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revasserium · 9 months

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anon request: why they call it falling x osamu miya

126. why they call it falling

osamu; 1,078 words; fluff and the most fleeting of suggestive themes; really just a character study on the miya twins + reader as a conduit for character dev

he has always had someone who knew exactly what he was thinking, exactly how he was feeling. because when god made twins (or so osamu thinks), they got really fucking lazy and probably just hit ctrl+v one too many times.

when he meets you for a first time, he wonders if this is what it felt like for a hurricane and a typhoon to finally learn about each other, the only difference between them being where they occur — only an entire ocean and half a world apart.

“i think… i met someone,” he says.

“i think… i’m done with volleyball after high school ends,” he says.

“i think you’re an idiot,” atsumu says.

“do you… think i’m an idiot?” osamu asks, sitting across from you on a summer evening, long after practice has been over, but the stickiness of the day still lingers on his skin. tsumu is still mad at him, but what else is new?

you regard him for a minute, pressing your lips into a soft, thin line as you stare out across the darkening horizon.

“no…” you say finally, looking down at your hands, loose in your lap. osamu looks down at his own hands, loose in his lap, his palms littered with calluses from all the hours of practice. all the hours of dreaming.

“i don’t think you’re an idiot.”

osamu smiles, nodding, “thanks…”

the truth is that it’s been way too long since he’s felt like the shadow of himself, or perhaps of someone else, and it’s been way too long since he’s really known what it felt like to do something with his whole entire soul and feel good about it. and that’s a kind of growing up too — so he learns — that’s a kind of changing.

“we wanted to be the best,” he admits, chuckling to himself, the thought of it now somehow ridiculous in a way that it’s never been to him before. he shakes his head and sighs, shaking our his bangs from his eyes as he casts his gaze up towards the first burgeoning stars.

“you still can — what’s stopping you?” you ask, your grin going lopsided in the way he likes. and when he looks back at you, he sees the world reflected in your eyes.

later that night, when he is making music of your body with his lips skimming a line along the sharp of your exposed collarbones, when his fingers are tugging you apart, when you are pushing back against him, pushing him back into the mattress of his own bed and atsumu is nowhere to be found (probably still sulking somewhere with the rest of the team), you pull back and smile at him — the lopsided smile he loves so much and he can’t help but lean up to kiss it from your lips.

and he feels it in his own body then, the years and years and years of his practice, the years and years and years of his hard work. him and his twin brother — the mirrored half of himself, the light to (perhaps) his shadow. ying and yang and all that slow, smooth jazz.

he grins too and kisses you. he kisses you hard and fast and he makes music of his own body then, too. because his body has long since been an instrument and he was born knowing how to play every single one of its notes.

“stay,” he says, after he’s had his fill of you, because a part of him knows that he’ll be just as hungry later.

“maybe,” you answer, even as you both hear his brother come home.

atsumu comes back to find both of you asleep, the sheets twisted over your very, very naked bodies. and a part of him wants to hate it but another part of him doesn’t. he can’t.

because this is what happens when a hurricane and a typhoon learn about each other for the very first time — they are so, so much the same thing, made different only by their times and places. but they are still just beating hearts and half-caught breaths — they are still just wind and rain and a tunnel between the sea and the never-ending sky.

“what are you gonna do?” atsumu asks, not looking at his twin.

osamu shrugs, “dunno… maybe i’ll make rice balls.”

“hn. you do make good riceballs.”

“i… i think i really like her, y’know.”

atsumu heaves a long, deep breath. he nods.

“yeah. i know.”

osamu grins, “right. of course you do.”

and the truth is that when god made twins, they probably hit ctrl+v one too many times, and they have always known things about each other that no one else will ever know or fully understand. like, the things that make them different, totally and inexplicably.

“he’s gonna be the best in the world,” osamu says, his eyes bright as twin stars as you sit next to him, the pair of you glued to the match on the tv screen. there’s an apron around samu’s waist and rice sticking to his fingers.

you almost laugh.

“he already is,” you say.

it takes three seconds of osamu to turn to you, his grin going lopsided as he watches you watch him.

“i — i think i love you.”

and you really do laugh this time.

“yeah. i know.”

osamu only rolls his eyes, goes back to pressing the musubi between his palms as the commercial break cuts to some curry commercial featuring an incredibly deadpanned kageyama. he packs the rice in tight and hands it to you.

“how’s it taste?”

you take your time savoring the flavor, grinning as you take another huge bite. the smile on osamu’s face spreads and spreads and spreads.

“like the best in the world,” you say, before shoving the whole thing into your mouth just to make osamu laugh.

“you’re… an idiot.”

you swallow hard and reach for a glass of water.

osamu catches your hand and presses his lips to the inside of your wrist, letting his lips linger there even as the commercial break ends.

“i know,” you say, nodding as you both turn back to the screen. the rice is warm and fresh and the nori is crispy and just the perfect amount of salty.

“yeah, i know."

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itsdaytime · 2 years

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New Design

viktor x g/n!mechanic!reader

word count: 3.1k

You’re a skilled mechanic enrolled at the academy. You’ve made quite the name for yourself, and with your newfound recognition comes a slew of employment offers. Various faculty members seek you out as an assistant or a protégé, but only a certain pair of innovative geniuses is successful in convincing you.

Taglist: @freementallyillkid @perpetualphilomath @subbing-for-clones @edenstarkk @mischievous-piltovian

Notes: I hope this is okay!! It’s my first time posting x reader stuff hehe. Please feel free to leave feedback in the replies :)

You always liked to tell yourself that people are just like machines. It made them easier to decipher if you pictured them as conglomerations of gears and springs as opposed to the fully sentient bags of organic matter they really are. It was tough to figure out exactly how people tick, so why not apply your vast knowledge of machinery to make it simpler? Flawless logic, you’d tell yourself with a dry laugh. You know very well that both are equally complicated.

Despite the complications of human nature, this approach works with just about everyone you regularly interact with and observe at the Academy. The talkative boy that sits in the front corner of your hydraulics lecture? The reason he volunteers early on in class is likely because he never finishes the assigned readings. And his friend beside him? There’s only one way to interpret his overeager assistance and prolonged eye contact... Although almost everyone at the Academy is brilliant, there aren’t many surprises in their designs. A smile always conveys what a smile should —joy— and a scowl, distaste. At this point in your life, you’re confident that you’ve figured people out.

If you consider yourself skilled in understanding and reading people, then when it comes to machines, you’re a downright genius. You’re so well practiced that you can detect an issue by sound alone, repairing an impending slip-up before it has the chance to cause a problem. You craft devices from the ruins of another, breathing new life into something one once considered worthless. Your hands are strong and steady, your many calluses and scars proof of your experience. People tell you that the way you work at an intricate problem is akin to the way the gentle fingers of a piano prodigy make the instrument sing. When something breaks, you always find a way to make it work again, no matter what it takes. Once you take on a project, you see it through despite the bumps you may hit along the way. Your skill, paired with your determination, sets you apart from others in your field of study.

What started as acknowledgment from your own professors grew into widespread recognition of your abilities. Peers and members of Piltovan high society alike seek your assistance with their mechanical mishaps, the latter demographic often offering hefty compensation for your services. You sometimes overheard talk from faculty about your appeal as a potential assistant. Why would someone in the chemistry department want you as an assistant? You’d be nothing but a glorified repairman; the thought alone makes you shudder. You want to be involved in something that will make an impact. Part of you is flattered by the attention, but the rest of you just wants to complete your education and pursue your own interests in peace. As talk of others’ plans for your future increases, so too does the number of hours you spend locked away in the engineering workshop.

Over the next week, you reject three professors’ offers; their work simply didn’t align with your personal goals. I’m starting to sound like a broken record, you think, a pensive scowl on your face. You wonder how many more times you’ll have to say, “I’m honored, sir, but I’m afraid I’ll have to decline,” before you’ll eventually have to crack and accept an offer. The thought fills you with dread. The idea of spending the rest of your time at the academy teaching in a classroom just doesn’t appeal to you. You want to contribute to society in a way that will benefit people. You want to help build a brighter future for those who need it most, which is why your heart nearly stops when the creators of Hextech come knocking at your workshop door on a Monday morning.

You had rolled your eyes and huffed a heavy sigh before rising to your feet to answer the door. You didn’t want to have to turn away another poor educator this early in the day. You pulled the door open and started your generic greeting.

“Good morning, how can I help y-” You freeze, finding yourself face to face with the two most relevant people in all of Piltover. Jayce Talis stands in the left of the doorway with his shoulders held high, a charming smile upon his chiseled face. His partner Viktor is beside him, leaning nonchalantly on his cane as he studies you patiently. This was the last thing you were expecting. “Oh shit,” you breathe, unable to contain your shock. Your comment makes Jayce snort, but he quickly clears his throat to hide it. Viktor, on the other hand, chuckles unabashedly.

“I’m guessing you know who we are, then?” Viktor asks, the grin he shoots you not at all helping your frazzled state. Your brain is going a mile a minute, your heart hammering in your chest. You have to be dreaming, right? There’s no way this is real. Everyone, and you mean everyone, wants to get their foot in the door with these two. Hextech is the most promising invention in decades, and its possibilities are pretty much endless. For them to come looking for you… It feels more than surreal.

“I- Of course I do! You’ve only pioneered the most potentially limitless field of technology to ever exist,” you reply enthusiastically. You’re shocked you can even speak.

“Please, Hextech is hardly that polished,” Jayce says with a wave of his hand, pride painting his cheeks pink. “I’m Jayce, but I assume you already knew that.” You exchange a firm handshake and turn next to his partner. Viktor is already waiting expectantly for your hand, his head tilted with intrigue.

“Viktor,” he says as you take it. His hand is much colder than the other man’s, all tendons and long, dexterous fingers. You hold on for a bit too long, garnering a playful eyebrow raise from the scientist whose hand was the object of your lingering gaze. You quickly drop your hand back to your sides and hold them there stiffly.

“(Y/N). It’s an honor to meet you both.” It’s then you realize you should probably offer to let them sit down somewhere. It’s rather odd to hold a conversation hanging halfway out of the room. “Um, would you like to come in?” you ask, motioning over your shoulder into your workshop. “I have couches and coffee, if you’d like.”

“That would be fantastic,” says Jayce, and that’s how you end up with a pair of geniuses on your couch for half the day.

At first, they simply ask about your studies and current projects, which you are more than happy to answer. Nobody really wonders this kind of thing, and it’s indescribably freeing to be discussing your passions as opposed to potential repairs you could make for someone else. Of course you like to help others, it just sometimes feels as though people only value your skills for trivial reasons and ignore the bigger picture of what you could accomplish. Anyone can fix a busted radio; you’d rather dedicate your time and energy to more interesting projects. Jayce and Viktor listen intently as you speak, Viktor making note of something you say every now and then. They’re genuinely interested in what you do and what you believe in, which makes the real reason they’re here all the more exciting.

“I must admit that we’ve been keeping tabs on you over the past few months, and this is an offer we’ve been contemplating and discussing for just as long.” Viktor has such a nice voice; you find it surprising that he doesn’t do more public speaking. You’re drawn into his words, the cadence with which he speaks keeping you on the edge of your seat. You decide then and there that you could listen to him talk all day.

“Spending the morning with you today has proved to us beyond a shadow of a doubt that you fit the mold of what a Hextech scientist should be.” Jayce picks up where his partner left off, smiling as he speaks. You’re practically vibrating in your seat, breaths shaking with exhilaration and anticipation. You can’t remember the last time you’ve felt this excited. “So, (Y/N)... How would you like to join the team as our new assistant?”

The words are music to your ears, and you feel tears start to prick at the corners of your eyes. Over the past few weeks, you had been so worried that you’d end up trapped in an unwanted apprenticeship that you’d almost forgotten what your goal was. Now, with the future of Piltover and possibly all of Runeterra before you, you remember. With them, you could change the world without a doubt.

“I would love to.”

Your apprenticeship is going smoothly aside from the typical explosions and other scientific mishaps, and you become acquainted with Viktor and Jayce fairly quickly over the first two months of being their assistant. Spending extended amounts of time in their lab with them means bearing witness to all sorts of conversations.

Sometimes things get deep and the two contemplate life and existence, wondering what it’s all for and lamenting their failures and mistakes.You often worry if you should even be listening; you brought it up to Viktor once, who assured you that you’re privy to most all information as part of their team. It was that comment that dispelled any remaining doubt you may have had about your worth or status. If Viktor, the less outgoing of the two, considers you a teammate, then you must be doing something right.

Other times, they’re bickering over little things like snacks (“Viktor, please make room in the fridge for something other than your ridiculously sweet drinks”) or the messiness of each other’s notes (“Jayce, as long as I can read it it does not matter how ‘scribbly’ my handwriting is”). If they reach a stalemate, they often turn to you as a tiebreaker. They entertain you endlessly and provide good company, and all of that is on top of being brilliant mentors and colleagues. You find yourself waking up exhilarated each morning, willing your classes to end quickly so your time in the lab could come sooner. In short, you couldn’t be more content.

That being said, you’ve encountered quite the surprising challenge: Viktor himself. If he were a machine, you think, he’d blow up upon ignition. He’s a powerhouse of a scientist, always going yet never slowing. He murmurs to himself as he works, his deft hands writing at incomprehensible speeds. It’s a wonder that his pen can keep up with his mind. Sometimes you catch yourself staring in awe at his quick movements at the chalkboards, desperately wanting to take a look inside his enigmatic mind. How can one man be the vessel of such brilliance? One of his most impressive talents is waving off Jayce’s pestering whilst conducting experiments. You’re extremely hesitant to interrupt him when he’s doing something of questionable safety; you have a hypothesis as to how it would end, and you’re not too sure you want to test it.

Viktor has taken it upon himself to keep you on your toes. You’re sure he has the quickest wit in all of Runeterra; trying to banter with him lands you pouting defeatedly at your workspace. His sense of humor is dry and sarcastic, and he’s capable of clapping back without even looking up from his notes. When he knows he’s won, he sports a smirk that can only be described as teasing, his eyes glinting with excitement. That look never fails to make your heart skip a beat. He renders you a flustered mess only to turn right back to his work like nothing’s happened. You weren’t complaining in the least; he makes your work even more exciting. He’s part of the reason you’re so eager to arrive in the lab each day, but you’d never tell him that.

Tonight, you find yourself slipping into the lab well past midnight. Your academic responsibilities held you hostage most of the day, and on top of that, you had to finish an engineering midterm project that kept you in your workshop for hours on its own. You’ve barely had a moment to breathe, yet somehow your mind isn’t tired. It must be the adrenaline of approaching deadlines. You didn’t initially have much to do Hextech-wise tonight, but you came up with some (arguably pretty good) ideas whilst slaving away on your project. You just needed to make a few quick blueprints and submit copies of your notes to your superiors and then you could go sleep off the impending doom of exam season.

Upon entry to the lab, you make note of a couple things. First, you notice the view of the moon through the window. It’s vast and glows a pale yellow, its light casting long shadows into the lab and illuminating any visible glass. It feels like a completely different space this late at night. The lighting makes it feel almost… magical. Next, you become aware of Jayce’s absence; there’s an unfamiliar silence to the large room without his mumbling and rhetorical questions filling it. Finally, your eyes land on Viktor, standing before one of the chalkboards like it’s still ten in the morning. Is this normal for him? How late does he stay here? You know he never goes home before you do, but you had no idea that he works this long into the night. Your eyebrows furrow and you clear your throat. He straightens slightly and turns to greet you with a puzzled look on his handsome face. He’s practically glowing in the moonlight.

“(Y/N)? What… are you doing here?”

“I could ask the same of you.”

“Questioning me in my laboratory, hmm? You’re a bold one.”

You huff a heavy sigh before replying. “It’s almost three in the morning, Viktor. You’ve been here all day, haven’t you?”

“Yes, I have. Is there a problem with that?”

“I mean, aren’t you, you know… tired or something?”

He takes a step toward the nearby podium his notes are on, the sound of his cane hitting the floor echoing in the darkness. He picks up a mug full of what you assume is coffee and wiggles it at you. “No.” You decide not to press the matter any further. He knows his limits, you’re sure. He’s a grown man, and a genius at that.

“You, eh, still haven’t told me why you’re here,” he says, breaking your pensive silence. He awaits your answer with his typical anticipatory expression: one corner of his lip quirked upwards with an eyebrow raised. He always looks like he knows something you don’t. “Jayce said he gave you the day off.”

You swallow, feeling small under his gaze. “Uh, he did. I just had some ideas and needed to get them down on paper, you know?”

He laughs softly. “Oh, I know. I can respect that.” He pauses to take a sip of coffee, but you’re too busy basking in the fact that he just proclaimed his respect for you to make much note of it. “Though, you should probably get some sleep. It is midterm season, no?”

“Well, yeah, I guess. But this is more important! Look at all that I came up with today,” you say excitedly, closing the distance between you and Viktor in a few eager steps. You thrust your engineering sketchbook at him and look at him with wide eyes. He takes it from you with a soft hum, opening to the first page of your new additions. He studies your ideas in silence, flipping through the pages without a word. You’re holding your breath the whole time. You become more embarrassed the longer he looks. Why did you assume someone so brilliant would be impressed by a few of your messy invention concepts? When he finally looks up, he finds you with your hands fiddling with your shirt hem and your bottom lip between your teeth. His face betrays nothing for a few agonizing seconds, and you want to sink through the floor. Dammit.

Suddenly, he smiles. “These are fantastic ideas, (Y/N). It’s impressive you were able to produce so many in one day.” He flips back to one page in particular. “Especially this one, it’s my favorite. I think it’ll be very doable once we manage to stabilize the crystals. Well done.”

You nearly pass out from relief, your shoulders visibly slumping as you release the tension. You offer him a breathless, “Thanks,” and take the book back from him. Your heart is hammering, and you feel drunk off his praise. Your hands tremble with nerves. You can’t believe someone you respect so highly is showing genuine interest in your original ideas. Is this happening?

“If you wouldn’t mind, could you make me a copy of your sketches at some point?”

“Oh, uh- Of course! I was actually here to make some rough blueprints and copies anyway.”

“Perfect. I’ll be getting back to my work now, just yell if you need me.”

You nod firmly and retreat to your workstation on the other side of the lab. Copying your sketches –legibly, no less– was a tedious process, but you barely took note due to your good mood. You and Viktor work in silence on your respective tasks, the only sounds the purposeful strokes of pencil and chalk. As you’re finishing up, exhaustion starts to rear its ugly head. Your adrenaline has worn off, and the fact of how late it is has finally registered in your preoccupied mind. You let out a loud yawn, and you can hear Viktor chuckle quietly. You decide to call it a night here, knowing your future self was going to have one hell of a morning if you didn’t.

“I’m off to bed. Need anything before I go?” You ask Viktor as you pass him on the way out. He turns to look at you with something you can’t quite place in his eyes. His gaze lingers for a moment before he shakes his head.

“No, I’ll be alright, thank you. Have a good night, (Y/N),” he says with a soft smile. You wave and turn to leave when he speaks again. “Do feel free to visit me here again some other night. Working alongside you like this was… pleasant.”

Your heart skips a beat and you stop dead in your tracks, a goofy smile fighting its way onto your face. You feel giddy, all smiles and positive thoughts. Part of you wants to skip back to your dorm room like a little kid. You compose yourself briefly in order to respond. “I…feel the same. Goodnight, Viktor.” You leave in a hurry afterward, anxious to get to bed (by which you mean ponder your interaction with Viktor for the remainder of the night). Needless to say, you didn’t get much sleep.

#viktor x reader #viktor x you #viktor arcane #arcane viktor #viktor #arcane fanfic #jayce talis #is there a bit #can’t leave out my boy #arcane

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tangledinmdzs · 3 years

Note

Hi it's me again :D

I have read the rules and am ready to make a request!

I would like to request something with the juniors about how they would comfort the reader that is not very good in cultivation and one day they find the reader crying and a lot of comfort please 🥺

I hope I did everything right, otherwise please let me know :'D

hey friend~

you’ve made a lovely request, don’t worry about it at all! sorry for getting to your request so late; it’s been a bit chaotic on my end, but things should be much better now :)

i hope you enjoy this little piece!

(p.s.: your profile pic is giving me life i love it so much haha)

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

Lan Sizhui

the guqin strings are coarse, almost painful, when you flick your arm outwards towards the openness before you

for all of your effort,

you don’t even seen the smallest bit of spiritual energy spurt from your instrument

it had been the same result

for hours,

days,

almost a month (counting)

you hate how you can’t do it

your eyes fall back to the instrument

you feel anger at the strings for being too hard (at yourself for not being able to use them, get used to them)

and you knew that cultivation had never been easy but you didn’t think that it would be this hard either

perhaps, i am not meant to be a cultivator, you brain thinks, almost believes

and you slowly take your hands off from the stringboard

but suddenly, you’re surprised by a warm grasp landing on your wrist

you had been too busy staring at your instrument to realize that someone had come and sat down beside you

when you turn to the side, you find none other than your friend

you stare at Sizhui in muted surprise,

at his initiation, at the very action that he choose

at how close he was

“y/n,”

he says your name like a question

you see his eyes flicker around you face, reading everything that you felt was wrong shown there

“i’m not good at this,” you say, shakily, sadly

Sizhui shakes his head at you, brings your hands back to lay them on the string board

you’re quiet as his warm hands overlap yours

“let me help you,” Sizhui offers

can you help me?, you think but don’t say because you wonder if you would ever be a good cultivator with help from anyone,

“i’ll help you, y/n,” Sizhui reaffirms

he answers all the worries you don’t say

Lan Jingyi

Jingyi sighs from the awning, staring at you as you go through the motions of your sword

you had been practicing since the early morning, before the cock had even crowed

and now it was the late afternoon

and you still hadn’t stopped even when Jingyi came to remind you various times

you were so goddamn stubborn

Jingyi notices the way that your arm shakes when you finish the drill this time around and finally chooses to physically intervene

you’re breathing heavily as Jingyi comes up to you, feeling the heaviness of your limbs

though in your head, you know you can’t stop now, not when you’re so close to getting this right

you’re just about to raise your sword in front of you again when Jingyi’s hands wrap around your arms, keeping them at your sides

you blink up to Jingyi, staring at him unamused

“let me go,” you say, try to command

but your voice is soft, weary from all the hours that you’d spent today

“you need to take a break,” Jingyi reminds you and you just huff at him, manage to pry your arms out of his grasp

Jingyi sighs at you again,

“cultivation takes practice,” you say, almost monotonously and Jingyi stops you from starting again when he physically takes your sword away from you

you’re too tired to fight him for it, but you do glare at him,

“cultivation takes time, you need to give yourself time,”

“i don’t have time!” you burst out, angrily at him

because your parents had sent you to Gusu Lan to come back prepared to protect your clan, your sect, your home

and the days were getting close to your departure

and you still weren’t ready

“i’ve already taken too much time...” you breathe out and your eyes sting from your tired pain to the heavy burden that always followed you around

Jingyi sheathes your sword for you before coming close and taking your hands

he’s quiet when he pulls out a small piece of gauze (somehow prepared) and gentle as he wraps them around the few bleeding calluses on your palm

you pretend that the tears that drip out of your eyes are from the mild ache of your hands

Jingyi pretends too

Jin Ling

you duck, a bit haphazardly as a sharp knife is thrown at you

you don’t get a good footing when you land

but before you can so much as fix it a flurry of flaming talisman come flying your way

you manage your normal backflip, dodging the obstacles as intended, but after your final flip you don’t land on your feet

you fall hard onto your stomach, the dry dirt of the training grounds flying up to your face

you cough eyes tearing both from the pain and your frustration as you regain your breath from you fall

“you are not ready,”

you blink rapidly, pushing yourself up onto your knees to look up to your senior disciple,

“just give me some time, please-”

“you will not be strong enough to join the night hunt at the end of the week. if you try to come along all you’ll just be is a nuisance”

your senior had always been known for being brutally honest, you know this well

doesn’t mean that his words don’t hurt

your fists clench where they’re laid in your lap, your head bowed

you can’t look up to your senior, because you know that you will cry

and you don’t want him to see

he doesn’t bid you so much as a goodbye as he leaves, and you only really know of his departure once the shade of his shadow disappears

the sun beams down on you for a few long painful minutes

you’re too busy brewing in your own discouragement, worthlessness, to notice the entrance of another person

a shadow shades you once more

and you catch the yellow hems of long expensive robes

you don’t look up,

only when Jin Ling kneels down in front of you, taps your chin up to look at him, do you finally find his eyes

they stare at you

“your robes are all dirty,” Jin Ling simply says

and yea, no shit, you’d fallen

but somehow

those few words are enough to trigger the tears that you had been trying to hold in

Jin Ling had always been the one that made fun of you one way or another

never the comforter like your other three friend were

but this time,

at your rapid, hot tears

you’re surprised that he drags you into his arms, holds you close, even hushes you

and though he doesn’t say anything much

you feel better that you have his arms to cry into

Ouyang Zizhen

you don’t mean to react the way that you do

but maybe this was long time coming

because when your talisman disappears into the air without so much as a spark,

all the frustration from your failed studies,

your long worthless hours of practice

ignite and sputter just like the short flame of your talisman

but instead of puffing up into smoke instantly

your anger ignites

heavy, hot tears run down your cheeks and you can’t stop your sniffling even if you tried

you hiccup as your tears come out, getting louder and echoing (shamefully) in the middle of the training grounds

but before one of the senior disciples or any one could so much as scold you, warm light robes wrap around your shoulders, sheltering you

they lead you away from the looks of confusion, the rolls of eyes,

from everyone

your tears blur your vision so you feel grateful that your rescuer keeps a warm solid hold on your shoulder and even guides you to sit down when you’ve finally stopped

when you are sat on the wooden steps, your tears have mostly subsided, though you still hide your face in your folded arms

you hear the person take a seat beside you, and those familiar warm arms return to wrap around your shoulders again,

“don’t be sad over it y/n, everyone learns to cultivate at their own pace, you will be able to do it,”

Zizhen’s words are so warm, so easy to believe, so hopeful

but you’re behind everyone in the class, still unable to harness your qi for the right (or even long enough) amount of time-

“don’t think those thoughts that i know you’re thinking. you can be disappointed but you can’t give up,”

“but what if i can never cultivate...” you mumble, sadly, despondently

you feel the hand on your shoulder squeeze, a gentle reminder

“you will,

“you have me,”

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tripleaxeldiaz · 4 years

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you play, and everything else goes away

for @extasiswings <3

read on ao3

It’s all very familiar as he enters the store — the smell of wood and rosin, the instruments hanging on the walls, the snippets of music coming from the practice rooms along the back wall. There’s music playing from speakers behind the front desk too, a familiar piece that he’s forgotten the composer of. As he adjusts the case straps on his shoulders, watching a group of kids warm up in the corner, he’s suddenly nervous, anticipation rolling in his stomach like it did before his very first lesson.

Eddie didn’t start with the cello — every kid in the neighborhood was taking piano lessons, so his mother signed him and his sisters up too. Sophia was good, played through sophomore year, did a few solo and ensemble competitions. Adriana quit after a month so she could focus on dance. Eddie liked it fine, but he didn’t feel any passion for it. The keys felt too cold, too impersonal, and he couldn’t feel the music anywhere but in his hands, didn’t feel like he could control it.

His teacher must have noticed too, because she turned to him one day mid-lesson and asked, “Eddie, what do you really want to play?”

He’d thought about it, of course. He’d watched kids warm up and tune every instrument imaginable while waiting for lessons to start, but he always felt himself drawn to the strings. They were beautiful, looked elegant and commanding no matter who was playing them, and although they only had four strings, there were infinite notes that could be played, microtonalities and variations that the 88 keys of the piano just couldn’t replicate. Every violinist he watched seemed to put their whole body into their pieces, swaying as the music changed, bows ebbing and flowing. He told his teacher the simplified version of that and she nodded, leaving the room and coming back a few minutes later with two cases, one double the size of the other.

She handed him the violin first. Twisting his arm to hold it under his chin was awkward, and the shrill tone of the E string wasn’t something he was sure he wanted to listen to day in and day out. His teacher showed him some basic fingerings and helped him play a scale, but something still felt wrong.

The cello, though. As soon as he sat down with it securely between his knees, he knew this was different. Better. The tones were lower, warmer, and he could feel them in every inch of him, felt in command of the music he was playing. All he played was a D major scale, but it was enough to know this was it for him. His parents agreed, happy enough that he still wanted to play something, and bought him his own cello that same day. He was a little worried on the day of his first lesson that he wouldn’t love it as much as he hoped, but one hour and one sawed out version of “Hot Cross Buns” later, he was completely enamored.

He continued with lessons, joining his school’s orchestra in fifth grade, and Eddie continued falling in love with the cello, now learning how to love how it sounded as part of a whole rather than just a single instrument. Cello parts weren’t always the melody or particularly fun, but they supported the sound of the whole piece, enriching it, sometimes making it so intense he could feel the notes in his bones as he played. He was first chair by sophomore year, playing solos and in the chamber orchestra. He listened to the pieces his director recommended outside of school, and fell down rabbit holes of his own, finding particular comfort in the repetition and minimalism of Glass and Richter, in the picturesque melodies of Einaudi. By the time he was a senior, it was clear that he wouldn’t be able to play much if at all after graduation — his parents were pushing so hard for pre-med, the Army kept sending him letters about his potential as a recruit, and all the best music programs were out of state anyway, away from Shannon, from his family, everything he knew.

He packed up his cello after his orchestra’s senior concert, fully expecting to never touch it again, watch it gather dust in the corner of his childhood bedroom while the world moved on around it. It hurt Eddie deeply to leave this thing he loved so much behind, but he still had recordings to listen to, where he could close his eyes and pretend he was playing too, fingering along silently on his arm.

It wasn’t the same, but it would have to be enough.

But fast forward 15 years and here Eddie is, waiting for his new teacher to call him into their room, foot tapping with nervous energy. He sees a door open, a girl walking out with her case on her back, waving as she heads out of the store. A man maybe 10 years older than him sticks his head out.

“Edmundo?” he calls. Eddie walks over to the room, shutting the door behind him as they shake hands.

“Eddie is fine,” he says.

“Nice to meet you, I’m Steve,” Steve says, his smile warm and paternal. “I take it this isn’t your first rodeo?”

Eddie stops, bow in his hand frozen mid-rosin. He hadn’t even realized he had unpacked, it just...happened. Like muscle memory.

“It’s not,” he laughs, blushing lightly. “But it has been a while.”

“Well that’s okay, it’s never too late to start playing again,” Steve says as Eddie settles in the plastic chair, locking his endpin and placing it in the rock stop. “Do you have any music with you? I’d like to get an idea of where your technique is at right now.”

“I don’t, but I have a piece memorized I can play?”

Steve waves his hand out as he sits in the chair across from Eddie. “Whenever you’re ready.”

Eddie places the bow on the strings and takes a deep breath. It’s been ages, but it’s all so familiar that he’s not nervous anymore. The weight of the cello is comforting, like hugging an old friend, and he’s relaxed. Excited, even, to be back in this mindset that was an escape to him for so long. As he begins to play, the familiar arpeggios flow out of him like rain water, the bow gliding along with them. He closes his eyes and feels it, the slurs and scales, the crescendos and diminuendos, every rest, every string crossing. This was the first piece he ever memorized, the first one he ever played in front of people at a recital, and to know that it’s still so much a part of him, ingrained in his mind, makes him kind of want to cry.

He finishes, let’s the last chord linger, his eyes still closed. He knows it wasn’t perfect — he was flat in places, he missed a bowing change and was backwards for a few bars, and his fingertips started hurting toward the end, calluses no longer there to protect him. But none of that matters to him, really, because he’s back, back in this home he didn’t realize he had missed so much.

He opens his eyes as Steve claps softly, still smiling. “That was really great, Eddie. You have some things to brush up on, but you really are a natural. Shall we work through it from the top?”

He picks up his bow, heart close to bursting with happiness, and he starts again.

~~~~~~~~~~

Eddie peaks through the crack in the curtain, scanning the audience for his family. He spots them — they’re kind of hard to miss, taking up the entire third row — and he feels his stomach drop, more nervous than he ever is running into a burning building.

It was their doing, really, his getting back into playing. Sophia had been in town and had dropped by the station one day, and everyone took full advantage of grilling her for childhood memories of Eddie. He hadn’t minded when she let slip that he played cello once upon a time, because he wasn’t ashamed of it. It just wasn’t something he talked about often because it still stung, even all these years later, remembering the feeling he used to get mastering a tricky fingering or learning a new piece, knowing he’d probably never have that same joy again. He didn’t really think anything of the way Buck’s eyes lit up when he said he wouldn’t mind taking lessons again, or the way he pulled everyone but Eddie aside in the weeks leading up to Christmas.

At their yearly gift exchange, Eddie had been presented with a huge, oddly wrapped package with a tag reading “To: our favorite musician, From: all of us”. His breath caught as he unwrapped it, revealing familiar, curved black plastic. He opened the case, tearing up at the sight of the used but clearly loved cello and a coupon for a year’s worth of lessons from a local teacher. He croaked out a “thank you” and was quickly enveloped in a group hug, feeling beyond grateful for these people that knew him so well and loved him so much.

He practiced as often as he could in between lessons and work and everything else. Sometimes he was alone, working through difficult passages with varying degrees of frustration. Sometimes Chris laid on the ground next to him doing homework, sometimes Buck sat on the couch and read, both listening intently, not caring when Eddie played the same four bars over and over and over to get them right. As annoying as it was, he never felt like giving up, like picking cello up again had been a mistake. If anything, it just made him work harder, in honor of 18 year old Eddie that had to leave his passion behind.

The audience claps as the pianist before him finishes. Eddie feels a hand on his shoulder, turns to see Steve behind him, holding his folder of music.

“You’ve worked hard this year, Eddie. You’re going to be great. And if not, that just means you have to keep practicing.”

Eddie nods, stomach still swirling. He and Steve walk on stage as his name is announced, and he hears Buck and Chimney’s unmistakable hollers. He sets up his chair and music stand in front of the piano, looking at the audience again. He can see everyone’s face clearly from here, all smiles, Bobby holding up his phone to record the performance. He catches Buck’s eye, who sends him a wink and a smile, and he’s ready.

He places his bow on the strings, nods to Steve, and he’s lost in the music almost immediately. It’s a melancholic piece, full of sorrow and intensity that fills Eddie as he plays. He picked this piece because it’s beautiful in it’s sadness and simplicity, and today, he plays it for all that he’s lost. For his Army friends, for Shannon, for his younger, more optimistic self. He mourns for them through his music in a way that he’s never been able to without it, and as it swells into the final melodic section, he swears he feels some weight lift off his soul.

He finishes, and there’s a breath before the audience applauds. It’s mostly polite, but the third row is on its feet, Athena passing Maddie a pack of tissues as they wipe their eyes. He smiles and bows before heading offstage with Steve, feeling giddy, the same we he always remembered feeling after a good performance. It didn’t matter that he missed a few notes or rushed a few bars — he made people feel something, and that was a better reward than perfection.

Another round of applause from his family greets him as he enters the lobby, Chris barreling into his legs, all smiles and congratulations. There’s hugs and pats on the back and flowers from Hen and Karen, and Eddie doesn’t know if he’ll stop smiling. As they leave, headed to a nearby restaurant to celebrate, Buck falls in step next to Eddie, tangles their fingers together.

“You were beautiful up there, Eds,” he says as he presses a kiss to the back of Eddie’s hand. “I’ve never seen you look so in your element.”

Eddie just smiles, kissing Buck’s cheek before tugging him toward the car, Chris already there, yelling at them to get a move on.

Because Buck’s right. On stage, playing music, he is in his element. Behind a cello, he’s home.

#eddie diaz #evan buckley #buddie #buddie fic #9-1-1 fic #9-1-1 fox #soft eddie rights #i'm probably gonna be crying about this forever #ficcery

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xazz · 3 years

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Moth Wings 4

Pairing: AltMal, Altair+Desmond Rating: Explicit Tags: vampires, romance, servant AU, music AU, fluff, angst, flangst Status: WIP

It’s a very spooky scary time in the US right now. So it seems the best thing to do is to post some extra chapters of Moth Wings. Because vampires are less scary then the current political climate :,)

----

In the morning after breakfast Altair brought the violin case into Desmond’s room. Desmond was playing with some blocks. Altair took the bow out first and tightened and waxed it properly. Then he put the violin up under his chin and started to tighten the pegs. He drew the bow acros the strings and they gave a jumbled dissonance of out of key notes, making him wince.

Over the next hour or so Altair tuned the violin, testing each string one at a time then all together and then playing something, hearing the dissonance, and retuning it. It was slow going really. His ear wasn’t as trained as it used to be. Before all this he’d had nearly perfect pitch and could tell what was out of tune and how much to turn the peg effortlessly. This was taking a great effort now.

Finally he had the instrument tuned and he stood up. “Alright Desmond, I want you to sing along,” he said and drew the bow across the strings with an open neck. The chord was harmonic and beautiful.

He was out of practice playing too and his first attempts were clumsy. He screwed up notes and played things out of tune as he tried to remember some songs he’d once memorized.

The first day was full of failures and his fingers hurt after every attempt. He wasn’t used to playing anymore. After he put Desmond asleep for the night he laid in his bed and cried over his cramped hands, the strings had dug in so deeply they’d nearly drawn blood. It wasn’t even the pain though. It was that he couldn’t play like he used to. He’d grown up playing. He’d spent his entire life playing. And these three and a half years he’d been forced to stay here in the castle had robbed him of calluses and memory of how to do what he loved.

But he tried again the next day, pacing himself instead. He played a bit until his fingers hurt and then stopped and played with Desmond. When his hands felt better he tried again, stumbled his way through a song, and rested his hands again. The next day his hands didn’t hurt as bad.

He spent the next week or so doing that. Playing little ditties on the violin for Desmond’s amusement and building up his muscle memory and hand strength again. It wasn’t all gone really. It had just been buried. By the end of the week he remembered most of it but he still didn’t have the hand dexterity anymore for quick songs.

He needed a rest after a week. He didn’t bring the violin out and instead read Desmond story books. His hands had hurt so much that night and he needed to rest. Desmond liked the story books and picked out all the ones he liked he wanted Altair to read. As he did he tried to encourage Desmond to say some of the words with him. He never did.

As he was putting Desmond to sleep the boy was fussy and whiny. “What is it, Des? Hmm? What’s the matter? Why are you so fussy huh? You’re usually so good about going to bed.” Desmond, of course, didn’t say anything. But he sat up, stopping his fussing for a moment, and crudely mimed playing a violin like Altair had. That surprised him. “You want me to play you a song?” Desmond nodded. “Okay,” he got up from the bed and went to get the violin.

He made sure the instrument was tuned and sat on Desmond’s bed again. He played a simple lullaby instead of a ditty. His father used to play it to him when he was little to help him go to sleep so he only knew it by ear. Umar claimed Altair’s mother had written the piece and Altair liked to think Umar playing it for him was his way of having his mother sing to him at night. It wasn’t a sad lullaby like a lot were but it was down beat.

It was the first time he felt he played with any confidence since he’d brought the instrument here. He closed his eyes as he played, going by feel alone. The lullaby itself wasn’t very long. A dozen or so bars and he repeated them a few times. Eventually he opened his eyes and saw Desmond was sound asleep. He smiled and leaned over, kissing the boy’s cheek. “Goodnight, Desmond,” he said softly.

He started when he heard soft clapping and spun. Standing in the open doorway was the foreign vampire, Malik. Altair’s eyes got very wide and he swallowed. Shit. Had he seen Altair kiss Desmond goodnight? He was pretty sure the Matron would have a fit if she knew. “That was beautiful,” Malik said, just loud enough to hear but not loud enough to wake Desmond. “Come over here,” he beckoned.

Altair hesitated only a moment before obeying. Malik stepped out of the door and into the hall, he closed the door behind Altair to not disturb the babe. “You play very well,” he said.

“Thank you,” Altair swallowed.

“Have you played long?”

“Since I was a boy,” he said, looking down.

He started and flinched when the vampire grabbed him by the chin. “I told you the last time we spoke, look at me when you speak to me,” he said, making Altair look at him.

“Sorry, sir,” he swallowed.

“You learned to play when you were a boy?” Malik kept hold of his chin, like he knew Altair would look away the moment he was allowed. He wasn’t wrong. Altair nodded. “Who taught you?”

“My father. My family has made violins for musicians in the valley for five generations.”

“And you too?”

“I would have. But I was chosen to attend the castle and young master Desmond,” he swallowed.

Malik finally released his chin and he took a step back but didn’t avert his eyes. “Follow me,” was all Malik said and turned around. Altair wilted but did follow Malik. He was surprised when Malik led him into his chambers. In the week or so since his arrival he’d decorated and added his own things to the chamber. Did he intend to stay long? Malik fell gracefully onto a sofa. “Play for me,” he ordered.

“Ah— excuse me?” Altair squeaked.

“The song you played for the boy was lovely. I want one too.”

“Ah— I’m very out of practice. It won’t sound good,” Altair stammered.

“I won’t notice. We don’t have instruments like that where I’m from. Now play me something,” he put his arms on the back of either side of the sofa. Altair swallowed and put the violin up under his chin again. He closed his eyes because seeing Malik watching him was intimidating. He tried to think of something, anything, to play but he came up with nothing. He couldn’t remember a single sheet of music, couldn’t picture a single bar in his head. And Malik was waiting.

He just started playing. Nothing quick, his fingers weren’t fast enough for an upbeat song. He just played how he felt which was all he could do. He could imagine the notes like drops of water, splattering in a pool, and that helped him along. He played something that reminded him of before he was in the castle and he’d go down to the lake near the town and watch the mist lift during the morning. Tranquil, secluded, and with a touch of melancholy. And he knew he’d never get to watch a sunrise over the lake in a long time. Maybe ever again. Who knew how long vampires took to grow up. Desmond might be a child the rest of his life.

As he thought that the music turned from melancholy to sad, long mournful chords that Altair felt in his bones. Playing and hearing the music just made him even sadder. Desmond was two but he didn’t look like he’d aged a day since he’d hatched. Who knew how long it’d be until he looked like he was five, or ten, or fifteen, or old enough for the masters. Altair could be here forever. This could be his entire life now. Taking care of a young vampire who’d never grow up.

He jerked and his eyes flashed open when someone grabbed his wrist holding the bow. Malik was standing in front of him. “Why are you so sad?” Malik asked and to Altair’s horror he reached up to his face and wiped away a track of tears streaming down both cheeks. “What’s William doing to you?”

“N-nothing. I should go,” and before Malik could stop him he bolted.

#Assassin's Creed #Altmal #altair #Desmond Miles #malik al sayf #shut up bb #moth wings

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inkstainedfanfics · 7 years

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Oh baby, you just said the magic words! Cedric with the prompt "hands" Btw I am great with open direction, abstract ideas so just let me know if you want me to send more for our poor boy ;)

@ly–canthrope I got so excited when I saw this you have no clue. I knew exactly what I wanted to do as soon as I read it and I had to stop writing to play piano lol. Thanks for all the Cedric requests. Feel free to send them all lol I love this boy.

The beauty sits in front of you, demanding the attention of anyone walking in the empty classroom. Eighty-eight keys: fifty-two white, thirty-six black, all shining even in the dimmed lighting. You suck in a breath as you behold it.

Pomfrey smiles behind you. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”

You nod, running your hands over the keys. Breathtaking.

“For repayment, headmaster Dumbledore only requests that you teach him and Professor Sprout how to play.”

The sounds such a grand piano could make with the right person playing it… but the cost for such an instrument must’ve been high, exorbitant. “Of course,” you murmur, pressing down on one of the keys, then another, and another, and soon enough you’re sitting on the black bench, playing a simple song.

“Well, let’s hear what you can play. Surely you know more than that.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m positive. It’s been too long since music filled these halls.”

You take a breath, shutting your eyes, trying to recall an old song you once played every day.

You stumble on the notes at first, fingers out of practice, but three lines later and the song’s flowing easily, muscle memory allowing you to stop thinking and just play.

Pomfrey fades away, the stress of the day fades away, everything fades away as you lose yourself in the music.

The room’s warm, sweat beads up on your forehead, and the new bench creaks as you sway, keeping in time with the beat you’ve set for yourself.

The song’s one that grows and falls, a swaying rhythm that you adore. It was a way to unwind before, throw your emotions in it. Now, it’s a gorgeous song with sentimental value.

As you reach the end of the song and slow, hands landing on the final keys with a concluding thrum, you let out a long breath.

It’s cut short by a clap. “I hope we begin with something a bit simpler.”

You look up into grey eyes, cheeks heating up. “Oh, Cedric, sorry. I didn’t know you were here yet. I’m sorry.”

He chuckles. “What’re you saying sorry for? Proving you’re the best teacher I could’ve found?”

“You still want to learn?” A small rush in your stomach, the usual consequence of Cedric’s smile. You’d begged for the piano for weeks after Cedric said he’d learn if you’d be the one teaching, promising Dumbledore anything if he’d just buy one for the school.

Cedric had been there when you found out the answer was a yes. Pomfrey hadn’t even walked away before Cedric was setting up a time after classes to practice. He’s excited to learn an instrument, is all, you’d had to convince yourself. It’s not the prospect of spending time with you.

“From a master? I’d be honored.”

“Then I suppose we should…” You trail off as he sits next to you without showing any sign of hesitation.

His shoulder and knee brush your own. There’s an inch of space on the end of the bench. He could slide over, could leave some space between the two of you, maybe he isn’t because…

No. You won’t let yourself think that. It’s Cedric Diggory, your friend. Just your friend.

You let out a long breath as you meet his grey eyes again. They’re so much closer this time; you can smell the mint on his breath.

“So where do we begin?”

The piano. Right. “Do you know anything about it?”

“No.”

Great, starting from scratch. “Well, there’s middle C position. You’ll use it in most beginner songs. First, you need to know where middle C is, though.” You continue on, explaining where each note is, what it sounds like, trying to ignore how cute he is when he wrinkles his forehead in concentration.

You lay your hands on the keys, thumb on C, index on D, and so on and so forth, showing Cedric how to curve his hands when he plays. “See how it looks?”

Before you can move, his hand covers your own, his fingers curving around yours, the calluses from quidditch scraping the back of your hand. “Like this?”

Oh niffler’s paws, he’s going to be the death of you. “Yeah, just like that.” And, though you don’t want to, you pull your hand away.

The rest of the lesson goes without much incident until you try to teach him hot cross buns. Everyone should know one song when they leave the first lesson, and it’s the easiest. Three notes, that’s all it takes. Cedric’s smart, he should be able to figure it out.

Yet when you tell him to play E, D, C, he squints then shakes his head. “What?”“E, then D, then C. You can do it. Remember what note D is?”

Cedric nods, but still reaches for your hand with his free one, placing it atop his. “Show me.”

You’re a flustered mess, cheeks hot, eyes wide, heart slamming in your chest, but Merlin help you, you’re going to get through this. You press down your three fingers atop his, showing him the order a few times, not drawing away until he nods and does it himself.

He grins as he pounds out the song. “You really are a master, aren’t you?”

You shy away from his praise. “You’re just a great student.”

His eternally rosy cheeks seem to redden the slightest as he glances at his watch. “I need to go; I promised Anthony I’d help him in potions. But maybe we could continue this tomorrow?”

You nod, standing. “Sure. I should be free.”

Your heart might just stop at the thought of spending another hour next to him, shoulder pressed against his, hands grazing each other, but you smile at him and begin gathering your books.

He’s made it to the doorway by the time you answered and, before he ducks out, he smiles at you. “Great, it’s a date.”

He leaves you behind, overthinking, wondering what he meant. You groan. He really is going to be the death of you.

#I am so in love with Cedric #and the piano #so this was a joy to write #tysm sososos much for the request #I adored it #and your abstract prompts are great I love them asdhgarhaeorh #I wish I could draw so I could draw Cedric putting his hand over the Reader's #and like the expression of shock on the Reader and his own smirk #since he's happy with himself for working up the nerve to do that #oerghqeorhge #If only I were talented enough lol #cedric diggory #cedric diggory drabble #drabble night #ly--canthrope

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cathedralreims · 6 years

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After the Lights Went Out: Second Movement

Read the first chapter here.

Fantastic things happen at night.

Ludwig captured blinking fireflies in the grassy field, where the tips ticked his nose and brushed against his coarse clothing. The little lightning bugs buzzed inside his hands, trying to find a way to freedom but to no avail. They were placed in a glass mason jar, rather dirty from use, and carefully observed by a wide-eyed boy. They were like miniature stars, that he could seize and play with them as he wished.

Around him, a chorus of crickets and cicadas chirped and hummed, as if the Wandering Orchestra played its sweet symphony in the nocturnal hours. Ludwig meticulously counted how many he caught. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Six in total. Satisfied with the night's round up, he opened the lid and watched the fireflies dance away in that curious, meandering path. He liked it when they entered a grassy plain like this, so open. So full of curiosities just waiting to be discovered, especially when the veil of night fell. The only caveat was that he could only spend so many minutes roaming before being called in.

Harried piano keys would be pressed during the morning hours; hours upon hours would be spilled onto the yellow-stained black and white keys. Ludwig spent the early years of his life breathing in the musty scent of music sheets and feeling calluses form on the tips of his fingers. He tried other instruments as well: the strings, the woodwinds, the brass, the percussions. None of them seemed to fit a small boy such as him. All he had to do was sit and the rickety chair (or stand, when someone else had to use it), place his delicate fingers, and play.

Sometimes he would play those instruments as well, in case one of their players fell ill, and were basically his own source of entertainment when the sun still shone. There were no other children his age, and all the adults were too occupied with their own practices. Albert was always busy in the big tent and only had time when everyone else drifted off to sleep; Aunt Sara hobbled along with a makeshift cane and couldn't endure his antics for long, and Uncle Thomas was taking a vacation.

Ludwig paused, tired from running around, and laid down on the tall grass. A firefly landed on his nose but quickly flew away. The warm, summer air acted like a blanket around his small body but the ground below him was cool and pleasant. He read somewhere that the cold always sank. Maybe that is why after a long day in the sun, everyone fell to the ground? Maybe that is why sometimes they never got back up, because they wanted to enjoy the cold longer. Maybe that's why they were buried there.

The young boy stood up and meticulously dusted off his clothing. He only had two shirts and two pants, and boys' clothing was remarkably scarce. Every shopping mall the Wandering Orchestra landed in was picked clean of any resources. Most of their materials came from abandoned, rusty cars or lonesome, shambling houses.

Rustling grass caught Ludwig's attention and suddenly, he found himself in the air in the cold but shapely hands of Albert. Laughter filled the field as Albert gently tossed the boy up and down, always catching him just in time. Then, they both collapsed to the ground with Ludwig on his brother's lap.

"What have you been doing all this time?" asked Albert, smoothing down Ludwig's hair.

Ludwig grabbed the empty jar and pointed the flying fireflies. "I've been catching them."

"And how many did you catch?"

"Six!" he beamed. "Next time, I'll catch more."

"When we return to this place, I'm sure you will." Albert laughed, a creaking, echoing sound. It was rather unsettling to hear, but Ludwig didn't care. They were still brothers. They came from different blueprints, but a red string tied them together. "I think we're going to a mountainous region," Albert continued, scratching his chin. "But I don't remember if we will find fireflies there."

A silence passed between the two, but it held everything. There was never complete silence. Something was always going on, even at night when everybody was asleep. Ludwig can hear the crickets chirping, the soft whirring of Albert's gears besides him, or the earthshaking snoring from two tents over. For as long as he could remember, Ludwig's world was brimming with noise and sound - from sun up to sun down.

"When will your dad find you," asked the boy. "And when will my dad find me?"

"When the time comes, they'll find us," Albert simply replied. He stood up and took Ludwig by the hand, leading him back towards the main camp. "For now, it's time for bed. We have a long day ahead of us."

Wordlessly, they walked back. Ludwig turned his head to have one last glance at the illuminated field, and then turned his attention towards the night sky. He asked the same question in his thoughts, but no answer came. Everything responded to his question but the sky, but maybe it chose not to respond because it knew that Ludwig already had the answer. He was just waiting for someone else to say something else.

Albert gently placed Ludwig into his makeshift bed and wished him goodnight. Ludwig said the same thing and closed his eyes. He dreamt up an alternate world for himself, a world where he had an actual bed like he saw in catalogues and a house surrounded by a white picket fence with a dog wagging its golden tail and in front, there would be a mother and a father and a son. But it was only a fragile illusion, broken by the sun's rays and the clamorous tune of a trumpet. The last vestiges of the dream disappeared and all that there was left was nostalgia.

Ludwig rubbed the sleep away from his eyes and yawned loudly. Morning was always the worse. His mind was not ready to be bombarded with the shuffling of feet and the cantankerous orders of Camille, but such was life. Albert always woke early so that he could supervise the loading of the instruments. A very important role indeed.

He stumbled out of the tent and made a bee line towards the supply tent. "Good morning, Zach and Angie!" Ludwig said brightly, waving to them. They were the orchestra's only married couple, their dark skin shining in the heat. Well, Zach sweated while Angie glowed; Uncle Thomas told him that women always glowed in the heat.

The couple smiled and greeted him as well, their hands full of wrapped supplies ranging from bandages to small boxes of resin. There was only enough to fill several cardboard boxes, some of them rupturing at the seams. He stood on a wooden stool, an accommodation always made available to him, and carefully placed them into the boxes. Although tedious at time, Ludwig enjoyed this work overall. There was something satisfying in completing a puzzle that he didn't know the end result, and seeing the pieces fit perfectly and snugly together.

Once that was done, the boxes were loaded into a cart near the front of the line. Ludwig struggled to carry even one box to the cart, his spindly arms shaking under the weight of several pounds of filched medical supplies. He never accepted any help, however. His pride prevented him from accepting any help. A few yards away, he observed Albert hefting the grand piano into a car, with the help of several others. Albert was strong, certainly, because how could he not be? But nature started to weather him, and there were small cracks in his arms and legs. Near him, Sara sat on the edge with a pillow for comfort. She simply passed the boxes further into the cart with a half-knit scarf coiled around her lap.

A bell sounded signaling breakfast. Everyone clamored to their seats in the dining tent, the last one to be disassembled. The food wasn't always much. One cup of water for each person along with a bowl of oatmeal and a sprinkle of dried fruits on top. They only had fifteen minutes to scarf down their food before leaving the flatlands of the midwest. Albert usually sat next to him, but he was engaged in a conversation with Camille at the first table. It seemed that they were always talking with each other and Ludwig hadn't the faintest idea of what they were talking about. Whenever he asked Albert, the older would dismiss it as business. But there was never business in the Orchestra; everyone knew everyone and the model hasn't changed in decades.

The same bell rang and in an instant, a cacophony of clattering wooden bowls and spoons filled the air. The collapsible chairs and tables were lifted and lifted into a cart, along with some other objects leftover from the morning rush. Not a single thing was left behind and within a few short minutes, Ludwig jumped into his own cart, the one with Aunt Sara on it, and braced himself for hours of mind numbing desert plains.

Traveling was pleasant today as a cool breeze flew through the strands of their hair and the spaces between their fingers. Mountain peaks pierced the blue sky, as if the Orchestra was trudging to the maw of a great beast. If memory served correctly, it would be its last destination before making their round trip back to the forested areas of the East Coast. The Orchestra found their audiences in the extreme west or east, and occasionally a nomadic group in the middle - and that was when the fun began.

The grassy plains began to fade into a rocky terrain. Ludwig's ears picked up a human voice and his fingers began to fidget. He wasn't quite old enough yet to perform in front of a large crowd, but he has performed in front of Albert and a couple of other people from the Orchestra. Camille praised him for his dexterity in playing the piano; his propensity to waver from the music sheet could be improved on, however. Albert suggested that he should write his own pieces to quell this propensity, and Ludwig happily obliged. All the paper he could get his hands on was full of scraggly lines, punctuated with treble clef and black circles.

From an outside perspective, the symphonies were rudimentary pieces but Ludwig thought of them as masterpieces. They were tucked safely in a box in his own caravan. Ludwig occupied himself with a bundle of copper wires scrounged from an abandoned factory. He twisted the wires into shapes that sated his imagination at the time; most often they would be crude human outlines, four in total.

"What are you thinking about, Ludwig?"

It was the soft voice of Aunt Sara. Grey hairs ran through her hair like streams, but her face expressed youth. She was the kind of woman whose age couldn't be pinned down; it was somewhere in between forty and sixty. Ludwig didn't want to ask. Camille said that asking a woman her age was a rude question and is better left for the benefit of the doubt.

"I'm just thinking about mom and dad and where they are."

Aunt Sara smiled gently and placed her gnarled hand on his shoulder. "You're quite cold, darling. Here, I'll get you a nice scarf to wrap around your neck."

She used her cane to hook onto something in the back of the caravan and with a smooth movement of her wrist, a crocheted blue scarf emerged from the darkness. Ludwig plucked it off the edge and grinned at the soft, undulating surface of the scarf. Now that he thought of it, the weather was quite chilly and the scarf felt warm against his skin. The group made a right turn and if Ludwig squinted, he could faintly discern the figures of Albert and Camille, still engaged in conversation from before.

"You shouldn't worry about your parents, Ludwig," said Aunt Sara, patting his head. "They're in a cold, gentle place. You're much too young to go there, and we'll protect you from the black chariot that whisks people there so suddenly, that they don't know what had happened before they feel the chilling breeze wrapping around them."

"Oh," the boy said, not quite understanding what she just said. "Will I go there too?"

"In time, but if you're lucky, not soon. Everyone goes there in their own time," Aunt Sara sighed. She said the word "there" as if she was looking at it through a great telescope. "You shouldn't worry about your parents. You have a new family who will take care of you until the day you see them again."

Ludwig merely stared down at the wire figures on his hands, trying to imagine faces between the copper lines. He imagined his father as a great, strong figure who can bear the entire world upon his shoulders. He imagined his mother as the most beautiful woman in the world, with crinkles around her mouth indicating that she smiled often. And then there was the case of Albert, who would be their adoptive son because he didn't want his parents anymore. Ludwig never understood that, why Albert left his when they were searching for them.

Distant fanfare resounded, and it was not from the caravan. Wispy smoke crested over the hill, and the head cart responded to the fanfare with a jolly tune on the trumpet. They were almost there. Ludwig put the wire figures back into his bag and asked whether she'll be participating.

"Not this time. My arthritic fingers can't do much anymore than grab a spoon," she laughed, her voice cracking. "Well, what can I do? Your namesake, he was a famous composer so many centuries ago, was deaf. He created so many beautiful symphonies... I'm happy that you're doing the same. Albert might know more about him than I do. Once everyone settles down, you can ask him."

That moment arrived sooner than expected as movement ceased entirely. Simultaneously, everyone dismounted from the carts and crowded around the front, to encounter a small settlement that they saw twice a year: once in the summer and once in the winter. Ludwig jumped off and escorted Sara to the front of the crowd using his left arm as an extra crutch in conjunction to her cane. Visiting the town of Fernsworth was one of the highlights of their cross-country trip because he could actually be a seven year old child and play with children his age.

Ludwig scrambled towards Albert, who silently held his hand as Camille commenced the routine introductions, introducing themselves for any newcomers and the Wandering Orchestra's purpose and such. Ludwig wanted to listen, but his eyes roamed for familiar faces in the crowd - the only person he ever talked to besides Albert and Aunt Sara. At the head of the Fernsworth group, was the mayor whose name he couldn't bother to remember right now. The mayor was a middle-aged man with a prominent bald spot on the left side of his head.

There were about fifty people in Fernsworth, with the population ever growing. Most of them were young adults who survived the Plague nearly two decades ago. It was one of the few settlements in existence in the land, and like all, they were small and inconspicuous.

Finally, Ludwig spotted his fellow companion, whose blonde head suddenly popped up above his father's shoulders. The two smiled and waved to each other, eager to tell about their adventures and life after a several months hiatus. As soon as the introductions were done, Ludwig released himself from Albert's grasp and ran towards him, nearly tripping over his two feet.

"Augustus!"

"Ludwig!"

Augustus's dad greeted Ludwig in a gruff voice, and asked how he has been. Ludwig replied that he was doing well and that he was excited to see Augustus again. The dad, with few and far words in between, merely nodded in approval and told them to have fun playing together while he and all able adults set up for tonight's festivities.

Fernsworth was small, but to the two boys, it was the size of a playground. The cramped tents he slept in were replaced by modestly sized houses constructed of spare wood, scrap metal, and the occasional glass window. It was certainly no city like the ones that were described in books from the Old World; none of those fantastical images of towering, sleek grey buildings dotted with lighted windows. But a child's imagination was vast and so, they pretended the drab, one-floor shacks were exactly the ones they had read.

In between running around the worn dirt streets and climbing precariously on ladders, they asked each other rapid fire questions and answers about life:

"How's your brother?"

"As good as a robot can be. Sorry that I missed your birthday."

"Oh, it's okay. I had fun anyway. Where did you get the scarf?"

Ludwig stopped in his tracks and offered it to Augustus, smoothing out the wrinkles in the cloth. "My aunt gave it to me just now. Isn't it soft?"

Augustus gingerly touched it, remembering how Ludwig liked things to be immaculate. If clouds manifested themselves on earth, it would be this scarf. "It is."

They continued their gleeful rampage all day long, only stopping for a quick drink and a brief rest at twilight. They made numerous passes at the center of the town, where the people of Fernsworth and the Traveling Orchestra cooperated to prepare for the Summer Equinox festival, a tradition since it discovered this town just over a decade ago. With the work force doubled, there was no need for the children to participate.

"Wanna see my shell collection?" Augustus jumped up and down, his eyes sparkling with glee. They were on the vicinity of the buzzing activity in front of them, leaning their bodies on a wooden pillar, sweating from running in the hot sun. "There's a beach a couple of miles from here. Mom and dad took me there a while ago."

"Sure!" Ludwig replied, flinching a little upon hearing the words "mom and dad," but he quickly brushed it off. Now was not the time to dwell on such depressing matters.

The two boys ran towards Augustus's house, no different from any of the other houses beside a rusting number forty nailed besides the door. The interior was dimly lit, the only source of light being the small crack left by the door. Augustus tread his way into the back, fumbled for something on the floor and suddenly, there was light. Three beds occupied one corner of a room; they walked towards the smallest one, naturally, directly adjacent to the corner. In the flickering candlelight, six seashells haphazardly decorated the floor.

"Aren't they cool?" Augustus said. "That one is my favorite." He pointed to the middle shell, in the shape of spiral with shades of white, pale blue, and black mottled onto the gleaming surface. "Have you ever been to the beach before?"

"No," Ludwig muttered as he carefully arranged the shells in a perfect line. He picked up one on the end of the line, one with a chip along its edge. "We're always traveling and practicing so we never have time to do anything."

"I thought you didn't have a mom and dad."

Ludwig broke the shell in two uneven halves as a wave of anger washed over him. "I don't."

Augustus stumbled up from his spot, snatching the broken shell away from him. Tears welled up in his eyes, and created two small rivers running across his cheek. "What did you do that for?"

The other boy didn't answer, but he merely exited the house and once he was sure he was out of view from Augustus, he scurried over to the edge of town. There, under the umbrage of an oak tree, he sat solemnly while wallowing in his own misery. A hurricane of thoughts assaulted him, cold and sharp like a rain storm, impinging on his mind. A part of him resented being found by Albert; if he had not stumbled upon Ludwig that moonlit light, then he would not have to endure this painful gnawing at his heart called loneliness. He would be none the wiser, blissfully ignorant of the vacuum left by death.

Silently, he suffered until he heard footsteps on the dirt path. Ludwig slowly lifted his head up to see who they were, but the answer should've been obvious.

Albert strode towards him, wearing that impossibly impassive expression of his, with a turbulent Augustus in tow. In the boy's hands, jingled the broken pieces of the shell and a bottle of glue.

"Ludwig," Albert said, crouching on the spot next to him. Though, his mechanical tone did no favors to quell his brother's anger and frustration, the intent was gentle. "Tell me what happened at Augustus's house."

At first, the boy didn't answer and continued to stare vacuously into the distance. And then, after a few seconds, he turned his attention towards Albert, putting an effort to avoid the tumultuous gaze of Augustus. "He mentioned mom and dad and it reminded me that I don't have them."

"Well, breaking one of his favorite items isn't an appropriate reaction. Augustus was... caught up in the moment, as all children should be whenever they're talking about something important to them, or anyone really. All that is on their mind is that passion, and nothing else so they don't consider those extraneous details." Albert paused for a few seconds before continuing. "Do you understand?"

Ludwig stayed silent, digesting what his brother just explained to him. He was under the impression that it was all Augustus's fault. The two boys have been friends for two years now; they knew every intrinsic detail about each other and respected their boundaries. Bitterness broiled inside of him, like carbonated bubbles in a soda can, just waiting to explode. But Albert's words began to ingratiate themselves into his mind and slowly, the situation began to unfold.

He only saw Augustus two, perhaps three times a year if they were lucky. They only had each other in terms of age similarities; the Orchestra was filled with elderly musicians, slowly losing their motor ability to pick up a bow or dexterously move their fingers across thin strings. Fernsworth had a young population, too young in fact. Augustus was the only one in his age group and by virtue of their shared number, they became friends. Ludwig told Augustus what he didn't tell Albert, which wasn't many things but there are certain things, he learned, that you don't tell your family - even if they aren't blood related.

The connection was mutual, and Ludwig too, also knew intimate aspects of Augustus's life. Ludwig's consideration of ending their forged friendship seemed silly at this point and perhaps, hypocritical. If memory severed right, he said some things in fits of passion (some might say anger), words although coming from a child, still stung in minds.

"Yes," he finally replied. He turned his attention to Augustus, solemnly dropping his eyes down. "I'm really sorry that I broke your shell. I didn't mean to." He held out his hand and took the bottle of glue. "Here. I'll fix it for you."

Augustus's face suddenly brightened upon hearing the apology. He dropped the pieces into Ludwig's open palm. "Oh, it's fine. I was just really surprised that you did... that... But I'm happy that you're okay now. I was worried that we wouldn't be friends anymore."

"You don't have to be worried about that. You're a good friend, and it'll stay like that until the world freezes over."

"Do you promise?"

"Yes."

Ludwig carefully glued the fragments of the shell together, as Augustus patiently watched in awe. He took great care in trying to have the pieces fit seamlessly together, without a visible crack in sight. He delicately handed it back to Augustus, who pocketed the trinket in his pocket. Ludwig was about to stand up and excitedly express his joy towards Albert, but found the automaton nowhere to be seen. Instead, a gentle symphony replaced his presence - most notably, the sound of ascending piano notes.

"Hey," said Ludwig, smiling, "Can you promise me something?"

"Sure!"

"When you're older, you should join the Orchestra. Then I get to see you everyday!"

"Okay! I promise that I'll do that, one day."

The two boys validated their reconciliation with a hug and flopped down to the ground, leaning their backs against the rough bark of the oak tree. They all gazed at the milky expanse where unexpectedly, several meteors raced across the sky, blinking in and out of existence like ghosts. There were dozens of them, all cloistered around each other like brilliant fireflies.

"You know," said Augustus. "I read somewhere that we're all made of star stuff - stuff that exploded in the sky from a long time ago. And I remember, last year, that you said you didn't consider Albert to be your true brother because you weren't made of the same stuff as he did."

The memory bubbled to the surface - the memory of a white Sunday, one of two days where he saw flakes of snow fall to the ground. He remembered the shadows of licks of fires dance on the walls, remembered arranging several rocks from biggest to smallest on the tattered floor. It was one of the more melancholy days, despite the joyous and wonderful occasion. His mind was wracked by doubts - one of humanity's greatest weaknesses. It worms it's way through foundation and dedication and causes fractures and cracks.

It was around this time, Ludwig started to doubt his origins. He didn't talk to Albert much that day, but he did express his concern to Augustus.

"...Yes," Ludwig answered. "What about it?"

"Well, all things originated from the cores of these stars. From the flesh on our bones, to the specks of dirt to the ground, to the metal coating Albert. So really, I think you and Albert are brothers, a part of this crazy extended family. And by extension, we're brothers too."

"That makes me feel a lot better. Thank you."

"Anytime Ludwig, anytime."

All the words that they said had hovered above, all of the pain flying away like a dove. He stood at the edge of another summer and for some reason, he felt that there was some significance for him, like a torn-away memory. All that was left was tranquility and none of them could think of anything better than this.

#science fiction #original writing #writerblr #Title: After the Lights Went Out

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revasserium · 4 years

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13 and oikawa?

hq!!reqs temporarily: closed ; all other reqs: open

send me a number a character and i’ll write you a drabble ;

13. handle with care oikawa ; 1,068 words

alternatively titled: play.

a/n: a volleyball player and a pianist fall in love.

he used to think fragility and vulnerability were unavoidable remnants of the human condition, such unpreventable contaminations of the living and alive, incurable, inescapable. he’d resigned to his fate long before he met you.

and then he does meet you, and suddenly, everything he’s been taught about life gets slapped right back in his face. all the lessons on guarding against heartbreak, on tears as a sign of weakness, and weakness a sign of defeat. and how defeat is just about the worst thing a person can suffer.

it’s nothing like volleyball, he realizes. where he spends his whole life being taught that it’s illegal to hold the ball, to touch it for more than a second, where control is everything. everything.

everything.

you take his hand in yours and kiss the knuckles like reteaching them each the meaning of touch. and for the first time in his life, he wants to break all the rules, wants to reach out and hold you and never let go. he wants to shatter, to see just how many pieces a heart can be divided into before helping you put it back together like a jigsaw puzzle.

he wants to lose control, to see where this might take him, this thing that happens inside his chest whenever you smile, or whatever his stomach does at the sound of your voice, saying his name. calling out to him. he feels as if his soul were tethered to the palms of your hands and you can play him like an instrument. such a different kind of playing than he’s used to. so much more delicacy, tenderness.

you teach him how to play the piano. press each key like you’re asking them to sing for you and they will. his hands have never felt more clumsy than sat over the black and white keys, but he closes his eyes, takes a breath, and prays.

he plays, too.

and the keys. well, they don’t sing for him nearly as well as they sing for you at first, but eventually, he gets the hang of it. stumbling as he might be, sometimes still hitting the wrong notes, but he can hear it resonating within himself. the music his hands are making. his whole body relearning the meaning of song.

he used to think that each person only got one ticket for love – true love, that is. and he’d spent it on volleyball. it was impossible to imagine that he might ever love anything else with the same heedless passion, the same all-consuming obsession but the first time he hears you play, he thinks he might never have felt love at all until this moment.

“like falling in love all over again, huh?” you ask, smiling as you lift your hands from the keys, pressing your palms to your knees.

he lets out a breath he’d forgotten he’d been holding.

“hm?” he blinks, breaking from his reverie.

funny, isn’t that the name of the piece you’re playing?

you turn towards him, motion for him to come sit by you on the bench, and he does. it’s the first time he’s found himself eager to sit on the bench – but then again, this is as different from volleyball as it can get.

“everytime i listen to this piece, every time i play it,” you say, your elbow bumping against his as you help correct his posture, his wrist always a bit too low, “it feels like falling in love all over again.”

he licks his lips, wants to say no, or kind of, or i couldn’t hear the music because i was too busy falling in love with you.

instead, he just nods, and lets you walk him through the scales again.

“do you like it?”

he turns towards you.

“playing piano, i mean. learning it.”

he nods, smiles.

“of course. it’s… nice. different.” he looks down at his hands, the rough calluses hewn into the skin of his palms from hours and hours of serve practice, his pinky nail still a little crooked from where he’d broken it during middle school that one time.

he’d never thought of the human body as fragile, but sitting next to you, he feels as if his soul might fracture, if you just kissed him the right way, whispered the right words. it doesn’t scare him like it used to, though he wonders if it should. if love has made an idiot of him – with all this ruthless confidence in the face of the vast unknown.

but then he thinks that heartbreak might not be so bad if you were the one to do it. it would still hurt, but. well. it’d be you. and he could never hate you.

“maybe you could teach me sometime,” you say.

oikawa blinks.

“volleyball,” you say, your lips breaking into the most hopeful smile he’d ever seen.

he laughs, nodding, “sure – but i’m not sure i’ll be a great teacher. not as good as you.”

you shake your head, “doesn’t matter. it’ll be fun.”

so long as it’s with you.

he nods again, steeling himself. because why should he be scared? why should it terrify him that you’ll be seeing him at his best, or worst, or most vulnerable moments. you’ve taught him about the strength in weakness, in accepting the inevitability of making mistakes.

in the beauty of fragility.

so he nods, and promises you.

“yeah, i’ll teach you. and then maybe, we can play together.”

“if i ever get good enough,” you say, bumping his shoulder with yours.

he takes your hands, kisses each knuckle like a promise.

“you will.”

you cup his cheeks, bring his lips to yours. and he thinks he can taste the next twenty years of his life just at the tip of your tongue.

you draw back with a smile, turning back to the piano, setting your hands to the keys.

“c’mon,” you say, grinning up at him, “play with me.”

oikawa nods, takes a deep breath, puts his fingers on the keys the best way he knows how. thinks to himself please, sing – for me. for her.

and then, he plays.

#oikawa tooru x reader #oikawa tooru #oikawa x reader #haikyuu imagines #haikyuu scenarios #oikawa #floofy floof floof #haicuties #inspired by an interesting conversation my pops and i had the other day as he was trying to teach me volleyball #about how i could've never played volleyball and played piano at the same time in school bc my piano teacher would've killed me #for all the damage volleyball does to the hands and wrists lmao

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