redwoodwrites

[redwoodwrites]

Stanuary 2025 Week 4: Healing

AO3 link

trigger for life-threatening situation (potential drowning, nongraphic, similar to canon levels of peril)

School stunk. Which was nothing new, but it was way worse doing it without Ford.

Stan peeked through the window of Pine’s Pawns. Pa was lurking behind the counter. That stupid plaid coat made him look like a really angry waffle.

Whatever, he’d take the long way to their room. Stan went around back. He dropped his backpack at the base of the old tree behind the house and started scaling the branches. He had to push to get their bedroom window open, but eventually it cracked open. He wriggled inside.

“Sixer?” he called. “Hey, you owe me for…”

The floor was covered in piles of puzzle pieces, way more than could ever have sit in that stupid old box. The puzzle Ford had been putting together looked bigger, too. Stan and Ford could have stretched out inside it and not reached either edge. It took up practically the whole floor! The box sat on part of it, though it was hard to tell at first. It seemed to blend into the rest of the puzzle.

Stan straightened up from the window and kicked a pile of pieces on accident. It made a weird noise, like all the pieces were hollow.

“Well that’s not creepy at all,” Stan muttered. He stepped into the puzzle. He didn’t want to, but it wasn’t like there was anywhere else to step.

The puzzle seemed to sharpen. Literally. The pieces cracked and shifted like bits of driftwood trying to cut into his feet. Stan saw a smear of blood and yelped. He thought he’d cut his foot before he realized it wasn’t his blood. Most of the puzzle was smeared with it. Some was smeared across the faded cardboard sky. In the puzzle’s picture, the dumpster, pier, and the lonely beach were all outlined in a grizzly reddish-brown.

The Stan O’ War stood out the most. It looked like Ford had smeared brown paint over each plank in creepy detail. Even the little whorls in the wood had been daubed in with tiny flecks of blood. The pile of gold sat next to it. It was the only thing untouched by all the blood. In fact, it almost looked like the puzzle had been painted with real gold. Stan leaned down to check. That’s when he noticed the weird shape in the foam, bubbling out of the waves. More pieces had been added to give the blob details. It was a small figure, face-down and bone-white. It…it was him in the sand.

“That haggard old dingbat!” he burst out. “I bet the puzzle isn’t even cursed, she just wanted to pick on the Pines kids like everybody else!” He reared back, foot raised, fully intending to pound that dumb puzzle box into the carpet.

Then he noticed the figure’s outstretched hand.

The air left his lungs. He grabbed the box and leaped out the window, scrambling down the tree so fast he lost his grip and fell. He hit three branches and then the ground. He barely noticed. He went flying down the street and across the boardwalk, bulldozing straight through food carts and their tourists. Wrappers and food scraps had attracted hordes of gulls. He plowed through them, too. The gulls scattered, screeching in confusion at suddenly feeling like prey.

Finally Stan reached the beach. It was as eerily empty as it had been in the puzzle. He darted down to the waves and raced across the packed sand. The cold foam spattered on his legs and soaked into his socks. He wanted to take his shoes off but he didn’t dare slow down. His legs were starting to burn.

“Sixer!” he shouted. “SIXER!”

The Stan O’ War rose out of the rocks at the far end of the beach. It looked like the scene from the puzzle. No pile of gold, though. Did that mean no Sixer, either? No, wait, there were footprints leading around the ship. Stan skirted the bow so fast he nearly slipped on the wet sand.

“Sixer!”

Ford was alive, which was such a relief Stan nearly dropped the puzzle box. Then the rest of the scene hit him.

Ford was digging in the sand, bundled up from head to toe like it was mid-winter – boots, gloves, scarf, the works. The hole he was digging had started to fill with the rising tide. The dirty foam clung to Ford’s jeans and dangling scarf.

Ford hadn’t looked up when Stan had shouted. “Gotta find the rest,” he muttered under his breath. “Gotta find it…gotta finish…”

Stan almost laughed in relief. This was exactly what happened when Ford got stuck on a science project, minus the winter get-up. He dropped the box and started for his brother. “Sixer, what’re you doing? Besides ruining your winter clothes. Which I’ll have to wear, by the way. C’mon, let’s –”

“Get off or help,” Ford snapped, shoving him away. “I have to find the last puzzle piece.”

Stan shoved him back. “There’s a billion puzzle pieces in our room! Covered in blood, by the way!”

“I know! The puzzle’s got a curse on it that tries to kill the owner!”

“It’s – well, duh!” Stan sputtered. “If you know that why are you still putting it together?”

“Because it’s a curse, Stanley! We found an actual cursed artifact and it picked me! I get to study the effects first-hand!”

“First-hand, huh?” Stan grabbed Ford’s wrist and held it up. The glove was caked in mud, but the fingertips were blotched with rust-colored stains. “You’re gonna have no hands left if you keep at it.”

Ford yanked his hand back. “I knew you’d be like this! You’re just mad that there’s no gold yet!”

“Sixer, the puzzle is literally gonna kill you! Look!”

Stan held up the box. The picture on the front was much, much clearer, down to the figure’s six outstretched fingers.

Ford blinked. “…Oh. Well, it doesn’t show you, and you’re here now, so it’s fine. I just need to find the last piece of the puzzle.”

“What the heck would it be doing at the beach?!” Stan demanded.

“That’s what the puzzle shows! And I know there’s a piece missing, I counted the edges and all the inner pieces. It has to be here! Watch!”

“Oh no you – geez!”

Stan tried to grab Sixer by the scarf, but it slipped off like a big wet noodle. Underneath was a pattern of bleeding puzzle pieces, reaching down under the collar of his sweater. Another wave swept over their ankles. Ford’s pants lifted up, and Stan saw more bright red lines.

“Sixer – stop a second – I said stop – how are you standing in saltwater?!”

Stan tried to grab him again. This time, though, the waves literally dragged Ford just out of reach, leaving foam tracks shaped exactly like puzzle pieces.

The box rattled. It was empty, but it somehow it rattled anyway, and when Stan glanced down, the picture had changed. Now the face-down figure had five fingers. Stan knew a threat when he saw one. The puzzle was practically screaming, Hands off or you’re next.

“WHY YOU LITTLE – !”

He threw it on the ground and stomped on it, hard. The cardboard popped back like he’d never touched it. He stomped on it again, this time with both feet. Then he bit it. He tried to tear at it like tough jerky, then shook it in his mouth like a dog. He held it underwater and tried to tear the cardboard in half. He ran into the Stan O’ War for their hidden pocket knife and tried to stab it. Then he punched it with both fists until his knuckles were sore.

The stupid box lay smugly on the sand, perfectly intact.

By this point, Ford’s hole was almost up to his waist. Another wave hit the sand and half-filled it. The tide was coming in. And the drag of each wave dug the hole still deeper. Stan liked a good mud pit as much as the next guy, but not when his brother was at the bottom.

A weird cry sounded overhead. Stan looked up. A few gulls were circling like undersized vultures. More cries sounded. Several more gulls were walking slowly toward them across the sand. Stan looked down. His shirt was covered with food people had thrown – blobs of mayo, buttered popcorn, French fries glued on with smears of mustard.

“Ford,” Stan said seriously. “Either you stop, or I’m gonna do something I’ll really regret.”

“In a minute!” Ford snapped. “I’m almost there, I can feel it!”

Stan looked at the box. It was still radiating smugness. He grinned. “You asked for it.”

He took off his shirt. He wrapped it around the box. Then he held it up to the gulls.

“HEY, BOZOS! WHO WANTS SNACKS?!”

He chucked the box as far as he could and dove for his brother.

The gulls went nuts. He’d thrown it right into the middle of the birds on the beach. They got to the box first and started tearing at his shirt. The circling gulls screamed with rage and dive-bombed the box, furious that they didn’t get first dibs. Feathers flew. Birds screamed. Plumes of sand shot up in the wake of frenzied fry fights. The puzzle box actually held up for a few seconds. Then a gull pierced straight through the cardboard to get a particularly greasy pretzel bit. There was a weird crack, like the gull had broken an old bone. Then the box was sucked into the center of the mob.

Stan had tried to shove Ford’s head down to protect him from the mayhem. This might have worked better if he hadn’t tried to do it in a water-filled hole. Ford kicked him in the shins. Stan went down with a yelp. He nearly pitched into the water himself as a wave slammed into his back. But his head was still above the water when Ford leaped to his feet. Something glittered in his hand. Stan’s eyes widened. It was a puzzle piece alright. And it looked like solid gold!

“I found it!” he shrieked. “Stan, look, I found it, I – HEY!”

A gull snatched it out of his hand.

“GIVE IT BACK!” they shouted, leaping for the bird. It screeched and flew into the mass of ravenous birds. Stan and Ford dove into the fray.

The gulls won, of course.

They didn’t leave a single scrap of Stan’s shirt, the box, or the gold puzzle piece. It felt like they left barely anything of Stan or Ford. Their skin had been bitten and scratched so much that Stan looked almost as bad as his brother. The two of them dragged each other home just as the sun was setting.

Ma and Pa were arguing in the kitchen when they stumbled in. Ma broke off gesturing with the salt shaker to squint at them.

“What happened to you two? Where’s Stan’s shirt?”

“Gull attack,” they said at once.

It was the one foe even their Pa respected. He grunted and waved a hand at them. Stan took it for the dismissal it was and started for the stairs, but Ma smacked him upside the head. “Ah-ah-ah! Get the sauce. I ain’t shmoozin’ for meds if you get sick.”

“Can’t shmooze well anyway,” Pa grunted.

She rounded on him with bared teeth. “You want to look worse than they do, Filbrick?”

Nope, no, Stan was done with life-threatening situations for the next three to five business days. He and Ford practically fell on themselves getting to the cupboard. Stan yanked out the sauce, Ford slammed the cupboard, and the two of them all but sprinted to their room. Stan threw open the door.

Ford’s face fell. “Oh, no!”

The puzzle pieces had disintegrated into piles of chalky dust. The stuff was everywhere. Small piles had collected under the window, on their beds, around Stan’s comic books, in Ford’s trophies. Most of it was piled in a ring where the actual puzzle had been. It almost looked like gritty flour, except for the tiny animal bones poking out here and there.

Ford fell to his knees. “It’s…it’s gone. I worked on it for hours. Our first cursed artifact, and it’s all gone.”

“At least the animal bones are – oh, come one!” Stan had tried to touch one and it crumbled into powder. Stan let out a choked cry and kicked the pile. He coughed on the dust. “This is so unfair! We were supposed to get rich!”

“We were supposed to get answers,” Ford corrected sharply. “And we would have, if you hadn’t stopped me!”

Stan’s jaw dropped. “Excuse me for saving your stupid life!”

“You interrupted my research!”

“BOYS!” Ma roared.

“I got attacked by seagulls for you! You could at least say thank you –”

“Yes, Ma!” they called instantly. Ford leaped to close the bedroom door.

Stan cracked open the jar. It was garlic sauce, sort of. Ma’s homemade mix of garlic and honey. They used it for all their cuts and bruises. He scooped some out and lobbed it at Ford. It landed with a wet smack on his chest just as he turned. Ford yelped and then scrambled to keep the stuff from sliding off.

“Get started,” Stan snapped. “And I’m not doing your back this time.”

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

Stan stomped to his bed. He stepped purposely in the white stuff just for the messy little poofs it made, knowing full well he’d make Ford clean it up all by himself. Ma had seen Ford doing the puzzle and everything.

He sat on his bed and slathered his arms, then his chest and back. The stuff smelled weird. Not bad weird, just weird, like a hotdog that’s been left out for an hour in the hot sun with fresh relish spooned onto it. Not spoiled yet, but too sweet and pungent to be really tasty. At least it didn’t sting.

When he was done, he tossed it at Ford. Ford had been sort of pathetically trying to shovel the powder together with his bare hands. He caught the jar and opened his mouth to say something, but Stan immediately lay down and rolled over. He was all kinds of mad and several kinds of sticky and it wasn’t the worst day of his life, but it was definitely hitting the top five so far. So what if he’d sort of egged Ford on with that stupid puzzle? He was the idiot twin! Ford should know better! And when Stan realized he didn’t, Stan bailed him out. What did he get for his troubles? Slathered with garlic. Typical.

Stan heard Ford climb the ladder to the top bunk. Stan kept his eyes shut and ignored him. It was fully dark outside by now. Ford hadn’t turned on the light. Stan was kind of getting hungry, but he was too tired to get up. So he kept his eyes shut and fake-snored as loud as he could.

Eventually the fake snoring turned into real snoring. Stan only realized he’d dozed off when he felt the bed shift. He lifted an arm automatically to invite Ford in, then remembered he was mad and turned it into punching his pillow.

Too late. Ford was crawling into the incredibly narrow space between Stan and the wall. Great. Now they were smooshed together. Stan could literally feel Ford’s breath on his face. Stan’s eyes stayed firmly shut and he turned the snore volume up to eleven.

Something poked his nose. “Stan.”

Stan snored even louder.

Another poke. “Stan. Stanley.”

“Sleeping. Go away.”

He could feel another poke coming. Stan tried to bite him. Ford was apparently ready for this and stuck a pencil out instead. Stan bit down on the eraser. Gross. He chomped down all the way, chewed, and swallowed, just for spite.

“You part seagull, or something?” Ford asked. He tossed the pencil aside. “I wanted to say sorry. And. You the seagull thing was smart. We can do that the next time we need to destroy a cursed artifact.”

Stan opened his eyes and glared at him in the dark. Ford stared back.

“No more curses,” Stan said flatly.

“We can’t help what we get at the shop.”

“Well, then no more curses without me! If you actually die because I’m not there to save you, I’ll kick your ghostly butt.”

“You can’t kick a ghost’s – okay! Geez, Stanley, I promise, stop poking me!”

“You have to promise!”

“I just did! I promise! I won’t go anywhere without you. Cross my heart and everything.”

“Swear it on the Stan O’ War.”

“I swear on the Stan O’ War.”

Good enough for Stan. He flung his arm over Ford. It wasn’t a hug but it also wasn’t not a hug. Like maybe Stan was just getting comfortable and that meant using Ford as a pillow. Ford groaned for appearance’s sake, as was customary. Then he flopped an arm over Stan right back. Stan wrinkled his nose.

“You really smell.”

“We both do,” Ford retorted. “It smells like someone made pizza in a crematorium in here.”

Stan snorted. It really did. But it also smelled like Ford and his stupid nerdy self.

Stan closed his eyes and went to sleep.

week 1

week 2

week 3

[redwoodwrites]

Stanuary 2025 Week 3: Supernatural

AO3 link

Stan flopped over the pawn shop counter. Pa had told them to watch the shop and do inventory. It had been three hours, six minutes, and a million seconds, and nothing interesting had happened except that Stan had gotten a stick of gum stuck up a fake deer head’s nostril. Now he stretched over the counter and wondered if he could literally die of boredom. “This stinks.”

“Agreed.” Ford, who had been told to price the new items, tossed a prosthetic finger in the discount bin. “Twenty-six items and not a single one is cursed.”

Stan rolled his head over to eye the bin. “What didja mark up that candied toad for?”

“You ate it, Stan. And it wasn’t candied, it was candy. Pure molasses.”

“Oh yeah.” Stan belched and buried his face in the counter again.

Ford dumped the last item in the bin and hopped up to sit on the counter. Then he hopped sideways and sat on Stan’s head. Stan grunted and tried to punch Ford in the stomach. He was pretty sure he connected, which he thought was impressive given how contorted his arm had to be – and then he felt something warm and wet on his arm. He shrieked and jerked free.

“You licked me!”

“Did not,” Ford wheezed, clutching his stomach.

“Liar! Traitor! This means war!”

Stan leaped. Ford dodged, Stan hooked his ankle, and the two of them went rolling on the cramped pawn shop floor. Stan had almost gotten Ford in an actual headlock (or was it a Heimlich? Eh, details). Then something crashed, hard.

They froze. For a second Stan thought they’d knocked something over. White-lightning fear spiked through his chest. He had a dozen thoughts in his head at once: I didn’t do it, it was an accident, we were robbed, there were aliens –

A shadow moved rapidly away from the front door.

“HEY!”

Stan and Ford shot across the shop and shoved the door open. It was harder than usual. There was a box and a bunch of weird colored things on the sidewalk blocking the doorway. Stan didn’t notice, barely even stopped, because the person who’d thrown the whatever-it-was was halfway down the street. Stan bolted.

The figure heard him coming and started flat-out sprinting. This turned out to be a bad idea. It was a woman, probably, but she was bundled up in long sleeves, a long skirt, scarves, gloves, and a hat even in the hot summer sunshine. The scarf came free and caught around her feet. She tried to hop-skip out of it, but Stan dove and tackled her around the knees. She went down hard. Stan nearly let go. Then she started clawing at him and he hung on.

“Get off, get off me, you little urchin –”

“You’re gonna – ow – pay for that – quit it –”

“You don’t understand! You have to take it, I only paid a penny for it, I can’t sell it for less than I paid –”

“I ain’t payin, nitwit! I said you’re the one who’s gonna – ow, ow-ow-ow-”

She’d grabbed his ear and yanked, hard, but their Ma yanked harder. He was still holding her knees. He went in the direction she’d tugged and rolled, forcing her to flip onto her stomach. Then he sprang forward and sat on her lower back. He stuck his finger in his mouth and was about to give her the sloppiest Wet Willy in the history of ever when suddenly Ford appeared next to them.

“Where did you get this?” he asked, oddly breathless.

The woman looked up. She’d been wearing sunglasses and they’d slipped sideways, hanging off her ear. She was wearing makeup thicker than Ma’s. It was starting to melt in the afternoon sun.

“New Orleans,” she panted. “Little shop. Don’t know the name. A trinket, I thought I was nothing, I didn’t know!”

“Know what?” Stan snapped.

“This!” Ford thrust the box at Stan.

He stared at it. “…A stained box?”

“Yeah! It’s – wait, what?” Ford pulled the box back, flipping it over, running his hands along all the surfaces. “No, it’s a puzzle, and it had our beach on it a second ago! Our beach, with the Stan O’ War and a pile of gold and everything!”

“The picture will come true,” the woman said hoarsely. “But beware, the price will not be –”

“– an issue because you said it’s free!” Stan rolled of her legs.

“Wait – I mean, take it, but heed my warn – oh, what the hell.” The woman got up and staggered off.

Ford’s eyes were shining and he was practically vibrating in place. “Stan, Stan, Stan!” Ford half-whispered eagerly. “It’s probably cursed, Stan! Like, a pirate curse! Because of the treasure!”

“So much treasure!” Stan cheered, grabbing the box. “C’mon, Sixer! Let’s close up the shop and put this baby together!”

They gathered all the pieces that had fallen around the door. Then they checked the gutter and surrounding sidewalk in case any of the pieces had fallen farther away. Pa still wasn’t home, so they locked up the shop, which meant closing it from the inside and sticking gum at the bottom of the door. The lock had broken ages ago, and hard gum was way stronger. (The hard part was unlocking it again.) They raced upstairs to their bedroom.

Ford shut the door and dumped the pieces on the floor. “We gotta do the edges first!”

“I know how to do a puzzle, Sixer!” Stan held up a piece. “Uh…shouldn’t it have colors on it? Pretty sure it had colors before.”

Ford rolled his eyes. “That’s the back, Stan, flip it over.”

Stan flipped it over. There was some color, but it was really faded and looked almost the same color as the cardboard. And stained with yellow liquid. Stan wrinkled his nose. “Ew, I think that’s pee! Do you think a dog peed on it? We should get Shanklin to pee on it and establish dominoes!”

“Dominance. And nobody’s peeing on it!”

“It’d be doubly-cursed, though!”

Ford paused, considering. “Okay, he can pee on it. But only when we’re done. I’m not touching Shanklin pee! Some curses are too powerful for man to comprehend.”

Stan chuckled. “Yeah, especially after he’s had burritos.”

So they found the edge pieces. Except that the pieces were all really small, not even an inch across, and weirdly shaped, and some were slanted so that they looked like edges but weren’t, and there were a million pieces and Stan got bored. He crawled into Fort Stan to read a Commander Steve comic and fell asleep.

Ma woke them up when she came home. She thought the gum idea was funny, and making Stan clean it up was funnier. Ford kept doing the puzzle until she literally dragged him away. She ordered them around the kitchen until Pa came home. They ate. Then Ford went upstairs and, surprise, kept doing the puzzle.

“Aren’tcha done?” Stan asked, pulling on his pajamas that night. (Well, technically it was a less-dirty regular shirt, but eh.)

Ford grunted.

Stan shuffled over. Ford wasn’t even halfway done, and the puzzle was enormous. The edges had been finished and the puzzle was big enough for the two of them to sit comfortably inside. There were piles of cardboard pieces all around Ford. It was hard to tell, but it looked like Ford had sorted them by color. Or maybe geometry. Hard to tell with a nerdbro. The picture in the middle wasn’t filled out at all, just a lot of really pale blue bits at the edges.

“Whatd’you think the curse does?” Stan asked sleepily.

Ford grunted again.

Stan rolled his eyes. “Fine, be a robot. As long as there’s actual gold involved, who cares? We can just hire a witch or something to battle a demon. We could place bets. And make even more gold!”

Another grunt.

Eh. Stan wobbled over to his bed and practically body-slammed his pillow. His brother pulled all-nighters all the time. It was fine. If the puzzle summoned a New Jersey devil or whatever, he’d just punch it and take their gold. Stan rolled over and went to sleep.

In the morning, Ford was still doing the puzzle. He’d filled in a couple of layers around the edge, but there were still just as many pieces sitting around Ford. Stan wasn’t sure that all those pieces would have actually fit in the box. Ford looked like his usual self: sallow-skinned, baggy-eyed, posture like an arthritic shrimp.

“You’re gonna be late for school,” Stan told him, rolling outta bed.

“Don’t care,” Ford muttered. “More important. Go away.”

“Uh-huh. Welp! If you wanna play hooky, I’m in! And you definitely look the part.”

Ford may or may not have made a scathing retort. Stan couldn’t tell, because he grabbed Ford’s entire head and threw him bodily to the carpet. It wasn’t far to go, and it definitely broke his concentration. He heard Ma give a shout from downstairs.

“STANLEY!” Ford shrieked, even louder. He sat up and glared. It would’ve been more impressive if his eyes weren’t so bloodshot. He tried to leap at Stan, but he’d been sitting all night and his legs were numb. He fell face-forward on the floor. Stan clapped both hands over his mouth to smother a laugh.

There was pounding on the stairs.

Stan grabbed Ford’s shirt and hauled him upright. “Okay, you already look dead on your feet, now do me! Punch me as hard as you can in the stomach.”

“Fine by me!”

Ford punched him. Stan’s shirt dented. Not good enough. So he turned and knocked all of Ford’s nighttime reading books onto the floor. Then Ford punched him.

When Ma entered the room, Stan was vomiting all over the books and Ford was crawling on the floor, shrieking incoherently and on the verge of actual tears.

“Sweet Moses! What are you boys –”

Stan grabbed his stomach and heaved again, this time in the direction of Ma’s shoes. She stepped back quickly. She nearly hit the puzzle and Ford threw himself bodily on top of it.

“Alright, alright, I give! You boys sick or just plain crazy?”

“I can’t go to school!” Ford wailed.

Ma’s face fell. Ford hated school. All Pines did. But Ford was the only one who liked going anyway, because he could sneak into the library or hunt ghosts in the janitor’s closet. (No ghosts, but plenty of skeletons. Literal skeletons. His side hustle was taxidermy.)

Ma picked Ford up by the scruff of his shirt. Stan laughed, which hurt his stomach and nearly made him gag again.

“Don’t even,” Ma threatened, stepping around him. She stuffed Ford into the top bunk, then bent down and rolled Stan into the bottom. “Stay. Put. And if either a’ you vomit on those sheets, you’re the ones cleanin’ ‘em! I’m getting the bad towels and the sick bowls.”

“Hate the sick bowls,” Stan muttered.

Ma smacked him upside the head. “Then don’t get sick, nitwit! If you’re still sick in an hour I’ll go flirt with the clerk down the street for expired Tylenol.”

“Thanks, Ma,” Stan croaked. Man, Sixer hit hard when he wanted to. If only he’d do that in boxing practice, Pa would lay off.

He expected Ford to scramble down from their bed as soon as Ma left the room. Instead, Stan heard snoring. He smirked. Figures the nerd would crash as soon as his head hit the pillow.

Staying home was cool, but staying in bed was not. Ma left them more or less alone except for meals, when she brought them bowls of watery chicken noodle soup. Stan tried to work on the puzzle while he waited for Ford to wake up. He quickly decided it was a lost cause. There was color on the pieces, definitely more than before, but it was still hard to see and there was so much blue that everything looked the same. The little piles Ford had made looked like they represented the sea, the sky, and the boat, but Stan didn’t see any pieces that looked like gold.

“You could at least be actually cursed,” Stan said, poking at a pile. “Then at least things would get interesting.”

He read more comics and made plans for the gold they would have when the puzzle was complete. He wasn’t totally sure there would be actual gold anymore, but they could still sell the puzzle to like…someone specializing in torture, or something. An art gallery? Those were basically torture that people paid to do.

Stan fell asleep that night. Ford didn’t wake up all day, but he was already awake the following morning. He was bent over the puzzle, fingers practically blurring as they filled in the pieces. Stan squinted.

“You look different,” Stan said slowly. “Did you cut your hair or something?”

“Yup,” Ford said flatly. “Shaved it. Totally bald. Sold it to a rat for sixty cents.”

“Ha, ha.” Stan rolled out of bed. “Think we could get away with two days sick in a row?”

“No. Go to school.”

That made Stan pause. “You’re not coming?”

“No. Go away.”

“Uh, hello, earth to Sixer? Are you sure you’re not actually sick?” Stan reached for Ford’s forehead to check his temperature.

Sixer smacked his hand away. It wasn’t his usual limp-nerd smack, either; it stung. Stan blinked. And Ford nearly fell over, so he really hadn’t meant to swing that hard. He looked just as surprised as Stan.

“I’m…almost done,” Ford said, by way of apology. “You go. I’ll finish by tonight. We’re going to have that gold, Stan, I’m sure of it.”

“Riiiiight,” Stan said slowly. He glanced at the puzzle. To be fair, he could sort of see the picture now. There was the boat on the right, the pier on the left, the dump next to the pier. The beach looked empty so far, though there was something odd about the foam from the waves. “Well, hurry up then. Ol’ Stan’s got yachts to buy! And toffee peanuts! Enough to fill up ten yachts. A hundred yachts!”

“Okay, okay,” Ford said. He was back to the puzzle, but he was doing that weird smirk-thing that meant the fight was over and he liked Stan again.

It was only as Stan headed downstairs that he realized what was odd: Ford had been wearing a scarf.

week 1

week 2

week 4

[redwoodwrites]

Stanuary 2025 Week 2: Wanted

Ford tries to get juice for Stanley, who is still recovering from heatstroke. He's got no money and no way to get it, though, so he resorts to stealing.

Slight trigger warning for nongraphic attacks on Ford for his six fingers. In one scene, someone throws things at him and he gets hit in the head. Injuries are minor and nongraphic, generally on par with canon violence.

AO3 link

Stan had a massive headache the rest of the day and into the next. And he kept shivering. That made Ford nervous. Shouldn’t he have stopped by now?"

“’M not sh-shivering,” Stan grumbled into his pillow. “G’roff.”

“You’re all gross,” Ford said, hand pressed against his twin’s forehead. “And you’re sweating again.”

Stan turned enough to open one eye. “Juice?” he asked hopefully.

“Of course! Hydration! Be right back!”

He ran downstairs. He’d given Stan the rest of the rather questionable orange juice last night. But maybe he’d missed something? He combed through the refrigerator. There was a head of lettuce slowly turning to soup at the back, but that was it.

Wait – vegetables! That was basically the same as fruit, right? So if he got some canned vegetable broth that was practically the same thing! Ford went to the pantry, grabbed a can, and cracked it open. He poured it into a cup and sniffed it.

“Hmm…it’s still missing something. Oh, I got it! Juice is sweet!”

He had to climb up on the counter to reach it, but he got into the baking cupboard. He wasn’t sure how much sugar would dissolve in a cup of broth, but Stan had a pretty big sweet tooth. So maybe two or three tablespoons? Heating the broth would increase solubility, but hot juice sounded gross and that’s what he was trying to make. So he added the sugar cold. He stirred it a lot to help dissolve it and then hurried back to their room. He poked the back of Stan’s head a few times.

“Ow – cut it – out!”

“Juice!” Ford said proudly, holding out the cup.

Stan felt for it with his eyes closed and Ford put it in his hand. Stan gulped down at least half of it before he spat it out, coughing. He dropped the cup and leaped back to avoid the splatter on the floor.

“Hey!” he yelped.

“Guh! Ugh, what is that?! Are you actually trying to kill me?”

“It’s just vegetable juice! I added sugar and everything!”

Stan groaned and flopped back onto his pillow. “Zombie juice. You made zombie juice. I’m a zombie now.”

“Quit being dramatic,” Sixer said, halfway between upset and annoyed. Fruits and veggies were in the same food group! So vegetable juice was the same thing! Except it had smelled weird. And Stan really was sweating a lot. “Can’t you just drink water?”

Stan mumbled into his pillow.

“Okay, okay! I’ll – I’ll go get juice, okay? Don’t die or I’m stealing all your toffee peanuts.”

Stan didn’t even move. Which was fine! He was asleep and definitely not dead or a zombie. Ford pushed at the pillow to check, and when he wasn’t sure, he held his glasses in front of Stan’s face. They fogged up. So there! Alive! Sort of! Did zombies breathe? They had to exhale to make noises, so they had to breathe, which meant Stan could maybe technically be turning into a zombie.

Juice. He just needed some juice and they’d be fine!

Except that Ma was out on the boardwalk doing her fortune telling, and Pa was guarding the register. Ford checked all the usual spots for loose change – Ma’s makeup drawer, the couch cushions, the key dish. Three cents and a claw from Shanklin. (Was he fighting the trash mutant rats again?) School was over for the day, and anyway they only got juice on Fridays. He couldn’t run to school and beg for an extra carton.

Ford paced the kitchen, thinking hard. He couldn’t buy juice. He couldn’t beg for it. It wasn’t something he could borrow. All their neighbors hated them too much for him to ask.

Should he…steal it?

The thought was terrifying. Stan stole stuff all the time, but he was Stan. Ford was Ford. He was already a freak and that got him in trouble enough. That time with the pitchforks, or the astrologer, or the tourist… He didn’t do anything and people hated him. How much worse would it be if he really did do something wrong?

But Stan was practically dead on the beach yesterday! He could be turning into a zombie right now!

He took a shaky breath. Fine. One! He’d steal one bottle of juice. That was it. He’d wear his aviator jacket and hide it underneath. Stan stole all the time! How hard could it be?

Pretty hard, as it turned out. He tried the general store two blocks away, but he’d barely stepped inside before the cashier made him and chased him out with a broom. He thought maybe it was because he looked like Stanley. So the next store he tried, he gave the clerk a friendly wave with all six fingers.

That…hadn’t ended well.

He hid his hands at the next place. He was a good two miles from home, almost at the library, and the store he picked was pretty big. He wasn’t sure if he should just walk in or sneak over to the juices, but the cashier started following him, and the cashier was big.

Ford tried to steal anyway but his shaking hands dropped the bottle as soon as he’d picked it up. The cashier chased him out, this time shouting “YOU HIDING A THIRTEENTH FINGER, FREAK? YOU FREAK! JINX! WEIRDO!”

Ford stopped around the corner and dry-heaved into a dumpster. He’d been gone for at least an hour. His legs were shaking and his hands were clammy. His stomach hurt. He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t steal and he couldn’t save Stan and his brother was going to turn into a zombie. Zombies were cool, but not if it was Stan.

He wiped at his nose and started dragging his feet back home. His jacket was so hot. Maybe he’d get heat stroke too, and he’d make more zombie juice. Then at least he and Stan could be zombies together.

He took a different street back, and this time he saw a small shop he’d missed before. Hardly a surprise. The building was practically a shack, and the bin of lemons out front was half-swarmed with flies. Ford almost kept going. Then, through the dirty window, he saw an icebox full of juice against one wall.

One more, he thought to himself. He squeezed both hands into fists and headed over. A broken bell made an abortive clink as he stepped inside.

“Back again?”

He looked up. A bored teenager leaned over the counter, chin in her hand, short hair curling around her ears. It looked like she’d been doodling on her arm in black pen. She looked kind of like a pirate queen that way. She just needed the hat and bandana.

But what did she mean, ‘back?’ It was his first time in here. “I didn’t –”

“Murphy put your picture on the wall.”

She pointed. To the left of the door was a board so covered in layers of flyers and notices, so thick that the stratification had to be decades old. Ford was pretty sure he saw a clipping in the corner about the election of Franklin D. Roosevelt. Featuring most prominently were several copies of hand-written wanted posters, his brother’s face drawn at the top.

“That’s not me,” Ford said, spreading his hands. “See?”

She glanced over and looked mildly interested. “Huh. You a thief, too?”

“Um – I’m not Stan.”

“Not what I asked.”

This conversation was not going as expected. Everyone else had looked at his hands and booted him, loot and all. He hadn’t thought of a back up lie. What had been his plan that morning, again? Stuff it in his jacket when the cashier wasn’t looking? But she was really looking at him now. He’d showed her his hands and everything.

What do I do? What would Stan do?!

She saw him panicking and smirked. “Jacket,” she said, pointing to it. “On a summer day? Might as well strap a billboard on your forehead, dweeb. Get lost.”

“I’m not…Stan’s the…”

“And you’re not?” she retorted. “A freak can still be a thief. You can be two things at once. In case certain people hadn’t noticed.” She shot an annoyed glance over her shoulder. There was a doorway with an ‘Employees Only’ sign next to it.

“Are you two things at once?” he asked, curious. His eyes lit up. “Oh, wait, are you a supernatural creature in human disguise? Are you a changeling? Are you a selkie?!”

“Weirdo.” The word didn’t hurt the way she said it. She almost sounded impressed. “You’re the knucklehead’s twin, yeah? Why’re you stealing stuff?”

“He got heatstroke. I wanted juice. And I’m not stealing!”

“Yet,” she said, just as flat as before. But this time her eyes looked like Ma’s when she was about to pull a fast one. “Just juice, huh?”

That sounded like an offer. “…Aspirin?” he tried.

“Over there. Be quick.”

He hurried. Acetylsalicylic acid was good. Or should he get acetaminophen? Both? Ibuprofen? That one needed food with it, though, and Stan hadn’t wanted anything to eat. Acetaminophen didn’t require any food. That one, then. He grabbed the smallest bottle, put the others back, and –

“What’s he doing here?”

A heavyset man stepped out of the back room. There was a scarred gash across his chin and his forearms bulged with corded muscle. Ford opened his mouth and almost said something until he caught the stone-cold look in the man’s eyes. He backed up so fast he tripped. The three medicines went flying from his hands. The man shifted, stepping around the counter, and Ford scrambled back. The man’s hands curled into fists. His eyes flashed just like Pa’s glasses.

“You squirming piece of vermin –”

“HEY!”

The girl jumped up like she’d just noticed what was happening. She pole-vaulted over the counter, skirt and all, and began pulling the nearest merchandise out of the icebox. “You – little – sneak!” she shrieked, hurling products at him. Some of it hit Ford’s face and he yelped. He tried to get up, run, and block his glasses all at the same time.

“That’s right!” she shouted. “Get out, Stan! GET! OUT!”

He got. And he was nearly at the door before he realized what she was throwing. He doubled back to scoop up two bottles of juice. Another one bounced hard off his forehead. He grabbed it on the rebound and shot for the door. The man sounded like he’d figured out something wasn’t right. He heard shouting, and there was a whooshing in Ford’s ears like the man had made a grab for him. But he was already out the door and down the street. His heart pounded in his ears and he didn’t dare look back.

He ran until he was a block from home. He walked the rest of the way. There was a nasty stitch in both lungs, but he didn’t care. He did it! He had juice!

When he got home, he let himself in and hurried up the stairs. “Stan! Stanley! I got it!”

Stan was in the exact same position Ford had left him in. Ford checked that he was breathing it his glasses. Foggy, good. “Hurry up, Stan! You gotta drink it so you won’t become a zombie!”

Stan blinked up at him. “…Huh?”

“Juice.” He smooshed the bottle against Stan’s mouth. Stan gave a weird grunt-shriek and shoved him. Ford batted him back with his other hand. “What are these, limp noodles? You’re zombifying already! Hurry!”

“Okay, geez.” Stan took the juice and squinted. Apple juice. Stan made a face and pulled the cap off. He drank. And kept drinking until he’d finished it. He exhaled sharply, looking more awake.

Ford cheered. “It worked! You’re not a zombie!”

Stan scoffed and flopped back down. “’Course I’m not. Did Crampy beat you up again or something? You got a big ol’ bruise.”

“Nope,” Ford said proudly. “I stole it.”

Stan’s eyes went wide. “No. No way! Really?!”

Ford grinned and wagged the bottle. “You may have ten sticky fingers, but I’ve got twelve! Also the cashier helped, a little. She knew I was stealing but left me alone until a guy came out the back. I hadn’t even grabbed the juice yet. I got some of what she threw. She had a wicked arm, Stan, you shoulda seen it!”

“Rusty’s Local?” Stan asked, and smirked when Ford nodded. “Yeah. She’s a weirdo. Gonna play sports.”

“She’d win. How much have you stolen there, exactly? You had a wanted poster!”

Stan gasped so hard he choked on the juice. “W-wanted? I gotta see it.”

He tried to get up, but his legs were as weak as his arms. Ford hauled him back to bed, lest he once again become a zombie. Stan resorted to begging Ford for a replica. “Please? Pretty please? C’moooon, I bet you can draw it waaaay better!”

“I could, actually,” Ford mused. “Okay, hold still. I’ll get some paper.”

It took about five minutes and another jar of juice. Stan finished it much more slowly this time, in between suggestions about embellishments. Ford ignored most of them, but agreed to adding a mustache and a pirate hat. He remembered everything under the picture, too. He completed the poster just as he was done with his juice.

“Tada!” he said, and turned it around.

Stan leaned forward slowly. Ford put out a hand in case Stan was actually falling over. Stan leaned against it a little too heavily, but there were almost literally stars in his eyes.

“I’m wanted,” Stan whispered. “Ford, look! I’m wanted! People would pay money for me and everything, look!”

Ford rolled his eyes. “I know, dumb-dumb, I drew it myself.”

“I’m putting it up on our wall!”

They put it up with a few bits of tape and a used wad of gum. Ford had to admit, it didn’t look half-bad next to his poster of The Lost World.

By now his forehead had gotten sore, and he was tired. It had been a really long day. They set the last bottle of juice on Stan’s nightstand. Then Ford crawled into bed. He wanted to stay awake, just in case Stan became a zombie after all. But he was tired from running and Stan wasn’t shivering anymore. He made a mental note to record Stan’s partial zombification, for science purposes. Then he closed his eyes and snuggled in for a nap.

week 1

week 3

week 4

[redwoodwrites]

Stanuary 2025 Week 1: Mindscape

Summary: Stan is on the beach looking for clothes to steal when heatstroke sets in. He pops out of his body and into the Mindscape, where our favorite Dorito is hoping to make a deal.

AO3 link

Stanley was cold. 

He got up and walked.  Sand and candy wrappers crunched under his bare feet.  Shorebirds chased the waves back and forth.  Gulls chased the occasional flying chip wrapper.  It was really hot today.  Why was he cold again?

Whatever.  He was busy.  He was sick of hand-me-downs.  Pa only bought Ford new clothes.  Stan was sick of hand-me-downs.  By the time Stan got them, it was because Ford had almost outgrown them, which meant Stan only wore them for a week before they were too tight to really wear.  So he was going to find a few charitable tourists and borrow some semi-new stuff. 

Except there…weren’t any tourists.  That was weird, too.  And the gulls were gone.  And he was cold.  If it was so hot, why was he shivering?  Shivering sucked.  Stan got up and started walking.

Had…had he been lying down?

“Stupid sand,” he grumbled.  Must’ve tripped.  Ugh, he was cold.  He squinted.  Oh, duh, there were no tourists because he was headed the wrong way.  He could see the shadow of the Stan O’ War over by the cliffs.  They’d only been working on it a couple of months, but they’d stowed some basic running away supplies in there.  Water and chips and a couple towels.  He could use a towel.  He got up and started walking. 

The Stan O’ War was getting close now.  He felt a little better already, and a whole lot lighter.  He grinned.  See?  Stan-the-Man’s still kickin’.  You know what, forget the beach.  I’ll go to the boardwalk and steal the clothes right off people’s backs!  Literally!

“I’ll train a pet fly!” he said aloud.  “I’d make it go up people’s shirts and bug them until they took it off.  No wait, a pet wasp.  Wasps are cool.  I’ll tie some string around it like a leash and feed it…whatever wasps ate.  Apples?  Oh, I could use Shanklin!  No, wait, if I sic Shanklin on them, Shanklin he’d just tear up the clothes.  Okay, no Shanklin.” 

He was still working out his plan when he reached the boat.  He put one hand on the side of the boat and lifted his foot to step over the broken wood.

His hand went straight through the boat.

He fell forward with a sharp cry, expecting more pain as wood dug into his leg.  But he didn’t even hit the ground.  He looked down.  He was floating.  Apparently. 

“Huh.”  He waved his hand through the boat again.  Come to think of it, he hadn’t heard his own footsteps for the past…however long.  “Am I a ghost?  Oh man, Sixer’s gonna love this!”

“HEY THERE, KIDDO!”

Stan looked up.  Lounging against the mast was a bright yellow triangle.  It had one eye, little stick limbs and a top hat.  He snorted.  “A bow tie?  What are you, an insurance salesman?”

“HA!  YOU KNOW WHAT THEY SAY, KID!  DRESS FOR THE JOB YOU WANT, NOT THE JOB YOU HAVE!”  The triangle swooped down and circled Stan.  “YEESH.  YOU WANT TO BE A TRASH HEAP, KID?”

“Depends, what’ll you pay me for it?”

The triangle laughed and zipped away, coming to rest on the rail of the boat.  “YOU KNOW WHAT?  I LIKE YOU KID!  NAME’S BILL!�� HOW’S ABOUT I HELP YOU GET SOME REAL DUDS, HUH?”

“Yeah?  You the magic money fairy?”

“EVEN BETTER, KID!”  The triangle multiplied itself in a ring around Stan.  All the triangle-guys tilted in slightly and their shapes turned into screens.  He saw recordings of himself, like he was watching his memories play out on TV.  The time he got Ford’s old jeans.  The time he patched up Ford’s old belt with tape.  The time Ford ripped a white T-shirt, so when Stan got it, he started rolling up his sleeves.  “I’VE BEEN WATCHING YOU, KID.  WHY STOP AT A WARDROBE UPDATE?  I CAN UPDATE YOUR WHOLE LIFE!  NEW HOUSE, NEW YOU, NEW FAMILY!  WHADDAYA SAY?”

“Nah.”  He turned and started doggy-paddling through the air.

The triangle was suddenly in front of him again, a little too fast.  His yellow edges seemed to snap with static.  “HEEEEY, BUDDY!  PAL!  WHAT’S THE RUSH?  I’M OFFERING THE SALE OF YOUR TEENY TINY EXISTENCE!”

“Con,” Stan said flatly. 

“WHAT –”

“COOOOON,” Stan said flatly, sounding bored.  He lounged back on thin air.  “Pretty bad one, too.  Is this from the moldy corn chips last night?”

Bill was definitely buzzing with static.  The yellow flashed briefly to red.  “CORNCHIP?  GUESS AGAIN, KID!  YOU’RE IN THE MINDSCAPE!  I’M AS REAL AS YOU ARE!”

Stan frowned.  “Mindscape?  I’m dreaming?”

“DREAMING, ASTRAL-PROJECTING, DYING, WHAT’S THE DIFFERENCE?  DO YOU REALLY WANT TO RUSH BACK TO A FLESH PUPPET THAT’S HOT, HUNGRY, AND TIRED?”

“Yep.  Bye.”  He swam through Bill. 

Bill turned bright red and got way, way bigger.  Bigger than a dump truck.  His eye turned black with a slitted white pupil. 

“BIG MISTAKE, KID –”

“Con.”

“I’VE BEEN WAITING A TRILLION YEARS –”

“Con.”

“STOP SAYING –”

“COOOOOON.”

It might’ve been scary, but Stan had already proved that they couldn’t touch each other when he ghosted through Bill.  He was pretty sure this was all real, though.  Mostly because he’d never ever dream up a bowtie and a top hat.  What was that even about?  Was the money fairy running for president or something?  At least grow a beard, Mr. Shiny Abe Lincoln!  Or get lasers.  Lasers were cool. 

If this was real, though, then he wasn’t sure what had happened to his body.  He didn’t really remember dying, so maybe he was just…part ghost?  He’d been walking around on the beach before, so his body was probably somewhere on the sand.  He wanted to go back to it.  But it actually was nice not to feel hungry or tired.  That, and the sun was starting to set.  Ford might’ve gone looking and found him.  And Stan really didn’t want to lead this thing back to his brother.  He wasn’t sure if being a ghost meant people could see them or not.  If they could, though, Ford would take one look at Bill and go all Obsessed Robo Nerd.  No thanks.

It took a few hours, but Stan eventually made Bill go away by singing “I know a song that gets on everybody’s nerves” over and over.  Bill started making weird screechy noises at him, which was absolutely <em>hilarious.</em>  But the sun was setting and he really needed to find his body before the gulls tried to eat him for smelling like corn chips.

Sure enough, he spotted his body slumped over a little way up the beach.  Looked like he’d collapsed face-down.  (Okay that was a little bit funny.)  The tide was coming in up to his shoulder.  Ford had found him, at least, and was dragging him out of – oh, wait, no, he was dragging Stan <em>into</em> the water.  A flock of seagulls surrounded them, periodically trying to dive-bomb Stan’s body.  Ford was trying to fend them off with a bent beach umbrella. 

“Back, ye beasts!” Ford shouted at them.  “BACK TO THE DUMPSTERS FROM WHENCE YOU CAME!”

…Alright, so Ford wasn’t completely trying to kill him.  Just drown him.  Apparently. 

Stan braced himself and dove back into his body.  He didn’t even have a full second to think, It worked! before gravity yanked him face-first into the next wave.  He flailed, coughing hard, and all of his limbs threatened to crush him under his own weight.  He thought he’d felt cold before.  He was practically freezing! 

“Stan!”  Ford grabbed Stan’s head and pulled him above the wave.  Which did not help.  Ford realized this and switched dropped him –

“OW!”

– and then grabbed Stan under the armpits, hauling him a little further up the beach.  The seagulls drew back, sullen disappointment in their beady little eyes. 

“Sixer,” Stan croaked. 

“Stanley!  You’re alive!”

“You – tried to – drown me!” he managed between coughs. 

“I’m trying to cool you down!  How long were you out here?  You’ve got really bad heatstroke, you’re burning up!”

Is that what this was?  Heatstroke felt like a bad fever, times a thousand.  His body hurt and he was so cold his teeth were chattering and he couldn’t even see and he felt so dizzy he was going to throw up. 

“Wanna go back t’ the mind thing,” Stan groaned, and then almost screamed when the next wave crashed over his legs and back.  It was so cold, why was it so cold and why did it hurt so much? 

“…making sense.  It’s okay!  We just – okay, we can’t go to a hospital, but I read about heatstroke!  You can’t sleep – no, that’s concussions.  But it’s fine, we’re cooling you off –”

“<em>Hurts</em>.”

“We have to, Stanley, you could die from heatstroke!” 

Ford’s face was really pale, actually, even in the orange light of the setting sun.  No wait, it was night.  Because it was all dark.

“It’s not dark, I just opened the umbrella.  Uh, you’re cooling off, you also need to drink a ton of water <em>not the seawater!</em>”  Ford yanked Stan’s chin up above the waves.  Stan tried to bite him.  He was thirsty!  “No!  It’s 3% salt, processing salt in your kidneys takes more water, you’ll actually dehydrate drinking it –”

Stan lost track of what Ford was saying.  His head was pounding and his vision was going all dark.  But Ford was making nerd noises, which must mean that everything was okay.  He closed his eyes.  This time, instead of a weird talking triangle, he saw black, and slipped down into a heavy sleep.

Week 2 week 3 week 4

[redwoodwrites]

Hi! Are you the person that wrote the Relativity Falls au on a3o a while back? If so, do you think you're ever going to go back to it? It's one of my favorite Gravity Falls fanfics ever, and I was just wondering if you were. You're probably very busy, but I just wanted you to know how much that fanfic means to me, it's so amazing! It's such a good take on the Relativity Falls au and I just love it so much! So, thank you for writing it! It means a lot to me.

Hello! I did write a Relativity Falls AU, but I'm not sure I'll go back to it. I'd like to, but even finding time to write shorter pieces has been pretty tricky the last few years. But thank you very much for asking, and I'm glad you enjoy it! It was an amazing show, and I hope I did justice to the characters - they're all just the right mix of chaos, humor, compassion, and glitter. So much glitter. XD

[redwoodwrites]

Tamaki  -  https://twitter.com/ta_ma_ky  -  http://ta-ma-ky.tumblr.com

[redwoodwrites]

Bimbo and Himbo aren't gender locked

[redwoodwrites]

I've just put up some pre-orders for pride stickers in my shop! Ace, aro, and pan are available now and trans and bi are on their way images below, and link in reblog to my shop!!

[redwoodwrites]

We’re only finding out recently that a lot of animals have colors and patterns that we cannot see because they’re outside of our visual range. It calls to attention how much of the world we can’t experience because our senses are limited. When we shine UV lights on them, they glow pink or blue, but these are the colors that we CAN see…. they could be a bunch of different colors, which we SEE as all pink. It’s also interesting to consider that most of these animals are not aware of having glowing patches on their bodies…. isn’t it also possible that we have skin or hair patterns that were not aware of? . . (There is actually some research out there to support the idea that our own skin fluoresces as well and that there are gender differences in the pattern and glow.) Other places to see my posts: INSTAGRAM / FACEBOOK / ETSY / KICKSTARTER    

[redwoodwrites]

Humans are awesome

[redwoodwrites]

what does "you are as nothing before their toxic might" mean? am i having a stroke?

it means that by venom alone, the Yellow-Bellied Sea Snake is in the top ten most venomous snakes! they’re packing a lethal neurotoxin compound that can kill an adult human quickly.

HOWEVER- what keeps the Yellow-Bellied Sea Snake off the lists of the world’s most dangerous snakes is their behavior! like the Gaboon Viper, these sea snakes are very chill and rarely interact with humans in the first place. there are even reports of children picking them up on beaches and handling them without angering the snake. (but don’t do that DON’T DO THAT DON’T DO THAT)

and when they do bite in self-defense, the Yellow-Bellied Sea Snake uses very little or no venom! this is because as the most aquatic snake in the world they’re basically marine animals at this point and it’s absolutely crucial for them to save their venom for hunting and extreme self-defense purposes (read: if attacked by shark) so they absolutely won’t waste it on the common beach chimpanzee who insists on touching them with its soft meaty paws.

but still, LEAVE THEM BE, and they’ll leave you be!

(also they have horizontal pupils which just looks really cool on a snake)

[redwoodwrites]

[redwoodwrites]

What to do if you find yourself homless- written by someone who has actually been homeless

Most important: Spend the money you have on a motel. Churches probably will not actually help and shelters can be dangerous or turn you away. At a motel you have free breakfast, access to running water, and a lockable place to sleep. Do not waste money on a gym membership like the popular version of this post says to do, YMCA memberships are like $40.

2. Contact family and friends. Now is not the time to worry about being a burden. Your survival and safety comes first and that is all that matters, anyone worth having in your life will agree.

3. Start a gofundme. Even if someone can’t offer you a place to stay, they might be willing to toss out $5 so you can eat today.

4. Libraries have free wifi. Apply to any and all jobs you can think of if you aren’t already working.

5. Any home is a good home. Even if it’s a dingy apartment in a bad neighborhood. If its cheap and you can afford it, snatch it up. 

6. Pancake mix and peanut butter are filling, cheap, and last a long time.

PLEASE SHARE THE FUCK OUT OF THIS

[redwoodwrites]

Mob Psycho 100 Fanfic “Midnight”

So, I normally keep this as a writing blog, but I did a few pieces of art and am posting them here in case someone’s interested in requesting a commission. 

@frootysparkycakes​ made a seriously cute fanfic about Mob finding a smoll stray cat!  ...Which Reigen is roped into caring for since Mob’s parents are allergic.  The nose boop in Chapter 1 was so cute I had to draw it, there was no choice, look at the cuteness, look at iiiiiit!!!

Find the cuteness here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24227737/chapters/58372300

[redwoodwrites]

Creepy or Not Creepy, That is the Chat Thread

Word Count: 986

Author: Redwoodroots on AO3, aka gosecretscribbles or redwoodwrites on tumblr

Prompt: “Danny Fenton seeming creepy, unnatural, predatory, etcetera to the general population of Amity Park. Or only seeming creepy, unnatural, predatory, etcetera to tourists, while Amity Park locals are confused by anyone finding Fenton ‘creepy/intimidating’.” Phic Phight ( @phicphight ) prompt by @phantomphangphucker 

  [Skepticality216 has entered the chat]

 Phantom_Phenomenon: Aw yis fresh meat

 A_Curse_On_Both_Your_Haunted_Houses: *chants* MEAT, MEAT, MEAT

 Skepticality216: uh, hi?

 LilydaleDoppleganger: Ignore them, apparently the two of them saw Danny Phantom fighting a giant spider ghost in the park today and they’re still on a geek high

 Skepticality216: Well that sounds…creepy

 LilydaleDoppleganger: Right?!  Spiders are not cute!  And the ghost ones are always bigger and you can see all the hairs…

 Skepticality216: What?  No, spiders are actually kinda cute.  Like chibi eyes on multiply.

 Phantom_Phenomenon: OH PLEASE NO XD

 LilydaleDoppleganger: Wait then what was creepy?

 Skepticality216: The phantom?

 A_Curse_On_Both_Your_Haunted_Houses: Wait what?  Phantom’s not creepy

 Skepticality216: Yeah he is?

 Skepticality216: half the time he looks right through you like he can see something you can’t

 A_Curse_On_Both_Your_Haunted_Houses: Like…other…ghosts?

 Phantom_Phenomenon: Phantom is awesome!  He’s like a regular teen but with superpowers

 A_Curse_On_Both_Your_Haunted_Houses: Like Oh, truth.  Someone said he can also eat actual food, someone got a video of him eating chips yesterday

 Skepticality216: They didn’t like…see the food in his stomach, did they?

 Phantom_Phenomenom: Nah but that’d be hella cool, imagine him doing that in biology class

 A_Curse_On_Both_Your_Haunted_Houses: The education we all need  

 Skepticality216: I’m sorry, in what universe is seeing a ghost not creepy as heck?!

 Phantom_Phenomenon: When the ghost is super hot?

Skepticality216: Look I’m not saying I don’t like the guy, but his skin is literally so pale you can see little green veins of ectoblood or whatever!!

 Phantom_Phenomenon: New theory: vulcan

 A_Curse_On_Both_Your_Haunted_Houses: Dude got me out of school once and covered the place in mystery meat.  Best day of my life

 Skepticality216: wait I’m sorry he covered the school in what

 A_Curse_On_Both_Your_Haunted_Houses: Did anyone else know that mystery meat, when left uneaten for more than twenty minutes, forms a substance almost as strong as concrete?  School was shut down for two days, I had time to actually do my homework.  

 Phantom_Phenomenon: Truly, Danny Phantom is our hero

 LilydaleDoppleganger: Yeah, I’m not sure why he creeps you out @skepticality216

 Skepticality216: Aside from the creepy you-can-almost-see-his-blood-pumping?  Or how the air around him goes all wrong, like you’re standing in broad daylight but suddenly it feels like your soul just got doused in shadow and there’s fingers slowly crawling up your spine

 Phantom_Phenomenon: You sure that’s Danny and not the ghosts he’s usually chasing?

 Skepticality216: Pretty sure.  Once I walked into an arcade and looked up and there he was, clearly NOT fighting a ghost, sticking halfway out of a machine while these two kids crashed right through the high score.  

 Skepticality216: You could actually see the electricity sparking in an outline where his ribs and skull would be, and when he flew all the way out he didn’t even have legs anymore, just a tail!  He was a frigging haunted Nike logo!!

 LilydaleDoppleganger: Oh dude, dude, ECTOMERMAN

 Phantom_Phenomenon: I mean basically XD

 A_Curse_On_Both_Your_Haunted_Houses: I wanna know if he does the tail thing underwater

 LilydaleDoppleganger: I mean, kind of?

 LilydaleDoppleganger: I went to the aquarium once and when we got to the tank with all the mudskipper fish in it, my guide dog went nuts.  Turns out there was this bottomfeeder ghost thing in the water.  It just came boiling up, and Danny Phantom was already IN ITS ACTUAL MOUTH trying to fight it

 LilydaleDoppleganger: He didn’t actually have the mermaid tail thing although he scared the heck out of the shark exhibit next door when they phased right through the wall

 Phantom_Phenomenon: Come on Skeptical you can’t tell me that isn’t cool

 Skepticality216: I saw that on the news and almost lost my lunch.  There was so. Much.  GOO.  

 Skepticality216: Just goo EVERYWHERE.  He just shoots those rays out of his hands and boom, why does it look like alien dookie, why does it have to just QUIVER like that

 Skepticality216: It literally looks and smells like alien dookie!!

 A_Curse_On_Both_Your_Haunted_Houses: And you would know this because…

 [Danny_Dempsy has entered the chat]

 Danny_Dempsy: My Defend Danny senses are tingling

 A_Curse_On_Both_Your_Haunted_Houses: Skepticality is offended by goo

 Skepticality216: I’m not offended, it just looks Gumby-flavored Jell-O and the way it JIGGLES

 Phantom_Phenomenon: I’m sensing some Gumby trauma

 LilydaleDoppleganger: To be fair, we all have some Gumby trauma *shudders*

 Danny_Dempsy: Be strong, O Lilydale, for we must educate young Skepticality on the perfection of Danny Phantom’s porcelain complexion

 Phantom_Phenomenon: Oh boy here we go

 Danny_Dempsy: His radiant beams of gooey light, the angelic halo of green ecto-energy

 LilydaleDoppleganger: XD

 Danny_Dempsy: Nah but in all seriousness he’s basically a modern superhero with lightning-fast reflexes, powers, and hella good looks.  

 A_Curse_On_Both_Your_Haunted_Houses: We’re all waiting for Dempsy to propose at this point

 Phantom_Phenomenon: Get a haunted room you two

 Danny_Dempsy: I’m TRYING

 Skepticality216: And nobody seems to find it weird that there is an actual DEAD TEENAGER just flying around the city and everybody’s cool with it

 Skepticality216: DEAD.  TEEN.  

 A_Curse_On_Both_Your_Haunted_Houses: Rude

 Phantom_Phenomenom: Have you even been to a public high school, we’re all dead on the inside

 Skepticality216: You can see the veins in his forehead twitching like there’s actual green blood in him!

 Phantom_Phenomenon: How did you get close enough to see that and decide that the best thing to do was stare at his veins.  Way to put the ‘creep’ in ‘creeper.’

 Skepticality216: He explodes ghost guts into quivering piles of alien poop goo!!

 LilydaleDoppleganger: He is desensitizing us to the horrors of Gumby

 Skepticality216: I’m pretty sure he was walking around with two heads at one point and then he smooshed them together and he had ONE EYE!!!!

 Danny_Dempsy: One beautiful Harry Potter-green eye

 Skepticality216: I don’t get it!!  This is like the fifth chat I’ve been to and everybody is in love with Danny Phantom!!  Is it something in the water?!  How does nobody else see how absolutely creepy he is?!!?

 LilydaleDoppleganger: Maybe we don’t judge someone on their outside? Maybe we judge them for who they are on the inside.

 A_Curse_On_Both_Your_Haunted_Houses: Their gooey, gooey insides.  

 [Skepticality216 has left the chat]

A/N: As fun as this was to write I had a hard time coming up with ways for Danny to be creepy.  He’s just cool!  You know, in a really dorky way XD

[redwoodwrites]

Coffee, Quirks, and Tigers

Summary: Ootsuki runs a kirei shop in a popular shopping district, but he mostly keeps to himself.  And then Fukuda shows up with his boss, who tells him to stay and pick out something for someone's birthday present.  He stays, it's awkward, but apparently not that awkward because Fukuda comes back again.  And again.  And pretty soon it becomes a weekly Thing for the two of them to go get coffee together. Now if only Suzuki and his henchmen could leave the two of them alone.

A/N: Starring Ootsuki and Fukuda from Mob Psycho 100!!  (Two of the guys who helped Shou in the finale of Season 2.)  They had basically five seconds of screen time...so I got to make up 99% of their personalities!  BWAHAHAHA THE POWAAAAAH!

 Ootsuki squinted. He'd been drawing a sketch of two fish swimming through trailing willow leaves.  It was a commission for a prestigious high school, but he couldn’t get it right yet. 

He sat back and stretched, glancing at his shop.  His drawing desk was in the back.  Framed kirei hung on the left and right walls, showing lacy outlines of flowers, people, even whole cherry trees.  Delicate three-dimensional paper animals hung from the ceiling, and three patterned kimonos were displayed in the window. 

Outside, the Tatooin Shopping District was swarming with tourists. Street loudspeakers played a constant pop culture soundtrack barely audible over the roar of people.  People came here for the chic cafes, high-end clothing stores, and a few electronic places - he got free cable from the flatscreen TVs displayed across the street.  It was usually news stories about heroes, although lately there had been a few missing person cases mixed in.  Specialty stores like Ootsuki’s kirei shop didn’t get a lot of customers.  That was fine with him.  Most of his business came from commissions, anyway.  He sighed and turned back to his drawing.  

Ding!

The front door opened and a giant strode into his shop, accompanied by a rush of street noise.  He had spiky orange hair, electric blue eyes and a blazer swung over his shoulders like a cape.  

“Now this is more like it!” he proclaimed.

“Shou, be careful!”

A second man appeared behind the first, following close enough to be his shadow. He was built like a bear, with short black hair and anxiety written all over his face. “Did you bump your shoulder in the doorway? You did, didn't you? Are you alright?”

Shou’s eyes caught Ootsuki and he jumped.  “Oi!  This your shop?”

“H-hai! Irasshaimase.” He started to bow, realized he was sitting, and scrambled to his feet, but the giant had already turned away.

“Pretty impressive,” he said, inspecting a paper sparrow hanging from the ceiling.  “Even got the texture of the feathers in there.  Nice.” 

“Shou, please!” the other man insisted. “Be careful, you could get a paper cut -”

“Fukuda!”

This time both men jumped.  “H-hai!” Fukuda stammered. 

Shou jabbed a thumb at a framed kirei piece.  “Find me something like this for Mom's birthday.  I don't want you back at HQ until you've given it at least two hours of thought – after all, it's the thought that counts!”

“But –”

“Two hours! Countin' on ya!”

Shou waved and slipped out the door faster than Ootsuki could follow, vanishing instantly into the crowd. He glanced over. Fukuda was doing such a perfect impression of a sad puppy that Ootsuki snorted with laughter. 

“Oh – er, sorry,” he said, catching himself.

Fukuda sighed. “No, no. I apologize for the disturbance.  I tend to get a bit...overprotective...and Shou is my boss.  I’m Fukuda Itsuki, I’ll be in your care.”

“Ootsuki Souta,” he said, and repeated the greeting.  After that he wasn’t sure what to do.   He ran a hand self-consciously over his bangs, glad they were long enough to cover his eyes.  “Er, well...would you like help picking something out, or…?”

“Yes please,” Fukuda said.  He nodded at the bird Shou had inspected.  “I've never been in a shop like this before. What kind of art is this?”

“It's kirei.  Most of what I sell involves cut paper. That includes the sculptures, but most of it is two-dimensional.” He stopped there - most people’s eyes glazed over at that point - but Fukuda was looking at him as if genuinely interested.  Ootsuki gestured to the framed pieces leaning in neat rows along the walls.  “Those are all made with a single sheet of paper each, and a very sharp knife. I make faces, landscapes, animals – there's one I did of paper fans, just for the irony. They're all organized by size and category...”

He led Fukuda on a brief tour of the shop, discussing his favorite pieces and the techniques he’d used to make them.  Fukuda was much calmer now that he wasn’t fussing over Shou, and asked questions about the types of paper he used and the tools he worked with.  Ootsuki grinned and pushed his bangs back from his eyes.  He never got to talk about this in such detail, but Fukuda made it easy.  Fukuda made it fun.  

They made a full circuit around the shop, ending at the window display.  The kimonos were beautiful even from the back.  Each of them had been printed in a tiny repeating pattern: a lotus blossom, a seashell, or the kanji for “jewel.”

Fukuda looked at them with obvious admiration.  “They’re gorgeous.  Although I'm a little surprised to see clothing in a kirei shop.”

“It’s the patterns.  I stamped it onto the fabric by hand.”

Fukuda's eyes actually boggled. “That's hand-stamped? I thought that was machinery!”

Ootsuki grinned.  “Nope, it’s all me.  This one was especially tricky.”  He reached for the one with seashells.

“Ah – your hands!”

Ootsuki glanced down. The light from outside caught the sheen of all the tiny, nearly invisible scars covering his fingers and palms. “Oh, that. Well, to get the best cut in a piece of paper, you have to drag the blade toward you. Better control that way. But the knives I use have to be quite sharp, and it took practice learning how to do it.”

“And your palms?”

“Pardon?”

“Knives wouldn’t cut your palms like that, look.”  He took Ootsuki’s left hand and gently turned it over.  The scars were thicker, darker. 

Ootsuki flinched and pulled away.  “I don’t like people touching my hands.”

“Sorry, I’m sorry.  It's just, my quirk is healing, but I can't heal scars...it bothers me when I see wounds that haven't been properly tended.”

“They were tended just fine,” Ootsuki said, a little too sharply. “I just wasn't good at controlling my quirk when I was little. So!” He turned away. “I think that wraps up the tour.”

“Of course. I'm sorry to have taken so much of your time.”

He sounded so sincere about it that Ootsuki softened.  “No, it's just that your two hours are almost up,” he said, and realized it was true.  How did it go by so fast? 

“Then, if it’s alright...could I have that one?” Fukuda asked.  He pointed to a piece hanging on the wall, a particularly intricate kirei with cuts so fine you could almost see the texture of the fur.  

“You like it?” 

Fukuda smiled.  “Suzuki-san did always have a fondness for cats.” 

 Ootsuki sat at his desk again, doodling. 

He was done with the fish commission, and now he had nothing to do while he waited to hear back.  It didn’t help that his thoughts kept wandering to Fukuda.  The visit had been two days ago.  Ootsuki was sorry he’d been rude at the end, and it felt worse every time he thought about it.  Why did he have to be so - so emo and awkward?  He tugged anxiously at his bangs.  He could be clever.  If Fukuda ever did come back, he’d -

Ding!

“Fukuda!”

“It's good to see you, too,” Fukuda said, grinning, and he realized he'd jumped to his feet. 

Ootsuki flushed.  “Well, um, yes,” he said.  With zero cleverness at all.

Fukuda didn’t seem to notice.  “I’m sorry to bother you again, but Shou's mother wanted to commission a piece of her cat.  Is that alright?  I brought a photo.” 

Familiar territory!  “Of course, I do commission pieces all the time.  Can I see it?”

“Right, here…”  Fukuda started digging through the bag slung over his shoulder.  “Sorry, sorry, I keep everything in here.  I don’t even know how old that granola bar is...ah, here we go!” 

He held out a photo of a small white cat.  Ootsuki moved to take it, and when he did, two coupons for the Golden Bean fanned out from behind it.  

“Oh, isn’t this that shop down the street?” Ootsuki asked, glancing up. 

He stopped cold.  Fukuda’s warm brown skin was suddenly ash-gray, and he was staring at the tickets like they were vipers poised to strike.  

“I don’t...remember these,” he whispered. 

“It’s okay!” Ootsuki said quickly.  He wasn’t sure why the coupons had unsettled Fukuda so deeply, but the look on his face was unbearable.  He yanked them out of Fukuda’s grip. 

“Wait, wait -”

“They’re just coupons!” Ootsuki said, holding the coupons well out of sight.  “Look!  I’ll just throw them away - oh.”

“‘Oh’?” Fukuda said, his face practically slate gray.  “O-Ootsuki, quickly, those tickets might be from -”

“From ‘Shou’?” Ootsuki asked drily, holding them up.  The silvery foil on the back of the coupons was covered in thick red scrawl.

Yo, Ootsuki!  Thanks for looking after Fukuda.  Take him for a walk, wouldja?  Have a cup of coffee, my treat!  - Shou

Immediately Fukuda’s shoulders slumped and color flooded into his face.  “Oh thank goodness.  It’s just Shou.”

Yes, pegging you like the lost puppy you are, Ootsuki thought.  Aloud he said, “I guess you’d like to have these back then?”

“They seem to be addressed to you,” Fukuda said.  “Would you want to go?  I feel really silly for reacting like that, and I’d like to make it up to you.  Do you like the Golden Bean?” 

Ootsuki shrugged.  “I’ve never been there.” 

“You’ve nev - you work five minutes away!” 

“The streets are crowded,” Ootsuki protested, but it sounded lame even to his own ears.  

Fukuda’s lips twitched like he was hiding a smile.  “I’m big enough to make a path for us.  Please?”

It was that unbearable puppy dog look that did him in.  Ootsuki found himself locking up the shop and heading out into the street behind Fukuda.  At least he was right - his bulk really did carve an easier path. 

The Golden Bean, however, was even worse.  It was easily three times as crowded.  People kept bumping Ootsuki and hitting his hands and he was about five seconds from bolting, self-conscious anxiety or not.  

Fukuda, oblivious, looped an arm through Ootsuki’s and somehow stepped right up to the counter.   

“What do you want to order?” Fukuda yelled cheerfully over the noise. 

Ootsuki looked at the menu, which was the size of a billboard and crammed with 12-pt font.

“Are you kidding?” he gasped out.  

Fukuda grinned, turned to the cashier, and shouted something else.  Somehow Fukuda managed to place an order, grab their cups, and find the last table left, in a little corner of the shop where the noise was down to a dull roar.  

“I am convinced this is your Quirk,” Ootsuki said, practically collapsing into his chair.  

“What, ordering coffee?” 

“Finding tables in this madhouse!” 

“It comes from having to keep a sharp eye out.”  Before Ootsuki could ask what that meant, Fukuda passed him his coffee.  “Here, drink.  You’re looking a little pale.” 

“I’m not used to dealing with people,” he said faintly. 

“But you work in one of the busiest streets of the city.” 

“Most of the people stay outside my shop.  Being near people is one thing, interacting is another.  I get nervous when people are really close to me.”

“Oh.”  Something in Fukuda’s tone made Ootsuki look up.  He was staring at Ootsuki’s hands again, and there was something behind his eyes that made Ootsuki remember how big he was.  “Ootsuki, is someone...hurting you?”

“What?  No!”

“Because if they are, I’d really like to do something about it.”

“They’re not, no one is, I promise,” Ootsuki said, barely managing to keep his hands above the table.  “Look, the scars are my fault.  I couldn’t control my quirk when I was younger.  I can channel kinetic energy through thin, flexible objects.  Plastic works, but paper is best, and school was full of paper.  Every time I picked up a piece of homework or a quiz…”  He gestured, indicating an explosion.  “It made school interesting, I'll say that much.”

Fukuda stared at him. “But you work with paper.”

“I learned to control it.”

“You saw a quirk counselor?” 

“Er...no…”  He shifted in his seat.  “When I was little, we had a neighbor three apartments over who liked origami. He’d make tigers or cranes and blow into them.  They’d come to life, just for a day or two, and he’d leave them out for other kids in the complex to play with.”

Fukuda’s face lit up. “That's amazing! So he taught you origami, too?”

Ootsuki fidgeted anxiously with a napkin. “No.  I thought it would be fun to blow his tigers up. I'm not like that anymore!” he added quickly.  Fukuda’s shock made his guts twist.  “I thought choosing not to control my quirk was easier than admitting I couldn’t.  I pretended it was funny.  So one day I blew his tigers up, and then I turned around and - and saw him standing there.  I saw his face.  And after that it wasn’t funny anymore.”

“Ootsuki...”

He ducked his head. “I avoided him for months. Then I got it into my head that if I could put the tigers back, everything would be alright. So I got a book on origami and a bunch of paper and practiced.  Even with homework.  Before I’d moved it around with erasers, but now I actively tried to manage it all the time, because if I didn’t, I couldn’t make the tigers.  When I was done, my hands looked like this and I had a dozen or so crappy tigers lined up in the courtyard.”

“And? What did he say?”

“Nothing,” Ootsuki said quietly. “He wasn't there anymore. He moved away. I was a coward for so long that I never got the chance to apologize.”

“And I think a kind person like that would have been happy with the gift you made for him.”

“It wasn't a gift. They weren't even all that good.”

“I beg to differ.”

Fukuda caught Ootsuki's wrist and he looked down, startled. He'd been folding a napkin into a paper tiger without realizing it, and he'd been about to rip it in half.

“It's quite good,” Fukuda said. “And one more thing.  I don’t think you’re a coward, Ootsuki.”

“I literally hide behind my bangs,” he said flatly. 

“You came to coffee with me,” Fukuda countered.

“That was just because -”  He stopped short, flushing.  He wasn’t about to mention that obnoxious puppy dog face.  Mostly because Fukuda was doing it right now. 

“You’re braver than you think you are,” Fukuda said.  “And I’m taking this to keep as proof.” 

He plucked the tiger from Ootsuki’s hand and tucked it safely into his bag. 

 Fukuda came back two days later, and again two days after that. He said it was because Shou's mother had more orders, but Ootsuki secretly suspected that Shou himself was responsible. He was probably the littlest bit annoyed with being watched like a hawk for stubbed toes and sent Fukuda off for two straight hours of peace.

Ootsuki didn't mind.

Fukuda, meanwhile, seem to have extended his overprotectiveness to Ootsuki, and was frequently checking to make sure he didn't have any fresh paper cuts, got eight hours of sleep a night, and took breaks from drawing so he wouldn't strain his eyes.

Ootsuki didn't mind that, either.

The two of them took to buying coffee and walking around to look at all the shops.  Once in a while Fukuda saw a window display for a fluffy sweater and just had to have it, and Ootsuki bought a new halogen lamp for his desk.  Fukuda finally got Ootsuki hooked on pistachio-flavored coffee, which Ootsuki hadn’t even known existed (and wasn’t convinced that it should).  

Two weeks into their coffee tradition, Ootsuki was hanging a new sparrow sculpture when he heard the door open behind him. 

“You’re early,” he said, turning.  Then he stopped short.  “What happened?” 

Fukuda was standing in the doorway, face pale, hands shaking at his sides, clothes rumpled like he hadn’t slept for days.  He was looking around the shop like he didn’t even see it.  

Ootsuki jumped off the stepstool and hurried over.  “Are you alright?  Are you injured anywhere?” 

“Huh?  No, I...no…”

“You look like hell!”

Fukuda laughed weakly, but it wasn’t a joke, and they both knew it.  “Sorry.  I’m, uh, I had a rough day.  Should we get going?”

“Now?  Like this?” 

“I really will be fine after some tea.  Or something.”

Ootsuki hesitated, thinking.  “Alright,” he said slowly.  “But it’s getting kind of cool out.  Come on back, I need to grab my jacket.” 

“Sure.”

Ootsuki headed for the back of the shop - without letting go of Fukuda’s hand.  He trailed along after him like an oversized puppy.  Ootsuki reached the employee’s door and pushed it open.  He even got a few feet inside before Fukuda drew up short. 

“I-I’m sorry for intruding,” he stammered.  “I didn’t know you lived back here.” 

Ootsuki had converted the back room into a one-room apartment.  There was a western-style bed on the right, a table in the center, and a kitchenette on the left, with the bathroom door in the back left corner.  Most of his expendable income had gone into a TV and game system set up next to the bed.  The place was spare but functional.

He shrugged.  “My budget’s pretty modest, and anyway I don’t see the point in buying a second place just for a bed and a bad commute.”

Fukuda’s lips twitched.  “You do have a point.” 

“Sit down anywhere, I’ll just be a second.”

Ootsuki went to the kitchenette and Fukuda sat down at the table.  A few copies of Ootsuki’s best works hung on the walls, and Fukuda was looking at the cityscape one with interest.  Then he blinked and seemed to come back to himself again.  “What are you doing?”

“What does it look like?” Ootsuki turned around, a mug in each hand.  “Making tea.”

“You didn’t have to,” Fukuda said weakly. 

“It’s just instant tea, nothing fancy.”

“We were gonna get coffee.”

“Next time.”  He set the mug down.  “Sit.  Drink.  Breathe.” 

Fukuda obeyed while Ootsuki grabbed the quilt from his bed.  He sat down next to Fukuda so their legs were touching and wrapped the blanket around their shoulders.  

“Let me know if this bothers you, but sometimes pressure helps me calm down.” 

“I’m the same,” Fukuda murmured.  “When it’s someone like you.”

Ootsuki’s face felt as hot as the tea.  “Okay.  Um.  Anime.  I mean - let’s put on an anime or something.  Or not.  Or we can talk if you want.  Or not.”  Stop talking, stop talking, stop talking.

“Anything is fine.” Fukuda lowered his mug to the table, eyes down.  “You really didn’t have to do this.”

Ootsuki rolled his eyes.  “Pretty sure I did.  You worry a lot about other people, Fukuda, but not enough about yourself.”

Fukuda gave a tiny smile.  “You know, in your own way, you're nearly as stubborn as Shou.”

“Your boss?”

“And longtime friend. We met doing underground hero work.”

“Ah,” Ootsuki said.  Then the words sank into his brain. “Wait, what? Underground heroes? How is he an underground hero with that bright red hai – I'm sorry did you say you're a hero?!”

“Yes?” Fukuda glanced up, eyes twinkling. “Is it that much of a surprise?”

“I mean – you're so – lost puppy –”

“I'm a what now?”

“Mild-mannered! Is what I meant to say!”

“Yes, I'm a hero,” Fukuda said, grinning.  He had absolutely heard the puppy comment. “My healing quirk isn't particularly useful for offense, but it's invaluable as backup for the others in our agency.”

“I can imagine,” Ootsuki managed. Fukuda didn't fit Ootsuki's image of a hero at all. Fukuda wore fluffy sweaters and an open expression and exuded the kind of warm calm people normally associated with a good cup of hot chocolate.  Being a “hero” seemed to involve more exaggerated muscle development, primary colors and...teeth?

Fukuda chuckled as if he could read Ootsuki’s thoughts. “That's exactly why I'm so useful as an underground hero. I know how to dress and act a certain way.  How to give off a certain impression or persona. If you drop me in the middle of a city anywhere in Japan, I could disappear in an hour and never be found. I mostly work on organizational crimes, but sometimes I get asked to pursue missing person's cases.”

“Missing...but don't kidnapped people usually end up –”

“Yes,” Fukuda said.  His voice was low and his shoulders were trembling.  Ootsuki wrapped him in a hug.

“It must be hard,” Ootsuki said quietly. 

Fukuda leaned into him, eyes cast down.  “I can - I can usually find them in time.  And heal them.  I’m very, very good at both.  But Shou - there’s a man we’ve been tracking - you’ve seen the rash of missing people in the news?”

“I think so,” Ootsuki said slowly.  It sounded vaguely familiar. 

“The man we’re tracking is responsible, and today we found one of his facilities.  They’d known we were coming and abandoned the place.  But we found evidence of some of the missing people, and the - the Quirk research they were doing -”

His voice broke.  Ootsuki rubbed his back in small, slow circles.  “I can’t even imagine what it’s that’s like,” Ootsuki said softly.  He wished he had something better to say.  “I guess this explains why you were so scared when we found Shou’s coupons in your bag.”

Fukuda rubbed at his eyes with one hand.  “I’ve been wondering lately if I’m being tracked.  One of the man’s top followers is very good at electronic spying.  We’re closer to finding them every day, and I think they’re finally feeling the pressure.  We’re going to have to face them soon.”

“Shou doesn’t seem like the type of person to lose,” Ootsuki said. 

“He’s not.  He really doesn’t need my help most of the time.  But with the man we’re tracking, he will.  Soon.  Even then we might not be enough to beat him.  I have to make sure he’s at the top of his game.  If I don’t, if he’s even a little bit tired, a little bit slow, if I’m not enough, then he might – he might actually –”

Fukuda folded into himself.  Ootsuki pulled him gently so that Fukuda was leaning into him, head just below Ootsuki’s chin.  He knew there was nothing he could say, nothing he could do.  For the first time he wished he knew how to use his quirk for something...more.  His heart ached. 

When Fukuda was calmer, they drank their tea and quietly watched anime movies on Ootsuki’s cell phone.  Ootsuki pulled the blanket off his bed and wrapped them up in it, shoulder to shoulder.  They stayed like that, pressed together in quiet, comforting warmth, for a long time.  

 It was two minutes past coffee time. 

Ootsuki sat at his desk, trying not to fidget.  He glanced out the window.  Back to his desk.  Back to the window.  Then he got up and looked down the street, shoving his face between the kimonos, trying to peer through the crowd.  Five minutes past coffee time.  Still no Fukuda.  He pulled his phone out of his pocket.  

Fukuda picked up on the second ring.  “Yes?” 

“You’re late.”

“I’m five minutes late,” Fukuda said, and Ootsuki could hear the smile in his voice.  “I’m rubbing off on you.  You didn’t worry so much last week.” 

“Last week I didn’t know that you regularly risk your life for a living,” Ootsuki retorted.  

Fukuda laughed.  They’d texted a few times since the last time he came over, but it wasn’t the same.  Ootsuki was glad to hear him back to his usual self.  

“You’re almost here?” he asked. 

“Yes, yes, I’m almost there.  You can probably see me from your window.  Look.” 

Ootsuki looked.  An arm in a fluffy green sweater sprouted from the crowd three stores down, waving. 

“You look like a bean sprout,” Ootsuki told him, just to hear him laugh again.  “Alright, alright, I’m hanging up.  But you owe me coffee for making me worry.” 

“It’s a deal.” 

Ootsuki pocketed the phone and realized he was smiling.  A new coffee shop had opened next to the Golden Bean.  There was a semi-playful war between the two on which was better.  Even the music on the street speakers was interrupted with updates on which shop had gotten more likes on Facebrick.  Ootsuki and Fukuda both thought it was hilarious. 

And Ootsuki wanted to try the new shop.  More specifically, he wanted to try it with Fukuda.   

His friend’s face finally came into view, swimming toward him in the crowd.  Ootsuki’s grin widened and he turned for the door. 

Suddenly the street speakers screeched.  The sound was so loud Ootsuki felt it in his teeth.  He jerked badly and people outside shouted in pain and surprise.  

Then the security gates on every shop came slamming down. 

“HEY!” 

Ootsuki flung himself at his door.  The bars were on the outside, but Ootsuki couldn’t even get to them; the door had locked and wouldn’t open.  He heard screams and saw that some people had been crushed under the gates and were struggling to get free.  The electronic store across the street had a safety gate that swung down like a garage door, and it had someone pinned by her shoulder.  Fukuda was already cutting through the fleeing crowd, hand outstretched and glowing.  Ootsuki took a shuddering breath.  That’s right, Fukuda was a hero, he could help – 

“AH-AH-AH,” tutted a voice from the speakers. 

The electronics shop exploded.  Every single device inside suddenly burst through the windows, walls, and ceiling.  Fukuda dove right into the falling shards, shielding the pinned woman.  Pipes and cables ripped up from the street.  The electronic devices whizzed toward them and the wires and metal wrapped around them, rising up to form a many-tentacled octopus shape.  A multitude of cables coiled and writhed ceaselessly around a bulbous conglomerate of tech, studded with cameras that blinked in every direction and crowned with three flat screen TVs.  The screens flashed to life, showing a composite view of a pale man in square-framed glasses. . 

Fukuda snarled.  “Hatori!”

“You really made it too easy to find you,” Hatori sneered.  “For an underground hero, it’s surprising that you’d risk falling into a routine.”

Ootsuki sucked in a breath.  The electronic spy!  Fukuda was right, they’d been watching, they knew he’d been meeting with Ootsuki every week!

Fukuda’s hand plunged into his bag.  Immediately Hatori’s cables lashed out, striking Fukuda’s chest so hard Ootsuki could hear an audible crack from across the street.  He flew through the air until he hit a telephone pole and the cables immediately caught him, ripping his bag from his shoulder and lifting him into the air. 

“Fukuda!” Ootsuki slams his palms against the glass, desperate.  Kinetic energy vibrated painfully through his wrists and the glass buzzed but didn’t break.  No, no, the villain had him, it was going to kill him!

He backed up and a hanging sculpture hit his head.  All that paper – but he wasn’t a hero, he had to call the police, had to get help – 

“Rats are really more trouble than they’re worth to keep around,” Hatori said, smirking.  Fukuda gave an airless scream, and Ootsuki heard a terrible, organic pop. 

The cables were squeezing. 

“GET AWAY FROM HIM!”

He wasn’t sure how it had happened.  He’d been standing in his shop, frozen in horror, and then he was outside and his arm was moving in slow-motion and the paper fan he was holding cut clean through the cables holding Fukuda. 

Fukuda hit the ground with a gasp, still wrapped in the metal coils, but his eyes were on something past Ootsuki.  Immediately he turned and swung the paper.  Again time skipped and there were stripped wires and computer bits littering the street in a circular blast radius, and Hatori’s metal octopus was hissing and stitching three of its limbs back together with angry clanks.  

“Not another one!” Hatori snapped, face red.  “Why – are – there – heroes – everywhere?!”

“Ootsuki!” Fukuda gasped. 

Cables reared up behind the octopus and struck like snakes.  Ootsuki tried to dodge but his legs were frozen.  Fukuda tackled him and they went rolling seconds before electrified prongs gored them to the street.  Fukuda grabbed a metal trash can and flung it hard.  Ootsuki winced when he heard the noise Fukuda’s chest made, but the trash can slammed down on the prongs with extra force and it lodged in the asphalt.  The two of them ducked into a narrow alley.  

“The hell do you think you’re doing?!” Hatori demanded.  

“I don’t know, I don’t know, my body just moved!  What do we do?!” 

“I need my bag, you stay here!” 

“Somehow I don’t think he’ll let me!” 

“Correct!” 

Ootsuki shrieked and flung his arm up right before a huge muscled octopus limb came sweeping down on them.  The blast broke it in two and they darted out of the alley.  Fukuda grabbed a loose bit of the broken limb and jammed it into another tentacle as they ran, forcing it back.  Ootsuki sent two more blasts at the tentacles darting into Fukuda’s blind spots and they sprinted out of range.  

 Hatori snarled.  “Hold still already!”

“No thanks!” 

The street was almost empty of shoppers except for the few who had been pinned or those trying to help them.  Ootsuki saw the moment Hatori caught sight of two teenagers wedged in a clothing shop entrance.  Something blazed in his chest and he slammed the fan down through the air, again and again, actually forcing Hatori back.  

“Agh!  Little freak!” 

“Ootsuki, your hands!” 

He glanced down.  He saw the red dripping down his fingers and wrist but couldn’t feel the pain or even the wetness.  

“Forget it, get the bag!” 

“But – you – fine, just don’t die!” He turned and sprinted down the street, where his bag was sticking out from under someone’s discarded shopping bag.  Ootsuki darted forward, scooped a handful of receipts off the ground and hurled them.  The paper burst into confetti and was immediately attracted by the static cling of the TVs, blocking out all the video cameras facing their way.  Hatori shouted with rage.  

Ootsuki stumbled back, gasping.  He was starting to feel the pain now.  His hands were shaking and blood dripped from his skin, under his fingernails.  He knew he’d cracked his bones because he suddenly knew exactly where they were in both hands.  

He turned and sprinted for Fukuda, who was desperately hunting through his bag. 

“Where is it, where is it, where is it,” he muttered. 

“What are you looking for?” 

“The EMP gun.  Small, black, yellow tape – I know I packed it, I definitely grabbed it off the counter –”

“THERE YOU ARE!” 

Something sharp and hard slammed into the side of Ootsuki’s head.  He hit the ground.  The drone that had hit him banked hard and circled, two more joining it.  Ootsuki realized his hands were empty and rolled away before their blades could slice his arms.  Fukuda had done the same, but his broken ribs had hampered his movement and a lucky hit had knocked him flat.  Immediately a cable burst out of the ground and bound him tight. 

Ootsuki’s hand plunged into Fukuda’s bag and pulled out what he’d hoped he would find - his little leatherbound book.  He tore out a dozen pages and struck, kinetic energy blasting the drones away.  

He’d forgotten the octopus, though, and just as he made to cut Fukuda loose a cable came out of nowhere and slammed him in the stomach.  

He lost time in a daze of gray and yellow pain until sharp hit his shoulder and he fell to his knees with a cry.  His vision slowly cleared. 

The drone that had been aiming for his shoulder had switched off at the last second and now lay cracked and silent on the ground.  The other drones hit the ground beside him, and the cable that had been whipping out to grab him suddenly collapsed on the asphalt, limp, live wires still sparking at its tip.  

Fukuda was standing in front of him, a small, buzzing gadget the size of a cell phone in his raised fist. 

Hatori’s octopus spasmed and flailed.  Chunks of machinery were already falling off.  For a second Hatori looked livid, but then his face twisted in a vicious sneer and an octopus leg sliced clean through the whole front wall of a restaurant, peeling it away from the building like a slice of cake.  The people inside screamed.  Ootsuki readied his fan, but apparently that had been the most Hatori could do.  The TV screens distorted to static and went black.  With a final, ear-splitting shriek of tearing metal, the octopus slumped over, dead. 

Ootsuki hadn’t realized he was about to join it until Fukuda grabbed his shoulder to keep him upright.  The two of them stared at each other for a few seconds, breathing hard. 

“You,” Ootsuki said finally, “are going to owe me so many coffees after this.”

“You can have them after I murder you for jumping into the line of fire,” Fukuda said.  But there wasn’t any venom in his voice, and his eyes had the puppy dog look cranked up to eleven.  “What were you even thinking?!  You have zero battle experience, and that guy was - villains aren’t a video game, Ootsuki!  He would have actually murdered you!”

He ducked his head.  “Sorry.” 

“Don’t - don’t apologize, just -”

“Hero-san!” called a voice.  It was one of the teenagers Hatori had almost attacked.  They were in the store right next to the restaurant, and it looked like he’d managed to squeeze himself out, but his companion had a thick river of blood running down their face that Ootsuki hadn’t noticed before.  “Hero-san, I - please help him - ” 

“Coming,” Fukuda called immediately.  “And stay put, Ootsuki, you’re next.” 

“Not going anywhere ‘till I get my coffee.” 

Fukuda shot him a look, part concern, part exasperation, then turned to help the teenager.  

Ootsuki leaned on a trashcan, catching his breath.  His hands hurt.  He was trying to avoid looking at them because he was pretty sure they were fractured and he’d pass out if he saw it.  

It had felt...strange, to be out on the battlefield like that.  Not natural, not exactly, but like he had fit perfectly into place.  As if the universe had simply been waiting for him to do it and the response was simply, “Of course.” 

Shock gave people such weird thoughts.  He shook his head and looked around.  Little shreds of torn paper drifted through the air, like scattered snowfall.  Bits of computer modems and gaming consoles covered the street, torn open, their silicon circuits glittering in the sun.  The security gates had retracted.  Some of the trapped shoppers were cautiously poking their heads out of the buildings, checking that it was safe.  It wasn’t; there were a lot of live wires sticking out of the ground and the octopus carcass, throwing sparks.  

It didn’t smell all that great, either.  His senses were still sharp from all the adrenaline pouring through him.  He could smell the burned plastic from the machines and the ozone of the sparking wires.  He could even smell something odd from the restaurant Hatori had sliced open.  Something burning?  

He looked closer.  A dark shape was sticking out of the wall.  It looked like a pipe with a little yellow sticker on it.  

Gas. 

He saw everything in perfect clarity.  The brilliance of the sky, so bright blue it looked painted by a child.  The shadow of Fukuda’s back, the exact way his head turned when he smelled it too.  The hot metal of the trash can under Ootsuki’s broken fingers.  And floating gently past, torn free from that little book by the explosions, a napkin folded like a tiger. 

He grabbed it and slashed with everything he had. 

The blast he made created a huge vacuum down the middle of the street, sucking away the explosion and heat and gas.  Hot blades drove up the bones in Ootsuki’s arms, splitting them in half.  Blazing pain seared his brain.  Sound warped and distorted like it was coming from underwater.  He thought he heard someone screaming, realized it was himself.  

He was on the ground.  His arms were on fire.  They had to be on fire.  They hurt so badly.  Shadows were moving over him.  One of them reached out to him, familiar, calling his name, but before he could answer more shadows came down like a curtain and he sank into the heavy black. 

 Ootsuki woke up slowly.  He was lying on a bed that crinkled loudly whenever he existed, and the ceiling was styrofoam-white.  The smell of rubber and cleaner filled his nostrils. A hospital.  

“I guess it’s nice that I survived,” he mused aloud.  

“Gee, you think?” 

“Fukuda!” 

He bolted upright.  Fukuda was sitting on a chair next to him, a book on his lap.  He smiled and put a warm hand on Ootsuki’s arm.  “Relax, the doctors saw you but you’re still going to be pretty tired.” 

“You’re okay!” 

“Yes, yes, I’m fine, but how are your hands?” 

“My - oh…”

He held them up.  The last thing he remembered, they were bleeding like crazy and felt like he’d fractured every bone in his fingers.  Now they looked perfectly fine.  In fact…

“No scars?  They’re gone?”

Fukuda looked apologetic.  “You, er.  Sort of blasted most of your skin off.  So when I healed it, all the skin grew back more or less uniform.  I hope you don’t mind.  We’re mostly here because it’s standard procedure to bring someone to the hospital just in case there’s something a field medic missed.”

“But you’re okay?” Ootsuki asked again, searching his face.  “Last time I saw you, you were covered in blood and I think your rib had broken.” 

He grimaced.  “Ribs, plural.  But I promise I’m okay.  I just - the way you nearly got killed - ”  He broke off, shaking his head.  “Are you sure you’re alright?” 

“I...I guess so?”  He looked around, trying to distract himself.  It wasn’t just a hospital room, it was a private room, with a flatscreen TV, a vase of fresh flowers, and a window with a panoramic view of the city. “I can’t afford all this.” 

“Don’t worry, heroes get free private rooms.” 

“I’m not a hero.” 

“I don’t see why not,” said a voice from the door.  They looked up as Shou phased through the doorway, a tray of hospital goop in his hands.  “Whoops, almost lost the Jell-O.  I pulled a few strings and got you a temporary hero’s license about thirty minutes after the whole Hatori thing.  So technically you’re a hero for the next three months.  Welcome to my agency.” 

“I-I’m not a hero!” 

Shou raised an eyebrow.  “Again, I don’t see why not.  How do you feel?  I’m not asking about your physical state.  Do you feel horrified, apathetic, jittery - or do you feel like you’re ready to do it all over again?” 

Ootsuki blinked a few times.  “The second one, I guess.  How did you…?”  

He nodded.  “I saw the fight.  You got thrashed because you’re a total noob, but you have good reflexes and use your quirk in creative ways.  My agency could use you.  And Fukuda’s obsessed with you now and not me, which is a plus.” 

“Shou!” Fukuda protested.  “I’m not obsessed with him -”

“You use the first sweater he ever bought you for ‘emergency hugs’ and set his picture as the background on your phone.  Besides,” Shou continued cheerfully over Fukuda’s sputtering, “Hero work pays well.  Unless you have another source of income I don’t know about, because your shop is basically gravel.”

“What?!” 

He leaped for the TV remote and flipped channels frantically.  He found the evening news and, there in the background, was his shop - or rather, a lot of vacant air and broken plaster where his shop used to be.  He could still see a few strips of paper fluttering through the air. 

“Oh, no no no no no,” he moaned.  “Everything I owned was in that shop!” 

“Everything?” Shou asked curiously.  

“He lived in the storeroom at the back,” Fukuda explained.  

Ootsuki dragged a hand down his face.  “I have a little money saved up, but I’ll need that for food and inventory until my insurance kicks in.” 

“I have an extra bedroom,” Fukuda said.  “I mean - it could be only temporary, if you like.  And only if you’re comfortable with it.  I have about three bonuses I haven’t even used yet, we could buy furniture or paper or anything you’d need.” 

Shou made a muffled-sounding squeak. 

“What,” Fukuda said flatly. 

“You two are actually sharing an apartment?” Shou asked. 

Ootsuki turned red.  “I - I guess you could say that?  We never really - I

Shou was grinning like a cat that had drunk half the cream and intentionally spilled the rest.  “So, to be clear.  You met by chance, had a coffee shop AU side story, fought a villain, and then…”

“Don’t you dare,” Fukuda warned.   

Shou was grinning from ear to ear. 

“And then they were roommates,” he whispered.

Then he phased through the door, laughing, dodging pillows from two very red-faced heroes.

[redwoodwrites]

Cherry Milk Blossom Pudding

Have a fluff piece with Smoll Mob and Smoll Ritsu!   A commission by the most awesome @frootysparkycakes !

AO3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23292583

“Nii-san.  Nii-san, wake up.  Are you awake?”

Mob shifted, rising reluctantly out of sleep.  He felt disoriented and heavy.  All his limbs felt heavy – his legs, his chest, his elbows.  He’d been sick with a bad fever for over a week, and it had only just broken yesterday night.  He wasn’t even sure what day it was.  

“Niiiiii-saaaaaan,” whispered a voice.

Mob groaned softly and cracked open his eyes.  The gray light from the window told him it was nearly dawn.   His brother crouched over him, a mask over his face.  

“Ritsu?” Mob murmured.

“Happy birthday, Nii-san.”

“It’s today?” Mob lifted a hand to scrub the sleep from his eyes.  His arm felt like it weighed a hundred pounds and he let it flop next to his head when he was done, too exhausted to push it back under his blanket. “You’re not supposed to be in here, Ritsu.  You could get sick.”

“That’s why I’m wearing the mask.  I brought you something, want to see?”

Ritsu disappeared from over him.  There was a rustling noise, like cloth or soft plastic.  Mob blinked slowly a few times, then turned his head.  Ritsu reached behind him where Mob couldn’t see, then held up a small porcelain bowl.  A rich, sweet smell filled the air.  

“Tada!” he said softly.

“What is it?”

“Take a look.”  Ritsu tilted the bowl so Mob could see.  A thick pink cream filled the bowl almost to the rim.  In the middle was a clumsy but decorative arrangement of dried petals.  “It’s milk pudding with pickled cherry blossoms,” Ritsu explained. “I wanted to make some for your birthday.”

Mob struggled to sit up, eyes fixed on the treat.  “Milk pudding?”

“Yep!  I had to save up to buy the blossoms, but I made the pudding myself.”

“You made it?”

“Ye – oh, careful!” He caught Mob’s shoulder; his arms had almost given out under him.  “Here, move over.”

“But you’ll get sick –”

“If you lean on me you can eat the milk pudding,” Ritsu pointed out.

A minute later the two of them were pressed side by side under Mob’s blankets, with Mob braced against Ritsu’s shoulder, his head resting against Ritsu’s cheek.  His warmth seeped through Mob’s thin cotton pajamas, soothing the aches in his muscles.  He sighed deeply.

“Your breakfast,” Ritsu murmured into his hair.  

“Mm.”  

Ritsu passed him the bowl. He’d kept it in the refrigerator – the porcelain was so cool Mob almost saw a halo of mist around it.  He dipped the silver spoon into the cream.  

It was perfect. Sweet, but not too sweet; a little spicy and salty from the pickled plum blossoms; and, best of all, rich and creamy from extra milk.  The delicate flavors slipped over his tongue like a cloud, and the coolness soothed his raw throat.  

“It’s so good, Ritsu!”

“I’m glad you like it.”

He could feel the press of Ritsu’s smile against his head, and quickly finished the rest.  His hand was trembling just a little when he set the bowl down, but he felt better and more clear-headed already.  The lingering chill of the cream in his tummy felt so wonderful after the constant hot ache of the fever, and it felt good to sit up after days lying down.  He yawned and stretched, pushing both arms out in front of him as far as they could go.

Ritsu laughed quietly. “Are you sure you’re not part cat, Nii-san?  A bowl full of milk is all it takes to make you happy.”

Mob looked up, smiling. “I can’t believe you made that for me. You’re so talented, Ritsu!  It was so delicious!”

“There’s a few servings left in the fridge for later, if you like.”

“Really?!”

“Sh!”  Ritsu glanced at the door.  “Mom and Dad could wake up.  It’s getting later.”

“Oh…”  Now that Ritsu mentioned it, the gray predawn glow had long since given way to newly minted daylight.  

He yawned again.  

Ritsu slowly moved his arm away, lowering Mob to the floor.  

“Ritsu?”

“You should go back to sleep, Nii-san,” Ritsu said quietly.  

“Oh…you’re right.”  He felt his brother take the bowl from his fingers and turned his head into the pillow with a sigh, nuzzling into it.  He was still pretty tired from fighting off that fever.  It was confusing to be tired, because the dessert actually gave him more energy, but he was.  Ritsu would probably know why.  He wished he could ask him – he could listen to Ritsu talk forever, he always made hard things so easy to understand.  But their parents would be upset if they caught Ritsu here with him.  He sighed.  Being by himself was the hardest part of being sick.  He had stay away from his brother.  

He wished Ritsu didn’t have to go.  He missed him.  

“I can stay if you want.”

“Eh?”

Mob realized he’d said that last thought out loud.  Before he could protest, he felt the blanket lift up and a rush of air flowed down his body.  He opened his eyes and saw that Ritsu had settled himself next to Mob on the futon, his forehead nearly touching his brother’s.  

“Ritsu, you’ll get sick!”

“I have a mask,” Ritsu reminded him.  

“But –”

“Please?  I miss you too, Nii-san.”

Mob hesitated, and Ritsu pulled the blanket back over them, tucking it under their chins.  Then he scooted closer and Mob felt Ritsu’s hand find his in the warm space between them.  

“Just for a little while,” Ritsu whispered.  

Mob knew he should argue. Big brothers protected little brothers, even from something as small as a cold.  But his brother had made him a special treat, and had come to visit him on his birthday when Mob hadn’t even remembered it, and Mob loved him so much and didn’t want to let go of Ritsu’s hand even for a minute.

He tucked his chin down, so at least he wouldn’t be breathing on him.  He felt Ritsu settle his chin over Mob’s head.  Mob sighed deeply.  He felt cool from the treat and warm from his brother and he could still taste the sweetness of the milk in his mouth.  

“Happy birthday, Nii-san,” Ritsu whispered.  

Mob smiled sleepily, snuggled into his brother’s warmth, and fell softly back to sleep.  

A/N It...was only supposed to be 500 words...