once he hears the strings from the lever harp plucked and formed a beautiful composition. The brighter and folksy sound from lever harp is different from the classic pedal harp, yet it doesn’t change the beauty and romantic tone from the song.
Vergil finds himself frozen under the spell— it’s not just the song, he muses. It’s her.
Your soul is a chosen landscape
Where charming masquerades and dancers are promenading
Playing the lute and dancing, and almost
Sad beneath their fantastic disguise s
While singing in a minor key
Of victorious love, and the pleasant life
They seem not to believe in their own happiness
And their song blends with the moonlight
With the sad and beautiful moonlight
Which sets the birds in the trees dreaming?
And makes the fountains sob with ecstasy
The slender water streams among the marble statues.
By the time when Lyra finally reaches the song’s outro, Vergil senses his body is less tense and his head gets back its clarity after succumbing to alcohol for hours. Her fingers are getting slower as she plucks the pin and a string for the last time, a satisfied smile appears on her face, “I like this song.”
“So do I.” Vergil agrees.
She giggles. “Next time, it’s your turn to play me a song. Dante told me that you’re a gifted violinist. He sent me a video of you playing Caprice 24 yesterday.”
Vergil covers his face with his palm. “Kindly remind me to kill him soon.”
“You play eloquently. You should be proud!” Lyra giggles and pours honey inside her cup.
“Silence,” Vergil put a slice of lemon on his tea, the tail of his eyes spy on Lyra. “Instead of flattering me, why don't we just straight to the business?”
“Sorry?”
“It’s obvious that you didn’t invite me just for a cup of tea and impromptu recital.”
The puzzled expression on Lyra’s face answers it all. She doesn’t say anything for a quiet long time, still stirring her tea as if she’s still preparing what to say to him. Vergil suspects she would avoid his question, but she just sighs and finally sips her own tea, “You’re right. But first, drink your tea.”
Her eyes fixate on his, as if she commands him to mimic her gesture. He has no choice but to obey, lifting his cup to his mouth and carefully taste the blue tea. He enjoys the mixture between the natural flavor from the tea and the acid from the lemon, slurping more of them to please his throat. He would enjoy the tea more if Lyra didn’t give him that hollow gaze, causing him to wonder if she put poison inside the tea and wait for him to collapse, but if there’s any poison inside the tea, he would find it out even before he drinks it.  
“What do you think?” She blows the steam from the tea.
“It’s good. Not too bitter, nor too bland.”
“Drink a little more, then.”
Again, Vergil obeys her.
Lyra puts her cup on the table. “It’s easy, doesn’t it?”
“What is it?”
“When I told you to drink, it was easier for you to drink it.”
“I don’t see why it should be difficult to drink it. It tastes good and it’s an act of courtesy.”
“An act of courtesy,” she smiles bitterly. “Oh yeah, it was easier for me too.”
Vergil puts his cup on the table with the intention to end Lyra’s vague trickery. The words he says next are full of certainty. “You had a dream of me.”
Her eyes are widened, but she already expects him to spill the question. She nods, her fingers trail on a Rubik's cube. “Twice. Weird, huh?”
“What did you dream about?”
“Last night? I was you, grieven by the death of your father. You wandered to your mother’s room and cried together inside a drawer with Dante. An hour ago, I was you again, chained up and this titanic, god-like demon tortured you and called you ‘disgraceful offspring of the traitor Sparda’. I think it was Mundus.”
“That’s bizarre. I believe I haven’t told you about Dante and I inside the drawer. And that was what Mundus exactly told me when he tortured me in the Underworld.”
“What about you? Did you dream of me?”
“I did,” he admits. “I’m afraid I failed to understand the context, since you haven’t told me any single things about you.”
“Fair enough. In that case...” she holds her breath while solving the cube. “What did you see?”
“I believe I was on your point of view when the dream occurred. You were gravely ill and your mother tended you. I still can recall how bad your headache was from that dream. Then Asteria—  your mother—  read you The Hobbit . In that dream, I didn’t know who she was, until you mentioned her name this afternoon. I decided to not bring it up to you until I found out why I dream about something I’ve never experienced and why it was about you.”
“The dream, then,” she continues. “Have you seen another one after that?”
He shakes his head. “None whatsoever.”
“Really?”
Sorry, Lyra. “Yes. Why?”
“... nothing. A lot of weird things have happened since our accidental mind link. The dreams must be our memories. Let's say the dream was our brain projection of what we’ve told each other about our past, then how could we feel the pain we’ve never experienced before? How could I know the face of the demon I’ve never met before? I got a hypothesis that whenever I dream of you, you must’ve dreamt about me. But this time you didn’t dream of me while I dreamt of you. Seems like it doesn’t work like that...”
The sound of clicking cube stops at once, making Vergil wonder whether she stopped the cube because of his answer or she has solved the cube since all the layers are already in the right places.  
“I was sickly back then. Could barely leave my bed,” Lyra says, showing him the cube. “And this was the only thing I could do, aside from reading.”
Vergil receives the cube. “I saw plenty of this thing in my dream.”
She rests her back on the head of the couch. “What do you think of my mother?”
“She seems caring and nurturing.”
“Do you love your mother?”
“What kind of question is that? Of course.”
“I’m glad that you do.”
“You don’t love your mother?”
“I don’t know,” she mumbles, her eyes are dreary. She lifts her feet on the couch and moves her body to face the devil. “I don’t want to lie to you, Vergil.”
“Then don’t. We promised to not lie to each other.”
She chuckles coldly. “Where should I begin... oh right, I told you I was sickly. Mum said I got this rare genetic disorder called severe combined immunodeficiency. SCID made me extremely vulnerable of diseases. Therefore, I should live in a sterile and isolated environment. I could barely leave my own house, couldn’t even open the window just to smell my garden. Didn’t get a chance to meet new people other than my mother, my nurse— I forgot her name, I never liked her anyway— and my governess, Norma.”
Lyra closes her eyes for a while before she continues. “She was a great scientist. She was the smartest person I’ve ever known. She was the one who made me in love with astronomy. I could only see her infamous work on telly and newspapers. Some days, there were people who came to visit us and talked to mum. They were forbidden to meet me because of my condition. Some of them left me notes and little presents, wishing me good health. They told my mum to have faith and carry on. And whenever my mum had to attend international conferences, she cried so much a day before her flight because she had to leave me, even though Norma was there with me.”
“What about your father?”
“Never knew him. Mum was never married. She always looked blue whenever I asked her about my father, so I stopped asking.”
Lyra clenches her hand before taking the Rubik cube from Vergil’s hand and begins to play it again. “We only had each other, that means we need to protect each other. I never questioned anything because she took care of me and devoted on me. If it wasn’t my mother, who else wanted to take care of me? I liked Norma, but she was paid for nursing me. She could leave anytime soon, but not my mum. She was the only family I had, and I loved her.”
Lyra gazes at Vergil, whose face is straight still without any meaningful reactions. “I ate and slept as ordered. Took my medicines. Never once went outside the house. I did exactly what my mum instructed. But one day I couldn’t take it anymore. I felt dizzy almost every day. I threw up a lot. Sometimes I couldn’t even move my own body. I didn’t feel any better, just getting worse day by day. I felt like I could die any time.”
She shuffles the cube again after solving it. “One day, I stopped taking all of it.”
“The medicines.” Vergil emphasizes, remembering the nasty smell of medicine in his dream.
Lyra nods. “No matter how persistent Mum’s and the nurse' persuasion, I didn’t take it. I just wanted it to be over. Then something unexpected happened,” she lets out a small grin. “I was getting better. Much better. I could walk without taking a deep breath anymore. I went to the garden without having a nosebleed. I didn’t throw up. My headache was gone. I felt like I was... reborn.”
Lyra takes another deep breath; her hands stop shuffling the cube. “I never said it out loud, but Mum was sick. Very sick,” she taps her head with her index finger. “Mentally.”
Vergil tilts his head. That’s unexpected. “What makes you think so?”
The librarian puts the cube on the table, leaving it unsolved. “Any time I refused to take medicine or disobeyed her, she distanced herself from me. She didn’t reciprocate everything I did. She was just going straight inside her room and locked the door. It was almost like she resented me— no, punishing me for disobeying her. She loved playing this guilt-trip game so much. It seems like she liked it whenever she succeeded to make me think that I was a worthless daughter.”
“I know there are parents who treat their children poorly and abusively,” Vergil contemplates. “But I’m afraid I still couldn’t comprehend why your mother did that to you. You were only a child. A terribly ill child. She should’ve been happy instead of punishing you for your better condition. I understand that we could never judge a book by its cover, but… in my dream, she seemed like... she loved you wholeheartedly. Why would she want to hurt her own daughter?"
Lyra hugs her knees. “When someone keeps putting a person in ugly circumstances, I can only think that it’s either out of hatred or love.”
“Why would you put the person you love in such circumstances?”
“Love can be... poisonous,” Lyra stares blankly at the ceiling. “It’s always easier to hurt someone you hate. It makes more sense. But if you love someone, you’d do anything for them, even if it’s beyond logic, consciously or not. You’d call it kindness and love, but it’s actually poison. You hurt your beloved ones and say that you do that because you love them. You keep them close to you, shower them your love until they’re blind by your love and never find the help they really need...”
Noticing her body begins to shiver, Vergil takes off his coat and wraps it around Lyra’s body to keep her comfortable. He couldn’t help but empathized with her. She’s as confused as he is about human emotions, which is surprising. She always looks so confident, like there’s no obstacle that could damage her. But now while she slowly reveals her past, she looks extremely vulnerable. It makes Vergil want to help her somehow, even just to calm her down.
“Here,” Vergil says, hesitantly offers his hand. “Just until you feel better.”
Lyra’s anxiety gradually calms down as their hands are attached. Vergil’s gloved palm is hard as steel—one squeeze can crush her bone, yet she can only feel the warmth between their entangled hands.
She lets out a sad smile. How long has it been since the last time someone holds my hand?  
“Do you feel better now?” Vergil finally breaks the ice.
“A little,” Lyra agrees. “Although I must admit, this is awkward.”
Vergil closes his eyes and chuckles as he rests his body on the head of the sofa. “I don’t know what madness leads me to do this. Perhaps it’s because of you. You are a terrible influence for me.”
“That’s not a very nice thing to say to your best friend!”
“How unfortunate.”
With their hands still attached, Lyra lowers the coat from her head, revealing threads of her golden brunette hair, shifting her body to lean on the sofa. “Have you ever heard about Munchausen syndrome?”
“A mental disorder in which a person deliberately malingering?”
“Yup. And there is another one called Munchausen by proxy. Means the caregiver is the one who fakes the illness in a person under their care.”
“You mean...”
Lyra scoffs bitterly. “I know one should not self-diagnose without proper professional assessment. Mum was never clinically diagnosed, nor that people noticed her traits. They only knew her as a devoted mother and a great scientist. But I’m the one who lived under the same roof with her and I knew her better than anyone else. I could give you examples of how much my mother loved me”
“There was one time after my refusal to take my medicines, she humiliated me in front of her colleagues,” she continues with a calmer voice. “I was helping her to arrange a bouquet of roses to be placed at the living room. It was unusual that she allowed me to do the ‘hard work’. I did what she asked. I wanted to please her, just to see her smile again. I wanted her to look at me as her daughter, not a failure. I cut the roses diligently, and my fingers were bleeding because I was careless. I didn’t know that Mum brought her colleagues home, and they saw my bleeding fingers. She went nuts when she saw my fingers, scolded me for touching the roses. She said rubbish like, ‘I told you to not touch them!’ ‘Why are you so careless?’ ‘Oh, my poor, darling baby’ while her colleagues gave us the pity look as Mum brought me to my chamber, tended my wounds exaggeratedly, telling me that the pain will be gone soon and the wounds won’t leave any scratches. I was going to ask her why she lied to her colleagues but she kept shushing me like I’m a bloody idiot. I was confused, like, what did I do wrong?”
Lyra glances at Vergil, whose eyes are fixated to the fireplace in a silent rage. “You might’ve thought I was too naïve to indulge her unhealthy behaviour.”
“It wasn’t your fault. You were too weak and innocent to defend yourself,” the door to Vergil’s memory palace where his darkest memories are stored is widely opened. “It sounds like self-justification, but we were just children. We couldn’t have known the cause of what was happening back then. You didn’t deserve everything your mother did to you.”
The contemplative words from Vergil slightly lightens the weight on Lyra’s shoulders. Her solemn smile emphasizes her hidden sadness and weariness. “At those days, I thought she was just knackered, or in a bad mood. Maybe she really worried about me. Maybe I was too stubborn and that made her gutted, so I endured. I took those bloody medicines because it was easier for me. She was so happy and for a moment, I thought I was happy too. Took it longer for me to realize that I was frightened, but I had no options but obeyed her.”
Vergil remains silent whilst feeling Lyra’s thumb tapping on the back of his hand. He waits patiently for her to gather herself before she mumbles quietly. “I’ve been wondering too... why would anyone want to go back to the person who hurt them?”  
“Violence often acts in a cycle,” Vergil squeezes her hand lightly as a reassurance. “Once the perpetrator realized their mistake, they would beg for forgiveness. Some people mean it, some people don’t,” he sighs deeply, carefully putting his words together. “You thought by forgiving your mother, she could change for the better. That forgiveness would improve your relationship with her. You came back to her, sacrificing your safety and well-being to seek her love and comfort. She planted the fear inside you. It was a wheel you couldn’t escape. But you were never a fool for coming back to her. You loved her and you were a child who had no one to have your back but your mother. Even when your expectation failed you, you could only rely on her. ”
“I tried to break the wheel,” Lyra pulls away their hands and cups her face, sliding it to her head like she had a headache. “There were countless times when I thought about running away. But it never happened. I couldn’t even survive five minutes outside. If I told anyone about my suspicion of Mum’s actions on me, they would never believe me and call me a spoiled child instead. Norma was the only person who believed me. She was trying to help me, like quietly flushing the medicines whenever I couldn’t take it anymore. Then she was fired shortly after she spoke to Mum about her nonsensical punishment to me.”
Lyra bites her lips. “It seemed like Mum tried to cut every string with Norma. I never heard about her anymore. Never found her phone number or address. There was a time when I missed her but I couldn’t contact her. She was the only person who believed me and my mother took her away from me because Norma defended me from Mum’s fucked up behaviour.”
A sting of familiar dread creeps inside Vergil’s bone, despite his awareness that it wasn’t his own fear but residues from his first dream about Lyra. He remembers his futile effort to move the body and the way Asteria’s calm yet terrifying gaze at him when she feeds him. The unpleasant sound from the friction between the spoon and the bowl... Asteria’s shady voice as she told him her worries...
“I told you I never knew exactly when I acquired my power, right? Because as long as I remember, I always had this power from the very beginning. I knew what pawn Norma would pick whenever we played chess. I knew the next word my mother was going to say. There were times I accidentally moved things even without touching them. I thought I was just imagining things,” Lyra fixes Vergil’s coat. “Therefore, when Mum scolded me again, I felt my wrath burning and something inside me burst out. I was shocked because suddenly almost anything inside my bedroom was dropped—the books, the toys, the lamps. Mum was pale and silent like a ghost while staring at the mess, until the nurse came. She glared at me like I was a freak and the last thing I remember was I woke up and was unable to move my body. I suspected Mum had me drugged again to prevent me causing havoc. She still had the audacity to act normal, even read me The Hobbit like yesterday was nothing.”
Vergil’s icy eyes get wider slightly. “The event in my dream...”
“Now you know,” Lyra giggles but her face stays impassive. “Then a month later, there came the moment when we both fell.”
Vergil straightens up his body. The picture of his second dream of her comes up in his mind. The same soulless eyes that he saw back then when there was a murder in the library a few months ago appear once more on Lyra. Somehow, Vergil knows where this conversation is heading and he knows he won’t like it. “What do you mean by 'we’ ?”
The pure honesty in Lyra’s eyes makes Vergil’s blood curdle. “I told you, didn’t I? I don’t want to lie to you.”
---
It was the end of the fall season when six-years old Lyra woke up from her slumber. She glanced at the clock on the wall, grinning unconsciously. They say 3 o’clock in the morning is devil’s hour. Unable to go back to sleep, she grabbed her mauve cardigan and decided to take a little detour to the balcony. I could find some autumn constellation, she thought with excitement. She remembered her mother hadn’t packed the cool and sophisticated telescope she had always admired since the very first time Asteria brought it home, and she left it on the balcony this afternoon.
Little Lyra succeeded sneaking out from her bedroom. The mouthful and annoying nurse was nowhere to be seen. She was sure that Asteria is already sleeping. Lately, Asteria didn’t show her ‘lunatic’ nature to Lyra, which Lyra was grateful for. So when she found Asteria on the balcony, Lyra’s excitement instantly turned into fear. Her mother stood with her hands on the balustrade. The telescope was still there, but it seems like Asteria hadn’t used it again since the afternoon. Thinking that her mother wouldn’t notice her presence, Lyra tip-toed to going back to her chamber, but Asteria saw her and startled. It was almost like Asteria scared of being caught on the balcony.
“Solstice?” Asteria gasped. “Why do you— oh, never mind. You must be here to stargaze, aren’t you? Come here, sweets.” A warm smile appeared on her face as she sat on the chair and fixed the telescope.
Lyra’s fight or flight instinct soared up. It was already horrible to think her mother would scold her for sneaking from her bed, but the sullen face of Asteria was unsettling. It looked like she was able to burst any time soon.
“Come on,” Asteria insisted. “Look, there is Andromeda!”
Without making any sound, Lyra climbed on her mother’s lap timidly. Asteria told her to peek into the eyepiece, which Lyra reluctantly did.
“What do you think?” asked Asteria.
“Beautiful,” Lyra said. “But I don’t understand.”
“About what?”
“The pattern. Andromeda doesn’t look like she was chained. More like she fell from the sky and died on the ground.”
Asteria chuckled. “As per usual, sweets. You have a vivid imagination.”
“I just don’t like that story. It was Andromeda’s parents’ fault, but she was the one who got sacrificed.”
“The gods punished her parents too.”
“Yet the gods placed them among the stars. It’s not fair.” Lyra murmured.
“Well, it’s mythology,” Asteria caressed Lyra’s hair. “On the other side, I think Cassiopeia loved her daughter. Too much that she got the audacity to boast about Andromeda’s beauty. If she were really that self-centred, she’d boasted her own beauty instead.”
Lyra’s small hands adjusted the focusing knob slowly. “If she really loved her, she would think for her daughter’s safety.”
It took Asteria a quite long time to respond. She hugged her little daughter from behind, resting her head on Lyra's crown and massaging Lyra’s shoulders. “Why don’t you go back to sleep? It’s cold here.”  
Mummy sounds tired, Lyra noticed. Yet asking questions right now wouldn’t be the best choice. Asteria gave her a good night kiss lightly before letting Lyra off from her lap.
“You’re right. Cassiopeia’s pride put her daughter in danger,” Asteria said, cuddling her daughter tightly. “I love you, Solstice. I’m sorry for everything.”
What was that? Lyra felt an itchy ache somewhere in her heart by just listening to her apology, but Asteria just smiled as if she had never said anything. She waved at her, telling her wish for Lyra to have a sweet dream.
Lyra walked away from her mother with heavy steps, despite her wish to stay a little bit longer. Asteria seemed to be in a good mood this time, and that tender side of her melted Lyra’s heart. She’s her mother, after all. She couldn’t help but love her unconditionally. I hope I don’t agitate her, she hoped as she turned her direction to enter the balcony again, planning to beg to stay for a while.
But when she turned around, the horror already waited for her there.
Lyra was screaming like a wild animal as she ran and ran...
“MUMMY!!!!!”
… towards Asteria, who jumped from the balustrade.
Don’t leave me here! Lyra’s body felt like it was burning in blaze. She could feel an overwhelming power within her burst out. Please God, let me use that power again!  
Her breath got heavier as she jumped from the guardrail and reached her hand to her mother with a hope to save her. It felt like eternity when she realized that her mother was floating on the air instead of falling. With an eerie face, Asteria screamed her daughter’s name while she was brought by an invisible force to the rooftop again.
I did it! Lyra thought cheerfully, but not for long because she quickly realized her mysterious power didn’t bring her to the balcony too. She tried to focus on herself, doing whatever she can to release her power again. She knew her power was still raw and immature. She had planned to practice secretly tomorrow, but she had no idea that things would go south like this. The first was always luck or coincidence, Norma had said to Lyra when she found out Lyra’s little secret. But there will be no more luck for the second time. There is no such thing as coincidence, but synchronicity...
While Lyra was still thinking about why her power didn’t work, her body crushed on the ground violently.
She was sure she heard the sound of her fractured bones.
She had never experienced that kind of pain before. All those side effects from her medicines was nothing compared to this one. The pain gradually ended as the numbness consumed her body. She looked at the sky, thinking how poetic her fall was under the fair moonlight with her motionless body. She was sure she saw Asteria on the balcony, shrieking and saying something she could not comprehend. Why did she jump? Was that because of me? Maybe because I made Mummy angry again... maybe afterlife seems better than living with me...
Lyra was willing to go. Afterall, she was sick of being isolated. Death seems promising. At least she would be free from medicine and endless hope for getting a healthy body. I look like Andromeda , she thought as she felt her eyes getting heavier. Like someone lying dead on the ground.  
She knew it’s time to go when her eyelids could barely manage to stay open. She hoped Asteria would live a better world without her. If only she could laugh right now, she would do it for the last time, so she wouldn’t feel too bitter about death.
Mum—  
Unfortunately, she never got a chance to think further. The only thing she saw before she lost her consciousness was her mother climbing up the balustrade again, this time to follow her daughter to death.
---
“Stardust?”
The gentle voice of Vergil startles Lyra back to reality. She doesn’t know how long the time has passed since she told him how her mother died. The long, buried weariness and sadness inside her consumes her like she has just released a huge burden from her body at once.
“Sorry, I was preoccupied with my own head.” Lyra scratches her right ankle, a habit she couldn’t let go since that tragic day. “You alright?”
“I was supposed to be the one who asked,” the blue devil says. “Are you sure you’re going to continue? We could discuss this later.”
“Nah, I’m fine. Just adjusting myself because I’ve never opened up to anyone else before,” Lyra continues, ignoring Vergil’s pity look. “Anyway, after that, I woke up in the local hospital. They said my nurse heard my mother’s scream and went to check. That was how she found us and called the ambulance. When we reached the hospital, they said they couldn’t save us. They went insane because suddenly my heart started beating again in an hour. They put me under intensive care for three months. I got severely broken bones and head trauma—I needed to do a couple more surgeries and physiotherapy. They said it was a miracle for me to survive and recover rapidly.”
“That must have something to do with your power.” Vergil adds.
“That’s very likely. I woke up hearing voices and seeing things I wasn’t supposed to be. I thought I was just dreaming, but day by day I spent my time hospitalized, I knew it was real. Those voices and images were people’s thoughts,” Lyra chuckles with irony on her lips. “It was already too much for me to read minds at once, and then I found out that my mother died. I saved her life just for giving her a chance to jump again.”
She sounds ireful rather than sad, Vergil suspects. He can’t deny his instinct to not let his attention to Lyra’s right ankle, which he stores his suspicion for a long time.
“One day, Mum’s lawyer came to visit me at the hospital. She said since I’m an orphan and have no relatives, she will act as my guardian and I’ll receive inheritance whenever I reach legal age. The whole ‘guardian’ part was just formality because she’ll send me to an orphanage once I get discharged from hospital. Even I knew what she had stored in mind before she started to speak. But that didn’t really concern me,” Lyra takes a deep breath and exhales. Her expression is slightly twisted as she telekinetically raises a Rubik's cube and tears every cube apart before she smashes them into flakes.
What in the seven hells— “Lyra?” Vergil calls her, but the word seems unreachable to her.
“I was going to forgive my mother because I wanted her to rest in peace, yet again she proved it to me that she was a fucking devil.”
Another cube is crushed, followed by a loud cracking sound from the teacup.
“The lawyer couldn’t bear to tell me this, but she found fake prescriptions of my daily medicines and a drawer full of placebo pills in my mother’s room. The doctors told her that they found traces of placebo pills and a very tiny dose of rat poison inside me. A. Fucking. Rat. Poison—”
The radio on the kitchen counter starts playing by itself, followed by a loud bang from Lyra’s front door.
“It was all placebo. There was never a fucking SCID nor fucking illness. I was perfectly fine from the start! The only reason why I always felt sick was because of that rat poison and abominable suggestions from that fucking b—”
Vergil grips her shoulder. “Lyra, you will destroy the entire house. Please stay calm.”  
The view of her floating table pulls Lyra back to the earth. She startles at first, but it doesn’t last as she finally gathers herself and puts the table back to the ground. The bleak on her face remains while she tightens up Vergil’s coat. “Sorry.”
“I told you to stop earlier.”
“I can never be ready to tell you the truth unless I do it right now.”
“Fine, but if I notice even a small sign of you going berserk again, we have to stop this conversation.”
“Deal.”
“Good. Then, did the nurse have any knowledge about the poisoning?”
Lyra shakes her head in disappointment. “She claimed that Mum just gave her my medical certificate and records, which the lawyer found to be fake. Mum made up those records as if they were authorized by a credible health facility. She made up things and fucked up my life for Hell knows what she was up to. Then she just fucking died and leaving me alone without any explanation on everything.”
Vergil wipes his face in frustration, This is more messed up than I thought it would be.  
Lyra lets out a rugged laugh. “You know what happened next. The media never told people how my mother died.”
“That’s what I always thought to be very suspicious. They can’t just spread false rumour. There’s evidence, witnesses and statements from the police and hospital.”
“All I could think was that Asteria Crescent was an infamous astrobiologist with great reputation. Imagine if the world knew this brilliant person was a mad woman who poisoned her own daughter. That would destroy the reputation of academical world. Her good legacy must be remembered.”
“... Was that really easy for humans to alter the truth?”
The librarian laughs bitterly. “They do it all the time, Vergil. It’s easier than you think it is. Money talks louder than words. They must’ve silenced Mum’s lawyer too since she said nothing about the truth to me. I tried to tell them that my mother was insane and that wasn’t how she died, but they thought I was the one who lost my mind. PTSD, head trauma, reconstructed memory, call it what you want. I don’t know who started it, why and how, but they closed the case.”
“But who were these people? Why did such a grandiose plan just to cover up a scientist’s death?”
“Who knows. There’s always someone behind the stage.”
“And they really sent you to an orphanage?”
“Yes, maybe to shut my mouth. Mum’s lawyer managed my financial support, but she never showed up at the orphanage.”
Lyra bites her lips, like she doesn’t know how to continue and stumbles over her own words. She scratches her right ankle again. “Kids in the orphanage used to tease me for limping whenever I walked. It’s odd for me, even until now. The doctor said I had fully recovered, just needed to adjust myself to the outside world since I stayed indoors for too long. But the sore thing in my ankle here never really disappears. I never found out why. All doctors I’ve consulted with said despite the fading scar on the skin, my ankle is perfectly fine and should’ve been functional. People couldn’t even see me limping, at least until a certain sulky devil spotted it.”
“I’m not sulky.”
“The more you deny it, the more it’s true.”
“Your logical fallacy amuses me.”
A relieved laugh comes out from Lyra. “You got me there.”
With the smile on her face blooming again, Vergil feels a towering wave of unpleasant ache filling his whole heart. Right now, he can grasp the reason why Lyra acts too secretive. He knows that burden very well; to be unable to trust anyone but themselves. Lyra has never received the real love from her mother, which was different from Vergil. Her childhood and self-esteem were stolen from her own kin. That is also the reason why Lyra can easily understand him, despite his despicable sins. Lyra has already had the power and was able to save her mother, yet in the end Asteria chose to kill herself. Contrary to Vergil, who even had demon power since birth, but he couldn’t save his mother from her doom. His love for his family was Vergil’s motivation to gain more power, which is a total opposite from Lyra who hates her mother and resents her power. They are two sides of the same coin.
“Terra to Vergil?” Lyra snaps her fingers in front of Vergil’s face.
“Pardon me,” Vergil says. “I was just contemplating.”
“About what?”
“About how humans can be so much worse than demons. No offense.”
“None had taken.”
The blue devil hesitates before he asks. “How... How did you cope from that?”
“Hmmm...” Lyra mumbles and sighs heavily. “It’s not easy. It still affects me in a way. I grew up thinking that people can’t be trusted. Telepathy made it worse. I hesitate to live, but I don’t want to die either. It’s difficult to form any connection, no matter how much effort I took to fit in. I’m not even sure myself whether this is the real me or I’m just a skilled imitator who fits people’s expectations.”
She smiles, this time the gloom on her lips is fading. “I met people who were sincerely decent and empathetic. But somehow, I just couldn’t bring myself to open up and let them enter my circle. I used to blame my mum for this trust issue, but lately I suspect it was on me.”
“You’re not the one to blame, Lyra.”
Lyra shakes her head. “I choose to leave them before they get too close to me.”
“Because you don’t want people to see your scar?”
“I thought the reason I’m pulling myself from society was because I’m afraid that I’d get hurt. Took me a long time to realize that I’m worried that I’d hurt people. That’s what you got when you have a telepath as your friend. You’d get caught in endless insecurity of having your minds in constant danger, while I really don’t want to read one. If only Sparda’s magic didn’t protect you and Dante, you’d leave me since day one.”
“I won’t.”
“Mundus screwed up your brain, Vergil. You have a thousand reasons for hating telepaths.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I saw your dreams. I know how much you want to kill those who fucks with you.”
“And I saw yours too, Lyra. I know how much you hate your mother, but deep down you still love her. Even since you saw her falling from the balcony.”
The realization hits her hard. “Wait— you knew this all along?!”
“Forgive me, but you won’t tell me the truth unless I told you a white lie. Your hypothesis is true; that our dreams occurred simultaneously.”
“You—” Lyra glares at Vergil like he has done treacherous betrayal, but she gathers herself up since she knows she was the one who lied to him first. She can’t deny that everything he said was true. It has been said that the dead won’t stay only if the living sets them free. For Lyra, it jabs her heart whenever she tries to brush that fact away. She knows that her hatred would rot her soul, yet it’s difficult to forgive her mother, who had tried to end her life multiple times.
“I envy you, Vergil,” Lyra confesses. “You were an arsehole evil lord back then, but you had a reasonable motive for fighting. You have a family. I got none. I don’t see the point of keep going on. Everyone wants me dead.”
“People are afraid of what they don’t understand,” Vergil states without any doubts in his voice. “It’s understandable since you’re undeniably enigmatic and can be threatening. But my fool brother of mine was right; strength is a choice. You choose to be strong to prevent more loss. You have every right to live, for death is the end. Make a full life while it lasts.”
“I wonder if I had such a reason to stay.”
Vergil straightens up his seat with a wary and cautious expression. “Sometimes… It doesn’t have to be something big. “
“Such as?”
“I don’t know…” he chuckles half-heartedly. “Don’t you have something to cherish for? Something that makes you willing to trade your life with?”
“Hmmm…. I love my job. I love books and the stars. But I don’t think I’d give up my life for that...” Lyra hums indifferently. “I think not. Nothing very important in particular.”
“There are things that could be important, but not everything important is worth cherishing.”
“What makes it different?”
“As time goes on, important things could become less important. The urgency wears off,” Vergil says quietly as he curves a faint smile, reminiscing his bonding time with Nero. “But something precious, something you hold dear most... you will suffer when they are taken from you.”
“Something precious, huh...?” Lyra’s eyes wander off, her voice is softer than a whisper. “Like... you...?”
Vergil almost gets choked by his own breath. “Beg your pardon?”
She shakes her head. “Nothing!”
“I’m certain that you said something.”
“If you’re so certain about that, why can’t you listen and repeat back what I said?”
“Because I couldn’t hear that properly!”
“Your loss.”
“You meddlesome creature.”
“You angry kitten.” Lyra holds her mouth to prevent her laughter from going too loud.
Vergil glares at her. “What did you just call me?!”
“Nothing~ I’m sleepy~” Lyra stretches her arms, the corner of her eyes flashes a mischief as she glances to the oblivious Vergil. “Those self-help books were right. It’s relieving to have the right person to share the burden with—”
“Don’t you dare try to change the topic. If you ever call me an angry kitten again—”
“We’re still talking about that? Bloody hell, Vergil, I’m just kidding!” Lyra holds his palms and takes off his gloves. “Come on, we need to rest. You might be sober now but even the strongest demon needs to sleep.”
A light crumple curves on Vergil’s forehead. “Why do you take my gloves off?”
“Do you have a habit to keep your gloves on while sleeping?”
“Hold on,” Vergil hesitates as he pulls his hand. “You want me to sleep here? In your house?”
“Yup.”
“You know that it’s not… very decent for an unmarried woman and a man to stay under the same roof.”
“Since when do you care about custom?”
“I’m not necessarily care about customs,” Vergil grunts. “It’s your convenience that I’m concerned about.”
“That’s very kind of you,” Lyra cleans up the table and waves her hand to send the tray to the dishwasher before making her way to the bedroom. “But my sofa is too small for you, and considering I have a quite spacious bed that fits two people, I don’t see any reasons why I would let my friend freeze on the sofa.”
Lyra opens the door, glancing at Vergil and tilts her head as a sign for him to follow her into the bedroom.
~~~
A/N : the poem mentioned in this chapter is “Clair de Lune” by Paul Verlaine, which is the inspiration for Claude Debussy’s Clair de Lune
Tagging : @drusoona @harlot-of-oblivion @shiranyaaww  @queenmuzz @rubixa-seraph @andieperrie18
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merakiaes · 5 years
Text
Princess - Sandor Clegane
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Pairing: Sandor Clegane x Lannister!reader
Requested: Yes
Warnings/notes: I combined these, I hope that’s okay! Slight bit of cursing maybe, idk. Sorry this took so long and if it’s not what you wanted, I changed it up a little bit
Wordcount: 2336
Summary: You’re Cersei’s oldest child, you walk in on Joffrey taunting Sandor. 
Sometimes, everything in your life just suddenly seems really simple. It’s like everything shifts in a moment. And you step out of your body. Out of your life. You step out and you see where you are really clearly and you think… Fuck. This. Shit.
Living in the Red Keep as the only legitimate child of Cersei Lannister and Robert Baratheon, despite it not being the life you had wanted, had been bearable up until this point. 
You loved your father, your siblings, and your uncles and grandfather. But your mother was something else entirely. 
She was the devil in disguise. 
Of course you knew of your mother’s affair with your uncle. You weren’t stupid. Many others knew as well, you had gathered over the years, but no one ever dared to bring it up out loud. 
You had always been your father’s pride and joy, and for this simple reason, your mother had been cold to you your whole life, despite being told off by Jaime, Tyrion and Tywin on more occasions than you could count. 
But when your father had died, your mother had seen this as her chance to raise you her way. 
Too bad she was so wrapped up in herself she couldn’t realize you had finished growing up by this point, and this was who you were now. 
The royal life had been bearable when your father had still been alive, but now you were about ready to jump out a window just to get away. 
“A princess shouldn’t curse.” “A princess doesn’t socialize with common scum.” “A princess doesn’t run around outside.” “A princess doesn’t play with swords.” “A princess doesn’t need books.”
Princess, princess, princess, princess. 
That was everything you seemed to have to your name. And you were tired of it. 
Your uncles and father had been the only bearable company to you before everything went to shit. Now your father was dead, Tyrion was off with Bronn the whole day, everyday, and your mother had Jaime wrapped around her littlefinger so tight that everything he would tell you was to listen to her. 
You felt trapped. You had nothing to do during the days. 
You wanted to go outside and have fun. Could you? No, princesses don’t play with swords. Princesses don’t associate with anyone but the people in the Red Keep. 
You wanted to spend time in the library, to read. But could you? No. Because a princess didn’t have to learn things for herself. They were supposed to have a prince to do everything for them. 
It was all a load of horsecrap. 
All while you had grown up, you had been a sweet girl. Almost too sweet for your own good. But ever since the feud between your family and the Starks broke out, you had found yourself getting more and more bitter by the second. 
You were basically a mixture of Myrcella and your mother, by this point. Without the psychopathic part from the latter, that is. 
While you were still as sweet as ever, always so loving and caring, you had lost your ability of keeping your mouth shut if annoyed. 
Now, anywhere else in the world, it might have been a good quality to be able to defend yourself. But when you were a princess? Oh no. It just wouldn’t do. 
But your sudden change of attitude had drawn the attention of Sandor Clegane. 
You hadn’t noticed at first, figuring he was just looking out for Joffrey as he always seemed to be following you around, tormenting you as you went about your day. 
But you soon noticed how his eyes would linger a little longer than usual, and how the corners of his lips would turn up slightly every time you spoke back to your brother. 
And this in turn, caused you to start noticing him more, as well. There was something about him. Something about the way he watched you.
You hadn’t paid him much thought before, when your father had still been alive, but as everything started changing around you, so did your view of the younger of the Cleganes.
You would often find yourself watching him as he stood by Joffrey, taking in every detail. 
His body, flecked with scars, was a puzzle of near misses and mistakes he’d never make again, and you found yourself fascinated at the sight of him. 
With this you had started greeting him more often, smiling at him every time you got the chance. But you had never spoken, not really, seeing as he was always stuck with your baby brother. 
Speaking of whom, Joffrey had become even more unbearable than he had been before. And being the little shit he was, he, of course, took advantage of this, jumping at every opportunity he got to annoy you. 
This left you hating him even more than you had before your father’s death, which in turn left you to avoid him, just like you tried your best at doing your mother. 
But today, you didn’t seem to be in luck, at all. 
Not only had you been whisked away by your mother the whole afternoon, but now you would have to confront Joffrey, as well. 
You were honestly debating just turning around and walking away from your spot in the doorway where you had walked in on Joffrey taunting the Hound with a burning torch, knowing he could very well be a nice dog, so to say, and live it through. 
But as you caught sight of the tiny, brief flicker of fear running over the man’s face as Joffrey got a little too close with the fire, your body launched you into action all by itself. 
“What in the Seven are you doing?!” You cursed as you rushed into the room, holding your skirts in your hands to get by faster. 
Joffrey turned to look at you with a big grin. “Ah! What a nice surprise. Come, sister! I was just playing with the dog. Look at him, isn’t it funny?” He laughed as he whipped the torch in front of his face again, causing him to flinch slightly. 
“Give me that, you little brat!” You shot at him, wasting no time in snatching the burning piece of wood from your brother’s hand, rushing over to dip it into a bucket of water to kill the flame. 
Joffrey gasped, hand going to his chest as he turned to look at you, finally leaving Sandor alone. “What did you call me?!” 
“Oh, please. Stop playing so important.” You sneered at him as you put away the torch so that he wouldn’t be able to light it again. 
“Are you talking back to me?!” Joffrey wailed back, looking at you with a bewildered expression.
“Yes, that’s usually how a conversation works.” You told him, your eyes coming to meet his, annoyance evident on your face. “Just because people serve you, don’t mean you get to torment them as you like, Joffrey!”
“That is exactly what it means!” He protested. “I am king now, I do what I want!”
“You’re nothing but a mewling quim!” You yelled. “You forget your place. You may be king, but not in the slightest are you the one who calls the shots around here. I am still your older sister. Speak to me like that again and you’ll find out what shoe leather goes through before it becomes one of your boots.” 
Joffrey opened his mouth to fight back, but you held up a finger. “I think it’s time for you to go rest. You look tired.” 
“I’m not t-”
“You’re tired.” You interrupted again, giving him a pointed glare. “Rest. Now.”
He looked at you for a moment, mouth hanging open in shock, before he finally moved to walk out of the room, leaving with an angry cry. 
You turned to look at Sandor the second your brother was out of sight, hard eyes softening as you took in his still anxious state. “Are you alright?” You asked 
He turned to look at you, a scowl coming to rest on his face. “I didn’t need your help.” He snarled, most likely trying to intimidate you into leaving. 
But your soft gaze didn’t shift from his face, scanning how he was, to you, so obviously trying to mask the fear he had been feeling only moments before. 
“I know you didn’t.” You said. “But doesn’t mean I didn’t want to help, anyways.” 
A thick silence fell over the two of you as Sandor didn’t answer. You leaned back on the heels of your feet slightly, hands coming to clasp in front of you as you spoke again. 
“I notice you watching me, you know.” You spoke, a small smile tugging at the corners of your lips. 
Sandor turned to look at you at this, speaking with teeth on full display. “It’s my job.”
Your smile widened. “No, I think you like me.” You confessed. 
“Is this one of the times you want me to lie to protect your delicate feelings?” He shot back, annoyance lacing his voice and dripping from his words. 
You knew he was speaking to you this way to make you go away, but you had never been good at detecting danger. Even if you did sense the vibe he was sending off in that moment, you weren’t afraid of him. You never had been. 
And this only seemed to make him even more irritated, the man wanting nothing more than to be left alone. But here you were, smile only widening at the words that were spoken with the intent of scaring you off. 
But that was why he like you, in the first place. Not that he would ever admit it. 
“I notice everything. I just act like I don’t.” You told him, smiling. “And I’ve noticed how you look at me. I know you prefer my company over Joffrey’s, so there’s no point to stand there and lie. ”
He narrowed his eyes at you, teeth barring like he was an actual dog. But with the way Joffrey was treating him, you wouldn’t be surprised if it actually came to him thinking that. 
“Why are you doing that?” He asked then, voice rough. “Why are you always doing that?”
You frowned at this, not knowing what he was getting at. “Doing what?”
He scowled. “Treating me like I’m human.”
You raised an eyebrow, smile turning into one of amusement. “Aren’t you?”
“No.” He said. “I’m a killer.”
You looked into his eyes, the two of you entering some kind of stubborn staring contest as both of you tried to win the argument. 
“Sometimes villains don’t actually want to be villains.” You spoke, twisting your hands around in front of you. “But that’s just the thing isn’t it? The greatest risk any of us will take is to be seen as we are, when someone knows your story they know you. And they can hurt you. That’s what you’re so afraid of.”
“I’m not afraid!” Sandor suddenly yelled, admittedly causing you to jump in fright and shock, but not enough to leave you actually scared. 
He watched with a scowl as you flinched at the volume of his voice, but still didn’t run off. Instead you kept looking at him, with those soft, Lannister green eyes of yours. 
“Liar.” You just said, eyes hardening slightly as if attempting to break him, but he only scowled deeper at that. 
“Everyone’s afraid of something. And it’s not a bad thing. I saw the way you reacted to that fire. Joffrey might be too stupid to see it, but I did.” You continued,  eyes narrowing slightly in stubbornness. “I know we don’t know each other that well, but I’m still worried about you. No one deserves to be alone.”
He scoffed. “I don’t need your help, or your worry or your care. I like being alone. So leave me alone.”
You looked him for a moment, still seeing how he was so obviously battling his own emotions. You knew he would come to realize he didn’t have to be alone, soon enough. But if you were going to be the person he came to when that happened, you wanted it to be in his own time.
“Fine.” You finally agreed, unclasping your hands. “You can’t keep it all inside. Bottling it up won’t do any good. You’ll find that out sooner or later, and you know where to find me when you do. Have a nice day, Sandor.”
And with that, you gave him one of those warm smiles that left him all sickeningly warm inside, and left him alone. 
Only now that you had, he found himself regretting ever wanting to. 
Some weeks passed, and Sandor had barely dodged being burned by the Wildfire that was burning bright on the sea, sending him into absolute panic. 
He wanted to get as far away from there as he could. Away from snotty King and his mother, away from the stuck up bitches walking around taunting him all day long; away from King’s Landing. 
He was terrified; frantic and panic-stricken with his heart caught in his throat. But instead of leaving like he planned, he found himself walking through the castle corridors in the other direction, seconds later knocking on a door. 
And as the door opened, he found himself falling into the arms of the only person he wouldn’t have to confess his fear to out loud, knowing they would see it for themself and provide him with the safety he needed without any questions asked. 
Wrapping your arms around his body, you pulled Sandor inside, closing the door behind you, and slowly but surely, the painful memories of the green blaze faded away to the sounds of your comforting whispers. 
“I’m here. It’s okay. You’re safe.”
You whispered into his neck as you held him, and for the first time in a long time, he didn’t feel the need to hide who he really was.   
Tagged: @horanxtbh @edarene @anephemeralwoe @witch-of-letters @starkbelova @well-aint-that-strange @aquariusfangirl  @gameofcleganee
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gold-gguk · 5 years
Text
《 thantophobia (n.) 》
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summary ↠ thantophobia (n.) the fear of losing someone you love. the fear you’ve preparing to accept as reality the longer Jungkook has been away. the tour you never thought would end has come to a close and Jungkook is coming home, but months and miles apart have left you both wondering what he’s coming back to.
genre ↠ angssst | idolverse member ↠ jeon jungkook warnings ↠ emotional taxation, yo. word count ↠ 5.3k
moodboard by @jiminspjm || I think this is some of your best work yet, my friend ;) || requested by anon. This is essentially a sequel to a previous Jungkook blurb, lacuna (n.) so get ready for some heightened angst, my dudes.
~
Just landed. Be home soon. [6:36 pm]
You stare so hard and so long at the boxy text bubbled in grey that your eyes start to lose focus, weighing your sore gaze to where your subdued reply rests. The hours-old read receipt, however, still hanging lifeless underneath your words, only reinforces the weak ache in two thumbs still hovering over digital keys.
Ok. Be safe. [6:40 pm]
Forcing intentional breaths into the bottom of your lungs, you cast your eyes towards the foyer from where you sit fidgeting on the sofa, ears straining to pick up any evidence of the door jostling to open, but none comes in the deep and agonizing quiet you’ve been subjected to for the past couple of hours. 
[9:57 pm] You squint against the stark light of your phone screen when your eyes subconsciously travel back to check how many minutes have passed since the last time you looked. The dim glow humming from the standing lamp nearby that shrouds the rest of the living room makes the curt conversation glaring up at you seem too-bright, it’s luminescence only amplifying the minuscule exchange of words and the tightness of your chest.
He should be home. The airport is hardly a half hour drive from your apartment, and even with the staff most likely dropping the rest of the boys off at the dorms, it still shouldn’t be taking Jungkook this long to get here. Your throat burns upon the next attempt at swallowing, the action, in tandem, a measly effort to rid the ill thoughts that try to pinch and poke the back of your mind. Biting the inside of your cheek, you quickly lock your phone, tossing it to the side of you in favor of the TV remote, the diluted sounds of nighttime television that spill out into the suffocating silence washing you with a momentary relief. Momentary. The more you flip through the various options of distraction, the more you can’t help but recognize how uncanny the scene around you is becoming, looking and feeling more familiar by the second.
The couch, the blanket, the non-realistic happy endings flashing across the screen before you, and that bruised sensation creeping just under the surface of your skin; it’s all nearly identical to the combination you’d found yourself wound into almost 6 months ago, face raw and blotchy and pressed into these couch cushions with the emotion of Jungkook leaving for tour the next morning. Back then, though, the prospect of him walking through the front door had you on edge for very different reasons. It almost hurts to acknowledge the pocket of anxiety rolling around like a bowling ball in the pit of your stomach, but you’d be kidding yourself to try and ignore the incessant feeling like you tried to ignore your feelings the weeks leading up to your collapse. You know it only makes things worse. 
The noise of the television drowns out into the background of your loudening thoughts, little help in distracting you once more as you’re hazily drawn back into the memory of that morning. Images and scenes living half-blurred now sharpen to the most minute detail in a gross effort to reassure you of what you know has already changed.
“Hey, JK! Let’s go, we’re gonna miss the boarding call!” Namjoon had urged, his (fourth) prompt the only thing that seemed to finally stir Jungkook’s arms away from where they wound around you. “We’ll be back before you even know we’re gone, Y/N!” your towering friend attempted to console, taking the time to allow a reassuring and genuine smile to sculpt into the curve of his lips for which you were grateful. You weakly returned the gesture from over Jungkook’s shoulder, unable, though, to force the grin to curl around your sadly drawn eyes. “Give her a kiss for me, Kook, and move your junk!”
The picture becomes more vivid as you recall Namjoon turning to make his way through security, becoming the sixth to a group of huddled boys who stood awaiting their final member on the other side. You remember the way they were all attempting to avoid eye contact with you as their way of allowing you and Jungkook the most “privacy” possible in your goodbye, though you caught their gazes eyeing over you sympathetically more than once before it was all said and done. 
Jungkook had pulled his face from where it’d been hiding in your neck, pulling back as his arms loosened from their ensnarement around your waist by what would be an almost inconceivable fraction on any other day, but on that day it was enough for the distance to be felt in an instant. You ponder a while on the memory of Jungkook’s face when he finally titled his drooped gaze to you, eyes visibly red through the curtain of his inky locks. Despite whatever confident monologues Jungkook had extemporized with comforting whispers and steady hands the night before, the morning of his departure proved to be a role reversal granting you the task to keep some semblance of composure for both your sanities sakes. Surprisingly, however, whether it was ignorant denial or just the dry bed your eyes had become, you found yourself doing a pretty good job of keeping your emotions from going full Super Saiyan on him. 
“Don’t say it.” Jungkook’s dulcet voice laced with a strained timbre echos as clear as if he were right in front of you now. You close your eyes, your breaths feeling heavy as you try desperately to latch onto this moment, longing to remember the crystalline boy with glassy eyes standing in your memory and the way he looked when he longed for you too. 
“Say what? I-” 
“Don’t say goodbye. Don’t make me say it back.” His eyes close, hiding the bloodshot worry that clouds the cotton outskirts of the deep toffee center. The hands that knot together at the small of your back give a squeeze, pulling you forward that fraction of a breath as his head dips once more to hide against you. You hear the troubled rhythm of his inhale and know he’s started crying again which makes your heart agonize in tandem with him. 
“Jungkook...” you try, not trusting your voice to come out right but pushing it past weak lips anyway. 
A soft, stifled sob wets the juncture of your neck and shoulder where the bridge of his nose is pressed, his body stuttering in time to the beat of his emotion. You raise feeble hands from the plane of his back to fit the curve of his head and the round of his shoulders, simply cradling him to you in the last of these fleeting moments you know you won’t be able to savor for a long time. 
“I love you,” you whisper into his hair, fingers treading through the fields of the soft tendrils. You feel him ease against you at the combination of touch and admission, muffled plaining quieting into the fabric of your sweater. “That’s what I was going to say. I love you.”
His breathing calms to a manageable rate, filling his lungs in time to the rake of your fingers. “That’s all?” he hiccups, murmur of a voice like that of a child, laced with traces of hopeful and wide-eyed disbelief. 
“That’s all. No goodbye today,” you affirm, attempting to put some smile in your tone. “Sorry to ruin the drama.” 
The small success of laughter that puffs from Jungkook’s lungs is short lived as he crushes you against him, his arms fully circling the round of your shoulders and head, pressing your face into the comfort of his sanctuary as he draws every last ounce of you into him that he can. “I love you. I love you. I love you so so much.”
You breathe deeply his scent, spending a generous amount of energy on stowing away the smell in the pocket of your memory for when it’s not right under your nose anymore, skin-tinglingly warm and all authentically Jungkook. “I know,” you assure him, a hand wandering off down his spine. “You love me so well.” A knot begins to lump in your throat that you aptly swallow away, pacing carefully through the rest of the words that are getting harder and harder to speak with a placid heart.  “Which is why I’m so happy that you get to go and share that, now, with everyone that supports you so so much. I’m so excited that they get to hold some the love that you give me every day, even if it’s only a glimpse of everything I’ve seen in here.” 
You pressure your lips overtop the place where Jungkook’s heart beats rapidly, feeling the impact through the layers of clothing and skin. 
“I’m so proud of you, Jungkook. Now I want you to go see just many other’s you’ve made proud.” Finally pulling your head from the divot of his chest, you steel your expression with softened eyes and the most stable smile you can manage, every word you utter like nails on the chalkboard of the selfish and anxiety ridden parts of yourself. But no matter how badly your arms ache to begin dropping from his frame, you push yourself back a small step, the chasmic space almost dropping your stomach from your body. 
You rise to your tip-toes, placing a warm palm on Jungkook’s dampened cheek, fingers brushing gently as your lips slot tenderly against his own and press. He leans into you, but you’re gone before the sear in your throat worsens, balling your emotions one last time to squeeze at his palm, if nothing else placated by the mollifying expression Jungkook is relaxing into, though still bleary and worn on the surface. 
“Besides, you heard Namjoon,” you press his hand, fingers kneading over the back, trying to memorize the texture of his silken skin as you shut your mind off and let your mouth run. “You’ll be back before I even know you’re gone.”
But you’re in tears the moment he turns away. 
Your eyes snap back open, a feeling you weren’t expecting to be present resting in the center of your chest: anger. The phone sleeping silently to the left of you makes you angry; how long he’s kept you waiting here without so much as an explanation makes you angry; the man confessing his love too loudly on screen makes you angry; but most of all, the lack of Jungkook makes you angry. 
Gritting your teeth with a newfound resolve, you breathe out a copious amount of the stress riddled air from your lungs in one blow, straightening your bent posture and running your fingers through neatly curled locks until they’re falling haphazardly around your face, but who’s to care anymore? It’s obvious no one that you need to impress is coming home tonight. 
You flick the television off with a satisfying click, sighing relievedly into the silence that previously had you at wits end before rising from your perch, muscles straining as they seek the stretch of relief they’ve so desired. Giving it to them, you turn and pluck the string on the standing lamp, washing the room in a new kind of quiet that somehow sets you more at ease--like the room isn’t in anticipation of anything anymore. 
Your bed calls sweet and low upon your approach down the short hallway past the small kitchen, and you realize for the first time in a while that your mind isn’t burdened with flashes of blurry memories, taunting you from the haze in various rooms as you pass. 
Your apartment is small, but you and Jungkook spent a lot of time here when your relationship began and since. The past 6 months have been random nights of heartache and sadness springing up when you least expect it; the pass of the kitchen always paints the shape of Jungkook throwing a dusting of flour into your face during the cake baking competition he’d wanted to start as a tradition for you two--it ended in a mess that took hours to clean and no cakes; the sweep of the spare room tends to have your mind conjuring illusions of the time Jungkook brought home a stray puppy he’d found wandering a parking lot on the way over and tried to hide it from you for a surprise under the bed in there--you were the one who had to answer the door the next day to a frazzled owner inquiring about said puppy and break the devastating news to Jungkook that he had just run away from him during his walk. You remember often thinking of those days and wondering how things got so far from where they were. 
None of these memories surface now though. Your mind is clearer than it’s been in ages, and it feels freeing yet strange at the same time. 
The sheets are crisp and cool against your body as it slides in between, fresh from when you had washed them and remade the bed earlier in the day in preparation of another body sharing it with you, but you still feel grateful for the sensation against hot skin as your head collides with the pillow, flipping to your side and curling under the comforter. No thoughts come. No inner mantra coaxing you to sleep after an hour of repetition. No tears. It’s just silence and a blank plane stretching for as far as your mind can manage. Sleep comes easily to your weary limbs tonight, eyes falling shut into a dreamless slumber that brings real rest from months of trying to keep it together for him. 
You’re so far into the absent bliss that the sound you’d been waiting all day to hear doesn’t rouse you. The front door slowly jostles open, a stumbling Jungkook, half-falling through the frame in his attempt to be discrete, only creating more noise as he collides with the entry bench that seats your purse and jacket. 
A curse slurs from his lips as he catches himself, the duffle bag hanging on his shoulder dropping to the floor next to your shoes as he manages to kick his own off, hands steadying his lopsided stature against the wall. The sight of your belongings stalls him for a moment, bloodshot eyes staring entranced at the disorganized display in the foyer: your bag, the same one you’ve always carried, worn and tearing in a few places, but you refuse to buy a new one; your scarf, the one Jungkook purchased for you at the start of last winter, just before the two of you began dating. He’d made the excuse while you were both out shopping that you’d catch a cold in just a jacket, but really, the sight of your exposed neck curving down into softly edged collarbones was more than a distraction from what was supposed to be a friendship at the time. 
His gaze halts along the wall on the framed photo of the two of you from New Years, you slung across Jungkook’s lap, arms hooked around his neck with your eyes squeezed shut, laughing at something happening behind the camera, your grin bared wide and raw for the world to see--that grin. He stares at his face in the photo, eyes beaming down at your unaware laughter, lips pressed in a smile against your temple, his own arms cradling you so casually to himself.
For a moment, the dizziness in Jungkook’s head subsides and it’s just you. It’s you struggling to surface at the tips of his fingers again, fighting to recreate the feeling of you in his hands, but just like every other time he’s attempted, he can only imagine it, never feel. Remembering the feeling of you became an elusive memory he started desperately chasing only a month after he’d left--the month you started pulling away, texting less, cutting FaceTimes short, and working more with a plethora of excuses trailing behind; it was the torture of a fraying string without the snap. 
He still isn’t sure what happened with you both, but he’ll be damned to be the one to let you go. He kept reassuring himself that if he could just make it home...things would get better. You’d come back to him, things would be the  way they used to be, and it would all be okay, but the closer he got to coming home, the less he knew how to navigate your distant ocean--the less he knew how to function. 
She’s doing fine without you.
It became the devil on his shoulder: more and more time spent away, less and less communication, and all feeding the monster. Every text he received from you was a whirlwind of fresh air in his hectic schedule allowing him a moment of respite and solace, but they became moments he wasn’t sure if you shared. And he became hesitant to ask the longer you went on behaving as if the miles of distance and time zones of separation didn’t make a difference to you. Should he have been feeling the same confidence in your relationship that you seemed to have? He wasn’t insecure in being away from you, but the shorter exchanges and the less you seemed to have to say about the happenings back home...would confidence be what he would call it? It was all that was on his mind after every show, in between every practice, and before every interview, but all he could do was reflect the reciprocity being delivered and pray he was doing the right thing by not burdening you with it.
Jungkook tears his eyes away from the photo, squinting against the rest of the darkened living room as the swirly feeling in his head creeps back in, shadowed objects warping at odd angles. Whatever was on his mind when he got to the bar with Namjoon and Jimin became a little jumbled on his way out, the only thing he could really hone in on being the image of your face and the familiar route to your apartment, stumbling his way onwards determined to give you a piece of his drunk mind for what happened between you both and also maybe kiss you. 
His body trips around trying to find the unlit hallway that leads to you until he walks into the corner of it, cursing once more while he nurses the knock on his kneecap. Jungkook collides with at least three hung frames along the wall on his way down the hall, hushed expletives aiding blind hands in correcting them which instead just tilts them too far the other direction. Shuffling feet stutter into the wrong room twice before he makes it to the last door on the left, entrance cracked enough for his eyes to catch the edge of the bed and part of a still, sleeping lump stuffed under the covers. 
He pauses, hand hovering against the wood, feeling unsure now that he’s finally standing here. He wonders guiltily how long you’ve been asleep, knowing he kept you waiting all evening, and knowing you, guesses you probably stayed up to wait until the last of your hope for him had vanished. Maybe that was the last straw? If he left now, would there be a text waiting for him in the morning saying it was over? The snap. The thought of it being too close for comfort is what has his hand shoving forward, though, a little harder than he intended, the swing of the door wide until it thuds against the wall. 
He cringes, quickly attempting to reach forward and right the noise when he spots you beginning to stir in your sleep, but his efforts only help his feet get tangled in a stray pile of clothing you never bother to put away (“why put them away when I’m just gonna take them out to wear again?”) and send him falling with a heavy clonk onto the hard wood. 
He knows he’s done it when he hears those soft mewls rousing from the sheets. 
“...Kook?”
His already racing heart pounds at the sound of your voice, ridden with sleep, shaping the endearment that lets him know he hasn’t totally fucked up. He quickly shoves himself out of your clothes, feeling more idiotic and impossibly nervous than on his way here. Your presence only feet from him makes everything he came here to say and do all fuzzy...except the kissing you part. He still really wants to do that. 
Especially now that his eyes are focusing on your hazy image, curled up on his side of the bed, your bright eyes squinting with sleep and soft locks loosely waved and tossed by the pillow. Your skin is golden in the low light, almost shiny reflected against the moon beams filtering in the parted window nearby, and Jungkook swallows hard, fingertips aching to reach out and feel you despite the better judgement, no matter how small right now, working against him. 
“I see you still leave your clothes out,” is the first thing that slurs slightly from between his stalled lips, gaze raptured and body yearning for you. 
Your expression doesn’t change, slightly sleepy but glazed with unreadable caution as you fully acknowledge that he is standing in your room, present and whole and real. “Why put them away when I’m just--”
“--gonna take them out to wear again?” he quietly finishes for you, mouth twitching in a familiar smile that disappears just as quickly as he reads the thin ice coating the surface of the conversation. 
“...yeah,” you breathe, lungs having a hard time getting enough air to say anything else. Your hands are clenched around the fitted sheet, wrinkling the fresh make in place of where you’d rather have them, but the sting of anger, though diluted, is still swimming in the pit of your stomach, waiting to be addressed.
Jungkook’s eyes are locked on you, widened as if he’s looking at some hallucination; it’s then that you notice the worn hue under his irises and a clouded red hue around them, your own eyes adjusting to the scene. You watch as his hand slowly lifts, almost like he’s not fully aware of the action, and his body lurches slightly in your direction, but even the small attempt at motion has him leaning too far the side, losing his balance momentarily before he catches himself on the edge of the mattress, hand coming dangerously close to where your feet slide under the comforter. 
“You’re drunk,” you observe without opinion to your voice. The shamed look in his eyes when his head rises to meet you before looking away makes your heart jolt in empathy, the wear and tear he sports almost like a physical manifestation of the emotional wear and tear you’ve suppressed. 
There’s a breath of silence while you look at the boy before you, somehow a different form of the same broken Jungkook you’d let go of 6 months ago, the one you promised yourself you wouldn’t burden while he was away, taking it upon yourself to be your own emotional support while he was living the dream, but it seems the past few months have done their own burdening on him. Your expression softens, the anger in your stomach giving way to the hurt that you’ve longed to let go of since he started pulling away from you only three months before his return. 
“Why?” you find your voice filtering into the silence, a hoarseness drawing among your confusion. Jungkook’s face flits up to meet your gaze again, his lost manner seeking clarity amidst your initiation. 
His eyebrows scrunch. “I went with Namjoon and Jimin to the bar downtown when we landed...I know I should’ve just come straight--”
“No,” you cut him off, honestly uncaring for how he’s spent his evening. You’re more concerned with how he’s spent a much larger gap of time. “Why did you stop?”
“Stop?”
“Why did we stop?” You continue on, the pulse in your chest quickening. “Why did we stop trying for each other? Why are you here if you don’t care anymore?”
His face morphs into one of offense, as if you’ve just deeply insulted him. “Don’t...don’t care anymore? Why am I here?” Jungkook doesn’t feel so inebriated the more that you speak. “Who said I didn’t care anymore, Y/N?”
The sound of your name pouring from between his lips trips you up, a gasp of air inhaling between yours, but you clench your jaw, determined to hear something from him before you fall apart. “You...you stopped, Jungkook. You stopped talking to me like you used to...you stopped saying ‘I love you’.” Your gaze falls to the edge of the sheets in insecurity as you speak, everything you’ve been wondering for a long while now surfacing at the mercy of your newfound resolution. All the things you couldn’t seem to ask when he was an ocean away all seem so necessary now that he’s back home--now that he’s yours again. You don’t want him to not be yours. 
Your fallen eyes fail to see Jungkook moving from his leant place at the end of the bed, stifling a yelp of surprise when his body falls before you, seating himself on the same edge of the mattress and leaning his weight on the muscled arm he tents over your legs. When your stare shoots back up to his face, your unwavering purpose now wavering, you find his face to have a new sheen of intention, his brow furrowed with thought as he processes your words and his own musing. 
You keep quiet, busying yourself with your anxiously fiddling hands resting in your lap lest you reach out to touch him so close to you as he forms a response. “Y/N, look at me,” he requests, his voice steadier and gentle, sweet like you remember, so you look. His eyes are searching your face, making sure your attentions are his before his lips part again, slow and clear. “I love you.” 
Your heart nearly explodes on the spot, killing you both. It feels like a lifetime since you’ve been reassured of his affections, and to hear it now almost tears you open with relief. 
“I love you,” he repeats once more, leaning forward slightly. “I never stopped loving you. I never stopped trying. I was...confused.”
“What?” You’re aching for him to keep talking. You’re desperate for utter clarity, no matter the conditions. You just want to touch him. You want him to be yours. 
He drops his head for a moment, shaking it like he isn’t sure what to think anymore before rejoining your gaze. “I...you--it’s just that this whole time...” He’s at a loss for words, and you can see him mentally struggling to piece together both sides. Without thinking, your hand slides forward over his larder one, fingers beginning to trace along the veins that protrude just under his supple skin. The feeling of just that is euphoric, lighting up your nerves with a warmth they’ve been deprived of for much too long. You want more. 
“It’s okay, Jungkook. I’m listening. I’m here,” you comfort, not able to look him in the eye just yet and instead just continuing to stroke shapes into his hand until he’s shifting, palm moving to engulf yours like a gentle blanket, fingers slowly--agonizingly so--intertwining as his body slides forward a little more. You can almost smell the full weight of his natural scent, the memory of it long faded and long overdue for a renewal. 
“I thought you didn’t care anymore...or at least didn’t need me anymore,” he speaks softly again, explaining more calmly and collected this time, though his words still surprise you, eyes darting up to him in confusion.
“You thought I didn’t need you?”
“It’s just...you were so sad about me leaving, but it seemed like right after I was gone you--you just weren’t leaning on me for anything.” His words begin to blend together into a cohesive picture, the more he elaborates from his perspective, the more you begin to understand how things started to turn so sour, your hand wanting to pry from Jungkook’s just so you can face-palm yourself with all the regret readily available. 
“You didn’t text me nearly as much or about nearly as much. You cut our FaceTime’s short for whatever reason...I felt like I was missing out on your life and that that was okay--that you were doing fine without me here.”
It clicks.
“Oh my--I’m so sorry, Jungkook,” you heave, your heart heavy and mind reeling as you realize your grave mistake. You toss yourself forward throwing inhibition to the wind as your arms ensnare his neck, pulling him tight against you and reveling the opportunity to reconcile that him being here presents. 
His arms don’t hesitate for even a second to respond, wrapping in their entirety around the breadth of your waist, his face dipping away into your shoulder and making you feel as you did when you were in the airport so long ago, though the dread you felt then is replaced with fervent relief. 
“What are you sorry for, baby?” he wonders breathily against your skin, his lips brushing agonizingly sweet lines down your neck. 
“It was all a misunderstanding,” you reveal, feeling like an idiot just saying it. “All of it, everything, and it’s my fault. I’m so sorry. I made this so much harder on you than it was supposed to be.” 
“What are you talking about? Slow down, Y/N,” he soothes, brushing hands down your spine. “Just breathe.”
You comply. “I thought that you would be burdened, you know, having to focus on me so much while you were away. So I-I tried to handle things on my own as much as possible...god, it all sounds so dumb when I say it now. I don’t know what I was thinking.” You press your head into his hair, hiding your embarrassment and guilt from him, but he only breathes a heavy puff of repose. 
“That was it?”
“Well yeah--but then it got you thinking I was done with us, and you started pulling away too, and I’m sure it was a huge distraction that you didn’t need to focus on at all, and things could’ve been so much smoother so much sooner if I had just talked to you about it, and I--”
The pressure of his cupid’s lips pressing a line up your neck, along your jaw, and finally to the stalled part of your own shuts you up pretty quick. You melt into his hold, nothing more than the simple connection needed to have you falling apart. He seems so calm and relaxed despite what you’ve just told him, and you’re not sure why, but if it means more of this, then you don’t really know if you care.
“I love you,” he says again, and you don’t think you’ll ever tire of hearing it. “I never stopped loving you.” His reminder from earlier sits differently with you now. “And I’ll continue to love you. It’s exactly like you said--a misunderstanding.” He pecks your lips lethargically once more, savoring your taste. “And now that I understand, I just want to love you.”
His words set a pounding heart to rest, your eyes sighing closed as he pulls you into his lap and shifts along the mattress, cradling you over him and allowing you to inhale his presence for all its worth. You’re uncaring of every shitty moment you had to endure for whatever shitty reason leading up to this one because, for some reason, you presume your reunion wouldn’t have been the same--still happy, yes--but you’ve realized a newfound level of affection you have for Jungkook that you don’t think you realized before. A deeper kind of love. The kind that endures. 
~
aaaaand scene. i seriously can’t write breakup!au’s so here’s this cliche ending. cool? cool. 
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everlastingdreams · 5 years
Text
Dex X Reader: Sugar Crush Chapter 23
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Notes: Nah
Summary: Reader moves into the same building as one Agent Poindexter. A bond starts to grow between them. Can the reader move on after a traumatic past ‘relationship’ ?
Chapter: 23/28
Trigger Warning: Mentions of physical and emotional abuse ! YES this one will come with trigger warnings. I tried not to post too much into detail stuff but this entire thing comes with a trigger warning !
Word Count: 2538 words
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Like someone just turned on the switch again, that's what it felt like when you woke up. When you did you felt relief, relief that you were alive. Back on the world, but it only lasted for a few moments before the feeling of disorientation wore off. And when your eyes focused on the room you were in, it was enough to jolt you up and back into conciousness.
“Easy there, love. Take your time.” you saw Shaw sitting on a chair in the room at the foot of the bed.
You closed your eyes, hoping all of this was just a horrible dream. Shaw's voice broke through the silence.
“I was wondering if we had gone a bit overboard with the sedative. I've been waiting for you to wake for hours.” he said as he sat in the chair cross-legged, drinking a glass of wine.
“Why the hell did you come back for me ? We both know I hate you.” your voice was still weak from the sedation.
He putted the glass on a nearby dresser “Love and hate cannot exist without one another, dear. The fact that you hate me also means that you still care.”
You scoffed in disbelieve when you heard him say it.
You gritted your teeth while you glared at him “What happened to your face ? Devil left his mark on you ? Now the outside is starting to match the inside.”  
He looked to the side and you knew your acid remark hit a weak spot in him “Ah yes, Daredevil.” his jaw thightened as he said the name “I have thought about it, I understand why you ran when you had the chance. I admit we had our fair share of problems in our relationship, but you selling me out to Daredevil. That hurt, sweetheart. But I am willing to look past your flaws.”
You wondered how the hell he knew you told Daredevil he was in the armory until Shaw pointed to the small moving camera in the corner of the room.
You were starting to feel sick, he had a security camera in here ? “I thought I knew how awful you were, but it just keeps getting worse.. you make me sick.”
He scoffed before he looked at you “Lord, you have gotten quite the mouth on you, haven't you ?”
“Pot, kettle.” you snarled.
“Carefull, little dove.” he warned.
Fear and anger were mixed inside you, you were lucky to escape the first time. Trying it a second time would be near impossible.
“Why ? You'll hit me anyway ! Because that's who you are Shaw ! You are the kind of guy that makes women afraid of meeting men !” you didn't hold it in anymore as you spit the words at him.
Shaw was losing his patience fast, his voice was low, controlled “You should be gratefull.”
“Gratefull ?” you scoffed “ For what ? To be here ? To be locked in this prison called hell !”
“You are alive because of what I did to save you !” he almost shouted it at you “For some reason Wilson Fisk wants you dead. I was able to convince him to let me do the job. He told me where you were, if it had been anyone else, you would be dead. Remember that.”
You let out a breath when you processed what he just told you, why would someone like Wilson Fisk want you dead ? Remembering the man that followed you that day you bumped into the devil himself....no. He can't be telling you the truth.
Shaw was calmer again, but his words were laced with venom “Tell me, little dove. Are you not curious why someone like Wilson Fisk wants you dead ?"
You didn't answer him. "Don't take this as an insult but, you are nobody, you are nothing. Yet you are somehow important in this grand scheme Fisk has planned. Why is that ? What are you not telling me, love ? " "Really ? That was not supposed to insult me ? " You scoffed. "Oh right. I forgot, you only speak 'asshole' ." "Language." He warned. "Where did you learn to speak this way ? You used to have such good manners before our unfortunate seperation." "How would you know ? You never really cared when I spoke. I'm nothing more then a piece of decoration to you." He eyed you up an down as he spoke "But what a lovely decoration you are." Your stomach turned, you didn't want him to look at you like that. You didn't want him thinking about touching you. Those few months had been a nightmare, one you never wanted to live through again.
“Your phone has been rather popular today." He says before he pulls out your phone from his pocket.
You looked at your phone in his hands, this was not good. Not good at all. "Let's have a look shall we ?" He unlocks your phone "Landlord, a pizza place.. who is Mister B ?" He was calm but the words were filled with venom and jealousy. You bit back the tears at the fresh memory of Bob, on the floor, gasping for air as he bled out. Your jaw clenched and Reed now watched your expression waiting for an answer.
“Must I repeat every quest-” he started.
You interupted him “You shot him.” your eyes filled with tears but your words were full of anger.
His eyes fell back to your phone “Oh. Well. That is one number you won't be needing anymore then.”
He reacted like it meant nothing to him and you were certain that was exactly the case.
He focused on your phone some more and you calmed down a little. The last thing you wanted was to cry in front of him.
You looked up at him and his eyes moved from your phone to you before he spoke as if he would ask a child for an explanation “Who's 'Dex' ?”
O O O O oo o o o o ooo o o o o o o ooo o  oo oo o oo oo oo o o o o o o o oo o   oo ooo o  o o o o o
Putting Reed's name in the system had given them an address. Ray put a team together and soon Dex and Ray were on their way to the location. Dex knew they would have to do this low profile, Reed was no small fish in the criminal world, that he was sure of now. That slimey snake had fooled even the FBI. God knows what else this asshole was capable of. Ray sended some of the agents to the back of the house, Dex stuck with Ray as they got ready to breach the place.
Ray moved to the side of the door, gun's drawn, Dex stood behind the agents breaching the door, ready for anything.
Ray held up his hand, quietly counting down with his fingers before he yelled “BREACH !”
The agents breached the door with the ram.
“FBI !!!” The agents shouted as they swarmed the place.
Soon shouts of agents that said “CLEAR !” could be heard.
Dex searched in every room of that place, every inch of it. All there was to find was furniture covered in sheets.
The place was abandoned, and it had been like this for a while as dust was starting to collect on the sheets.
Dex put his gun in the holster as he let his arms fall besides him. The voices of the other agents didn't reach him as the voices in his mind had once again started to scream.
You weren't here.
“Dex..” Ray walked up to him, his face sorrowful. “She's not here.”
Dex could only nod as he did a few paces and kicked a chair across the room in frustration.
The other agents stared at him until he gave them a look that could send chills down the devil's spine.
Ray didn't reprimand him this time “We'll find her.”
“How ? Ray. How the hell are we going to find her now ! That son of a bitch could be half across the world with her by now ! We have no leads !” he sneered.
Ray understood his friend's reaction, he was sure he would react the same way if someone harmed his familly.”
They were interrupted when a cellphone went off. Dex's cellphone.
His brows drew together as he fished the phone out of his pocket.
His couldn't believe his eyes when he saw the name on the screen.
Your name.
o o o o o o o oo  o o o o oo o o o o oo o o o oo o   oo  oo o oo oo oo  o o o o oo  ooo o o  oo o
You had tried to fool Shaw about how Dex is just your neighbour, but Shaw always was a suspicious/ jealous bastard. You could only sit and watch in horror as he called Dex on your phone.
"(Y/N) ?!" Dex's voice came through the phone loud enough to even make you hear it across the room. "I'm afraid she is unable to come to the phone right now." Shaw kept his voice professional, "Where is she, asshole ?!" Dex's voice sounded. Reed looked at you with interest "Well, this explains the sudden change in her choice of language." "I asked you a question, asshole. Where is she ?! " Dex demanded again. Reed hummed, something he always did when people dared to insult him “Allow me to make something clear to you. Dex. I don't answer to you. But you will answer me.." he looked at you as he spoke again "Unless you would enjoy hearing her scream in pain." His eyes were dark. His threat wasn't empty, they never were. Reed was jealous and it always brought out the worst in him. There was silence on the other end of the line. "Are we clear on that ?" Reed said in repressed anger. "Yes." Dex finally said. "Good. Glad to hear. So tell me, Dex. Who are you ? Or did your parents really just call you Dex ? " You knew what Reed was doing. He was trying to find out who exactly Dex was, it would make it easier for him to find and kill Dex if he would pose a problem. You prayed Dex wouldn't answer him, he would never be safe again if he did. Reed watched your reactions like a hawk as you tried to keep a blank expression. "Well ?" He was getting irritated. "Poindexter." You could hear Dex say and your heart dropped. Reed ended the call right after Dex had answered him. The look in his eyes was something you had never seen before, not with Reed. It was gone in a second but impossible to miss. Fear.
Oo o o o o o oo  oo o o o   o o oo  o o o o oo o  o o o o o o o o  o o o o o o o o oo oo oo
Dex gasped for air after the call ended, his worst fear had come reality. You were at the mercy of a madman and he had no idea where he was keeping you. His hands itched, itched to be around Reed's neck and strangle him.
“Was that him ?” Ray gave him a worried look.
“That was him. He has her, Ray. He threathened to hurt her.” he was breathing so fast yet he felt like no air was getting in his lungs.
“Did he say anything that could help us find her ?” Ray asked.
Dex shook his head “No.”
Ray brushed a hand over his mouth “Alright, we'll go back to the precinct. Talk to Ally Smith again. Maybe she can remember something from their conversations, something (y/n) might have mentioned to her.”
He didn't think it was useful, but Ally was the only connection to finding you at this point. So he agreed to go back to talk to Ally with Ray.
Oo oo o o o o  oo o oo oo o o  oo o o o o  oo oo o o oo o  o o o oo o o oo oo  o  o o  o ooo  oo oo oo
“Finally I understand why Fisk wants you dead.” Shaw scoffed “He wants that Poindexter guy and you just somehow managed to get inbetween those plans.” Shaw clenched his jaw in anger.
Fear build inside of you when he told you that Fisk wants Dex for some reason.
“So tell me because I am curious, what is going on between you and this 'Dex' ?” Reed's words were filled with venom, you had seen him angry many times before but this was worse. He knew there was something going on between you and Dex, he knew and he was burning up his patience for your answer very fast.
You thought of a good answer, a lie he could believe, but the fear in your eyes must have given it away.
“ANSWER ME !” his calm facade fell as he stood from his chair and shouted it at you.
You hated that you automatically started to shake when he shouted at you.
“He's just my neighbour, he must be upset over the fact that you killed the people in the apartment building. ” you tried to sound like you were telling the truth, knowing that Shaw would skin Dex alive if he knew he was more then a neighbour or friend to you.
He breathed audibly through his nose as he straightened the jacket of his suit. You slid further away on the bed, knowing he could easily snap right now.
He didn't look at you when he picked up his glass again. He took one sip and in one sudden move he threw the glass in your direction. It shattered on the wall close to you and some of the shards grazed your hair and skin.
You were lucky the glass didn't touch your eyes as the bed was now covered in glass and wine.
You looked at Shaw in shock.
“DO YOU TAKE ME FOR A FOOL ?! Fisk wants you dead because you are the only thing standing in his way to get to Poindexter.” He took a step closer to you, eyes filled with rage.
The door flew open now and two men stood in the doorway “Sir..” their eyes scanned the room, falling on the shattered glass around you and the spilled wine “We heard.. we thought..”  
Shaw composed himself just enough to address them “Did I call for you ?”
The men shifted awkwardly on their feet “No, Sir..”
“I don't pay you to think. I pay you to follow orders, understand ?” he said through gritted teeth.
The men nodded “Yes, Sir.”
Shaw sighed and looked at you one last time “I will have to undo the damage you have caused. We will talk when I return.”
You heard the lock turn when he walked out of the room.
Tag list for this series (let me know if you want to be added or removed from the list :) ) :
@givemeabite@aquietfortitudeandstrength@missminx1993@fuchsiagrasshopper@legion-18@love-mia-marisol@star-spangled-man@bilson-bethel@peterbxrnes@burningmusicmachine@xxemoluverxx@queenselana@superflashvengers @marvelmayo @qrangcr
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krreader · 6 years
Text
something to remember
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pairing: jeon jeongguk x reader fandom: bts warnings: / genre: fluff
summary: it was supposed to be a fun weekend trip filled with nice dates and fancy dinners. but jungkook had more in mind and you honestly hadn’t been prepared for it.
a/n: @glorisit​ THANK YOU BB I HOPE YOU ENJOYED YOUR TRIP AND I LOVE YOU TOO!!!!! I just wanted to say that I honestly didn’t know where I was going with this and just kept writing and then I was done and was like… this is.. kinda good? I love when that happens ahhaha. anyways, hope you all like this ♥ (also, I reALLY wanted to use a gif from the GCF video, but since JK never really films himself, this was the best I could do. so imagine this is you and not jimin lol)
ask box | masterlist | fandoms | faq | multifandom reader blog
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Up until you were sat on the plane, you hadn’t even noticed that he had been filming you. He had started the second you two left the apartment, all the way to the airport, when checking in..
It was only when you turned your head from the window to face him, that you noticed he was holding his camera to film you.
“What are you doing?” you chuckled.
Even though he had his hoodie on as well as his face mask, you could see it in the way the corners of his eyes wrinkled, that he was grinning happily.
“Filming you.”
“I can see that. But I don’t understand why you’re doing it.”
“Because you’re pretty?”
You gently pushed the camera down, but only so you could press a kiss against his nose through the face mask, “You’re cute, you know that?”
From the way he was giggling like a ten year old, he seemed to have enjoyed that.
The truth was, this trip was so much more than a casual boyfriend/girlfriend weekend trip. This was something he wanted to remember. He obviously would even without the camera, but he wanted to be able to watch it again when he was old and wrinkly and you and him were sitting on the porch of your house with fifteen grandchildren.
He literally filmed everything.
You arriving in Tokyo, arriving at the hotel, having breakfast, lunch, going on a sightseeing tour. If he wasn’t filming you, he was filming the city.
He documented every little thing and every time you so much as smiled, the camera would be on you and he’d capture the moment.
You went from one date to the next, up until that same night when you had dinner, before retreating to your room. It was only then, that he finally turned off the camera for the night.
“So what’s really going on?”
“Huh?” he took off his shirt and crawled into bed with you, immediately raising his arm, so that you could cuddle into his side.
“The whole filming thing.. I doubt you’re going to be able to publish this, or ARMY will go crazy. They’re okay with us now, but if you post this, they’re going to flock me.”
“They won’t flock you..”
“Remember when you accidentally hinted that you and I have had sex before? Remember that debate?”
True that. But what exactly did everyone expect? That he was still a virgin? That he would be till marriage? Like, sure, he could have been and he wouldn’t have minded if you hadn’t been comfortable with it, but you’ve been with each other for more than three years now. It was only natural that it had happened eventually.
“It’s not for ARMY. It’s for myself. And for you.”
“As like a birthday present?” you looked up at him with shining eyes and he instantly down at you.
“I’m not going to tell you, or it won’t be a surprise anymore.”
“Oh, come on. At least give me a hint.”
“Stop this,” he laughed and pressed a kiss against your forehead, “Now sleep. Tomorrow is going to be a long day.”
You hadn’t actually known what he had planned, since he hadn’t given you any details beforehand. But like the day before, it was one date followed by the other, one amazing thing that topped the one before. You honestly hadn’t expected a vacation like this, especially because this was usually only something a guy would do for his girlfriend on her birthday or an anniversary. But it definitely wasn’t either of these things, you had already checked. Twice.
The camera was always on, especially that night before your flight back.
Jeongguk had decided the best way to end this trip was to go to Disney for a couple of hours.
You were first looking around the park for a bit, going on a couple of rides, before having dinner in the Blue Bayou restaurant (which was really romantic, by the way). Again, he did not turn the camera off for a minute, always kept it on you to capture every single moment.
But it was never on him.
Well.. not until the end anyways.
You had just wanted to go to the bathroom before the firework would begin and he took that opportunity to set up the camera, crouching down in front of it and smiling happily.
“I hope you’re still with her when you’re watching this. She’s the best thing that’s ever going to happen to you, understood? Treat her right, for the rest of your life and give her all the love she deserves. Or I will come to the future and kick your ass, Jeon Jeongguk,” he grinned, “But for now.. wish me luck.”
“What are you doing?” you laughed as you came back out, “The firework is about to start, come on..”
“I know, I know..,” he rushed to your side and stopped you from walking away when you wanted to, “We can watch it from here.”
“What.. without the camera? You filmed me having breakfast twice, food staining my clothes, but you don’t want to film this?”
“But that’s just one of the things I love about you,” he wrapped his arms around your middle and you yours around his neck, “I love when you’re eating much, because then I know that you’re okay and healthy. I love the sounds that you make when it tastes good, because then I know that you’re happy. And I love it when you tell me you’re full, because then I don’t have to worry about you.”
“What is this?” you laughed, your eyebrows drawn together in confusion, though.
“It’s just me telling you things that I never really told you or not told you enough, but I should have. You know, like how beautiful you are.”
“Jeongguk,” you giggled, “You’re making me flustered, stop this.”
“I haven’t even started,” he quickly kissed your forehead, before looking back into your eyes, “You know.. I used to think that I wouldn’t meet my soulmate until I was much older and not in this industry anymore. I never thought I’d meet you by coincidentally sitting on the same park bench one day and I couldn’t tie my shoe laces together because my hand had been injured. I remember how I immediately fell in love with your kindness, when I only had to look at you with my pleading eyes and you instantly tied them back together. I remember how I fell in love with your eyes when they lit up as you smiled. You know how they always say you meet the love of your life when you least expect it.. and that’s really the truth. The more days you and I spend together, the more I realize that I don’t want to spend the rest of my life without you. And even when we have little fights or arguments, I still never, not once, want you to get out of my life. Because no matter how much my future might change, there’s always one fixed point. And that’s you, (Y/N).”
The more he spoke, the more you began to tear up.
Jeongguk wasn’t necessarily someone that never talked about his emotions or feelings, but never in that sense. Never so deeply. You were truly touched by his words, but even when he was saying all of this, you didn’t think, not even for a second, that he would do what he did next.
“I know we’re young.. and many others are going to think that I’m crazy for doing this. But I honestly do not have a single doubt about it. I know that this is what I want and I want it to last forever.. so..”
“Oh my god,” you breathed out as he pulled out the ring box and got down on one knee with a smug grin.
You didn’t know if he was confident, but he sure as hell loved that he was able to surprise you like this, because you really hadn’t expected this tonight.
“I don’t want you to be my girlfriend anymore, (Y/N). I want you to be my wife. I want to call you mine forever.. so..,” he opened up the ring box, a shiny engagement ring staring at you, “Will you marry me?”
Three years you have been with him. Three years, were you cherished him each and every day as much as he cherished you. And like he had said, there was not one single day, that you wanted your future to be without him. Yes, there were obviously arguments and fights, but they were normal and the important thing was that even during that time, nothing changed.
You loved him, more than anything in the world.
And you wanted to spend the rest of your life with him.. you just never thought he would be as serious about this as to asking you to marry him at this age.
But you could see it in his eyes. The sincerity, the earnestness and the love he held for you. This wasn’t just a mood, something that would pass in a couple of weeks and then he’d regret it.
No, he was dead serious about this.
And fortunately for him, so were you.
“I do,” you finally answered and as cocky as he had been, the second the question was out in the open, he had held his breath, now finally able to let it out with a big grin.
“You do?”
“I do,” you repeated and leaned down to kiss him happily, the first tears rolling out of your eyes.
Jeongguk slowly got up from the ground, only stopping the kiss so that he could put the ring on your finger, before he wrapped his arms around you like before and pulling you against him like he’d never let you go again.
“There’s one more thing,” he said after a while of kissing/you crying (it was just really wet and you didn’t know whether that was the kiss or the tears, but probably the latter).
“I don’t know how much I can handle, to be honest,” you laughed, while you tried to dry off your face with your sleeve.
He pressed one last kiss against your nose, before letting go of you, only to wrap his arms around you from behind when the fireworks began.
At first there were a couple of normal ones, big ones, that reflected in your eyes like stars.
And then there was one that had you gasp, laughing a couple of seconds later. Because there, in the sky, midst all of the random colorful fireworks, it said: “She said yes!”
“Glad you didn’t say no, or this would have been awkward,” he chuckled, as he kissed a spot behind your ear.
How could you have ever said no, when he truly was the love of your life? Age didn’t matter if you were as sure as you two were.. this was the right thing to do, without a doubt.
And while you were amazed by the fireworks, Jeongguk turned around to the camera and winked, giving a big thumbs up.
That would be a good way to end the video.
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fancy-lad-oneshots · 6 years
Note
What if Sole and the companions found out (in an au) that there was no Duncan and Maccready made the whole thing up cause he was getting a bunch of caps for the cure.
Oof, right in the feels.
Was it true? There Sole sat in the backroom of Goodneighbor, where the two had met, pondering for hours after being told MacCready never had a son. They even went as far as to send their companion out to look for him.  Of course it couldn’t be true… They tapped the arm rest of the couch, Mac would never make something like that up… Would he? I mean, he is a mercenary… Sole was drawn out from their thoughts as their companion walked into the room, followed by MacCready. The gunner’s jaw was clenched, like a child knowing they were caught doing something they weren’t supposed to. 
“Mac, I’m not making any accusations but…” Sole began, leaning forward in their seat. “I was told… that the cure was never for your son, that it was just a big pay out.” Their voice shook with uncertainty as they met the mans eyes. He hesitated, sensing that they already knew the truth. 
The gunman tilted his head, hiding his gaze from them. “It was a job, nothing more. So I fudged a few details, no big deal.”
It was, however, a very big deal. Sole felt their heart sink down to the pit of their stomach, he couldn’t even face them and tell them the truth. After all they’d been through, after all Sole put on the line for what they believed was a terrified father, after every piece of honest comfort they offered, the whole time it was just a lie… and Sole was the butt of the joke. The room felt as if it were spinning as they struggled to take a breathe. They felt infuriated and embarrassed, feeling the hot tears swell in the corner of their eyes as they looked down.
“Get out…” The words left their mouth in a whisper. 
“Sole look-“ His hands outstretched. 
“Get out!!”
Cait: “Yer lookin’ to get that hand broken, aren’t ya?” 
All it took was one step for Cait to get in between the two, glaring down the man before he even get another word out. 
“Oh, and you’re one to talk?” He spat.
“More than you. I may be up for thievin’ and such, but lyin’ about a child isn’t on my to-do list.” Her arms crossed, giving him the you-better-fucking-leave look.
“Sole, you seriously-“
“Don’t worry about them, they’re none of your concern. I will be though if ya don’t get outta here within’ the next 30 seconds.” 
The man took one look at her and scoffed, “Fine,” turning towards the door with a raised hand. “Didn’t wanna run with you anymore anyway.” 
Once gone, Cait turned to her friend and knelt down, taking their hand in hers. “Look, I can’t say it’ll be alright, but I can tell you that you don’t have to worry about him anymore…” She wasn’t the best at comfort, but her eyes made all the promises she couldn’t make herself. 
Curie: She watched in remorse seeing Sole so distraught. This man had given them a sense of comfort and now… Well to Sole, it was all a lie. 
“Monsieur, I recommend you leave the premises immediately.” Curie straightened her shoulders the best she could, standing up for her dear Sole. “Your presence here is no longer welcome.”  
MacCready looked at Sole, who refused to make eye contact, then back to Curie. “Oh great, now you’re taking the side of a synth over me.” His voice was laced with spite. 
“Better than a liar!” It was Curie’s turn to get upset. How dare he insult Sole’s judgement, when he was the one to be judged. “If you do not leave, I will use force.” 
“Don’t strain yourself…” MacCready looked at Sole, “I guess I won’t be seeing you around.” and walked out, leaving Sole to be comforted in the arms of her companion. 
Danse: “They said get out, civilian.” In a moment the man was cutting off MacCready’s access to Sole. “I don’t think you want them to repeat themselves.” His eyes darkened with anger, feeling the blood rise to his face. 
“Gonna sick your attack dog on me now?” The mercenary didn’t back down, glaring right back at Danse. 
For a moment, his anger got the best of him and he reached out for MacCready’s collar in a white rage. The irritated scoff he let out only infuriated Danse more, causing him to tighten his grip. 
“You will leave the Commonwealth. If I, or any other members of the Brotherhood of Steel see you again then you will be shot on sight.” His voice held more restraint then he led on to have. “Do I make myself clear?”
“Jeez, a little harsh for someone just trying to make a living.”
“Do I make myself clear?” Danse repeated, bringing the mercenary’s face closer. At this point, the man was barely on the ground. 
MacCready spat back. “Yeah, you’ve made yourself pretty damn clear.” 
Danse let go, shoving him a few feet away. As MacCready went to say something else, the Paladin shot him a look that caused the man to shut his mouth and leave the room. Once gone, Danse exited his power armor and looked over at his friend. Sole sat there in silence with their head in their hands, it was obvious they were doing their best not to cry. All Danse could do was sit next to them and offer a comforting presence. His anger was nearly gone, replaced now with complete worry for Sole’s well-being. He placed a hand on their shoulder and stayed like that for what seemed like hours, occasionally stroking his thumb in hopes it was enough, that he was enough.  
Deacon: “Shit, I lie a lot but that… That’s way outta line. You just don’t do that.” Deaon crossed his arms and gave the other man a scowl. 
Sole was upset, Deacon saw that immediately and he didn’t like it one bit. Even more so he didn’t like how MacCready inched forward, trying to explain himself. 
“Hey man, you should just get outta here.” 
“Yeah, not likely.” MacCready scoffed. 
“I said,” Deacon began, placing a firm grip on the ex-gunner’s shoulder. “you should leave.” His nonchalant tone took on a more serious note, eyeing Maccready up from behind his patrol glasses.
Maccready’s shoulders squared up in response. “What gives man, it’s not that big of a deal.”
“You hurt my friend and to me, that is a big deal. Now,” He added. “I’ll tell you one more time to get lost.”  
With one last look at Sole, Maccready decided to walk away from the situation. “Fine.” Without another word, the mercenary walked out of the room. 
“I’m sorry Sole, you know I’m not… I’m not lying like that to you.” Deacon sat beside them, offering his shoulder to cry on. Sole was a trooper, they would get through it, but he hated the way it made him feel to think someone could hurt them like this. 
Hancock: Within seconds Hancock had his hands on the other man. “Look MacCready, I like you, so I’m not gonna kill ya right away…” He pulled at the sniper’s collar, voice calm with an anger only noticeable through his sickening smile. “But if I so much as get a whiff of you around Goodneighbor again, I won’t be so generous.” 
“Hey calm down, I was only-“
“I don’t need your excuses. You lied, and I don’t like liars.” Now, smile gone, he pulled out his knife. “So I really suggest you leave. Now.” 
MacCready put his hands up in defeat, knowing when he’s outmatched. If he had learned anything about Goodneighbor, it was to not push the buttons of the mayor. Once released from his grip, MacCready took one look at Sole and left the room in silence. Hancock’s face softened as he turned to Sole, kneeling in front of them and taking their hand in his. 
“Look sunshine, if you want me to kill him just say the word.” The ghoul tried to get a look at their face, his shoulders sagging when he saw just how broken they looked. “Hey now, that’s not fair, you’re still a looker even with that sad face.”  
His attempt to make them smile worked, but just barely. Who cares, that’s all he needed as he pulled them into a hug. Next time, he thought, he would kill the son of a bitch. 
Piper: “Yeah get out MacCready! Ya sleaze ball!” Piper got up in his face, fuming from learning he lied the whole time.  
“Pfft, like you don’t leech off this crap all the time. Don’t act all high and mighty.” He scoffed, crossing his arms. 
The reporter stood between him and Sole, knowing how upset they were. “Look, what you did was just… wrong. I don’t care how many caps were in it for you, you took advantage of Sole.” 
“Advantage? Come on Sole, you don’t-“ 
“Get out!” This time, Piper shoved him. Before MacCready could react, Ham walked in with his pistol in hand. 
“Do we have an issue here?” He growled, obviously annoyed he has to do his job as bouncer. 
Piper crossed her arms and glared at MacCready. “Yes, please escort this man out.” 
After being pulled out by force, Piper sat next to Sole and pulled them into a hug. “It’s ok Blue, next time we see him I’ll kick his ass, alright?” This earn a half hearted laugh from her friend. 
Preston: A calm hand was placed on MacCready’s shoulder, stopping him before he could make an argument. 
“I think you should leave.” Preston’s voice was placid, but his eyes betrayed him. They were full of rage for the agony the mercenary caused his dear friend. 
“Look minuteman, I don’t need your advice.” MacCready brushed the hand off of his shoulder, looking towards Sole.
Without missing a beat, Preston’s hand returned to his shoulder, much tighter this time. The minuteman’s chest felt tight as he did his best to restrain himself, but damn was it hard. Sole was such a selfless person, how could anyone lie to them about something so dire? He would never understand people’s disloyalty, but he wouldn’t let that affect his judgement. 
“The general doesn’t need someone like you making their life harder than it already is, so just leave. Before I make you.” Preston wasn’t one for threatening, but this was his friend on the line. He made a quick glance, which MacCready saw, at his laser rifle, making the mercenary back up.
“Fine fine… Sole, I guess this is goodbye.”
“And good riddance.” The man couldn’t hide his disgust as he knelt beside his friend, offering a comforting hand.  
Nick: “Now that’s just all kinds of wrong.” Nick lit a cigarette, his yellow eyes sending a glare towards the man. 
Maccready rolled his eyes. “You’re one to talk, synth.”  
“I never lied about what I was, or my motivations.” His gravely voice lowered as he neared MacCready. “I didn’t need to. What’s your excuse?” 
“They were looking for their kid so I figured… A little common ground would go a long way.” The sniper reasoned.
“That “long way” of yours got you your own personal spot in hell.“ He exhaled a puff of smoke. “I hope you have the decency to leave on your own because if not, I’ll make sure you make it down there.” 
Now, Nick was even more angry. Sole would have helped regardless, they were selfless like that, and this man took advantage of their good nature. The detective took one step to stand in front of Sole, leveling his eyes with MacCready’s.
“Leave. Now. I won’t repeat myself, understand?” Nick threatened.
Maccready tugged his hat down, avoiding the eyes that followed his moves. “Fine, didn’t want this bad company anyway.” 
After he walked out, Nick sat beside Sole and offered a handkerchief to them. “You ok, kid?” He inquired. They didn’t need to answer, he knew they weren’t ok. Putting out his cigarette, he patted their back for a while, hoping the pain wouldn’t last long for their sake. 
X6-88: “Ma’am/sir, would you like me to dispose of him?”
The synth, already pulling out a gun, glared quietly from behind his glasses. His voice led on one of disinterest but that was farther than the truth. He was placed in charge of protecting Sole, that also meant emotionally, and this man had hurt them.  
“Listen pal,” MacCready pointed a finger at X6-88’s chest. “You don’t know-argh!”  
Within two seconds X6-88 had him on his knees, the finger that was pointed at him clenched in the synths hand with a sharp crunching sound. 
“I highly suggest not doing that again.” His tone, now one of irritation, tightened with every word. “You mean nothing to me. The only reason you’re still breathing is because I was not given the order to execute you.” 
MacCready’s jaw clenched in pain, grunting as he tried to pull his hand back. 
“Ma’am/sir?” X6-88 inquired towards Sole, who was looking at MacCready with an expression indistinguishable. 
“… Just let him go.” Was all they said. 
The courser hesitated, due to his desire to end the man, but followed his order. “As you wish.” 
The ex-gunner got up and spat at Sole, “Keep him on a shorter leash next time.” 
As he went to leave, X6-88 shot him a look that most likely could kill a man. He put his hands behind his back, watching the doorway where MacCready left. Sole didn’t say anything after that, but the synth swore to himself that if he ever saw the mercenary again he wouldn’t hesitate to take him out. Sole was kind person, a rare trait to have in the commonwealth and the courser wouldn’t stand for anyone taking advantage of them and getting away with it. Especially not his Sole. 
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darkhymns-fic · 6 years
Text
Color
Once before, Regal had wanted to visit Ozette. She had told him of her family; of the trees that grew, of the tea her father loved, and of the sister who was not afraid.
Fandom: Tales of Symphonia Characters/Pairing: Regal Bryant/Alicia Combatir, Presea Combatir Rating: G Mirror Links: AO3, FF.net Notes: Written for Tales of Symphonia Week 2017, for Oct 10 - Light and Dark. (Another late one! This will probably continue.)
Even by the time they reached Altessa’s, he kept on the shackles.
“I mean I know you’re our prisoner and all,” Zelos said to the man, his features so utterly familiar yet so hard to place, that it was like a gnat stinging against one’s scalp. “But you sure do love dressing up for the part.”
Regal had seated himself just outside the door, Zelos offering to act as his guard while the rest convened with the dwarf. Though he sat cross-legged on the ground, his posture was stiff-backed, proper, and he knew just where to place his locked hands in his lap. All of this without any fidgeting.
This man knew how to present himself, like so many others Zelos had seen.
“It is fitting,” was all Regal said, ending the conversation.
Zelos didn’t take the hint. “Huh. Well that’s kinda boring.”
The front door opened swiftly, nearly knocking the Chosen in the face. The first out was someone small, her hair a bright pink and clashing against the muted colors of the stones that jutted from the cliff. She carried her ax in hand, like a twig held in the grip of a child.
“Is there anything we can do?” Genis asked, following quickly after Presea.
The door had slightly closed inwardly by then, allowing Zelos to recover. It then snapped open yet again, Lloyd’s hand pressed against the doorknob. “We just need something to set the key crest with, and if we can find it-”
“Gah! Watch it, bud!” Zelos cried, one hand clutching his face.
Lloyd turned. “…Why are you just standing in the way then?”
Regal ignored them, eyes drawn to the girl who had decided to seat herself beside a lone tree. Genis stood near her, trying to start a conversation. But all she did in response was repeat herself. “I want to go home.”
The Exsphere sat just beneath her throat. The sunlight couldn’t seem to reflect against it. It was like someone had a cut a hole in her skin, revealing only nothing to be there at all.
.
.
.
“Master, I’ll feel more at ease if you let me handle this.” She would push against his shoulders, just lightly so, fingertips perched over the fine material of his vest. Sometimes a brush of her hand would edge close to his collar, arranging the lace so he could be more presentable. “That’s why I’m here in the first place!”
It was not that Regal had a lack of servants, many to care for his barely used home, or even a lack of assistants who helped with his work organization. But Alicia tended to overtake the rooms he was using, sometimes setting aside the documents that he was still in the middle of finalizing.
“You work yourself much too hard,” she would tell him, her hands deft as she removed a stack of papers from his grip.
Alicia’s hair clashed with the colors of his office, a bright pink set against deep wine red and oak brown. It was hard for Regal to ignore her presence whenever she entered the room, despite her light footsteps, barely making an imprint on the plush carpets.
It was on one particular morning that she handed him a letter.
“Master Regal, look!” She rushed out to him as he stood within a small garden atop his office building. It was a place where he liked to go to think, especially early in the day when the sun rose, its reflection seeming to extend across the whole ocean surrounding Altamira. “I got a letter from my sister.”
“Ah, you’ve talked to me about her, haven’t you?” He sat on the bench, enjoying his black tea. Alicia was a friendly girl, who didn’t seem to understand the designated space between servants and their masters. It was in the training that George had taught her after all, but here she was, sidling up next to Regal so that she could show off the handwritten letter. Still, he didn’t reprimand her.
“It’s been years since I’ve received a letter from her… It’s not easy getting much from Ozette to here, so this letter must be quite late since when she first sent it.” She smoothed out the letter more. “She must be grown by now!”
Regal raised an eyebrow as he looked at the letter. Neatly written, though with a slant that indicated one who was not used to penmanship often. Many adults in that far-off village weren’t exactly transcribers… but there was something childish about the writing.
“So, it is like we are looking into the past then?” He smiled, enjoying Alicia’s puzzled look, for it made her crinkle her forehead just so, and her lips slightly part. “However older your sister is now, you can see what she has been thinking through here when she was only a child.”
Alicia nodded then in understanding. “She writes how she has been helping Papa in his work. He taught her how to prepare the sacred wood, though he won’t let her have an ax of her own. But she was given a dagger to whittle the wood down. She’s even learned to make charms! I wish I could have seen, but she says she will send one to me in her next letter.” Alicia’s smiled dimmed a little. “That might be another year later or more…”
“Perhaps we can send a private messenger. One to handle your correspondence with her.”
“No, Master Bryant. I can’t ask that of you. And… besides.” She hesitated. “Ozette is a very private place. They do not take to strangers from other towns very well. It took Papa all he could to even let me leave. I am not sure how he would react to a foreign messenger knocking at his door.”
Regal decided not to pursue that front. “I understand. I just notice how often you speak of your family. I would at least like you to be able to communicate with them in a reliable manner.”
“You think too much of me. I am fine! Just knowing that my sister wrote to me is enough. And, she must be busy right now anyway. I wouldn’t be surprised if she has already taken over for my father’s work.”
She folded the letter then, placing it on her knees. “She was always the more mature out of the both of us, you know,” Alicia confessed. “Papa needed someone like that, someone who doesn’t get scared at the sight of sharp tools… I wonder how he’s been doing. His health was not in the best shape when I left, but Presea didn’t mention much of that. Perhaps he got better?”
Regal held his teacup as lightly as he could, careful to not upend it in the slightest. It would have been troublesome to spill any of the contents. Even so, Alicia would help clean up the mess. She would take the teacup from his hands, and tuck away her sister’s letter for more important duties, like sweeping, organizing, and reciting George’s instructions for arranging the cutlery, all by rote.
“How about we visit your family then? Would that be more suitable, if they saw a familiar face?”
Alicia turned to face him. She leaned forward, ignoring that proper distance yet again. “Oh! Do you… but your work. And I still have other lessons with George for the rest of the month.”
Regal shook his head. “You have already been here for many years. You know the very layout of my home and my office inside and out. I can’t even fathom what more you need to learn.”
She smiled at his concern, and it was a nice sight. He wished the nagging thoughts in his head would leave. George works her too hard. I’ve already explained to him numerous times to leave her be. Still, that was another matter he would deal with.
“I will take a few days off. The company was designed to run without my constant presence invading it. I am not one for micromanagement.”
She laughed at that. “Is that so? This morning, you didn’t even let me make your tea!”
“That’s very different. It is important for one to brew their own tea – a good meditative exercise, not too complex a task, but it calls the mind to pay attention the details. Such as the temperature of the water, and the length of time one must allow the tea to steep.”
“I’ll have you know I can make a proper cup of tea,” Alicia huffed, but playfully so. That smile of hers gave it away. “Papa always had me make them.”
“I do not doubt you.” With a brief glance across the Altamira coastline, he was then certain of his decision. “Drinking the traditional tea in Ozette would complete my experience, especially when prepared by a resident.”
It was then Alicia knew his words to be true, and she had to restrain herself from leaping into his arms. She herself knew how troublesome it would be for the tea to spill. So instead she opted to place her hands over his forearm, squeezing gently in gratitude. The letter, which she still held, pressed against him with a soft crinkling. Her eyes danced. “Thank you.”
They could not pass through the dictated space just yet – not as much as either one would prefer. But Regal hoped that with this trip to Ozette, it would give many little choice but to accept them both.
If he could meet her family, perhaps it would all be easier.
His hands shook and pulled away.
They were clenched, veins snaking around his knuckles, ready to slough off his skin and leave him draining. But his hands were already drowned out by her blood, and as he looked forward at her new and grotesque shape, with her voice crying out, he saw the damage he had made.
Like someone had cut a hole through her skin (as tough as stone, that color of murky green so diseased). The outer edges were frayed, reflecting a terrible force that he had never wanted to know, not in this way, never in this way. But he looked through, and that hole straight through her chest revealed nothing. Just a blackness, of a deeper pitch than the night sky around them, or the blood that stained the lace of his neckerchief.
There was nothing but blackness. Nothing at all.
.
.
.
“She won’t leave,” Raine said, one hand still covering part of her face. “There’s no use trying to drag her along. She could start acting hostile to our actions, like Colette used to.”
The house stunk of rot, but it was a scent that Regal had come to familiarize himself with. The others gagged slightly, some edging close to the open door for a whiff of fresh air. Ozette itself was so secluded. The gigantic trees covered nearly half the sky, isolating the town – even from the very sun.
There was so little light, both in this village and in this very home.
Presea continued walking around the dilapidated place. Her boots stepped hard on the deteriorating floorboards as she searched through drawers, arranging objects that were either there or not. Her ax was placed against the post of one of the beds, the lump underneath the sheets misshapen.
Regal kept watch of her, eyes riveted to that dark Exsphere. It did not sit well with her. An uncanny thing that latched onto her, cut out from space.
Raine’s voice became more forceful. “We should go.”
The rest quickly followed, though Regal lingered. Presea left the bedroom to venture into the kitchen section of the home. The stove there was a simple wood-burning stone, lacking any of the magitechnology that was common back in Altamira. He watched her arrange a dented teapot, lumping the cut wood into the stove to start kindling.
He was stopped.
“Who do you make that for?” he asked, gently.
Presea didn’t answer. She moved past him to arrange the sheets of that bed, not mindful at all at how her fingertips brushed against bones and decaying flesh. Still, Regal remained still, with only a soft clinking from his shackles. Their weight was heavy – a just reminder.
When she went back to the stove, gathering leaves from a nearby clay pot, she whispered, “For my Papa.” She boiled the water, keeping an eye on the flames, turning the pot just so. “He is sick. This will help him.”
When she turned back, there was something in her eyes. A glimmer of something that danced, that was bright.
It convinced him then.
She took the cup with her. It steamed, and he caught the scent of deeply brewed black leaves, perhaps plucked deep within the forests as she had continued to fell trees.
Regal didn’t continue to stay. He left, keeping Presea’s eyes in mind, and the black hole that was her Exsphere far, far away.
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lydiacollins · 7 years
Note
"Shoot me." (WHOOPS my fingers slipped again. AU? :))) )
Eyes locking on the man before her, Lydia’s gaze hardened, jaw locked as she stared him down. He was a stranger to her yet he felt so familiar. Why? She knew him. Did she? Anybody she came across posed as a threat to the woman. She trusted no one - was taught that by her father. Trusting gives someone leeway to betray, turn against you, become a threat. Threats needed to be eliminated. No room to make relationships, form alliances. Keep people at arm’s length and stay alert because you never know what’s around the corner. It had been instilled in to her mind for as long as she could remember.
The weeks started to alter that perspective. Her dreams consisted of fragmented memories; pieces of an incomplete jigsaw puzzle where she had no idea what the picture on the box was supposed to look like. She didn’t think to tell anyone, though. Not even her father. Her dad would imply that she’s losing the plot, whilst others may view that as a weakness to exploit as it immediately suggested vulnerability. Vulnerability due to uncertainty. Lydia couldn’t have that. 
Andrew. That was his name. People kept mentioning him but she had yet to face him. Up until this very moment. They were all people she didn’t know. People she could have swore were those in her dreams. Her dreams were mismatched. Bits and pieces and glimpses. A different version of herself, as if there were two of her. It was incredibly difficult to describe, and she wasn’t sure if she should. Usually, if she was in doubt, it was because there was a threat looming. And threats had to be eliminated.
Lydia kept her eyes on the man, her posture rigid as he took a tentative step forward causing her to snap into action. She remembered the heavy weight in her hands: the gun she held and she raised it, pointing it at him. Her fingers curled around the trigger, ready to shoot point blank at any given moment. One step out of line and she would shoot him point blank. No questions. “Don’t you dare move,” Lydia asserted coldly, her voice sharp. “Stay where you are.” This seemed to do the trick. Then again, pointing a gun at someone would typically have that effect on someone.
“Lydia, I need you to listen to -” Andrew attempted to get the words out but already, the questions from her were brewing. She needed answers as if her life depended on it. One way or another, she would get them. 
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“No. You listen,” The woman snapped. Then, a pause. “You know my name. And you act as if you know me. Why?” She demanded, eyes glued to his as she inhaled deep breaths to maintain composure. Clearly, he knew her from somewhere. And he seemed so familiar to her. She knew him – she knew that she knew him. She felt drawn to him, as if there was a gravitational pull that made her need to know more. She craved answers like an addiction. But it didn’t make sense. None of this made sense. Andrew hesitated; one look into his eyes and she could see him fighting an inner battle, like he was trying to decide whether or not to tell her. Clearing her throat to gain his attention, to bring him back to reality, she stated firmly, “I won’t ask twice.”
He swallowed thickly, nodding once. The guy looked he was about to burst. As if he was holding so much back. And why was he looking at her like that? “Because I do know you.” Lydia narrowed her eyes at his response and waited for him to continue. “Your name is Lydia Collins and I do know you. You’re my girlfriend.”
 A laugh bubbled in her throat, tumbling from her lips as it echoed through the room. A wry smile etched on to her face, Lydia shook her head in disbelief. Girlfriend? Ludicrous. “Yeah, right. You wish.” A ghost of a smile twitched at the corners of his lips, she noticed, but disappeared just as fast as he seemed to notice that she was still fixated on him. “What is it?” She asked, curiosity sparking rather than hate, or resentment, or anything else. It almost looked as though he was sharing an inside joke. And she wanted to know what it was. After all, with a gun pointed at their head, what could they find remotely amusing? 
“Nothing it… It sounded like something you would say.”
Lydia tensed yet again. Why would he say that? Of course it sounded like something she would say. She was Lydia. She is herself. What was he implying? That she wasn’t… who she was? That didn’t make any sense at all. And the more she reiterated it in her mind, the less sense it made. Was he trying to trick her into believing him? Why would he do that? What was his endgame here? To mess with her head? She didn’t understand. There were so many pieces. Gaps. So many things she couldn’t understand if she tried. All she knew was there was a man standing before her, claiming to be her boyfriend. Others who approached her days before tried to provoke her. Something about being a different version of herself. Being part of a different reality. Memories replaced. Things that were scientifically impossible. They were the same people who were in her dreams – that was as much as she could decipher from the bits and pieces. When they all left, they had the same message: if anyone can get through to you, it will be Andrew. And now here she was, no closer to whatever this “getting through to her” malarkey was supposed to be. And the joke was on them because she had no fucking idea who he was. The downside to that? It was frustrating her. It was like being that kid left out when others had a joke, not understanding said joke.
Upon realising she was yet to respond, she took a shaky breath as she tried to process it. “If I’m supposed to be your girlfriend then why can’t I remember you?” She asked, her voice laced with uncertainty. Uncertainty. Threat. To be eliminated. She snapped out of it. Regaining a steady grip on the gun, pointing it at him as if it would prod him for even more answers. His expression looked scared. Normal, she gathered. There was part of him that looked hopeful. Another, looked frightened. Terrified. 
“Something science-y. That’s always been your field, not mine.” Words like always been. How long have they truly known each other? Why do they all remember and not her? Why this. Why that. Why her? Why why why. 
“I don’t believe you,” She stated, albeit unsure. Andrew’s face faltered. It was strange, the look in his eyes. Torn between sadness, perplexity and yet filled with love and affection. For her? To her? No. It couldn’t be… could it? No, not a chance. They weren’t in a relationship. She has never been in a relationship in her life. Never got that close to people unless it was for her own personal gain. Unless it helped her serve a higher purpose. “You have thirty seconds to prove me wrong.” Saying that - giving him a certain, definitive amount of time to explain himself - there was a familiar sense of de ja vu. Like she’s done this before without the gun pointed at him. Last time, she vaguely remembers it being five minutes and Andrew pointing a screen with what resembled a timer on a phone to count down. In another life - in another reality, perhaps. No - not going there. It was just her dreams. Something messing with her head. 
“Only thirty seconds?” He questions and the glare Lydia shoots pierces through him; she watches as he takes a breath and lets the words fall freely, a final attempt at trying to convince her the way the others had. She is certain that whatever comes out of his mouth would be lies despite the sincere look he had given her since the moment they met. Clearing his throat, he began. Started from the very beginning, detailing from the very moment they met. About how they had been through hell and back but it only made them stronger together. That he couldn’t even fully explain how they got into this predicament in the first place because it was so complicated, and that she would be better off explaining it before they landed themselves in this stupid world. She would be better off explaining it because she already has once before - he couldn’t remember all the scientific terminology and according to him she always explained things better than he could. He tells her everything. Allegedly everything. Yet she counts the thirty seconds in her head and like clockwork, the second that time is up, she lets him know. Lydia does this with subtlety although she isn’t particularly good with that. Being subtle. Instead of using words, she raises the gun.
“Time is up.” Her tone is quiet, cold but her hand trembles without realising, and suddenly she feels tears burning through her eyelids. She doesn’t cry: ever. So why now? With frustration? Due to the seeping doubt and crippling anxiety this confession made her feel, her stomach twisting with nausea. Nothing makes sense. And now, Lydia realises, that nothing’s ever made sense. Which made it all the more terrifying. In the “other” world, her father is a terrible person. In this world, he is not. To her, anyway. Has he done terrible things? Yes. But that doesn’t make one a terrible person. 
A silence looms between them, her hand shakes still, and she finds herself waging a war between her head and her heart. Her heart wants to blindly trust him, to get out of this place and back where she supposedly needs to be. But why should she trust a stranger’s claim? He has given her no reason to trust him. Other than supposed ‘facts’ that she was supposed to believe. After all, wouldn’t she remember if she loved someone like Andrew so claimed to do? Love was a fairytale; it doesn’t exist. It’s all she’s ever known so how could she possibly trust him? This wasn’t a fairytale. This was reality: her reality. 
Then, a sentence leaves the man’s lips which has her heart breaking in two for reasons she could not understand. “You don’t believe me.” The sound of pure, utter defeat. Voice on the edge of cracking, hopelessness in his eyes yet he wasn’t prepared to fully surrender. 
Her words caught in her throat and she forces a weak, sordid smile as she shakes her head.“I’m sorry,” She whispers meekly, trying to brace herself. Her heart didn’t want to pursue him and hurt him like this; he looked so… innocent. Genuine. There was so much behind those eyes of his: sincerity and love (no matter how ridiculous it may have sounded) that the thought of hurting him was paining her. She wanted to trust him so bad but she couldn’t. It was impossible. How could someone, who grew up trusting absolutely noone, suddenly find the ability to trust someone she met seconds ago? What excuse could she use? ‘Oh, he thinks he loves me and we’re both from this other reality where we’re happy and together.’ Talk about going completely crazy. Maybe this was all in her head. The kindest hearts - the ones who seem nice - are always the ones who hold the key to all secrets. They’re the dangerous ones to be quizzed and questioned at all costs. In that moment, all Lydia knew was that she felt vulnerable. Vulnerability is a threat and threats need to be eliminated.
Andrew speaks again but she misses what he said. There is a long, agonizing pause between sentences and she finds herself wanting to hear his voice again. Something draws her to it - to him. Something she cannot explain. Other than the possibility of it being a trap. It is a trap. It has to be. What comes out his lips next catches her completely off guard. Two words she never would have anticipated him saying. “Shoot me.”
Her eyes widened, then narrowed as if trying to suss him out. What was his plan here? Trying to understand what angle he was playing at here was proved to be impossible. Was he testing her? Was this all a test to see what extremes she would go? So many thoughts plagued her mind, so many endless possibilities and maybes and what ifs. She wanted it all to stop. To take a break so she could understand what was going on. Allow her mind to fully process the quick pace of the world around her. She couldn’t get her head around it. “What?” She finally asks with incredulity, feeling her vocal chords tighten like it was almost difficult to get the words out. To which Andrew repeated again, taking a step closer to her. Shoot. Me. The words caused a pang coursing through her chest, weaving through her ribs and hitting her straight in the chest. 
That’s when she knew what he was doing. It made sense. Andrew wanted to see if she would call his bluff. If she was truly lost to him for good. He must have noticed the tears in her eyes, the shakiness of her hands. He must have known she was struggling. He was bluffing. He had to be. In the long run, this was terrible. He had to be setting her up for something. Mess with her head - or someone put him up to it - so they could achieve their endgame, whatever that was. The only way to resolve this was to shoot him. To call his bluff and prove him wrong this time. No matter how reluctant she felt. She couldn’t put her faith in anybody. Lydia was better than that.  
“Okay.” Lydia says simply, lips pressed into a thin line. For a second she lowers her hands, lowers the gun to her side as she recollects herself. Then, straightening her back up, regaining her posture, she steadies her hand as she points the gun yet again, directly at him. Everything in her heart is screaming at her not to but her head is telling her otherwise. She always followed her head. 
A last minute thought pops into her mind: if you were going to shoot him, you would have already. How long had she been stood there with the gun aimed perfectly straight at him but had yet to pull the trigger? If that’s what her subconscious was telling her then surely it had to be what Andrew also thought. Lydia always had something to prove. Always. Now, she was going to prove Andrew and herself wrong. She was going to do it. Finger on the trigger –
Distractions. The sound of crashes. Gunshots from outside. People’s voices. Shouting – lots of it. Bangs – more bangs – more gunshots?
It all happened so fast. All she remembers is noise – too much goddamn noise. And she looks around, panicking, her eyes darting to Andrew then to the door, then to Andrew again. Her next mistake is careless
For a split second, everything happens so fast and Lydia struggles to catch her breath.
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In the next single, fleeting moment, the whole world stands still. The sound of an earth shattering bang rings through her ears. Echoes of the bullet leaving the gun ricochet through the room and everything happens in slow motion: Lydia’s head snapping towards the direction of the shot ringing through the room, the gasp that leaves her when it feels as though the air is being ripped from her lungs, the realisation dawning on her. In a panic induced daze with all the commotion outside, she’d pulled the trigger on Andrew by accident. She may have had the intentions to do it but the shock that she actually had was mortifying.
The memories came. All at once, they overwhelmed Lydia’s heart, mind, body – everything. The good, the bad, the ugly. Like a video montage playing in her head, memory after memory, they came surging in. One after the next. Snapshots. The fuller memories. Being happy. Smiling. First meeting Andrew. The jokes and banter between them, their first kiss, the stupid movie nights that had them falling asleep on each other, using each other as pillows. The little trips they took, the questions they loved asking each other. Sharing ice cream. Aspen. Debates about inanimate objects. The heartache. She remembers the tears, and the negatives. But she recalls how the positives always outweighed the negatives. And now. Every moment leading up until now. She remembers him.
“Andrew! No!”
Something between a gasp and a scream ripples from her mouth as Lydia stumbles forward, bile rising in her throat as she realizes what has happened. She runs to him,the gun hitting the floor, each step feeling as if she was running a marathon. She struggles to tell what is reality and what is this… other… reality? What was real? What wasn’t? She remembers him. Everything is real. When Andrew falls to the ground, Lydia falls with him too, her legs giving way on her as she tries her hardest to catch his mostly limp body in her arms. But now she is too feeling weak. But she has to do something. She has to fix this. She has to.  
If I fall, you fall too. One of their little rules in the other world. They took the meaning way too far now, she mused dryly. It already had multiple meanings: falling over in Aspen, falling for each other – in love – and now… and now this.
Shrugging her jacket from her shoulders, Lydia searches for the wound - just near his stomach. Dangerous place, a lot of blood loss and could be fatal if he didn’t get the treatment he needs. Tears flow freely as her memories flicker back and forth between the memories of the world - of the real Lydia Collins - and the harsh, cold reality which was Andrew’s life hanging in the balance. Applying pressure to the wound, her jacket covering the wound as her hand pressed firmly in an attempt to stop the bleeding, her other hand reaches for his face. Tears flow freely down her face now, her one hand stained in his blood. She had his blood on her hands.
“I’m so sorry -” Lydia whispered, choking back a sob. “I didn’t - I didn’t - I couldn’t - I didn’t –” Panic stricken and guilt ridden, she struggled to breathe. Everything was falling apart and it was all her fault. She did this to him. To the man she loves. How could he ever forgive her? 
“Lydia.” The sound of Andrew’s voice hurts. He sounds so weak but she looks at him anyway, forcing a smile as if to say he was going to be okay. He had to be. There was no other option. “It wasn’t your fault - it’s okay. You… you didn’t - didn’t know -” He manages but she can see he’s struggling so she forces a weak smile, hand brushing through his hair as she gently hushes him.
“Don’t speak,” She begged softly, trying to restrain from whimpering. “Hold on this for me?” Lydia instructed, gently releasing her grip on the jacket. Reaching over to his other hand, Lydia places his hand on top of where her jacket is situated, pressing it firmly to motion the actions he should do. She had to get him to remain conscious. From what she could remember, if anything fatal happened to him in this reality… then it would be the same in the real world. To put it bluntly: if anybody died here, they would die for real. She couldn’t lose him. They had to get out of there, they had to find a way out but not before they tended to his wounds. The ones Lydia inflicted. Even if by accident.  He had to stay with her. That was why she encouraged him to apply pressure to slow down the bleeding. Get him to concentrate. “I’m not losing you, I promise.” As she glanced down at her hand, stained crimson, she was nearly sick there and then but she forced herself not to be. She had to make this right. His blood. Her hand.
No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t stop crying. Riddled with guilt, she had no idea how she could ever bounce back from this. Had no idea how she could forgive herself for it. How could he look at her in the same way he always had? How could they ever bounce back from this? Sure, it wasn’t real. Technically. Right now, it felt very much real - she had no idea how it would feel when they woke up. Hopefully they wouldn’t remember… but what if they did? She didn’t want to think about it.
The feeling of a cool palm grazing against her cheek caused Lydia to avert her attention back to Andrew’s eyes again. He was still conscious. This was a good sign. He smiled weakly at her and she managed to give a tremulous smile of her own. Her hand placed on top of his, fingers curling round it and squeezing lightly. “You’re going to be okay, I promise. We’re going to get you sorted out. I won’t let anything happen to you, I promise. Stay awake for me, okay? That’s all I need you to do.” His thumb brushed against her cheek, catching a teardrop as it fell. Lydia leaned over, pressing a kiss to his cheek, then his forehead before pulling back so she could look at him properly. 
Sirens in the distance. Someone must have called for help. If anyone was with them, she didn’t  notice. Her eyes were fixated on him, concentrated on no one but Andrew. Ensuring he was okay, or that he would be, doing everything in her power to keep him with her. Noticing his eyes starting to close, Lydia panicked instantly, voice on the verge of cracking as she spoke to him. “Hey - Andrew. Stay with me, please. You have to stay with me. Hey -” She practically pleading, wiping the tears from her eyes and ignoring the state she must have been in. “Andrew? Hey,” She called him, feeling for a pulse (which, albeit faint - it was still there. That’s what mattered most.) “Please. you have to stay with me. I love you, Andrew. That’s why you’ve got to get through this. It’s all my fault but I promise if you make it through this, I will make it up to you. I love you. There’s no way I am letting you go so easily.”
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It’s then she realises it’s the first time she’s ever said those words to him. Those three little words. She knew that she loved him for a while now but never could find the courage to say it out loud. Because of her past. Because of… everything. Worried if it was too soon. But now, she was worried that she might have said them too late. 
Before she knew it, help arrived and everything else was a complete and utter blur. All she knew was that she wasn’t leaving him. Nothing was going to keep her from him.
She recalled many occasions in the past where she felt as if the walls were closing in on her, and the entire world was tumbling down on her. In those darkest times, Andrew was there. Even when their relationship was hanging in the balance, he always always had enough hope for the two of them. Even when Lydia had no hope left. This time… this time, it was Lydia’s turn. It was her turn to remain strong for the pair of them. She owed him that much; she owed herself that much too.  It was her turn to repay the favour.  She would fight for them or she would die trying. There was no other way. She couldn’t bear to think of the alternative option. It wasn’t even an option in her mind. She couldn’t live with herself if that happened. Therefore, she had no choice but to focus on the positive. He was going to be okay. He has to be. 
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felicezhukov · 7 years
Text
:: Dear Nicolas Jaar ::
The meat was heavy from a night of drinking till 3am with pe teachers and policewomen, an unusual crowd for her. Once home sleep never really naturally followed for a few hours and in fact she was up till daybreak, listening to cocorosie on repeat, deep in her imagination. A sort of strange early hours ritual she’d fallen into as her body clock stretched more towards daybreak than the thick of night.
So she rolled out of bed, leaden, pottered to the kitchen and poured herself some water laced with rehydration salts and a pot of tea and chilli, as it was Sunday Brain Pickings was the morning fodder she lapped up. It’s a forgiving and kind source of knowledge that always gave the meat food for thought, like being hugged in the waking hours by someone with infinite kindness and wisdom.
Ursula K Le Guin:
“ A poem or a story consciously written to address a problem or bring about a specific result, no matter how powerful or beneficent, has abdicated its first duty and priviliage, its responsibility to itself. Its primary job is to find the words that give it its right, true shape. The shape is its beauty and truth.”
The meat loved Sundays, she took her time reading and then put a little beef in the oven and went to get on with her daily workout, as she knew she’d be performing soon and as the regime of weight training she’d been doing had caused strain in her upper arms and shoulders she thought she’d treat herself for the next couple of days with some flow based yoga, she selected the water light routine (something about today felt exceptional, she couldn’t pinpoint why and water light was in keeping with the descent she decided) and was about to begin but the lampshade in the bedroom was hanging low and she knew with a flow routine it would become frustrating so she decided to remove it, something she’d done many times before.  
It was especially sticky today and maybe she pulled a little too hard, the meat always forgot how strong she was. It popped and briefly flashed and then the whole house was plunged into darkness, the moon went mad, he was extremely reliant on electricity, more than most people the meat knew (this coupled with the fact he was also working, his laptop only really useful when plugged into a power source). He threw a barrage of insults and angry tirades at the meat, who shocked and embarrassed made the active decision not to challenge him on this and just allow the cold waters of stinging words to wash over her, and disassociate. Ultimately she was a liability and knew this well, always in a cycle of destroying things, pulling together broken shards and attempting to hide her mistakes (but she couldn’t hide this).
It wasn’t the fuse box they had to move the cupboard away from to access.
“Just call Chris” she said in a small voice.
At first it seemed like a problem that couldn’t be fixed immediately, the meat saw the progression of her day, walking out the front door and leaving the moon alone in silence, at the best of times he couldn’t preoccupy himself without a screen but robbed of it against his will, she knew the suffering it would inflict. She started to tidy away her workout things, this dramatic turn had removed her from a zone of restful enjoyment, exercise would be more troubling than kind at this stage. But after the second call from Chris, the Moon ran out into the yard and after a few minutes the house started buzzing again and all the utilities bleeped their hello’s.
The meat thought it was tomorrow, but now a sensation raced through her, she needed to make her descent today, she needed to perform what had been building on the edges of her mind for many months. She wanted to start the healing process and find her footing again, this project had been the most important of her artistic outpourings to date, but she wanted to feel the ground beneath her feet for a short time. And anyway, she always jumped in headfirst, it was never a trickling or careful walk.
So she continued her slow wake up and got dressed in modest attire as she wouldn’t be wearing it for much of the day anyway. Then she made herself some eggs and veg, a hearty breakfast as she wouldn’t eat much else, in fact she’d been skipping breakfast for several weeks now so it was a welcome change to have a full plate of food in front of her. Then she told the moon, who had calmed and travelled to a place balanced between shame and pride he always went to after a particularly bad spell of emotional cruelty.
“I’ll be getting a taxi probably around 4am or so I guess, it’ll just help me to know you’re on the other side of the phone.”
She had previously invited the virgin to join her, as it seemed necessary to have another spirit in with her when she touched the emotional chasms she was about to visit. But the virgin after having re entered and become a feature in her life again, was in a spiral. The meat had been going through a lot of asphyxiating tension herself and realised she really needed to be alone to do this. 
Her walk to the studio wasn’t a particularly distinct one, on this special day, she finally got to open the umbrella she’d found nearly 2 months previously, it was delicate but strong and she was happy with it. Otherwise it was a just a group of young lionesses that struck her, pivoting out of the park and then veering into an estate adjacent but further along. Great manes of thick hair, powerful strides and able bodies with pulled waists and shimmying hips. She felt a sense of maternal care for them, but not because they were vulnerable, because they were proud.
Then Tesco’s, before she’d left the moon had made the valid point that the cucumber would need a condom, she’d been racking her brain for what the missing element was and on hearing this the last piece of the puzzle slotted into place. There was a very slow man drawn over the cucumbers in the fridge, like a human wall, pouring over each one in great detail, yet again the meat felt impotent in a supermarket, with someone else standing over the only thing you really need to inspect. In her whole life she’d never come across someone so interested in cucumbers and shards of annoyance tingled through her body. But she got her cucumber, not organic, her cider, her bottle of coke and her condoms.
On the steps she followed her routine and had a quick smoke and a sip of cola before heading in, today she wouldn’t write her hours on until she was finished as she wanted anonymity which she felt would somehow be gained by not being on the checkout sheet. There weren’t many characters in, the hard working designer that never seemed to be away, clothed in ritual black, arrived in a taxi as she was outside smoking, he was always someone that gave her a feeling of safety, something about his commitment was endearing, though they didn’t even say hello to each other.
In her segment of the basement she was the only one, freedom, ultimate in her isolation, she tidied up and finished sticking things with gaffa tape, blew up the balloons, painted the bee, drank ultra strong coffee and continued to listen to cocorosie. There was still a feeling of unease coursing through her, but as the hours wore on she married herself to the happy thought that she would not be interrupted tonight, all this panic of invasion which had been present so much in her life, washed away, she could scream and cry and no one could hear her. She got everything ready, and then started a practise run though without paint, completely naked, setting up and filming as she stuck up flowers with celloptape, balanced the dolls on the edges of the stage, danced and screamed. When she first began there was a man making strange humming noise, something almost satanic in the tones he was creating. But as soon as she started her own singing it dissipated, everyone in the basement had gone, she knew this now.
The moon balloons popped, so she decided to make them paper circles instead.
Alongside filming she’d be managing her live stream on her iphone through an app she’d downloaded and in the process contacted a good friend in the hope she could record it in the sex chat room whilst she performed. It had worked for the run through, they were snippets that she was uploading but it gave her a sense of purpose knowing she was broadcasting to the greater world and had an audience. Perhaps unadvisedly she had given over to a reliance there would be no hiccups when it came to the final performance. It all just seemed to be running its course, once she’d unsheathed the cucumber, lying elated and breathless on the floor, she decided to dress and go out for a few more ciders. Already intoxicated but in a stage of complete carnality, she wanted to consume more, to get to a greater void and strung out place. That and a big bag of peanuts, which had come to be a token of the more excessive times in her life. She decided to have a cigarette and think on it, one of her standard practises.
When she got to the door that would lead her out of the basement it was closed, in an unusual way she’d never seen before, shutters were firmly pushed down, as she didn’t even realise there were shutters it was a perplexing sight, so she made a beeline for the fire exit instead. Outside upon lighting her cigarette a sudden realisation hit her, shit, how am I going to get back inside? The meat mentally slapped herself, all that prep and now there was the possibility she’d locked herself out of her studio. She had cards and keys so she could return when someone had opened it again, but after the rehearsal, the depth’s she was drawing from, the craving in her movements, she desperately wanted to live out this exorcism now.
“It’ll be ok, I’ll work out how to get in.”
Always the eternal optimist she marched away from the panic in her head and then back down to the shutters. This time on the opposite side, with phone torch light in hand, she inspected the door, assuming they’d be like the front one and there would be a keyhole function, as no one had told her about them she assumed the keys would be the same as those for the front door. But alas no joy, she patted all round the shutters, looking at the grooves of the metal, the nuts and bolts, she gently pulled the bottoms of them, there was a quick flash through her mind just to break in, but sense prevailed. She decided to attempt to pull from the bottom again, wary of the morning she did it more firmly but still carefully, so as not to break anything. To her relief this was how you opened the shutters! They just grumpily slid up and she darted through and then closed them again, warm in the knowledge that there was another barrier between her and the outside world and proud she’d worked through more adversity and not given up, tucked her tail between her legs and gone home.
Back in the cave (her studio) she tipped the last of the cider she’d bought from Tesco’s in to her mug and checked the time, ahead of schedule and happy in the knowledge she was alone she decided it was best to get to the shop now, once the final performance was in action she wouldn’t be going anywhere for a while, it would demand absolutely everything. As it was past 11 she slung towards the deceptive Turkish Shop round the corner, which on first entry hides the plethora of imported japanese and korean goods it holds, it took 4 or 5 visits before she discovered all the hidden treasures in unexpected rooms. The staff were generally a moody lot, some of the least impressed shopkeepers she’d ever come across but happily one of the younger men she had a rapport with was working today.
It was full of dazed drunken bank holiday revellers, a very rare sight on Sundays, only custom on these post apocalyptic weekends when the general proportion of young day workers threw all caution to the wind and spent 3 days in a state of near paralysis.
With nuts and cider in hand she headed back to her cave for the final showdown, on the borders of hysteria and panic but still surprised how much less destructive it was feeling than she’d anticipated.
Back downstairs the hesitation about publicising the stream was suddenly lost and she felt like actually she really wanted to know others were with her. The friend she’d asked to film it was on call and gearing up to record it from her laptop in scotland, it felt wonderful to know this friend would be a spectator and she’d also have the film footage as well. She loaded the app, mixed her paints and prepped the first scene, when she pressed broadcast it seemed to work exactly as it had done before so she strode out and begun. Singing her descent song she climbed up the ladder and then made her journey back down, fully in the flow of the piece she allowed intuition to guide her, writhing and seething she pulled apart the paper moons that braced the ladder and then painted herself with the black paint pre mixed at the edges of the stage.
So as not to interrupt the broadcast she’d decided to just leave it running and as she set up for the walled garden, cello taping flowers to the ceiling, putting the bee pinata in its central spot, painting herself in blue and pink, she spoke to herself and to the viewers, talking to the moon about love lost, each movement vital and raw. Once dried she positioned herself for the next scene, whereas the descent down the ladder had been sensual and melancholic the walled garden was frantic and violent. Quick savage movements filled the scene, once beguiled by the bee and then desperate to reach it she pawed and clawed towards it, then was caught up by the flowers hanging from tape beside her until she managed to break free and in guttural agonising breath set to work in decimating the flora at her feet and then following this the bee fell down of its own accord so she then brutalised it as well, exploding in clunky shards it shed the snakes that lay within it. At the climax of the scene she howled and fell to the floor, sobbing in powerful lucid tones until all the pain and suffering accumulated around the lived events which had inspired the scene were gone. Then she pulled her carcass up and exited the stage, feeling effervescent, opened.
It finally came time for the mermaid kingdom and wedding, she collected all the flowers and without thinking threw everything away in a large white binbag. Once cleared she hung the virgin and the prince, rushing inside with the understanding that this would be the most challenging and somehow pivotal part of the piece. Once the dolls were all in place it was time to begin, throughout the setup she’d chastised the bee, speaking in a broken but paradoxically aggressive manner.
Covered in pearlescent paint she walked out onto the stage, feeling the most naked she had done since starting even though she was the most caked in acrylic paint. The cucumber was sheathed, the tape was ready, she firstly encountered the prince and virgin, after an initial sensual account she unwound the masking tape around them, the virgin was a little loose and at first the tape fell from her veil, but unperturbed the meat kept winding it round, until the virgin and her prince were facing the camera and looked somehow reviled by each other but bound together anyway. In retrospect this fits as the Meat is still living through the slow breakdown of her marriage and possibly a holy union is not something she really abides by in principle.
Then she crawled out to the dolls cast on the floor, the male doll already with its pulsating green member, ready to go, she mounted it and felt a pain as its girth pushed through her, then she began to rut over it, allowing herself to become fully immersed in the doll, it felt like she was really with someone and by the time she’d had her fill and coarsely moved over to the female doll it was so heavy and thick inside her that all normality or belief of the performance as a fiction had dispensed, she felt entirely in the mermaid kingdom and accordingly the pleasures she got with the female doll, rolling around in ecstasy, were entirely authentic. Then she grabbed the confetti cannon and dispensed with its contents. It ejaculated in the wrong direction and so to compensate for this mistake she rolled over and threw the detritus up over the bound couple above her, creating more of a blossoming effect than an explosion.
Then she lay down in silence in the centre of the stage and proceeded to masturbate, by now so enraptured, truly in the last layer of the descent, that cuming was not an issue and even a relief which bound the whole thing together for her mentally and physically. After she sat up slowly, unmasked herself and looked out to her perceived audience, truly fully present and accounted for, taking in her last breath the meat tumbled back to where her cameras were set up, triumphant that she had done precisely what she set out to do.
What awaited her was a text from the aforementioned friend, saying the feed wasn’t working and that the meat was offline, it dawned on the meat that despite feeling like she had an audience she had just spent the last hour performing to no one. A sense of humiliation was coupled with this, for telling so many about her grandiose plans only to fail at one of the key aspects due to lack of proper planning. But still this didn’t override her feelings of clarity and freedom borne from what she’d just gone through, she knew she’d still have the film and screening and that there would be some interesting philosophical debating she’d now do with herself internally about the idea of performing to no one and what that could mean. In all essence this project had been embarked upon naively and only as she’d gone through it had she realised it was an important and life changing journey of self discovery, which would act as a catalyst against her life to bring her to new mental realms and a better understanding of herself.
She sat with her aspalls and smoked a few cigarettes in her cave, a defiant act she knew but after what she’d just gone through and the fact that she was covered in thick paint which would be a commitment to remove, the alternative seemed horrific. Then she climbed into her sponge bath, pre prepped and began the slow dutiful process of removing said paint, what had struck her before as the most detestable aspect of getting it off was the fact that it didn’t just turn to liquid but instead collected in bits, caking sponges and causing a gritty feeling on the skin. It took a while but after towelling herself off and getting dressed she was ready and full absolved, as if a spiritual opening had just taken place, which by all accounts it was. Her ritual sex rite.
The meat hurriedly collected empty bottles and the remaining rubbish that would cause an immediate smell, leaving the dolls and splattered paint as a token for her next encounter with her cave. Then she zipped up her coat, loaded up uber on her phone and turned off the lights, briefly hypnotised by the odd glow above her and the cathartic nature of darkness. After dropping the rubbish in the bin and swanning through the shared desk space at the entrance of the studio she was elated to see the designer still working, even though it was 3:30 am. There was something reassuring and precious that he was still there, of course she didn’t acknowledge him but left with a little more room opened to him in her heart. She wrote on the sign in sheet and then after going to the toilet stood propped against a tree outside the studio waiting for her uber driver, despite the first 2 cancelling the 3rd arrived properly and whisked her through shoreditch and back home.
She’d been finding uber drivers to be more chatty and engaged recently, she wasn’t sure if this was because the rating system could cause them to lose their livelihoods in a snap second or because the energy she was presenting invited engagement but in her taxi on the way home the pattern repeated again. Against a backdrop of drunken people streaming out of clubs and bars, hovering around kebab shops and off licenses, she tried to describe to her driver what she was feeling, that she’d just completed months of work and that her body, though drained, was full of realisation. He was interested and keen to listen, allowed her to stop off at a shop and buy all the things she’d been denying herself in the last few months and up until he dropped her off it felt like they shared a little hub of inclusiveness together whizzing along the streets of London.
Once home the meat wrote you a brief entry Nicolas, ate as much as she could fit in her mouth, didn’t drink the cider can she’d bought and passed out on the sofa bed without having taken her makeup off and still with paint adorning her skin. In her last hours of the day she listened to space is only noise, which felt somehow correct as her send off from the most important day she’d ever had.
Now the meat is lying in bed, which she has been all day, only managing to have a few cigarettes in the courtyard and cook an extraordinary amount of porridge and buckwheat. Tomorrow she’ll go back to her cave to survey the destruction but she won’t work out and she’ll have a croissant for breakfast. The next few days are her treats to herself, she deserves them.
I hope you enjoyed reading this Nicolas, its helped me a lot to write it.
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