He’s out for a walk. Needs to clear his head, after, well,
The previous memories he’d stumbled across had been—stomachable. First his slaughter of the Council (horror), then his first meeting with the machine (humiliation), then their second fight, the memory of which had left him ashamed but for different reasons: see how easy it is to return to your old ways? and this is all you’ll ever be good for and this will never be yours. this will never be yours. this will never be yours. Clarity and guilt clicking into place all at once like he’s been doused in it.
Nothing worse than the grief of first realizing Heaven’s corruption. Nothing worse than what he deserves. He will go home and he will pet his cat and she’ll purr into his hands, and he’ll try not to think about how—hours ago—he might have considered snapping her neck as easily as that of any damned soul.
But this one—
He’s headed down the sidewalk when the fragment of light flits between his fingers and it all comes flooding back, and it takes all of his strength to not scream right there.
He takes about three steps off the sidewalk and collapses onto the grass beneath him, panic threatening to swallow him whole. One moment, the blue sky burns above him in Spirale, but when he blinks he’s kneeling before the Council, their gazes boring into his prone form. a different kind of brilliance. For a moment he’s drowned in everything that’s changed in those few hours, leaving him dizzy, but none are so sharp as the Council’s judgement. As the tearing of the Light from his vessel.
Get it together. He focuses on the feeling of grass under his palms; it’s soft, freshly grown after the rains of the past few months. Still shaking, he glances up to see a mortal watching him from the garden nearby. Fists tighten.
Leave me alone, @merynger.
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An early night thought (content warning for intrusive thinking and negative thoughts):
Does anyone else have to constantly remind themselves that they aren't the person they once were (in like a negative sense) but still feel like you are still that negative person?
I'll be upfront and honest: I did some shitty things when I was younger. I consumed problematic media and things because I wanted to be cool or fit in with people who weren't good for me in the first place. I was horrible to people who were willing to give me the time of day. I wasn't a good person and I often lie awake at night with this overwhelming guilt of things I did or said and wonder when it will all come crashing down on me and I end up truly alone and as hated by the ones I love.
I constantly have to remind myself that I was a kid. I was 12, 13, 14 etc. That I got help and educated myself, that I've been trying to make amends because I was in the wrong and it's the right thing to do, but even if I remind myself I still feel that guilt. I still feel horrible and just want to go back in time and stop myself from doing and saying the things I did because I was just terrible at processing my bad feelings and trying to fit which caused me to make it everyone's problem.
Maybe it's just me trying to throw myself a pity party or something, but it is something I think about a lot.
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The click of the Zippo opening and closing is almost hypnotic, lulling Steve into that familiar satisfaction of just the right noise at just the right frequency as he watches Robin’s wrist flicking the lighter open and closed, her arms stretched above her like she’s trying to touch the ceiling. Steve’s hands are gently swaying next to hers, in the nonexistent breeze of his bedroom.
It’s one of their weird private moments; where they get to have everything being just right that would get them questioning and judgemental glances from everyone else. The tingling sensation in their arms as the blood flows down and away from their hands, leaving them heavy and floaty in a way that never fails to ground them. But there’s also a safety to this moment, a security that they just get to have this without judgment.
Just the flick of the lighter and not a word spoken for over half an hour now.
Sometimes Robin laments, How am I supposed to ever find a girlfriend when this is my version of quality time? This is just weird. I’m weird.
Maybe, but it’s fun, Steve had said once, staring at the veins in his hands while a large water bottle was balancing on his forehead.
She had sighed and snatched the water bottle from his face to plant it on hers, admitting, It is fun.
“Do you ever wonder if there’s like…” Robin interrupts their silence, the Zippo never faltering, Steve’s eyes still fixed on it like all the answers to the questions of the universe lie somewhere in the peeling black foil.
“Hm?”
“Like, a point?”
“A point?” Steve asks, still following the lighter with his eyes, even as Robin stops flicking it open and closed and starts playing with the spark wheel and stone. There’s no flame yet, though, and it looks like she’s just stroking it almost reverently.
“Yeah, like a reason that we’re still, like, doing things.”
Steve frowns, lowering one of his arms to feel the blood flowing back into his hand, the sensation warm and familiar. Like a reminder. There’s blood in your body. You’re alive.
Is there a point, though?
“No,” he says eventually.
“No?”
“No. I don’t think there’s one. We just are. Not like we can stop.”
“Well, we could,” she says, and in one second there’s nothing, just words hanging in the air. The next, there’s a flame coming from the lighter as Robin presses hard and fast enough on the spark wheel. It stays there, the little flame.
We could.
Steve says nothing, just watches the flame as the blood gets drained from his right arm once more.
“Sometimes I wanna burn down your house. And your car, too. I watch you die in there sometimes.”
“Huh?”
“Your car. Sometimes it’s just; there’s these thoughts. Or, like, scenarios, and they’re super duper real in my head, and I have to remind myself they’re not. Just makes me wanna drench it all in gasoline and just… boom.”
“Boom,” Steve says, and it’s not the reaction that he should be giving, not the reaction of a sane person — but then, sane people don’t play with their lighters in bed or listen to their best friend’s arsonist tendencies. Sane people don’t see what Steve Harrington see, they don’t do what he does. What he had to do. When what he should have done was fail some tests, drink some beers and kiss some girls.
Is there a point?
“I promise when I get a new car, I’m gonna burn this one with you, yeah?”
“Deal,” Robin says, and the little flame dies. The steady click is back, and Steve smiles a little.
“And the house.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
The clicking stops, and before he knows it, Robin’s body is wrapped around his, her head resting on his chest.
“I think that makes for a good point, though,” she says eventually, and Steve perks up.
“Cuddles?”
“You.”
“Me? Isn’t that a little stupid? And scary? Like, choosing a person to be the point in general.”
She shrugs against him, reaching up to hold his hand and link their fingers in the air above them.
“Maybe, but I think most points are either stupid or scary. It’s why people talk about it so often without ever, like, really saying something. I think you can be my stupid, scary point, Steve Harrington.”
Swaying their linked hands gently above them, Steve smiles. “Then I think that makes you my stupid, scary point, Robin Buckley.”
“Deal,” she says again, and there’s less of a threat about it this time.
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