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mollymauk-teafleak · 4 years

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that home by and by

Every Fjorclay fic for the next thousand years is going to have this song for a title, huh?

Trigger Warnings: Trans pregnancy, implied childbirth, complications during said childbirth but! A happy ending, I promise

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Fjord thinks back in the day their children were born and how much he's changed since then

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Fjord was glad that there were some things he hadn’t lost.

A lot of things were poisoned for him now, things that he’d used to love, that had once seemed as much a part of him as his bones and ligaments. Taking them out and replacing them with something new had been a long, painful business but there were things he hadn’t lost.

The whisper of the shore on the stones still calmed him, in its regularity and gentleness like the comforting breath of a person you loved beside you in your bed at night. The tang of salt and smell drying seaweed, just on the verge of being something unpleasant but it was familiar. The many blues and greys and greens, half a hundred shades of so few colours, that could be seen in every turn of the waves. A rough kind of beauty, a natural kind that could be cold and raw if it wasn’t yours. Fjord hadn’t lost any of that, it still slowed his heartbeat and relaxed his muscles and brought a soft smile to his face as he walked along the shoreline.

And he’d gained something as well.

His son’s footsteps weren’t as sure as his own, he’d only learned to walk very recently and the mix of smooth pebbles and sand were proving difficult. But he still insisted on walking by himself. If his sisters were doing it, Fern had to do it too.

Up to a point. If Fjord looked back along the beach, he could see their daughters, gambolling through the surf, splashing and shrieking with laughter as they came up after each wave knocked them back. Their grey green fur was soaked and plastered to their too long limbs, their tufts of hair- pink for Hazel and black for Willow- were spiked up and already stiff with salt. Caduceus was amongst their chaos, up to his knees in water, never letting either girl go beyond the reach of his long arms, chuckling at how pleased they were to be tumbled back and rolled off their feet by the water.

Fern had joined in at first, hesitantly paddling up to his ankles, gripping his tail tightly in the hand that wasn’t latched onto Caduceus’ trousers. But he’d sobbed when the first wave had come up higher than his middle and had scampered on all fours back to Fjord, hiding under his arm.

Fjord hated seeing his youngest upset and frightened, of course he did, but he’d be lying if he said it didn’t feel good to be the one he ran to for comfort and protection.

So he’d wrapped Fern up in one of his hoodies, big enough to be a dress on him, coming down to skate his shins and asked if he wanted to go for a walk instead, just the two of them. Those were the magic words for Fern, drying up his damp eyes and making him smile wide enough that Fjord could see his budding tusks poking over his lip.

So now he was walking along the shore, just the two of them, pausing every so often so Fern could catch up, tail wobbling behind him to help him keep his balance.

“You’re doing good, little man,” he smiled, knowing he didn’t need to raise his voice over the surf, Fern’s enormous ears would hear him.

Fern smiled back, the hood pulled up so his large golden eyes seemed to peer out at him. He’d laden the pocket of the hoodie with stones that had taken his fancy for one reason or another and was now wobbling a little too much for Fjord’s liking. So he held out a hand for him to grip, letting him steady himself, draw himself up to his full, not very considerable height so the top of his head only just brushed Fjord’s hip.

“Tell me a story, papa,” he hummed, leaning into him as they walked on.

Fjord had seen that coming. Fern loved a story, any story about his papa, his days on the Tide’s Breath or travelling the coasts, his days as a mercenary. A lot of them needed to be sanitized for his toddler, a lot of editing that needed doing before the words came out of his mouth but the way Fern’s eyes would shine, like his papa was a hero in every single one, mouthing along to the bits he knew best. It made everything that had happened to him feel worth it, like it really could all be a story that had been leading to something good.

And there was one story that was his favourite.

“Which story do you want, little man?” Fjord asked, even though he already knew the answer.

He pretended to consider, tilting his head and humming before grinning wide and bouncing on the balls of his feet, “I want the story where papa saved me!”

Fjord chuckled, running his thumb along his little knuckles, “You really like that one, don’t you?”

“Yes! It’s my favourite!”

“Well, if it’s your favourite…” Fjord hummed, as if he’d had no idea, as if it was news to him, “So. It starts when your daddy and I were up at the Grove with your nana and grandpa and all your aunties and your uncle…”

“And I wasn’t born yet, was I?” Fern added, one hand sunk in his pocket, making the stones clatter.

“No,” Fjord nodded, “You were still curled up real small in your daddy-”

“But I was the smallest, right?” Fern cheeped, “ Cos mean sisters were sitting on me and squishing me…”

“Little man, who's telling this story, me or you?” Fjord arched an eyebrow fondly.

Fern giggled, hiding his face against Fjord’s leg, “You, daddy…”

He would tell the story, Fjord thought, as his son stooped to pick up another pebble that shone with a smooth, polished blueness.

But it would always go a little differently in his head.

He had been playing with his braid anxiously all morning. Caduceus had woven it into the longer part of his hair on their first night sharing the cramped bedroom he’d slept in for the first fifty years of his life, crammed into the teenage firbolg sized bed that really wasn’t meant to accommodate a full sized Caduceus, his half orc husband and their three unborn children.

Fjord knew the braids in a firbolg’s hair had deep significance, showing what stage of their life they were in through the complex weaves of hair and the patterns shaved into the shorter fur around them. A firblog had only to look at Caduceus’ to know he followed Melora, that he came from the Blooming Grove, that he was wed and everywhere he’d travelled. There were braids for every birthday, for the day you left home, for your wedding day. And there was a braid awaiting the arrival of a child.

Caduceus had told him, in soft voices that wouldn’t carry and wake his family in the rooms perilously close to their own, that ‘mother’ and ‘father’ were common words. Firbolgs only needed one, byrd. Genderless and no limit to how many one person could have, it simply meant the person who had given them life and had promised to protect, love and guard the baby for the rest of their life. It was a title that was earned, rather than being a simple fact of biology.

“So you have as much a right to this as I do,” Caduceus had murmured, as he’d woven the braid into his black hair, fixing it with a bead made of sea glass, a gift he’d been waiting until their arrival to give him, “That’s what you are to them.”

And in that moment, every doubt that had gnawed at Fjord since Caduceus had pulled him into the back room of their cafe and asked in a quivering voice if they could go to the pharmacy on the way home, it was as if it had never been there. All the voices that told him he wasn’t worthy of this, that life had made a mistake in letting him have this kind of joy, they stopped for the first time in eight months. He’d surged into a kiss, holding Caduceus’ stomach between them and telling himself he could do this.

And now, with everything falling apart and those voices chattering so loud he barely kept both feet on the ground, Fjord held onto his braid and tried to remember when he’d believed it.

Something was very wrong. Even he, who was going off whatever knowledge he’d been able to glean from websites and had been gladly deferring to Constance the whole time, could sense it. It was in the anxious, set shoulders of the other Clay’s sharing the clearing with them, the way Calliope was pacing, how strained Corrin’s prayers had become, how tightly Clarabelle clutched the first two babies, tiny, perfect little girls Fjord already knew he would take apart the world for. Cad’s moans grew tight and cracked at the edges, the composure and focus he’d managed to maintain flaking away gradually and his grip on Fjord’s forearms becoming painfully tight. He was terrified, Fjord could see it, and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it but share the sacred pool where every Clay since the grove was founded had been born and watch as it’s crystal waters began to turn accusingly red.

And when the tension finally broke, there was only a crushing silence. Not the rustling of the leaves in the winter air, not the ringing of Cad’s last cry, not the undergrowth moving. The grove held its breath, waiting, and received no reply.

All that came was Constance’s voice, soft and heavy, the hand that wasn’t holding the source of the terrible silence reaching to touch Caduceus’ face, “I’m so sorry, sweet one. It isn’t your fault, it just happens sometimes when there’s many…”

Caduceus pulled away, from her hand and out of Fjord’s arms, the first time in hours they hadn’t been touching. Water broke over the lip of the hot spring and soaked into the grass around them, blood and all steaming in the cold bite of winter air. The forest around them seemed to sigh, like it was in mourning too, some of the sunlight going out of the clearing. Sounding far away, Clarabelle started to cry and Colton cursed. And Caduceus, his shoulders heaved like he was still in labour, like his body thought if he kept going there would be something he could do to stop this. Sobs were rising in his chest, the heavy, broken kind that seemed like they would never stop.

The only thing that managed to tear it’s way out of his throat ahead of the tears was a rasping, shattering whisper, “Why...why would she do this?”

Fjord didn’t have to ask who his husband meant.

Inside, he seemed to split into several versions of himself, pulling in different directions. One strained towards Caduceus, to hold him and give him comfort he was in no state to accept. One lurched towards his daughters, now crying fitfully in their aunt’s arms as if they knew they should be three. One wanted to lash out in fury, at who he couldn’t have said. One just wanted to run, to flee and leave it all behind.

And one just stood and whispered bitterly, it’s your fault. Already, not even a second old, and you’ve failed. Why did you think you could do this?

Fjord felt oddly frozen, suspended for a moment, caught between all these versions of himself, unable to feel anything.

And then, a memory. A lashing storm, one of a hundred the Tide’s Breath had sailed through. But that time, for no reason other than simple bad luck borne of a worn robe or just the wrong balance or a shift in the wind, a mate had gone overboard. Lost had been the word immediately passed among the crew, as soon as they’d disappeared because how could it be anything else? But Vandran, his old captain, had said otherwise. He’d leapt over the side, snatched them from the grip of the rolling waves and heaved them back onto the rain soaked boards after nearly ten minutes of heart stopping waiting. And even then, when their skin had been pale and still and lifeless, Vandran had pounded on their chest, refusing to give up. Fjord remembered Sabian saying it was useless, they were beyond help, but Vandran had kept up that steady rhythm and then, in defiance of all the gods, they had sat up, heaved up what looked like half the ocean and taken a breath.

So much of Vandran that Fjord had worn like armour, he’d had to discard. Bits that were false and sour, bits that hurt more than they helped. But that was one thing his old captain gave him that he’d kept a hold of, the thing he’d realised standing on the bucking deck and watching colour come back into a face that had seemed dead.

To never give up on someone, not while there was still a chance.

In the present, in the middle of the grieving forest, Fjord snapped back into himself and surged upwards, water running down his body.

“Give them to me,” he said, voice tight and urgent, “Please, give them to me. Let me try.”

Constance could have argued, she could have told him in the same, sad tone that there wasn’t anything he could do. But her eyes, the colour of lavender in the winter, changed and she handed the baby to him.

Not his whole hand, not like Vandran had done. The baby was tiny, smaller even than their sisters, and looked even smaller in their stillness. Just his fingers, pressed to their breastbone, once, twice, three times, on and on in a regular pattern, keeping count in his curiously still mind. Fjord could smell water, not the earthy smell of the natural springs or the melting snow, but the sharp bite of salt water and he could hear the waves as blood rushed through his ears.

Behind him, through his sobs, Caduceus was begging in a faraway voice, “Please, Fjord, please, please…”

Caduceus had put everything into this up until now, aweing Fjord more every day for nine months. But this, this he could do for him. And he was not going to fail him.

When his mental count reached thirty, he bent and exhaled air into those tiny lungs, two heaving breaths to give them what they couldn’t take in themselves. Then more compressions, counting again, thirty to two breaths. The only sound was Caduceus’ high, thin pleading, and the sea that only Fjord could hear.

And the, finally, a small, spluttering cry, a new voice in the Grove.

Fjord laughed, delight rushing up to fill the vacuum inside him that had allowed him to work without falling apart. His chest felt like it might burst as he lifted the baby to his chest, and held them close, just in case anything else tried to ruin this moment.

Caduceus had burst into fresh tears of pure relief, rising up out of the water to throw his arms around them, trying to thank him but unable to get the words out. Still grinning because if he didn’t he’d break too, Fjord kissed his cheek and made gentle, soothing noises, both to his husband and to the baby. Their son.

“It’s okay,” he murmured, holding them both in the circle of his arms, “It’s all okay, we’re all here. We all made it.”

Because they didn’t pull away from each other for a while, because they just couldn’t bring themselves to, they didn’t see the flowers- the perfect ring of bright, white flowers that had sprung up out of nowhere around the edge of the pool, filling the air with their scent.

“Because you saved me, right papa?” Fern beamed, blinking up at him in adoration, “You saved me so the Wildmother sent the flowers as a present.”

There were a few things Fjord left out of the story when he told it to Fern, he clipped away a lot of the fear and downplayed it as much as he could but his favourite part was the flowers.

“She was welcoming you three,” Fjord nodded, “Because she knew you were special.”

“And because my papa saved me,” Fern insisted, tugging on his hand, “Because he’s a hero.”

Fjord’s throat felt like it was tightening as he bent and swept Fern into his arms, pebbles in his pocket rattling. He covered his little grey green cheeks in kisses, making him giggle and writhe, clinging to his shirt so he didn’t fall, not that Fjord would ever drop him.

“I don’t much care about being a hero,” he admitted, as his son’s tail buffeted him playfully, “I only care about being your hero.”

Fern giggled, reaching up to pat at his face, “Love you papa.”

Fjord smiled, swaying with his son bundled in his arms, listening to his daughters and husband laughing just behind them, safe and well.

It had been difficult, getting to where he was, building this new version of himself.

But he’d gained far more than he’d ever lost.

#fjorclay #caduceus clay #trans caduceus #cw: trans pregnancy #cw: childbirth #fjord #fjord stone #cr #cr fic #modern au #fjord as a dad #it just gets to me you guys #cr: caduceus #cr: fjord

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fanoftheoccult · 4 years

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When I was young, living on the back roads of southern Indiana, the woods behind my father's house was the perfect escape from the harsh reality of living with the man. My childish imagination would provide endless amounts of entertainment while I pretended to be a knight, gladiator, or even pirate. My weapon of choice was always whatever stick sturdy enough to swing around and smack tree trunks with a satisfactory thud. My father and his girlfriend never cared how long I was out adventuring, which never bothered me in the least. Many a long day was spent running about the trees, fighting an invisible, yet irrevocably vile villian until hunger would force me back home and to retire for the evening, the fight picking back up the next day.

This tradition continued until I felt as f I knew every branch and trail in the expansive woods. I felt invincible in my playing, and never felt fear when I would inevitably kick up a wild animal or two with my thrashing about. With that in mind, the creature I would encounter changed that and instilled a fear of the wild that persists even now and while my hands shake at the rememberence of the events, I will attempt to tell you the story of when I met the entity known as the Queen of Green.

It was the summer of 2006, school had been closed for break and the July heat was mixing with the humid air, making an almost choking thickness to the air. However, this was nothing new and it did not prevent me from carrying on as I did. I was a few hours into playing, a few hours from my house, the closest place of relative safety, when I began to smell an odor all too familiar to one so versed in woodland exploration. The pungent, almost sour odor of decay. Usually, I would shy away at the first sniff of such things, for hunters and rumors of wilder animals were common in this woods and it would have been more unusual to smell such an stench. Today, though, the odor was particularly vibrant.

I followed the smell to an old building deeper into the woods. Strange I had not seen such a building before as scavenging oddities from forgotten places was always an exciting hobby of mine but I was hesitant to enter as the smell grew stronger and stronger still with every step, as if a giant collection of carcasses were piled just beyond the door, broken and half fallen in from the years of disrepair and natural reclamation of the forest.

Past the door, the building shared many similarities to the church down the street from where I lived, complete with pews and podium. The pews were pushed to the sides of the building, as if to make room for a vast being invisible to my eyes. Even though sunlight shined through cracks in the roof, I still could not make out anything further in.

Walking past the pews and toward the podium, I had a sense that something was watching me, like I was not as alone as I had thought. On approach of the center of the room in from of the podium, I could make out strange symbols and glyphs were carved into the wood of the podium and, to my surprise, I realized the podium itself was of one solid piece of wood, a stump from a tree that long ago grew through the floor of the building and once stood mighty and regal over the people who must have took communion here. Finally, I had reach my destination and went to place my hand on the podium when I heard it.

A gutteral and choking sound, like the sound of someone with a cut throat in movies would make, suddenly caught my attention and I turned to see that there was a deer of an unusual size laying on the floor against one of the walls. Blood was pooled around the great beast as it struggled to hold on to whatever life it had left. Startled, I looked around franticly to search for whatever predator could have done this. After seeing nothing else but the deer, I drew closer. Now, as a somewhat experienced woodsman, I understood that a dying animal can be most dangerous in it's desperation, but I felt nothing but a calm as I approached.

The deer, whom at this point I could tell was a large doe, had stopped trying to stand and played on the floor before me, life spilling out from a wound on her belly. It was then when I saw the true horror of the creature. Rot had set in, and it must have done so a long time ago. Most of the muscle and flesh have been eaten away by the millions of writhing maggots and flies that choked the air near her and the doe's eyes had no glimmer of life, and yet here it was, against all odds. Alive. I had turned to run from the building, away from just whatever the fuck was going on, and thinking back, I should have. However, it was then when I heard it's voice.

"Why are you frightened, fawn?", the deer asked me in a voice so surreal and beautiful that I nearly forgotten the gory mess that was it's body.

"Because I don't think you should still be moving", I quickly stammered. In my childish innocence, I wanted to believe that honesty will see me safely through this.

The doe snorted through what was left of its nose, blowing a yellow bile out as it did so and replied with a regal undertone of authority, "What you see is the work of evil men who used to worship me. Their spirits still haunt this place and they keep me their captive. You have answered my call, you have come to help me"

Slowly, I backed away saying, "I'm sorry, but I never heard a call, I was just poking around, but I think I need to leave."

As I turned to rush out, the floorboards before the door, my one exit, gave a groan then exploded as many saplings rose from the ground and quickly grew together into a wall. I knew then that there was no escape outside of the doe just letting me go.

"Well, um, what was it you needed done?", I stated turning back to the doe, each word dripping with defeat as if my fate was already sealed.

The doe tried to sit up, more viscera spilling onto the floor and the monstrosity rolled over to reveal what looked like a hunting knife, carved from an antler and buried to it's hilt into the stomach of the doe.

"Human child, you but merely need to undo what your kind had done to me. Pull this object from me and I can finally return to my kingdom. I know that you hate it here and crave adventure. I can give you what you want if you but do this one task", the beast cooed with as much persuasion as it's current state allowed.

I walked over to the hurt animal, for though the doe was obviously supernatural, the sight of a beast suffering has always struck a heartstring with me. I knelt down beside the doe, it's pleading eyes filled with hope and the occasional maggot wriggling out from the corners.

Gripping the handle of the knife, I pulled as hard as I could, but the knife was stuck fast, as if something was pulling on the other side of it. Blood and pus began to seep out from around the handle as I strained against it, the smell of death worsening to the point where it made my eyes water.

"You've almost done it, fawn, and be quick about it, I can hear them coming!", said the panicked animal.

As if on cue, I began to hear footsteps all around us outside the building along with what sounded like a dull pounding on the sapling wall that had previously prevented my escape. The sound of the thudding was rhythmic, as whoever was making their way through that barrier had found their groove and my heart thumped just as fast as I realized where I had heard the sound before. It was an axe, and I only had moments before whatever was trying to get in was on the inside with me and the wounded wonder.

Doubling my effort, I put my foot against deer and yanked with all my might, my foot squishing into the soft and rotten belly of the beast, though it gave no complaint. Finally it seemed to be enough and the knife slid out, pulling pieces of old entrails with it. Not a moment too soon either as I heard the wall behind us begin to splinter and give way to whatever "spirits of evil men" the doe had warned about.

I don't know what I expected next. I grabbed the knife and turned to face the intruder when I came face to face with my father. He looked different than before and had a look of concern mixed with worry that only a father looking for their child could muster. Then the look changed to one of terror. As long as I live I will never forget that drastic change because his face was the last human face I ever saw. In a blink of an eye, it was like I was pulled from that world, away from the carcass that had held the Queen, as I have come to know her.

I awoke in a forest unlike any I had meandered through before, trees growing so high that the sun didn't make it to the ground, with leaves and bark that was unlike anything on Earth. Spongy to the feel and would bleed if peeled back, as if the trees were made of hardened flesh. I dread to think too much about it. The queen came eventually, free of her former shell. She thanked me for helping her and gave me a stick just like what I used to play with, then bade me farewell and left me here.

Months must have gone by though it seems the seasons and weather never change here. Nights are cold and quiet while the days are hot but just as quiet. It's as if there is nothing else here. When I first arrived, I chose a direction to walk but I am unsure if I am even going the same direction still. While the trees provided all the shelter I could need, food and water was another matter all together. The bark of the trees are edible enough, though tasteless and the "sap" as I called it was nourishing. Once you got past the copper flavor. I think I might be here forever, walking through this endless forest until I simply don't anymore, with but one constant thought spurring action in me.

I want to go home.

#random tale #notes app #oc

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alltheworldsinmyhead · 5 years

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OUR FUTURE WILL BE A BRIGHT ONE: CHAPTER NINE (finale)

eremika soulmates through time modern au

(previous chapters/ff.net/ao3)

IKIGAI

JAPANESE; "A REASON FOR BEING", ‘A THING THAT YOU LIVE FOR” – THE THING THAT GETS YOU OUT OF BED EACH MORNING

I think we deserve

a soft epilogue, my love.

We are good people

and we’ve suffered enough.

SEVENTY YEARS OF SLEEP # 4. NIKKA URSULA

She’s a shy girl, but she’s also a quick learner and it doesn’t take her very long to pick up the games that kids play on the narrow streets of Shinganshina. It’s a completely different world here, such alien and strange for somebody who used to have daffodils and squirrels for friends before. The morning comes and all of the doors fly open as kids practically burst out of their homes to run around until their little legs get tired or the dinner is ready and their mothers usher them back to wash up dirt from their hands and faces.

Mikasa begins to participate in this ritual as well – Carla Jaeger never forgets to give her and Eren a piece of bread with honey and a kiss on the cheek before she waves to them as they disappear in the crowd. And while Eren and Armin usually prefer to do other things than play with neighbors’ kids, the three of them sometimes join one of the small bands scattered in the district and spend an afternoon with them - and that’s how Mikasa learns it all, this collection of games created when the lack of resources crashes with children’s boredom and creativity. There’s hide-and-seek and tag and hoola hop that requires a narrow, wooden ring that girls spin around their hips. One child chases others and taps their shoulders to turn into the chased one. Kids sit in circle, clap hands in intricate patterns and recite dirty rhymes; they use chalk and sticks to draw on the stones and dig in the soil; they jump on one leg and pretend that the ground is lava.

Sometimes smaller girls gawk at her eyes and nag her about her hair long enough that she lets them sit behind her cross-leggedand braid her black strands into an elaborate construction that ends up un-tangling halfway home. She would never admit that to Eren, but she likes this – likes feeling little, quick fingers on her scalp and listening to their excited chatter. Those girls are sweet and innocent and just the way she used to be, while she was living with her parents. And their dreams and wishes reflect that; they want to grow their hair long and beautiful, to have handsome husbands in the Military Police and big houses behind Wall Rose or even Sina, with crimson flowers blooming on the balcony and chubby, pink-cheeked babies.

And Mikasa can understand that.

Those girls (what are their names? Tina, Riza, Mirielle? Maritte? Marie? She can never remember) also teach her one more game, the one under “no boys allowed category” – the apple skin one.

Tina is sitting on an empty apple crate, a small knife looking wrong and weird in her plump hand. She keeps on cutting her fingers and cursing and when Mikasa asks her what she’s doing, the girl raises her round, brown eyes at her and blinks in surprise;

“You don’t know about the apple skin?”

She doesn’t and so they eagerly show her. They instruct her to peel the skin off an apple with a knife, but not to break the skin - as the peel has to be intact, long and spiral. Then they tell her to stand up and throw it behind her left shoulder, her left hand flat on her chest, above her heart.

“And why am I supposed to do that?” she asks them, skeptical about the whole thing. It really sounds silly and she doesn’t even wanna think about what Eren would say if he saw her standing on the street and throwing apple peels around.

And she does not want Eren to laugh at her. At all.

But the girls insist; they circle her like a swarm of little bees or chirping baby birds.

“You’ll see! The peel will make the shape of a letter-“ “And the letter that it shows is a name-“ “- It’s not a name stupid, it’s the first letter of a name-“

“- of your future husband!” they end in unison, the three of them looking up at her with such a brightness and honesty written on their round faces that she just can’t refuse them.

Not that it matters anyway – she doesn’t need to throw any peels to know what will be the first letter of her future husband’s name.

After all, she is also just a little girl, who also dreams of a husband, of a house, of flowers and of a green-eyed baby of her own.

“Yes.” Historia nods her head solemnly after Mikasa stops talking. “I remember that. We were there too. Paradise Island, before the Second Eldian Uprising. Around mid-800s, I think?” the blonde rests her chin on the hand and stares off the distance.

They are both sitting on the plastic chairs in Historia’s backyard, in the middle of the first “Summer Party” of the season, as Eren cryptically called those meetings when Mikasa asked him about them. The sprinklers have just turned on, making some guests shriek and scatter, trying to run away from the water – not an easy task, considering the place is packed with people. The smell of barbecue makes Mikasa salivate, Toto’s Africa is blasting through the portable speakers that somebody brought and some brave individuals decided to dip in the pool, even though it’s just May and not a particularly hot evening. She can hear Eren somewhere on her left side, playing a kind of rules-free version of soccer on the grass with his friends which seemingly involves a lot of screaming and, more often than not, multiple players ending up in a pile on the ground.

Historia sits on folded legs, with daisy chain on her head and loose strands of hair dancing around her face on the breeze like spider webs. So lost in her thoughts, she seems as dainty and fragile as possible. Mikasa tries hard to put together the fawn-like line of her neck and delicate collarbone with the nightmarish visions that would make her wake up covered in cold sweat more often than not lately; winged crests, flakes of gore spiraling in the air like gruesome cherry petals, cobblestones streets stinking of too much people. The world bathed in blood. Cruel. Unforgiving. Devoid of any beauty. And yet familiar, as odd as it is to find familiarity in something straight out of their high school history books.

Mikasa wonders how Historia made it through there. Was she as graceful and full of sweetness as she is now?

“This is where we first met.” The girl adds quietly after a minute or two of silence, her eyes locked on Ymir’s back as she is getting up from the grass. “ But I don’t like to think about it too much. To be honest, it was horrible. I never want to live so much longer than her again.”

That Mikasa understands. There is not a worse thing than existing when the other one is gone. It is a torment that she would not wish on anyone, ever, no matter the time or place.

“So weird, isn’t it? Us, talking about those times like it was last week. Feeling so ancient when we are so young.” The corners of Historia’s mouth go up slightly and she shakes her head. “Look at them, my god.”

Connie slipped on the wet grass and all the players lay toppled again, one big tangle of limbs and curses and laughter. Eren catches her eyes and sends her a blazing smile, trying fruitlessly to wiggle from underneath Berthold.

800s. So old. And yet Mikasa doesn’t think she has ever been younger than now, with her lips chapped and happiness bubbling inside her.

I’m hungry, I’m hungry for whatever comes next. – sings some guy through the speaker.

Historia giggles as Ymir keeps on tripping over Reiner’s legs.

Sprinklers spray Mikasa’s bare feet with cold water.

The sun colors the horizon pink and yellow and red and all of the brilliant shades in between.

Eren managed to stand up and lowers his hand down to help Sasha; there are sweat stains on his shirt and grass in his messy hair. If he was nearer, she could smell it all on him. The sweat and the grass and the happiness.

As far as she is, she doesn’t hear his exact thoughts - just feels contentment, stretching between them like a golden cord or a silk ribbon.

“Yeah.” She answers softly. “ It is really strange.”

***

What comes next? Mikasa remembers it used to plague her mind for some time, before she even met Eren. Supposed I have a soulmate, how life even looks like, with a bond like that?

She jumps higher, runs faster and spins tighter than ever, that’s what happens. Once she would curse her muscles and limbs for weighting her down and working against her will, but now she feels so light that she’s surprised she makes any sound walking at all. It suddenly feels so easy; the sequences of movements, soft and smooth, crisp with no hesitation in them. She diligently pins her now-short hair in place, chalks her hands and faces each obstacle with no fear whatsoever. The steady flow of medals that follow her improvement make it look like as if she turned into Midas, painting everything gold with her touch alone. And while it all brings her a lot of joy and while praises that she hears from her coach and teammates and fans are not unwelcomed either, she knows well what makes her soar so high.

She knows now how it feels to be up, so that the surface of the Earth looks like a glorious oriental rug painted with sunlight and spread down her feet.

It shows in her movements, this joy. Even when she’s walking, she goes through the motions as if she was dancing. She supposes that it’s even more evident, while she’s doing gymnastics. She used to think she was good, before, and there was a truth in that – she was born with a natural talent which was then honed with years and years of steel discipline and hard work. Before, she was flexible and strong and well-trained, but now, with her eyes wide opened and memories back, she is not just simply good – she is superb. She has this spark that shines so brightly in her, fueling each and every step. And the centuries past don’t lie, it’s evident now, clear as a day. She could never reach stars without Eren by her side. She was always at her best, when she was with him.

So she jumps higher, runs faster and spins tighter.

And it feels exactly like running on the roofs and jumping up and down, suspended in the air with steel lines of her 3DMG used to feel like.

“How many times did we lay just like that?” he asks her one night, his hot breath caressing the shell of her ear, his fingers idly tracing figures in between her shoulder blades, while she’s still shivering, oversensitive and satisfied.

Countless she thinks. Countless and more

But something painful blooms in her chest, like a thorny bush tearing her heart into shreds.

“ I don’t think we had many occasions to do that.” She answers honestly and he hums in agreement.

Not in the softly-lit room, not in a warm bed, not smelling like her peach-scented shower gel and each other. Not without scars spoiling their skins and with no mountains on their backs.

Never so calm. Never so sure, so careless.

He supposes that the funniest part is that he doesn’t feel like anything changed at all, for the most part. Armin is still his best friend just as he used to be for as long as he can remember and his mother still smiles when his visits her every Saturday and brings her flowers. He still trains in his favorite gym, listens to his favorite bands and fails in saying “no” to his dog.

He’s still the same person, basically.

Only suddenly everything is different. Only suddenly everything is easier and simpler and more bearable; only suddenly he’s calmer and faster and more focused than ever before. This mess in his head quiet now. The twitching of his leg gone. It’s like somebody took a sheet of sandpaper and dulled the sharp edges of the world so that they don’t hurt him anymore.

Mikasa came into his life, fitting neatly in as if she has never been a stranger, as if there has always existed an empty place ready for her. She brought a series of small changes with her, that’s true. But those changes feel more like a fresh, cool breeze from the fan during a humid afternoon than anything else. Like tiny snowflakes that just keep on falling until they cover everything in white and all he sees is her, her, her.

The Thursday game nights, Annie ruthless in Monopoly, Armin miles ahead all of them in Scrabble, Mikasa surprising everyone by her mad poker skills.

Sunday mornings, lazy and sweet; Mikasa in his arms from the dawn till dusk, making love until they both collapse curled around each other, sleepy and sated and so, so fucking happy.

Saturday afternoons, Mikasa and his mother working in the garden and laughing quietly, drinking lemonade and watching old movies with Audrey Hepburn on this ancient VHS player.

She came and reorganized pretty much everything and yet he cannot even imagine how his life looked like without her.

July comes strangely unexpected, like a cat creeping on soft, soundless paws.

He closes the doors of the apartment behind him, with a bag of groceries in his hands and a blissful perspective of three full days without work in his mind. Tomorrow they’re going to Levi and Petra’s daughter christening and then … well, he has keys to Mikasa’s parent’s summer house on the countryside in his pocket and a lot of great ideas how to spent all this time alone with her.

He doesn’t bother to say hello; Miki is not home, he knew it before he opened the door. She should be here, but she’s not – on the emotional level it feels like a very cold blow of AC right into his face and he tries to swallow this feeling before it overcomes him. She’s probably out jogging or something anyway.

Instead of dwelling on that, he focuses on the small things; packs fruits and vegetables into the fridge and hides Mikasa’s favorite, absolutely sinfully unhealthy chocolate cereal in the upper shelf, where she needs a stool to reach. She begged him to do that; she kept on insisting that sometimes, before she can climb on the chair she changes her mind about eating them.

He, personally, never witnessed it, but whatever makes her sleep better at night.

The flat is not as white as it used to be before he moved in; there are splashes of color here and there, scattered on the furniture in form of his flannel shirts and Bumblebee’s chewing toys. And the Bumblebee itself brings the element of destruction into this sea of serenity; right now, she may be snoring soundly on her pillow in the living room, but years and years of constant spoiling made Eren’s pug a very hard roommate indeed and he never realized it until moving to Mikasa. More often than not she would run around the flat with this stripped yellow-and-black bandana around her neck and wreak havoc in her wake… to the constant displeasure of Madeline.

“Well, these two are definitely not soulmates, that’s for sure” crosses Eren’s mind, as he flops down on the sofa. He decides to kill some time by watching this video from two weeks ago, of Bumblebee cashing Madeline around Mikasa’s ankles; his girl was holding a salad bowl in her hands and looked half-irritated and half-amused, as if she was torn between yelling and laughing.

He loves this video; everyone at work has already seen it at least three times and Petra even more. Besides Levi of course, who seemed hell-bent on pretending that Eren is not as prominent in his niece’s life as he is.

But as he is about to press play, the bell chimes loudly, waking Bee from her slumber. Narrowly avoiding stepping on his angry dog, Eren makes his way to the door, wondering silently who could be coming over at such weird hour without letting them know earlier. The only people he can think of are either his mom, which he highly doubts, or Armin and Annie, who are currently enjoying the cloudy English weather and the company of old books, and kindred nerdy, pale scholars during their trip to Oxford.

“Hello- Oh, hi Tori.” He can feel the frown on his face smooth out as he sees a familiar blond figure standing behind the door.

“Hi, Eren.” Chirps Historia Reiss, smiling like a little sunflower and raising up a foil clothing cover in her hands. “ Is Mikasa home? I finished her christening dress.”

“Nah. But come in, she should show up soon.” He takes the hanger from her hands and waves his hand in a welcoming manner.

Historia and Mikasa’s friendship is something nobody could predict or foresee, but when it clicked, it continued to work smoothly and without any glitches.

They found the connection in their respective relationships, Historia patiently guiding Mikasa by the hand through the uncharted territory, them sharing stories of their past lives and current connections, a tangle web of centuries of trauma that they had to work through and could never fully resolve with their respective partners.

Sometimes Eren wishes he remembered more – that he remembered as much as Miki at least, so that they could share this burden together. But for all her eagerness to give him all of her, this is the one part that Mikasa doesn’t let go of easily. Surely, she happily drags him along if she has something nice for him to see, but besides that, she keeps all that she sees and knows and suspects to herself. And he doesn’t want to pressure her to open up.

But sometimes Mikasa would go awfully quiet and so awfully sad. Tears pooling in her eyes she would bite on her lip hard enough to draw blood and shiver in his arms for hours, sweating with cold sweat and making him so, so scared. And still, she refuses to talk about, clams up when she asks.

“What’s in the past, stays in the pasts.” She simply says, not looking at him and biting on her nails absent-mindedly.

It’s not if it still haunts you. – he wants to scream, but the words got stuck somewhere in his throat. Maybe it’s the same with her; or maybe she just wants to protect her, in the only way she can.

Either way, he us beyond glad she has but somebody that can help her somehow compartmentalize it all.

Historia quietly pads into the apartment, bursting into laughter at the sight of agitated pug spinning nervous circles on the floor.

“Damn, your dog has some issues, Eren.”

“ You can only imagine.” He sighs heavily, picking Bee up to rub behind her ears. “ Hi girl, won’t you just-“

Just like that, everything goes quiet.

There is no sound.

No light, no movement, nothing.

Just coldness spreading through his body, chilling each and every cell of his body.

Just pain, so strong that it doesn’t even seem like a pain at all; it is incomparable to anything he has ever felt. Broken leg? Nothing. A concussion? A walk in the park. That time when he fell down the stairs and injured his spine? A nap on the feathery bed.

Pain exploding within him, taking his breath away, making his heart stop.

Mikasa,

Mikasa.

“Eren? Eren!” Historia on her knees next to him on the floor, Bee barking again, the coolness of the wood underneath his palms-

Red car speeding on red light, red pooling on the concrete, Mikasa’s red iPod Mini shattered into tiny, little pieces.

“Eren.” She whispers, eyes desperately opened, sun so bright above her. “Eren.”

He doesn’t believe in god. Never has, as far as he remembers.

“Take the sun away.” he whispers, lips brushing cool wood of his mother’s worn-out rosary. – “Take the sun and- and the moon and all of the stars, just- “

His voice breaks in half; ugly sob escaping from his mouth before he can stop it. It’s so, so cold.

“ Just bring her back to me.”

There is a lifeline that stretches between them, red and infinite and beyond a crowded waiting room on the Intensive Care; a lifeline that nobody else sitting on those ugly orange chairs can see. But he can. And he will hold onto it, as tightly as possible.

And pull her back.

There is a memory that keeps on coming back to her over and over again. Eren ahead of her on the mountainside; his right hand holding onto a metal chain and left one outstretched towards her. He doesn’t even have to turn away to see her slipping on the ice-covered stones. He somehow knows, even though the wind is too loud for him to hear her quiet gasp or the sound that the soles of her boots make.

His hand shots and catches her wrist before she can even begin to fall, before the line that ties their waists together even begins to tighten; he pulls her upright strongly, steading her on a slippery slope.

Wordless support, wordless trust.

Thank you. She thinks. Thank you.

The image of his hand outstretched. He has always looked ahead and trusted her to watch his back. But he has never abandoned her either, never forgot she was there behind him, even when she thought he did.

She has a lot of time to think, is this sea of whiteness where she floats. Without any weight to carry, her thoughts flow lazily, one image after another. Some of them would normally make her heart ache, or even cry. But now she is glad they’re there; even the bad, the ugly. She doesn’t know that she would still be there if it wasn’t for the anchor they form. Maybe she would wander off to far to even make it back.

But with this goddamn, piercing I have always hated you, Mikasa echoing in her ears on repeat, it is impossible to let go.

It doesn’t matter that he didn’t mean it. It doesn’t matter that it was thousands of years away. Some wounds remain open for forever and that is one of them, still open and bleeding all over everything. She would laugh if it could even when you’re hurting me, you’re saving me.

So, against all she latches onto all that pain and heartbreak and reaches out her hand; searches through the nothingness for hours and hours until her fingers find it – the string, taunt and so, so warm.

Mikasa grabs onto it and holds on for what simultaneously feels like a fragment of a second and forever. Blinded and deaf, she holds on until her senses come back, one by one; until she can feel warmth of the sun of her skin and biting stench of antiseptics. Until she opens her eyes and sees him again, silent and grief-stricken and sitting next to her hospital bed, holding her hand.

She blinks, once, twice; watches as big, fat tears fall down his cheeks as he presses his forehead to her hand, his whole body shaking with relief that washes over both of them. She is too weak to do anything else but look at him, to keep her eyes opened and blink. But maybe that’s enough.

“There you are, honey.” Coos Carla, leaning down and putting a cup of green tea in Mikasa’s shaky hands.

It might be hot outside, but surrounded by hospital walls Mikasa feels very cold and quite small, really, so she will take every comfort she can have. She wills the corners of her mouth to raise a little and takes a sip, hot liquid burning the roof of her mouth.

“Thank you.”

“No problem, darling.”

All those pet names, thrown on her like a blanket covering her useless legs. She wishes she could ask everyone to stop – Carla, her mom, her dad, her friends – to stop hovering over her, but it simply won’t do. They would listen and genuinely try to stop, but she still would see it in their eyes. All the worry.

For now, her only solace is Annie with her own brand of harsh love that involved passive-aggressive remarks like “Will you stand up finally?” which makes other people present gasp. But Mikasa indeed, wants to stand up very much.

After Carla leaves, Eren appears; his steps echoing in her ears long before the doors open and he enters her room.

With a sight, he plops down on her bed, but she refuses to look at him. Still sitting on a wheelchair, she stares out of the window; what a beautiful day, sunny, not a cloud of the sky. Her whole body itches; in irritation, she forcefully sets down the teacup on the table and spills some tea in process.

“Miki.”

From her position, she can almost see green grass of the lawn next to the parking. She would jog there sometimes, passing the hospital, the parking and the lawn, not stopping to rest for she hardly ever needed to. How weird it is, to miss the stretch of her muscles and sweat dripping down her back.

Warm hand closes over hers.

“Miki.”

Eren’s kneeling on the floor next to her, his eyes big and pleading.

“Why are you so angry?”

We should be out there, she thinks, desperately and against herself, on Historia’s summer party, in my parents’ country house. Not here.

So much was stolen from them already. All those times where they met only to be torn apart, all this tragedy following them wherever they went. She is just so done with it.

Damn, Mikasa. His voice in her head is so infinitely sweet, almost dripping in honey. He gently brushes hair away from her face and leans his forehead on hers. This? This is nothing compared to what we’ve been through. There will be other summers.

There will be other summers.

She closes her eyes, trying to forget about the sun spilling through the window and focus on his voice on the promise ringing in them.

Really?

He chuckles quietly.

Yeah, really.

Her memories are subjective, but they don’t lie. Presented with the choice wheatear or not to trust Eren, all the Mikasas would always choose the former, without fail.

***

Their days become very long now, with the seasons passing behind the windows of their apartment like in kaleidoscope; summer in full bloom and then autumn, radiant in golds and scarlets. And winter again, the two of them cozy in their little microcosm lit with sweet-smelling candles.

Mikasa learns how to sit again and then how to walk again. It’s an excruciating process, more often than not involving a meeting with the plush carpets that now cover the entirety of the floors in the flat. And although Eren would keep her from falling if she let him, she prefers to do it a hard way. By that, she can at least feel like in those old good times, as if she was covered in sweat and exhausted after a hard training and not after taking a few shaky steps.

But it all passes like seasons; soon enough she walks again and then jogs, faster and faster, Eren always glued to her side, his silent prescience so comforting that it somehow makes it up for all the lost dreams that she had to abandon. She thinks a lot about it, how it felt to fly; but at least she can still curl up in his arms and he can kiss her neck and it’s different but it’s good. So good.

Snow falls and then melts; spring comes again, brilliant and fresh. By that time, she is already working out with a jumping rope again, drops by the neighboring dance studio whenever she can. There is a white dress hidden somewhere at the back of her closet; one beautiful mess of silk and lace crafted with Historia’s meticulous hands. The dress is waiting for the right occasions, but Mikasa has stopped waiting a long time ago.

Life is good when doesn’t need crunches or Eren’s arms to stand up. Life is good when she can actually sneak up on him and put her cold hands underneath his shirt when he’s cooking, making him jump and scream jesus Mikasa, go wear a sweater or something. Life is good when he doesn’t have to pick her up from the wheelchair and carry her to bed. Life is good with her new job and old friends and Annie and Armin standing underneath flowery arch and smiling like dorks.

Even after she met Eren, she was still waiting for the other shoe to drop. But know she knows for sure, that even when it drops – it is not gonna be the hardest thing she has ever been through, not even close. And that life will always be good, as long as he will hold onto her, as long as he will keep her centered.

***

“Soulmates… why didn’t you like the idea?”

“I don’t really know. It always seemed so limited to me, like, why am I supposed to just be with this one person because we used to be together a couple of times before in a span of centuries? I didn’t enjoy somebody dictating me how to live my life, I guess.”

“You’re are such a rebel, Miki.”

“Oh, shut up. Tell me about you. What made you okay with that?”

“ Well. You know, when people find their partners, they tend to look at certain things. Like money and race, and gender, and interests and all of that. We don’t really tend to pair up with people who are very different from us. But the notion of soulmates… it just shows that it’s all bullshit. It doesn’t matter at all. When you really love somebody, all of those things are just so insignificant. That always sounded kinda beautiful for me, that it’s your heart that chooses this person time and time again, not your head. “

Maybe he is right. She doesn’t know; she doesn’t care. All she knows is that everything before him seems now like a soft, slow build-up and being with him is a beautiful crescendo; a moment when the music drags you under, overwhelms you.

Give me all your love now, cause for all we know, we might be dead by tomorrow.

One headphone in his ear, one in hers; hands linked and eyes closed, they sit in an empty train, talking without barely opening their mouths.

Even if we’re dead tomorrow, I’ll find you again, Miki.

I’ll find you again and I’ll love you again, Eren.

Ugly and beautiful, all together. She doesn’t think that this crescendo will ever really end.

As if the heavy slope of my shoulders

doesn’t write a hundred paragraphs.

As if the way I look at you

doesn’t write the singular ending.

You are my epilogue,

my prologue,

and every chapter that exists in between.

Everybody, sit down.

I have a story to tell."

- Stories. Seventy Years of Sleep, nikka ursula (n.t)

#eremika #eremika fanfiction #snk #eren x mikasa #snk fanfiction #our future will be a bright one #aot fic

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squishymochisoo · 6 years

Text

four times - angel! changbin

genre : angst, angel! au, heavy mentions of suicide, self-harm, mentions of rape

pairing : reader x changbin

words : 2.5k

sypnosis : four times you tried to end it. but every time you did you somehow stayed alive. the fourth time you tried, someone named changbin, who claimed to be your angel appeared. with changbin around everything felt less less of a nightmare and more like a dream

you couldn’t believe your eyes. everything came with a price. you knew that. you wanted your shitty life to end so much that karma though it would be funny for you to suffer more. you glanced at the mirror in for the twentieth time. was this real?

you glanced at your wrist was no scars were found on your pale skin. you remembered crying your eyes out hoping that this was finally it. you remembered the black spots that appeared through your vision as you blinked and finally one last cut. you remembered the last thing you saw was your reflection in the mirror, broken and the razor falling from your grasps and clattering on the white floor, falling into your small pool of blood. you widened your eyes. it couldn’t have been a dream. you shook your head repeatedly trying to remember. you eyes fell on the floor. it was covered in blood.

blood? so it wasn’t a dream. you thought to yourself. but- there were no scars on your wrists.

you were confused. what was going on? you slapped yourself on your cheek.

“maybe i am really losing my mind.” you uttered not bothering to make sense out of things.

~~~~~~~~~~

“excuse me miss?” you heard someone tap you on the shoulders. you groggily opened your eyes. sunlight shining brightly.

‘where am i’ was the first thought. a single shadow blocking the sun from directly shining on you, practically saving you from going blind.

“miss? are you okay?” the stranger asked politely. you realized you were sitting down slouching against a building.

“what? what happened?” you asked the stranger. you don’t remember falling asleep on a busy street, where people were walking fast pushing each other. actually, you remembered things very differently.

“erm, honestly i’m not sure ma’am. i just found you asleep. it’s just your going to get a heat stroke if you continue sleeping here. especially in this weather.” your eyes widened. you instantly stood up thanking the random stranger. you wanted the floor to eat you up.

just how long have i been sleeping on the floor? you recognized this busy street. it was just a corner away from your previous office. a job where you got fired at, for doing something you didn’t do.

you had such a good life. but when your boss did something you never thought anybody with a conscience would even think about. you just wanted to stay late at work to finish up the massive pile of work that your supervisor gave that day. but never would you have thought it was the worse decision you ever made.

you remembered every cry you made that night, hoping that your boss would let go of you while he did the unthinkable. you remembered the bruises that stained your body that night. you remembered how you hoped there was somebody else in that office that stayed late.

you filed a police report the next day. hoping that he would never do the same to other women. hoping that he got what he deserved. however, he didn’t get what he deserved. you remembered being blamed for that. how that son of a bitch claimed that you were the one the jumped on him, that he was the innocent one. your colleagues turned against you. soon the press turned against you. next? the whole city turned against you.

of course who were they going to believe? a rich CEO of a booming company? or an employee that dropped out of university because he father passed away and had to take care of her sick mother who couldn’t pay for her tuition fees. which story was more juicier for people to believe?

that office building you despised so much. three months after getting sacked and no one wanted your ass to step foot into their establishment. people were bashing you constantly that jail was the one place you belonged in. your life became a misery, really a true hellhole.

you didn’t remember sleeping on the floor of a building that was just a corner off from your previous office. you remembered yourself climbing off to the twenty-third storey of that building. contemplating if you were really going to do this. you remembered yourself convincing yourself that maybe life wasn’t that bad. you remember to keep an open mind. however, the negative thoughts came swarming back in. you remembered yourself, trying to calm yourself down as you stepped on the ledge of the building. you remembered the keep happy thoughts hoping that it might convince yourself to step down.

when you glanced at the people below you seeing how happy they were, you knew you could never ever be that happy ever again. you knew that you would never see life the way everyone saw it every again. you knew, that you had to do it. not only for you but for everyone who hated your guts.

that was what you remembered. you remembered taking a deep breath and falling. and falling and falling. the last thing you heard was screaming.

but how could you be here right now, walking back to your apartment? how could you possibly be alive and walking. how are you breathing? how was there no blood? even if you did survive the fall, why were you sleeping on the sidewalk?

your questions were left unanswered as you opened the door to your apartment, the only place you felt comfortable in. the only placed that welcomed you. being alone meant you sought comfort in self-pity. even your own mother believed the very lie that the rest of the city believed. you remembered the very words she said to you when you visited her in the hospital.

“no daughter of mine is rapist.”

but you weren’t one. you were the victim that no one believed.

everyday you wanted your life to end. the two times you’ve tried to end it. it never ever works. was god asking me to suffer? is my life to pitiful that i can’t even die when i try to? or is this god’s way of saying that nobody will come to my funeral and that nobody would mourn my death?

~~~~~~

you stared at the pills sitting on your table as an episode of ‘friends’ played as white noise. if i die in this apartment will people even notice i’m gone? will my own mother realize that her own daughter stopped visiting her not because she banned me from seeing her but because I was dead?

it was said that ten pills of what laid in the bottle could probably kill me. the overdosage of the pills will work with a 100% chance. because the pill was that strong. and that six pills was probably enough to kill a normal human adult. but you wanted to make sure this worked. you wanted to be so sure that this will end your suffering instantly.

taking the pills out of the bottle, you swallowed it up one pill at a time. taking your time with it.

you felt your eyes shifting, your vision getting blurry and dark as you felt yourself throwing up. and finally you thought this was it.

and for the third time, you were wrong.

this wasn’t possible you muttered. no this isn’t possible. you blinked and sat up straight. your television was still playing ‘friends’, your table was scattered with the pills you took. and your floor, god your floor was covered in your own vomit.

you remembered yourself taking your last breath, finally being consumed in darkness. how is it possible that your alive and standing? was this a funny game of fate? was i too live this shitty live?

you didn’t understand anything. you couldn’t understand anything.

three times. three times i tried to kill myself. why am i still here? why am i still alive and not dead.

what exactly was going on?

~~~~~~~~~~~

if fate was trying to send you a message to stay alive. you certainly didn’t get the message nor did you care.

you wanted to end things. everyday was just a constant reminder. you were struggling with each day. you were surprised how you weren’t in debt yet. even if your mother wanted you gone from her life, you couldn’t help but still pay for her hospital fees. she was still your mother at the end of the day and she has nobody else that could care for her. no matter how ugly and horrible her words were to you. you weren’t a disrespectful child.

you stared at the lake in front of you. could this work? you blinked hoping that maybe you would talk yourself out of it. you didn’t know how to swim. but in this context wasn’t it good that you didn’t know how to swim? you didn’t know anymore. you wanted to cry but at this point of time, you were dried up of tears.

you rarely cry anymore. you just stare blankly.

the water was deep, you remembered submerging yourself in the cold water on that very night. you remembered the pain when water entered your nose in a rush and you gasping for air.

but when you woke? you were lying by the lake, wet but alive. you felt your hot breath on your pale palms are you wiped your wet face.

how was this possible? four times? four times and i’m still alive. you were so drowned in your thoughts that a voice startled you.

“are you serious? i have to save you four times? when will you realize you’re not going to die that easily?” a deep voice sounded from behind you. you jumped a little turning back.

there stood a boy around his early twenties? around your age. black hair, tall thin face and eyes a little small., leaning against the tree, looking at you.

“wh-who are you?” you muttered while shivering. the boy walked over to you and held your palm, warming it up. you’re eyes widened.

‘what ?’

“please stop trying to kill yourself, it’s really giving me a lot of work.” the boy sighed. you furrowed your eyebrows, staring at him, you pulled your hand away from him instantaneously. but pulling away meant you shivering in the cold.

“listen y/n, let’s get you warmed up and settled at home first okay.”

“h-how did you know my name?” you stuttered a little concerned that he was a serial killer, but honestly you really shouldn’t mind since he would be giving you your own wish.

“i’m not going to harm you… even if that’s what you wished would happen,” the boy whispered the very last part.

~~~~~~~~

once he got you settled at home and sat in front of you on your couch.

“i’m changbin, your angel.”

“what? no you’re not, angels aren’t real.” you scoffed.

“yes they are. who do you think saved you the very four times you tried to kill yourself? including tonight?”

“you? you were the one that made me suffer more?” you shouted growing in anger. angel or not, you didn’t care.

“i made you suffer more? look y/n you can’t just end your life so as you wish. you can’t just feel like you’ve had enough of life.” you rolled your eyes.

“yes i can. life has only been hurting me and i am dead tired of trying to live each day. “ you screamed your eyes getting blurry. were you finally going to cry? you felt some tears make their way down your cheek.

you saw changbin softened.

“look, live is hard, i agree. and i know you’ve had a lot this past few months. i know you feel like you’re alone. i know everything you felt since that very day was injustice. but trust me when i say, i know you, i’ve seen you grown up. i know very well that you’re stronger than you think. and that this something you can overcome if we do it together. i’m your angel and i’m sorry i haven’t approached you when things were really hard. “ you sniffled.

“but y/n-, please stop. i promise, i’ll help you. i promise that whatever you feel now, it’s going to get better.”

you gulped. more tears trying to make it’s way out of your eyes. you faced changbin. he smiled gently at you reaching out a hand in front of you.

and for the first time in the past few months, you thought

‘maybe life was actually worth it’

~~~~~~~~~

“changbin?” you called out the angel.

the angel popped his head into the kitchen, where you were cooking at the stove.

“were you assigned me as your human or did you get to choose?” you questioned the angel, the question was roaming through your mind since the day he stepped foot through your door three weeks ago claiming to be your angel.

“well, assigned”

“did you like being assigned as my angel? i’m sorry for being such a trouble.” you asked looking at his handsome face while stirring the pot. you weren’t gonna lie but his presence made your heart skip a beat. a feeling you haven’t felt in a while.

“well, i didn’t really got assigned to you.” changbin shyly smiled at you. you gave him a confused look.

“what?”

“i was still in training at got tired of training to be an angel. so i snuck off to the hq when they were in the middle of assigning babies to their angels. i saw your face. i just got attracted to it. i don’t know what it was.”

“i took your scroll, which something an angel has when being assigned. and then i was your angel.”

“i didn’t know what i was doing. but watching you suffer through the months, i wanted to hug you and tell you how you weren’t alone. “ changbin sighed and looked down, regretting how he wasn’t a good angel to you.

“but?” you continued for him intrigued in knowing more.

“but, i couldn’t. i never completed training but it was the number one rule to never show yourself in front of your human. every time you tried to kill yourself, my heart broke, i cried when you first tried to cut yourself. i couldn’t bear the thought of you dead. i couldn’t even think about how life has treated you. I was never supposed to interfere with your life. i wasn’t supposed to save you. but “

“but i don’t know what came over me. i just wanted you to live happily. i didn’t want you to die thinking life was this cruel thing. i couldn’t imagine my life if you weren’t there.” you stared at him. not realizing throughout the time he spoke you stepped closer and closer to him.

your silence was torturous for him.

“y/n?” he looked up and saw you right in front of him.

without thinking, you grabbed his cheek and gently kissed him. you were expecting him to pull away pushing you off.

but

he kissed you back.

thank you changbin

~~~~~~~~~~~

a/n : YEET idk what i was thinking, i should be sleeping or studying yet i’m here writing this! well i hope this was good! also if the keep reading sign is gone blame tumblr

let me know if you enjoyed this! and do leave some feedback? if i could improve!

also! tell me if you want me to write more? because i would honestly LOVE to write more!! 😊😊😊

also credit to the border picture xx

#stray kids #stray kids scenarios #stray kids imagines #stray kids oneshot #stray kids oneshots #stray kids changbin #seo changbin #changbin scenarios #kpop #kpop scenarios #kpop oneshots #stray kids fic #kpop imagines #angel au #stray kids angst #angst #kpop angst #stray kids x reader #changbin x reader

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dinoswrites · 6 years

Note

for kai -- 16, 39, 44

16. Which does yourcharacter idealize most: happiness, or success?

This is the first time she has seen her father since she wassix years old.

Twelve years have changed him—though she wonders now howmuch of that is her flawed memory of him, young as she was. Some part of herstill expected him to tower over her, perhaps—to scowl down at her from somegreat height, and ask her why she is covered in dirt.

He is still taller than her—and he still stands straight asan arrow, though she doesn’t remember him having such a belly. But he’d neverhad the warrior’s bulk the other children’s fathers carried, and his hands areworn from quills and shaking hands, not from spears or mending sails.

She has no memory of him bending to scoop her up. No memoryof him bending at all.

Part of her honestly had started to think he wasn’t evenreal—that she’d just sprung from the earth, fully-formed, and imagined adistant father who sent her away to learn about magic in somewhere cold,somewhere far from the sea of her childhood memories.

But here he is. Standing in the doorway, staring at her witha blank expression, as if he expected some wild-haired child, covered toe toknee in mud and sand, instead of a young woman with perfectly ironed pleats inher skirt.

She breaks the silence first. “Hello, Father,” she says,with a perfectly poised curtsey.

That seems to snap him out of it. He blinks only once beforehe strolls into her little room, his gaze finally falling to the things she hascollected there. To her bed, immaculately made—to her books, neatly lined up onthe shelves.

His gaze rests on the bonsai on her desk, drinking in the meagresunlight from her window.

“What,” he says, “is that.”

It’s a tiny tree,moron. She bites the inside of her cheek. “My first year botany project wasto—”

“I read your reports,” he snaps. “Why do you still have it?”

She stares at him, incredulous. “They were just going tothrow it out after the project was complete,” she answers, slowly. “I asked ifI could keep it. My instructor agreed, since it was an old tree, and my gradesfor the semester were exceptional.”

He scowls at the plant as if it has personally offended him.

When she grows tired of watching him do that, she asks, “Whatbrings you all the way across the ocean, father?”

“Good news,” he tells her, though his scowl only deepens. “Thereis an opening in Princess Akeakamai’s retinue for a witch with some skill withplants. Of course I was happy to report to her mother the Queen that you haveperformed adequately in that regard, so the position is yours.”

She wrings her hands, catches herself doing it, and letsthem hang by her sides again.

“Your instructors needed to be persuaded to accelerate yourgraduation.” He reaches down to adjust her quill at her desk, so it is lying ina perfect parallel line with the windowsill. “They did not understand theurgency of the matter.”

Accelerate hergraduation? “Urgency?” she parrots, frowning in confusion.

Her father exhales through his nose, short and irritated. “Theprincess is eight,” he informs her, “andspoiled besides. Her mother allows her whims to flit where they please, insteadof demanding focus of the child. It is entirely possible that by the time wereturn, she will have lost all interest in plants and this opportunity willhave been wasted. You must return as quickly as possible so you can make themost of your chance.”

Her heart starts to race, frantic in her chest. “My chance?”she asks, faintly.

“To impress her. She’s a child, I assume it will be easy.Throw some sparks in front of her face, turn her parrot gold, they like thatsort of thing.”

Judging by her time spent with the younger children at theschool, she’s pretty certain that would make most children cry. She’s toooverwhelmed to inform him of that, however.

“I don’t understand,” she says. “I have—I have seniorprojects to finish, I have to stand the examinations, my honours botany finalis still ongoing and won’t be complete for another—”

“What don’t you understand, girl?” he snaps, turning on hisheel. He stares at her incredulously, as if she has said something entirelyunexpected. “I sent you here to learn something useful, you have vexed me at every turn by excelling at makingplants grow, of all things. I have come to inform you that I have a place foryou, at court, and you stand there as if I’ve told you to jump in the oceanduring a storm.”

He steps towards her, and she suddenly feels very small. Asif she really is that girl, covered in dirt, with him towering over her, lipcurling in distaste.

“Your examinations start in three days,” he informs her. “Afteryou complete those, I am taking you home, where you will finally be of use tome.”

He storms out of the room, leaving her standing there, heartin her throat, and her blood rushing in her ears.

39. Has yourcharacter ever been bitten by an animal? How were they affected (orunaffected)?

She is playing with Cinis while he rolls on her lap, bellyexposed, and in his excitement he bites her hand a little, not even hard enoughto draw blood.

“Ouch,” she says, very softly, but her fond smile doesn’tfade.

Julian, sitting at his desk, nearly launches himself acrossthe room, sending papers flying.

“I knew it,” he blurts, “that demon cat bit you, didn’t he?Let me see it, is it infected—”

Cinis hisses and darts away as Julian takes Kai’s hand. Thecat hides under the couch as Julian turns her hand over and over, browsfurrowing as he probably looks for some kind of gaping wound.

“Julian,” she says. Her voice has grown less rough in theweek since she found Cinis, but she still finds herself speaking softly, hardto break the habit.

“Where is it,” he grumbles. “Where—”

“Julian,” she says again, holding up her other hand. “Thisone.”

He tries to grab that one, but she pulls it away at the lastsecond, grinning. “I’m fine,” she tells him, when he reaches for her handagain. “Just playing.”

Julian blushes a little. His shoulders slump, and he letsout a fond, if somewhat embarrassed sigh.

He messes up her hair, and then regards the glowing eyesstaring at him from under the couch. “I’m watching you, Matchstick,” he warns,without any real threat backing his words, before turning and going back to hisdesk.

44. How difficult oreasy is it for your character to say, “I love you?” Can they say it withoutmeaning it?

She and Asra are sitting on the step of the baker’s shop,pressed close together to give room for the line of people slowly gathering tobuy bread. They are splitting a loaf of pumpkin bread between them, while thecrowd passes them by.

He is telling her a story—something about his childhood,with Muriel. Faust is helping him, supplying one-word prompts when he getsdetails wrong, though he often stops and argues them with her. And she can’thelp but laugh every time, as the snake and the young man seem to have eachremembered the event entirely differently.

“You did not tripthe guard,” Asra says, “I did, with a spell.”

Trip! Faust insists,waving back and forth in the air. Me!Trip!

“It was a spell,Faust,” he insists, laughing, his cheeks dimpling. “You were so small you couldhardly trip me!”

He’s barely touched his half of the loaf, he so absorbed inthe story, and the subsequent playful banter with Faust. She’s been eating hersas slowly as she can, too happy to let this moment play on as long as possible.And it’s a nice enough day—not too hot out, the sun shining, a cool breezewinding up through the streets of Vesuvia from the docks.

The sun is in his hair, in his eyes. They’re sitting soclose that he’s pressed up against her—and as he and Faust disagree on theorder of events, his arm slips down around her, resting comfortably at herwaist. As if they always sit this close—as if being pressed together, no spacefor anything but old stories and laughter between them, is the most normalthing in the world.

There are silver flecks in his purple eyes. So small thatthere’s no way to notice them, without sitting this close. They make her thinkof her old stone magic lessons, in a tower in a place far away from here, aplace so very different from where she sits now. Lepidolite—for tranquility,for calming the mind and aiding focus.

How odd, she thinks. There’s nothing tranquil at all abouttheir surroundings—someone is arguing the price of a loaf of bread with thebaker, trying to barter him down, their argument almost drowning out Asra andFaust. The crowd is a dull roar around them, a never-ending whirl of colour andnoise and life in the background. Asra himselfis loud, and bright, and wild—he wears shining bangles on his wrists, thebright coat she’d bought him, and he uses sparks of illusion magic to aid inthe story, to try and show Faust what reallyhappened, even as she adamantly refuses to believe him.

All this colour, all this vibrant activity—none of it ispeaceful. It has nothing in common with all the meditation gardens from hertextbooks, or the reflecting pool at her aunt’s shop.

She’s never felt more at peace in her entire life.

“Asra,” she says.

“Yeah?” he turns to regard her instead, so she can trulystare into the depths of his beautiful, complicated, impossible eyes. Is sheimagining it, or is she the only thing his restless gaze seems to linger on, thesedays?

I love you. Sheknows it—she’s known it for months, now.

But still, even though she knows, the words do not leave the safety of her heart, the insideof her throat.

“Let’s say Faust tripped the guards,” she says instead, herstomach twisting with disappointment in herself.

Asra doesn’t notice. His eyes twinkle with amusement, and heinclines his head. “Alright Faust,” he says, “you somehow grew five feet in aheartbeat and tripped the guard. Singular.”

Many! Faustinsists. Six!

Asra laughs. “Two.”

Seven!

She rests her head on Asra’s shoulder. His arm curls alittle tighter around her, pulling her somehow closer still, as he and Fauststart to barter on the number of guards chasing Asra and Muriel, while theirpumpkin bread grows cold in their hands.

#kai's tag #the arcana fanfiction #asra the magician #cedarmoons #unseeliequeens #julian devorak

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izanyas · 7 years

Text

Owe No Debt (Part IV - End)

Here’s the last chapter of the Soukoku fix-it fic! Tired, wobbly thanks to my wonderful beta and friend @scarlet-blossoms.

Rating: M + Explicit version Words: 8,700 Warnings: non-explicit discussion of pedophilia (regarding Mori’s character—no child gets hurt).

[Read from Part I]

Owe No Debt Part IV

Sunlight woke Chuuya. It shone through his eyelids until slumber wore off and made wet tears cling to his eyelashes when he blinked. He dragged his hand from under his pillow to rub them off and yawn. Then he pushed a foot back toward the other side of the bed, looking for the warm, rough skin of Dazai's legs.

He didn't find it.

Ice slithered down his throat. Chuuya stared resolutely through the window instead of looking back, no matter that daylight burned in his eyes. His body lacked the specific imprint of heat that came from being held, even though he remembered Dazai's arm around him, Dazai's hand over his moving chest. Holding him as if to make sure he breathing didn't stop while he slept.

Dazai must have left a while ago. Gone as quick as morning mist. Chuuya buried his face into the soft of the pillow, feeling cold like he hadn't in four years, the skin of his stomach seared from the lies that Dazai had kissed into it and which he had stupidly believed to be the truth.

He felt too old to cry from a broken heart, too old to cry at all, so he didn't. He just ached.

He should've known better than to let Dazai access more of him. He had been wiser as a teenager than he was as an adult, keeping Dazai at bay as he had, and now he had nothing to blame for how shattered he felt. He had bared everything for a single moment of weakness—for the sight of Dazai's eyes looking at his lips with longing and childish want—and it was his own fault that he now lay broken-ribbed and flayed, alone in a hotel room, twisted in sheets that still smelled of their coupling.

Chuuya took in a shaking breath. He ignored the ringing of blood in his ears as he sat up, facing the window rather than the room as if he could delay the truth of how empty the bed was that way—and he almost jumped out of his skin when someone grabbed his shoulder.

That he didn't lash out to kill was nothing short of a miracle. Maybe it was the sorrow pooling inside him, maybe it was the soreness in his thighs and hips from having Dazai inside of his body and soul, but Chuuya sat still as a statue. The hand on his shoulder squeezed, traveled down his arm, linked their fingers together. Chuuya felt its owner sit down onto the bed behind him.

"Sorry," Dazai said softly. His hair was wet against Chuuya's shoulder when he leaned his head down to breathe into the side of his neck. "Had to go check up on Q."

Chuuya thought over the words until they made sense, skin prickling with goosebumps from the AC and sunlight; and then hot blood rushed to his head, dizzying.

He tugged his hand out of Dazai's hold with a huff and let himself fall onto the bed again, back still turned to him. It didn't deter Dazai from touching him—his hand came to rest on the side of Chuuya's neck. "Were you watching me sleep?" Chuuya mumbled. "Creep."

"Can you blame me? You look fetching when you're not throwing insults."

Chuuya knew it was a bad idea, but he let Dazai pull him sideways until he lay flat on his back, and the first sight he got of Dazai was that of his eyes widening from whatever it was he read on Chuuya's own face.

Dazai chuckled hollowly. "I really did a number on you, didn't I," he murmured.

They both knew he wasn't talking about love bites or a sore backside, and Chuuya didn't bother with denial or agreement.

Dazai was sitting sideways on the mattress, his feet still touching the floor. He had to strain forward a little when he cupped a hand around Chuuya's cheek, palm stroking his jaw and fingers hooking a few strands of hair behind Chuuya's ear. His nails scratched lightly against his scalp in the process.

"You look really good," Dazai offered. His smile was lighter now, teasing into a smirk at the corners.

Chuuya snorted. "Do you get off to my abandonment issues?"

Dazai's smile widened. He leaned down, legs hoisted onto the bed too now, hand leaving Chuuya's face to rest beside it onto the sheets. "I get off to you naked in my bed, all moody because you just woke up, sun shining all over you…" he trailed off, nose pressed into Chuuya's hair above his temple.

"Not your bed," Chuuya replied, closing his eyes.

"It's the one I slept in."

Chuuya put a hand between them when he felt Dazai's mouth brush down his face, palm over his lips and nails digging lightly into his cheek. "I'm not kissing you until I've had breakfast or brushed my teeth," he declared.

Dazai licked his palm, making Chuuya scrunch his nose in disgust. "That can be arranged," he replied.

He didn't get off the bed, though. His back shifted with a crack that made Chuuya smirk and Dazai sigh, and he kneeled on it, both hands splayed by Chuuya's shoulders as he pressed his mouth into Chuuya's neck. Chuuya was cool from the AC and the lack of him, and Dazai's mouth was warm, scorching shivers with every press of his lips, tongue flicking out to lick the marks he had no doubt left the night previous.

He could get used to this, he thought. Chuuya put a hand at Dazai's nape, parted his fingers through soft, shower-wet hair. Dazai breathed heat back into his body, and Chuuya thought he could get used to this, could envision waking up every morning of his life with the weight of Dazai over him. With the shape of him on his heart.

"Dazai," he said lowly.

Dazai hummed. He kissed the hollow of his throat and then under his chin, forcing Chuuya to strain his head back and look at the off-white ceiling of the hotel room as he gathered the resolve to say what needed to be said.

Chuuya tightened his grip on Dazai's hair. "Dazai," he repeated. "We can't do this."

One time could be put behind.

One time away from Yokohama, in the mediocre hotel they had booked during a time of truce, could be forgiven and forgot. Cradled in the space between Chuuya's ribs like every other secret he had held. Put to rest alongside the memory of his mother or of Odasaku. Dazai could go on with his trek toward righteousness and know that he'd settled another loose end on his way.

Chuuya could deal with being left behind after one time like he had dealt with everything else before. It was easier too, now, with the certainty that Dazai had respected him enough not to run away in the dark of the night. He trusted in his own ability not to falter.

He would owe no debt and hold no grudge.

"There you go again," Dazai said softly.

His head rose above Chuuya's. Chuuya met his eyes evenly in spite of the heat rumbling through him; Dazai's were warm in the chilly morning light, softer even than they had been when he whispered hopeless affection into the skin of Chuuya's belly.

"We don't have to think about this now," he continued. His hand came back to Chuuya's face, dry, cool skin against the flush of his cheek. "We can just enjoy it."

"You're pretty stupid for a so-called genius," Chuuya replied dryly.

"I'm smart enough to know that you're not being rational."

Chuuya batted Dazai's hand away from his face with a sneer. "What about 'we're enemies and probably shouldn't have sex' sounds irrational to you, Dazai?"

"The part where you're terrified of letting yourself have what you want."

Chuuya fell silent and still under him, voice caught in his mouth the way the blanket caught around his hips. Pressed thin by Dazai's weight over him. Dazai leaned a little further down, until they were inches apart.

"Tell me truthfully," he said, "whether you're scared of standing on opposite sides of a battlefield, or scared of letting me in more than before. Tell me you're not afraid that I'll leave you behind after you've given me everything." He touched Chuuya's neck with the pads of his fingers, light as a shiver. "Tell me you're just being level-headed and practical, Chuuya, and I won't waste my time trying to convince you otherwise."

He never blinked, as if he didn't feel the need to—as if Chuuya wasn't having to flutter his eyelids open and shut again and again to escape him. Chuuya clenched his teeth and said, "And I'm being irrational for being afraid of you leaving?"

"You're not," Dazai replied immediately. "It's perfectly understandable. I've left you many times." His thumb stroked Chuuya's chin. "I'll probably do it again."

Chuuya felt the sting of his words deep inside his chest, the overwhelming shame of having believed, the need to say Please despite knowing that he would be ignored.

He wanted to close his eyes. Wanted to let the scared child in him reign over him just for a moment, just for a second, long enough to insult Dazai with the words burning at his lips. But all he did was stare into Dazai's eyes above him and try and translate without words just how hollow he felt.

Dazai's hand was cradling, kind against his neck. The gentlest noose. "This is something we have in common," he told Chuuya with a smile. "We know there's nothing in this world worth wanting as much as we do, but we still do."

Chuuya did close his eyes, then, teeth ground together to the point of pain. "I wish I'd never met you," he let out.

"Liar." Dazai framed his face between his hands, thumbs pressed into the corners of Chuuya's eyes as if to wipe inexistent wetness away.

And, truly, why bother deny it? Trying to erase Dazai from his memories would leave Chuuya less loved and less whole.

He relented to the kisses Dazai pressed onto his eyelids and his lips, a closed-mouth breeze that rekindled the lost heat of before, and opened his eyes again when Dazai let his weight fall onto him the way he had with his cock in him hours ago.

"We gave up on normal a long time ago," Dazai said against his chin, then against his throat. "Right now we aren't even at war. It's just you and me, Chuuya."

"Are you saying we'll figure it out?" Chuuya knew his voice was mocking.

"I'm saying you're naked under me, and you've had me naked under you, and I've wanted that too much to let it go now that I have it." Dazai looked up again. "Don't you think?"

Chuuya stared back at him for a long second. "I think," he said, "that you owe me a damn apology, for talking so fucking much when I'm still half-asleep."

The glee that brightened Dazai's eyes shot through him like an arrow, the tip of which buried itself at the lowest of his belly, too fast and too warm.

"Now," Dazai purred. "I wonder how I could make it up to you."

Chuuya grabbed him by the hair instead of answering, tugged him downward in a silent command. Dazai obeyed it sweetly.

Chuuya ended up being the one to press Dazai close first over breakfast. He licked the taste of coffee from Dazai's smart mouth, pressed him down into the bed, and tied his own hair back so nothing would interrupt the unhurried pace of their kissing. It was what he hadn't let himself have the night before through the headiness of having Dazai at all; and Chuuya wasn't so self-assured as to speak devotion, wasn't so foolish as to let himself be this hopeful, but he kissed Dazai, over and over, like he thought someone loved would. Every unspoken word gliding over Dazai's tongue in a way one as smart as Dazai ought to understand.

Dazai didn't let him reciprocate the morning's pleasures. He lay on the sheets with his hair in disarray and his eyes closed and his mouth open, hands holding Chuuya's hips without ever moving. Just to feel him.

"This is the worst mistake I've ever made," Chuuya told him in a whisper.

"Probably," Dazai agreed. He grabbed Chuuya's ass, smirking when Chuuya slapped his hand off. "But you're still making it."

"Yeah. Fucker."

Dazai kissed him, sucked his lip between his own, no sharp retort coming out.

Chuuya couldn't have told whether afternoon came fast or slow. Every new hour on the broken digital clock of his room felt like he could breathe less anyway.

Eventually, Dazai's phone rang.

Dazai answered the call with his eyes caught in Chuuya's and his hand still holding him. Chuuya didn't take in any of the words he said, just held still above him, still naked from the waist up. Dazai dropped the phone next to them after hanging up and stared at him silently for a long moment.

"Kunikida's on his way," he declared uselessly.

Chuuya nodded. He watched the lines of Dazai's face below him to commit them to memory, steeled his spine for the prospect of untangling his legs from Dazai and standing again, skin bare of his touch once more and maybe forever.

Dazai tripped him when he did try to move away, making him fall on top of him entirely and bite his own tongue in the process.

"Ow," he let out, tasting blood.

"Oops," Dazai replied.

Chuuya elbowed him in the stomach as he rose again, seething. "You asshole," he growled, "why the fuck do I even bother? Piece of shit."

"I liked it better when you were complimenting my mouth." Dazai was smiling without a care in the world as he said it.

"Well I'm never fucking doing that again."

Dazai pushed himself into a sitting position with his hands. Infuriatingly, Chuuya was barely taller than him despite kneeling above him.

"Let's not think this over too much, yeah?" he asked.

There was no malice in his eyes no matter how much Chuuya looked for it. Dazai would never look carefree, never look innocent, but now, he didn't look like he was hurting. He didn't look like a dying man.

The bottomless despair was being kept at bay.

Chuuya hooked his fingers into Dazai's collar to bring him close once more. He avoided the easy, natural way Dazai offered his mouth to him to press his lips onto his cheek instead.

"Yeah," he said as he pulled away.

Dazai's hand squeezed his hip warmly. When Chuuya got off the bed, it let go gradually, finger by finger.

Kunikida joined them directly in Dazai's hotel room. Q still looked confused and scared, his wary eyes following Chuuya around the room as if he couldn't believe that he was truly being let go. Chuuya didn't speak to him and tried not to let the fact that he was such an obvious source of childish terror get to him.

Unfortunately, he couldn't avoid Kunikida Doppo quite as well.

"You're letting him go," the man said, reeking of suspicion.

"Chuuya and I reached an agreement," Dazai interjected smoothly. "We just need to make it look like we took Q by force."

Kunikida absorbed the information with the look of someone who had just bitten into a lemon. "You're betraying the port mafia?"

"Not on your life," Chuuya replied with a snort. "The little brat's more trouble than he's worth. I'll happily let the lot of you get murdered at his hand instead of us."

"I won't murder them," Q whimpered.

"Murder is bad," Dazai nodded. "And can I just say that it's really, really weird to see the two of you together and talking?"

Chuuya and Kunikida both threw him a tired look.

Chuuya had packed his things already. Not that much needed packing in the first place. He was still wearing the clothes Dazai had bought, this time a red shirt that Chuuya suspected Dazai had picked for less-than-wholesome reasons, judging by the glances he kept giving it.

"I've got shit to settle with Sakaguchi," Chuuya declared. "Since I wasn't really supposed to hurt him and all that. So I'm gonna stay here for a little longer."

"Relieving news."

"Don't push you damn luck, Dazai."

Kunikida pushed his glasses up on his nose, still looking at Chuuya as though he expected him to explode on them. He had no idea how true his assumption would've been in other circumstances. "All right," he decided. "Dazai, you better write an extensive report about this."

Chuuya could just see the way Dazai's mouth shook, threatening to fall into a grin much too telling. He glared at him until he was sure Dazai could feel the burn of his eyes against the side of his face. "Work him into the ground, Kunikida," he said slowly.

There was a pause. "Right," Kunikida replied, sounding surprised. "I'll go pay for the room downstairs then. You," he pointed to Dazai, "stay put."

No one really took notice of the noise the door made as it closed behind him.

Q sat in his corner, still without his doll, still looking too glaringly like a child instead of a war machine. Dazai met Chuuya's eyes with the sketch of a smile on his lips.

"I guess we won't see each other for a while, then," he said softly.

"Guess we won't."

It was a good thing they had already said goodbye in all the physical ways, Chuuya thought. He didn't think he could've restrained himself from crossing the room and embracing him again otherwise, Q be damned.

Dazai must have seen it on his face, because his expression grew fond, the way it had when they had met for the very first time. "No regrets?" he asked.

Chuuya smiled sharply. "No regrets," he replied.

Regrets had never been of any use to him.

"So, Kunikida," Chuuya said a few minutes later, tugging his gloves in place. Dazai was ushering Q out of the room. "Akutagawa tells me you're good at hand-to-hand."

Kunikida eyed him warily. "I am."

The leather felt good against Chuuya's fingers. The air conditioning had stopped running but the room was still cool from it, and as he took a fighting stance in front of the other, he noticed that the bruises on his arms had completely faded at last.

Kunikida mirrored him with an alarmed look. "What are you doing?" he hissed.

Chuuya's grin stretched wide across his face. "We've still got to make this look like a kidnapping, don't we?" he purred. "Show me what that agency of yours is worth, detective."

Chuuya came home satisfactorily bruised. His legs and shoulders ached during the whole train ride in that sweet soreness that only ever came from sparring with competent partners. Not even his brief conversation with Sakaguchi Ango had managed to shake the high out of him.

Sakaguchi had been complacent, all things considered. They both agreed that informing the special ability department's chief that Chuuya had used violence on him would be fruitless. Chuuya personally thought that Sakaguchi was happier with the knowledge that Dazai was doing well than he would be with dragging the port mafia through the mud.

Tachihara fetched him from the station, wearing a wide grin and an awful band T-shirt. "'Bout time," he said, opening the door to his car so Chuuya could slide in unbothered. "Everything's so dull at headquarters without you yelling around."

"Watch your cheek, Tachihara," Chuuya replied without heat.

Tachihara's expression didn't fall out of smug satisfaction. "Whatever you say, Chuuya-san."

He laughed when Chuuya gave him the finger.

This was as close as he would ever get to being told Welcome home. Chuuya wasn't too bothered by it. He spent the car trip thinking quietly over what he would tell Mori, about whether Mori already knew of Q's now definitive membership within the agency—likely—and whether he knew of what had transpired between Chuuya and Dazai. He wasn't sure Mori would care even if he did.

Yokohama looked its best at sunset, especially from the coast road, which Tachihara drove through without needing to be asked. This way was longer but more pleasant; city lights blurred over the dark water in shades of orange and gold, streaked with neon blue and green like an impressionist's painting. Chuuya drank his fill of the sight, soothed by the rumble of Tachihara's rundown car and the sputtering of its old radio.

He felt warm through the chest when they parked under the black skyscraper that had been his most consistent living space for eleven years. Chuuya pushed himself out of the passenger's seat and stretched his arms above his head until he felt his nape crack. Tension seeped out of him instantly.

"Chuuya-san," Tachihara called behind him. He was holding a sealed envelope in his hands when Chuuya looked back at him. "This is for you."

"What is it?" Chuuya couldn't feel the texture of it through his gloves, but the glossy red paper gave him a hint already.

"It's from Kouyou-sama. An invitation for tea, I think."

Chuuya stared at the envelope in silence long enough that Tachihara frowned in concern. He shook himself out of it before the boy could ask questions, slipped the paper into the deep pocket of his coat and gave the other a brief smile. "Thanks. Now stop slacking and get to work."

"I take time on my day off to go get you 'cos Higuchi was too busy, and this is how you thank me…" Tachihara muttered, but he was smiling.

There were only two kinds of people that Ozaki Kouyou invited for tea. People she cared about and people she planned to kill. Chuuya's thoughts were onto the red envelope as he gave Mori his report, staring unseeingly at the unsettling purple of the man's eyes and trying not to hear the coos of delight that Elise gave off behind him. The girl ignored him, mostly, and Mori made no comment on Dazai whatsoever. The disappointment he expressed wasn't directed at Chuuya so much as a fleeting future, as if he were already thinking very far ahead of the present situation. As if playing a checker game that only he was privy to.

It was ten in the evening by the time Chuuya was set free.

Kouyou's invitation only said tonight, with no other precision. He took the lack of a time limit as an invitation to delay, and walked the way between headquarters and her house. He'd sent Higuchi off with his luggage when she caught him carrying it around and knew he could trust her not to mess with his place. So Chuuya took his time, walked the streets of Yokohama from harbor to center town and beyond, breathing in the sea air and watching the night sky bleed from light blue to deep black. It was a cloudless, moonless night. The stars too shy to pierce too hard through the city's glow.

The woman who guarded the entrance of Kouyou's lavish house nodded at him as he walked through the gates. She breathed a few words into the mic hanging by her mouth, and the front door opened before Chuuya even needed to knock.

He took off his shoes before making his way out of the long hall, socks almost noiseless against the soft of the mats; Kouyou herself slid open the door to the tearoom.

"Welcome," she said lowly. Her lips curled gently at the corners as she took in the obvious sheath of his knife. "You came armed?"

"Am I stupid?" Chuuya replied dryly. "I left the gun behind, if you're wondering."

"You could've left the knife too, but I know how much you care about it." Kouyou kneeled sideways to let him enter, and Chuuya made a beeline for the low table where the cups were already set. His body was still thoroughly relaxed from fighting, so his knees didn't crack as he fell cross-legged on the floor.

He really needed to meet with this Kunikida more.

At least it didn't seem like he was on the kill list for the night. Chuuya said nothing as Kouyou served the tea and didn't touch his own cup until she drank from hers.

"There's no need to be so tense," she said quietly, putting down the cup. "I was hoping we could talk."

Chuuya pressed his fingers against the hot clay. The tea tasted good, as always, no bitter hint hidden in it. He knew Kouyou had ways of poisoning that left no taste on the tongue; however, he hoped she would be kind enough not to get rid of him in such an underhanded way.

The cup clinked brightly against the table. His fingers ached from the heat when he pulled them away. "All right," he replied. "Let's talk."

She gave him a brief smile. "How went the trip? I'm sure you already gave our Boss his due report, but I feel curious as well."

"Fine," Chuuya let out. "We got Q from Sakaguchi, Dazai got Q from me. All within the range of expectations."

"I know better than to try and anticipate anything Dazai does," Kouyou said mildly. Her fingers toyed with the rim of her cup in a surprising show of impropriety, and there was a smile on her lips, fleeting and kind. "He seems hellbent on getting our young away from us lately."

"Maybe we should stop hiring children."

"Maybe we should," she agreed, and Chuuya felt his eyebrows raise in surprise despite himself. "Oh, don't look at me like this, Chuuya-kun," she chided. "Even I can recognize when change is needed."

He made a face. "I didn't mean to imply anything, ane-san."

"I know you didn't. And I know this is hard for the both of us to envision, but we really might need to stay clear of hiring them too young." Her nose scrunched delicately as she spoke her next words: "Especially with a man like Mori Ougai at our head."

Chuuya didn't—couldn't—reply. His relaxed stance turned to a tense one, thighs aching and back taught and jaw clenching reflexively. He almost cleared his throat, chose not to instead, and disbelief lay heavy on his voice as he spoke back. "Those are—very strong words, Kouyou-sama."

"Perhaps," she murmured. He couldn't tear his eyes away from her as she bent down to pick up her tea, to raise it to her mouth. The paint on her lips shone wet when she finished drinking, and her eyes met Chuuya's levelly, powerfully. "But I grow rather tired of watching the man's every move and hoping he never crosses the line. I would rather there be no need for a line at all."

Chuuya's mouth was open as he absorbed what she was saying and implying.

He had no sympathy for Mori Ougai. He never had. The man had done nothing but make him uncomfortable when he was still a doctor, nothing but make him fear when he became a boss, with his creeping words and creeping glances. Chuuya's dislike had grown after meeting Dazai, because Dazai hated Mori with every fiber of his fourteen-year-old being for reasons Chuuya never wished to discover. He had just taken up the Hating Mori cause because it felt right, and he had never let go of it as an adult, regardless of his obedience.

He was an adult, though. And he had long since figured out why Mori had driven fear into his heart when he was still too young to understand.

"I didn't know you cared so much," he said lowly. He found that he couldn't meet the anger and care in her eyes anymore and stared at the table instead.

"Of course I care," she replied. "I was not soft with you, lad, and I am not soft with the children I employ now. But I would have Mori's head on a platter before he could lay a finger on any of you, and that includes Dazai as well."

Something in Chuuya loosened at that, some year-old tension and fear he had never let himself voice, even in the privacy of his own mind. Kouyou noticed it, and her eyes were kind as she said, "He would be dead now if he had done anything to him. You can trust me on this."

He nodded wordlessly.

Drinking more tea gave him an excuse for the burn in his eyes. "Why did you want to see me?" he asked, placing the cup down. He didn't want to think too hard on what she might be intending to do before he got some sleep, and hoped she agreed to the change in topic.

Kouyou relaxed, knees spreading slightly as she did. "We have been at odds with each other since Kyouka left," she replied. "I wanted to see if we could straighten things out."

"I apologize for this. Things have been stressful."

"And I as well. You are so private, Chuuya-kun, it was rude of me to disrespect that." Her mouth softened into a new smile, a nostalgic, heartfelt one. "Will you forgive me if I tell you that you were always my favorite?"

Chuuya felt his face warm. "I can handle that much," he mumbled, and she laughed.

"You were so unlike the others. My girls used to tell me about everything you did even when I did not ask. Absurdly fond of you, the lot of them." By now Chuuya's cheeks must be a steady red, but all Kouyou did was twist a smile at him and continue, "I couldn't well afford to pay more attention to you than my other employees, but you always did catch the eye. So strong-headed, and with such a useful gift. That boy didn't help when he got it into his head that you'd make good partners."

"Yeah, well," Chuuya muttered. "I got what I wanted even without favoritism."

"I never meant to imply otherwise. Everything you've achieved is your own."

He really shouldn't feel so relieved and proud to hear her say that, but he did.

"You look better," she added gently. "You were so tense when you left. Did Kumagaya offer you some respite?"

Dazai had offered him respite in the shape of heated kisses and muffled words, in the color of the marks still pressed into his collarbones, in the aches of lovemaking. Chuuya met Kouyou's eyes over the lacquered tabletop and said nothing.

She smiled sharply. "You did some shopping. Red looks good on you, surprisingly."

She stared pointedly at the shirt he was wearing, and Chuuya clicked his tongue, face burning pleasantly.

She entertained him with tales of the last few weeks. Chuuya had been gone from the city a long time before Dazai walked back into his life armed with smiles and insults; he had gotten no time to talk to Kouyou in the weeks that had followed, because the Guilt had been there, and because she had mourned for the girl she lost. In truth, he hadn't talked to her so much before in his life.

She acted around him as she would around a friend, he thought. Happy and unabashed. She never cared when she spilled tea on her sleeve and she never cared when he got drunk enough on the wine she took out that swears rolled out of his mouth, sour-sweet on his tongue.

"We should spar one day," he grinned into the brim of his glass. Night was heavy, cicadas gone and lights shut out. Kouyou had opened the glass windows of the tearoom that led out to the finely-cut garden she owned, and they had moved there, sitting on the wooden ledge with their feet hanging down. There was no sound around but the murmur of a small stream and the soft of their voices.

"I don't spar, Chuuya-kun," Kouyou answered. "I don't give out my strengths to people who could one day turn against me."

"I give out my strength so people don't want to turn against me."

She smiled sideways at him. "Let's hope both of our methods work."

"I'll drink to that," he laughed.

The look she gave him next was darker, thoughtful. "You always feel the need to prove yourself," she said. "Even to people who already know your worth."

Chuuya was languid from the wine, with soft heat in all his veins, sore from fighting and fucking, so he admitted the truth: "It feels good to be needed."

"Indeed," Kouyou replied. She didn't mock him for it. "And there are people who do need you. Probably more than you realize."

"Please," he scoffed lightly.

She looked like she was about to reply with something, but then she closed her mouth. Chuuya watched her stare at her own hands for a moment as if debating with herself, before she pushed herself upright to stand.

"Stay here," she told him.

He followed her with his eyes, tilting his glass so the wine touched his lips again. His tongue was dry with it by now. Kouyou went out of the tearoom and disappeared for a few minutes. Chuuya spent the time looking at the stars above, mind blissfully empty.

He heard her sit beside him once more in a shuffle of silk and soft breaths. The turn of his head was lazy when he looked at her and saw the slip of paper she was holding.

"What's that?" he asked.

She didn't immediately answer. Her fingers unfolded the paper with no sound, and she looked at whatever was on it with a thin smile on her lips. "A gift for you," she said. "From Dazai."

Chuuya's back tensed so suddenly that sharp pain throbbed in his neck.

"He gave it to me years ago," she continued without looking at him, not even when he put the glass down next to him and clenched his fingers against the wood. "The little fool never even told me what it was. He just said I should give it to you whenever I thought you'd accept it."

She held the paper up toward him expectantly.

He already knew what it was. He knew the moment she said Dazai's name, perhaps even earlier, from the look she had given him as he admitted his own foolish thoughts to her. Chuuya took the paper from her hands without a word, and it was soft beneath his fingers, free of wrinkles from being handled over and over again. The ink that Dazai had used to write the address was a little faded.

"I've already visited, of course," Kouyou said quietly. "Though I did not know what I would find when I did."

"Of course," Chuuya repeated. He wasn't looking at her anymore. He wasn't even looking at the words on the paper anymore.

Kouyou didn't try to get closer physically or to touch him, and he was grateful for that at least, even if her voice sounded like it wanted to slither under his skin and take refuge there.

"This is someone who needs you," she murmured.

The paper made no sound when he dug his fingers in it. It was too old and worn.

"I should go," Chuuya declared. Kouyou looked pained for a second, and he sent her a brief smile despite the bleak fear coiled in his chest. "I'm tired," he explained. "I'd like to sleep in my own bed for at least a few hours."

"That's understandable."

Gravity held him upright as he stood, and his knees did creak this time. Kouyou walked him back to the door, where a different woman from before stood guard and nodded her head in their direction. Chuuya was already two steps down the front of the house when Kouyou called his name.

"I'd like to have you over for tea again later this week," she told him as he turned back to look at her. "For work and pleasure alike."

There was no need to ask what work she needed him for. Her expression was mild but her eyes were of steel, and Chuuya knew he would not have much time to decide on whether he stood by her side or his boss's.

Chuuya's loyalty was to the port mafia first and foremost. He would take the side of whoever protected it best.

"Sure, ane-san," he replied evenly.

For a second they stood in the stillness that preceded either laugh or murder. But Kouyou shook her head, making strands of red hair escape from the silver pin holding it up, and the curve of her mouth turned whimsical.

"I hope one day you can believe those words, Chuuya-kun," she said. "I hope one day I get to hear you call me sister and mean it."

He visited the house in the morning.

The docks' mist clung to his clothes as he walked along the seashore, white and ghost-like in the sunlight. Chuuya didn't stop to talk to the familiar early-risers who worked there and hailed him on his way.

It was a tiny thing, stuck in a side of Yokohama that he never visited. There was no business to be had in the far-off residential areas that the mafia could dip into. The house neighbored another to the side and had a small garden behind that he could glimpse from where he stood. He saw the end of a swing in it, wet with dew, swaying gently.

Kashiwamura Family, the letterbox said.

It was enough.

Chuuya's grip didn't slacken around the paper Kouyou had given him. He watched the house wake up from the other side of the street and felt a little like a ghost himself, shadows shifting under his feet without ever touching him, eyes fixed and unblinking onto what the sun made of the blue entrance door ahead. Light shone from a curtained window downstairs and then flickered on upstairs, and the silhouette that drew against white drapes on the first floor was that of a child.

He pressed himself back into the shadows when the front door opened. Out came a man with unknown features, a tall man who looked nothing like Chuuya's memories and nightmares (short thin ill-tempered loud), who had to bend down to kiss the lips of the wife who followed him onto the front steps to bid him goodbye. His hand was kind when it rested the woman's shoulder. It was even kinder when it brushed the hair of the little boy who slithered between their legs, dragging a backpack behind him.

It was enough. It was more than enough. It was every hope that Chuuya had harbored in the months that had followed his greatest crime and more. It was proof that he hadn't taken more than one life in that cold morning eleven years ago.

The woman stood alone for a moment in the entrance of her house. Her eyes followed the path that her family made moving away from her, and Chuuya was too far away to read her face, both in years and in distance.

Nakahara Fuku's memory had blurred into nothing in his mind overtime. Scraps of touches and feelings and voices. He couldn't recall the details of her eyes or mouth by the time he was twelve. She stood before him now, older, obviously happier, and Chuuya thought that he might have crossed paths with her one day without knowing who she was and not recognized her at all.

She looks so much like you, Dazai had told him.

Dazai lied as easily as he breathed.

He thought he saw the woman's eyes roam over the street and stop on him for a second, but he wasn't too worried. Chuuya turned his back on the house and walked the opposite direction that her husband and son had gone. The road dipped down there, following the swell of the hill and heading straight for the sea.

"Hello," someone said.

He didn't startle because a lifetime of training had bled the habit out of him, but his chest clenched, and his heart swelled, and it took a long time for him to turn his head around and meet his mother's eyes.

She was smiling politely at him.

"Hello," he replied carefully.

It made her jump, as if something had shocked the skin off of her. "Sorry," she hurried to say. She took a step forward—he noticed, faintly, that her feet were bare on the wet, cold ground. "Ah—are you new in the neighborhood? I haven't seen you here before."

Her breathing was hurried. Chuuya looked over her quickly to make sure she wasn't hurt, but she seemed fine. Only the dirt under her feet looked out of place. "I'm not," he answered. "I was just… visiting someone."

"I see." He couldn't move away when she stepped forward again, not even when it put her close enough for him to see the shine in her eyes, the wet at her lashes. They had the same eyes. "Family?"

Her voice was trembling.

"Yeah," Chuuya said weakly, staring at her, unable to blink. "Family."

"That's good." Fuku stepped forward again, right into his space, where only one person had stood in the last ten years and lived to tell the tale. Her tears started when she spoke again, "It's good to visit family," the line of her mouth shaking hard.

He didn't move when she fisted a hand into the lapel of his coat and took one last step. She was shorter than him, he found, by an inch or so, her eyes level with his nose.

"I've been waiting for someone to visit for a long time, you see," she weeped. The hand she had put on him was febrile, and Chuuya made no move to dislodge it, nor to avoid the one that touched his cheek as if afraid that he would break.

"I," he said. He didn't know what else to say

Her fingers were wet on his face, and he realized that he was crying too.

Both of her hands framed his face, wiped away his tears, familiar calluses and knobby knuckles pressing into the soft of his cheek, stroking over his ears and hair. Chuuya sucked in a breath like a man drowning at sea.

"He's my son," his mother said, face entirely red and damp fingers caught in Chuuya's hair, thumbs over his cheeks. "He's been missing for a very long time."

"I'm sure he's okay," Chuuya croaked out.

She sobbed as she kissed his cheek, and he felt her chest heave against his and her words die wetly over his skin. "His friends said the same thing. They said he'd come when he was ready."

I could never be ready for you, Chuuya thought, breathless.

"I'm sorry," he rasped. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry—"

It was as though a dam had broken. The apology tumbled down from his lips over and over, entirely worthless but heavy from how many times he had thought it before, in the dark of the night and staring at the decrepit ceiling of his first not-home, beating himself up during training, seeing the eyes of those who thought him worthy when he was nothing more than a coward, a blood-traitor, a parricide. The lowest of all scum.

"Oh, Chuuya," Fuku cried into his neck. Her arms tightened around him and tugged them down to the ground when her legs gave out, more powerful than any gravity.

Fuku held him like something breakable, like fine china or blown glass, fingers light over his skin, kisses peppered onto his forehead and hair. Chuuya kneeled still in front of her, hands limp by his side because he couldn't touch her. He shouldn't touch her. He had lost that right years ago.

"Chuuya," she said like a prayer, forehead pressed against his.

He wrapped his arms around her back. She was the softest thing he had ever held.

"I'm sorry." His next breath was a wheeze. "For everything that I've done. If I could go back—"

She rubbed his left eye with her thumb, shushing him, smearing wetness against his temple. "My love," she whispered roughly, "you have nothing to apologize for."

His eyes pressed shut against the hot rush of tears that he felt trickle down his face, and he buried his mouth into her shoulder.

"I've missed you so much," she said, rocking gently in place.

She squeezed her arms around him when she felt his shoulders shake, and the hand she put at his nape seared warmth through his body, the I love yous at his ear filling the wretched, rotten corners of his soul with light.

Someone walked out of the house behind them and looked at them with wide eyes, kneeling as they were on the dirty pavement, locked in an unending embrace.

Chuuya didn't care.

Eventually she would help him up and ask him to join her inside. She would want to show him her new life, she would try to make him meet the boy she must already think of as his little brother, perhaps even her new husband. She'd try to feed him and hold on to him and cry when he would have to leave. She'd be disappointed to learn that he was nothing like the little boy who had fled away from her at eleven, burning with fear and guilt and shame.

He didn't know what he would do then. He wasn't ready for more than this—he wasn't ready for this. But just once, just for a while, Chuuya emptied his mind of all concerns. He kneeled against the painful, cold pavement of this unknown street, the morning's fog thinning around him and sunlight warming his nape, and he let himself be held in the arms of his mother.

He let himself be loved unconditionally.

From: Slug [2:14PM] You're a meddling bastard.

From: Slug [2:17PM] Thank you.

To: Slug [5:36PM] You're welcome. See you next truce, partner.

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#bsd #bungou stray dogs #soukoku #nakahara chuuya #dazai osamu #fic: owe no debt

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