#╰ ･ thread ✱ ∶ cuts you up.

[fluentisonus]

working in a factory has you thinking so much about the insane chain of labor & transport that goes into making literally anything

[ganondoodle]

me: finally im able to cope with how much i hate totk and can fuel that energy into other things :)

nintendy: the shiekah tech just dissappeared and no one knows why or cares enough to investigate it lol. lmao. its gone bc the calamity is gone or something even tho it literally isnt bc ganondorf is right there haha lol, stop asking, why do you care. just forget it existed and look at that sexy goatman and glue instead!! glue! isnt that wild?? also its totally a direct, 100% same universe and exact same characters, despite them act totally out of character, sequel to botw-

[imsquat]

rigging added!!! mechanical pencil for scale 😁😁 we are in the home stretch now 💪 just painting the sea serpent left!!!(more close-ups under the cut)

i was going to make somebody to steer the boat but it is simply Too Fucking Small

[clockworkreapers]

Gotta say when it came to twist my favorite was brother riley

Omg yess... its also wild to me once it hits then you look back at vol 1 knowing what happens in vol3- which I'm gonna put below the cut for spoiler reasons SO UH SPOILERS FOR VOL 3

Like I caught it the second time reading and I legit stoped and went "IS THAT WHY HE OFFERED UP THE STORE COMPUTER TO JACK ALL THE WAY AT THE START??" Like the Brother Riley was still the collector its not like he just changed into it. Looking back its just oh you manipulative weasil of course you wanted to subtly nudge Jack into having a written accessible record that you were privy to before anyone else.

Also maybe a theory might as well be just personal headcanon (could be totally wrong im not gonna argue) but I like the idea that the reason Roger sent him the laptop is cuz he totally picked up on what BR was doing and was like oh you wanna play? No no no if anyone is gonna be privy to information on the station and what this human is doing its me, this is my project not yours, hands off. Course the blog is up and out there and we know multiple gods and entities read it anyways but whoever knows that information first probs has a lot of the upper hand to move before the rest of them. At that point only Roger had tabs on him like that prior so BR trying to get a grasp on him too probs got Roger to retaliate. Course it was in the most subtle way possible, cant be too suspicious.

[sysig]

Physical media is forever (Patreon)

[angorwhosebabyisthis]

there are a lot of reasons i'm really, really impressed by how well sdmi portrayed the dynamic of an abusive relationship with pericles and ricky, and one of the big ones is how accurately they show what it looks like when abuse starts to escalate.

the extent of that is yet another thing that'll take a longpost of its own to go into, because it spans like.... the entire arc of their relationship in the show. but one thing that stands out to me in particular is their portrayal of the massive red flag that is a partner trotting out bigoted behavior against a group you're in. especially insults, and especially directed right at you.

this show has a LOT of fatphobia, jesus christ does it ever, and there are certainly some fatphobic tropes going on with ricky; but i've always been surprised and impressed by how many of the nastier ones they avoided, especially considering his role in the story and what his arc is about.

he is a major, nuanced character whose trauma is treated with full weight and sincerity. it's implied that his body type changed the way it did due to the trauma he went through when he was younger, and the ensuing mental illness, which is a pretty realistic experience for a lot of people. the things that happen to him are played for full tragedy and horror, when it would have been so, so easy for them to make light of it because Tee Hee Fat Guy and Tee Hee Male Abuse Victims Funnee. despite how his whole thing involves corporate greed, they don't go the route of portraying him as Gluttonous and Hedonistic; if anything he is very obviously not using all that money for even basic physical self-care, and the only time we ever see him eating anything it's when he's drinking wine grape juice with pericles. which, like, there's issues to be unpacked with that too, but jesus christ it's an improvement over what usually happens with characters like him.

he's a fat queer man who isn't degendered or made feminine in a mocking and/or predatory way. (there's nothing wrong with feminine fat queer men and they need more non-shitty rep, please and thank you god, but there is a lot of nastiness in the tropes they're often used for in mainstream media, and one of those tropes is when people consider 'fat queer man' and 'masc' to be oxymorons.) no one ever once calls him ugly; if anything multiple people in his life think he's attractive and desirable, for better or for worse. no one body-shames him. and no one ever mentions his weight.

except pericles.

'The Horrible Herd' and 'The Devouring' are two halves of a whole here, re: escalation of abuse. 'Devouring' is when the abuser goes full mask off and shit hits the fan; 'Horrible Herd' is the wind-up before the punch. HH is when ricky realizes things are getting Bad and he needs to put a stop to this now, and Devouring shows what happens when he tries, because by the point where it's gotten bad enough to give him a wakeup call it's already too late. it's how abusive relationships tend to go, and it's chillingly accurate.

and what's one of the things pericles says during Horrible Herd when that punch is winding up? something no one's ever said before now, including him? 'you pudding-faced dummkopf.'

he body-shames him. he insults his weight, and that's a major turning point. bigotry is something that's often there to some degree from the start, but not always, because some abusers are good at hiding things like that until they're confident they've got you where they want you. the message with ricky and pericles is loud and clear: when this happens, the walls are dripping blood. get out.

(if you can. and be careful when you try.)

when this show is good, it is really, truly good. god damn.

[hauntingblue]

WATER SEVEN BABYYYYY

Look at robin reacting when luffy says he wont give her up.... 🥺🥺

This is a joke right now but its actually a one piece tenet aldjsisjka

Usopp aksbaksjakqk the foreshadow is foreshadowing... Also Robin being happy with the crew after the Aokiji incident... Fuck!!!!

Sanji thinking robin just vanished or flew away and suddenly usopp is soaring thru the skies... imagine

AAAAARGGGGHHHH YOU CAN SEE THE GEARS TURNING

Zoro talking to merry..... only while he is alone of course

Why are nami and sanji matching ajdhakjsk look at the citrus sisters

Carpenter: maybe it was the government

Gov agent: I don't think so, also don't say that they are everywhere

LUFFY SUPPORTS WOMEN'S WRONGS!!!

Don't scream att chopper like that!!! Look at him... So small....

Imu tease???? (No) (Also I've changed websites again bc the translation is kinda off , I can't find a good quality b&w spanish translation and the colors scare me (i want the real manga experience))

GET HIM ICEBURG!!!!

I truly forgor if this is just a lie about her wanting to find the rio poneglyphs or genuine because she wants to die and will do it for them... because in skypiea she says she is not interested in the weapons so maybe if the gov pardons her but considering what she wants is illegal then idk abdjabjs this is such a dumb thing to forget... like thats important girl where did it go (reading this after remembering and it's kinda funny... i will make any sacrifice to kill myself (and keep you safe)... she goes HARD)

Little paulie and mozu and kiwi.... omg hello (the SBS says the twins wanted to be shipwrights too omg)

Franky's backstory is small but it does so much for me like it is so central to the themes... boats and people...

DID SOMEBODY ORDER MORE TRAGIC BROTHERS?

The fact that franky needs to learn this lesson to pass it on to robin.... do you understand how big this is.... also Tom does exactly as he says and takes responsibility for franky and what he has done... because he has done nothing wrong AND THAT'S HIS SON and he just punched spandam bc he wanta him to feel the pain franky feels... Tom is such a man..... proud of having built eater 7 up with the sea train.... goes out with a boom.... should we all kill ourselves....

I am crying again................... franky my god.... and the fucking frog!!! And of course franky can't stop Tom's hope for his island... of course he can't.... he hasnt learnt the lesson yet but this guy isn't over yet!! He has a life of being a pervert cyborg ahead!!! Iceburg following Tom's footsteps but franky not being able to do that bc of his guilt....

This is one of the coolest things chopper has done btw...

NAMII 😭😭😭

Robin damning the world for her crew when all she has ever done is damn her companions for her own sake.... how big is this...

I can't take this...... it's always nami in these positions... it happens AGAIN in Zou with Sanji... there is no way

The love letter gag is too good like damn that's so funny

AND IT'S NAMI GOING THROUGH IT AGAIN!!!! SHE LOVES ROBIN SO MUCH!!!!

[rickybaby]

My dash is currently an interesting game of where’s Daniel … is he at a racing event with Tall Blake? Is he partying on a boat with Manager Blake? Is he somewhere cold with Heidi?? No one knows …

[kycken]

[Continued from HERE.]

@rxsolvx:

Inui was in a bad mood. It wasn't only that he had lost, it was that the gap between Taiju's strength and his own was so wide. It was the fact that the one thing that got him through his time in juvie was thinking about the Black Dragons. But Izana was gone and Shion had failed. Nothing was left and Inui had to pick up the scraps. Shinichirou had trusted him, Izana had put his faith in him, he needed to put them back together and he.. couldn't. He needed someone like Taiju; someone with strength and presence. He rolled his eyes at Koko's annoyance, more focused on tending to his aching wounds. Maybe it was just the end of the line. "It was his idea, not mine." He sighed. "You're right, Koko. It's not the scene for you. I don't even get why he wants you. I'll tell Taiju to fuck off and I'll figure something else out. This stuff doesn't need to concern you." He spat a mouthful of thick blood at the ground. "I should probably go clean up my tokkofuku - I'll see you 'round Koko."

A heavy, exasperated 'TCH' is pushed through Kokonoi's pursed lips.

Of course it was...

The resident 'money-making genius' was always in high demand, ever since he'd formed his own underground business that enacted a variety of crimes (both petty and serious) for hefty prices. The fact that a majority of his members were delinquents meant that they were minors and thus, could escape the harsher punishments if caught: A legal loophole that had been overlooked and thoroughly exploited.

" I don't even get why he wants you."

The clean cut and well-dressed teen had the brains, poise, and pure desperation to do it what it took to rise to the top and yet here was Inupi claiming he was- What? Useless? Really?

An almost overwhelming rage ignites inside of him, eyes flashing dangerously as they widened enough to display prominent blood vessels standing out against stark white- Evidence of his dedication and self-sacrifice, putting his own health and sanity on the back burner in order to maximize profits.

His long gait closes the ever widening chasm between them, it's gaping maw always managing to stretch wider due to Seishu's delusional beliefs in resurrecting a long dead subculture, some pathetic fucking fossil from a generation he hadn't even been born into to really experience at it's height.

His fingers are steely and talon into Inupi's thicker bicep, roughly forcing him to about-face and confront the smaller male. Inupi was still minutely taller in height, even without the heels, but Hajime swore he wore them specifically in order to look down on him.

"Don't you DARE fucking turn your back on me!" he explodes, upper lip curling back in an ugly and condescending sneer. Seizing the collar of the long uniform coat, he slams Seishu back against the nearest wall of their shared apartment.

"It 'doesn't concern me'? While you were running to your precious aniki, I was already operating my own fucking gang, or did one too many pipes to the fuckin' head give you short term memory loss-"

He knows he's crossing a line by even going here, actually insulting the memory of Shinichiro, even in a slight sense. He more was insulting Inui, a petty and vindictive jealousy blooming within his heart at how easily his only friend had replaced him with even the likes of Wakasa and Benkei.

"I've been involved a helluva lot longer than you. Just who the FUCK do you even think you are?! You weren't even a Black Dragon founder, more like some pathetic goddamn fan boy! Those 'glory days' you won't fucking SHUT UP about were over way before you even tried to breathe life into it's long-dead corpse. Christ, just having to sit around listening to your constant whining about it makes me want to rip my own skin off... You're not even an actual delinquent in that respect, you're a fucking delinquent otaku- You think anybody who runs a REAL gang gives a solitary shit about that dumbass 'Code of Honor'? Don't make me laugh."

His dark eyes narrow to twinned vindictive slivers as his fingers dig into Inupi's jaw, dragging him forward and down to Hajime's level. “You got used to me taking the lead and figuring everything out. And now all of a sudden, it seems like a good idea to start acting like you've got the brains to start 'thinking'? That’s not how it works, Inupi. Figures you’d forget as much.”

[the-shifting-long]

one of my favorite voice arts/designs was where they were these tendrils of light surrounding the long quiet/decider, and they had different shapes/colors/covered different parts of him (like, i want to say paranoid was this purple tendril that tightly wound around him in the shape of nerves, and had little triangle-shaped sparklies) but i have never been able to find it after seeing it the one time and have never seen something quite like it again

[asthedeathoflight]

At my job in the costume shop every project was kept on one of those foldable cardboard box lids that they have for like filing boxes in offices and it was SUCH a great system and so convenient and now that im back home and working on my own personal projects im sorely lamenting the lack of lids. Theyre shallow enough that it doesnt take up significant space but theyre rigid enough to keep everything contained and light enough to pick up with one hand. If i ever have the home sewing studio of my dreams im getting like seven and using them exclusively for project management

[rcguish]

a collection of snippets from some of the discord happenings ( silver and grusha threads <3 ) : first date ; day two. pt 1.

silver’s gaze trails back from the wheelchair to his companion, taking in inventory of all that appeared on his visage and in his mannerisms. there’s an ease to it this time, not entirely does grusha really relax, but the battle that surely rages on where silver could not see seems to be won just that bit easier. and so this time, in direct response to the thumb caressing his skin does he turn his hand in their shared grasp and return the motions, the message. and this time, silver decides to verbalize the feeling that had bloomed. “proud of you.” soft and whispered thing, he doesn’t trust his voice or general lack of proper tone not to insinuate the wrong thing. silver deems a whisper worlds more sincere than anything else. [ ... ... ] he holds that now-met gaze and he gives another simple nod, firm and resolute – respectful. “chair it is.” and at that, stops the ministrations they shared with their hands, almost woefully parting from that warmth to bring himself to a stand. retrieves and wheels the chair over, careful not to bump into any playful baby foxes thinking the movement of the wheels would be indicative of a toy or a game. brings it to directly face grusha, the position he’d noted it to sit at when they’d moved themselves to the couch the night before. there’s a small gesture, an upturned hand yet not fully held out, an outing for grusha to deny or accept however he saw fit. it was always going to be his choice. “i’m, uh… i’m not a good cook in the slightest bit, so i don’t think the idea of offering to cook breakfast is on the table for me. i’d rather not have that be the thing that chases you off.”

that wasn’t what silver’d been expecting. was grusha about to… he processes the hand almost unable to close the gap, and gently takes it in his — skin on skin was still really nice — grateful for the balance on his feet he’d always been adept with. whatever had been present on grusha’s face was muted, not entirely gone as they maneuvered and pivoted to sit. but it’s quicker to melt away when silver’s words seem to have processed at that moment. a knee-jerk reaction, he guesses, as the disbelief has him stilling and staring at grusha with a dumbfounded expression lifting eyebrows. “ ’uxie above’ — oh, yeah? you’re teaching me?” instantly does he devolve into snickers erring on the side of barely-contained laughs. dare silver even say that was a ‘veiled roast’ if he’s ever heard one. no offense to be taken, no ; that was the funniest damn thing. “only cooking i’ve ever done is roasting over a campfire.” hand rests on grusha’s shoulder again, a squeeze of acknowledgment to their physical correction.

honestly, if this sort of conversation had gone down with anyone different than grusha, silver would've ended this with a glare and a prompt / pointed exit. either be it from embarrassment or disdain ; he didn't usually like to be met with anything that could be regarded as scrutiny. but this? this was funny, grusha's exasperation was hilarious and silver was genuinely tickled through and through. the snickers / light laughs fall so easily from him, it's like he's laughed his whole life in these moments. "i am going to try my very best to retain maybe twenty percent of it all, so that you'd do this again with me and i'd have to sit through another one of your 'i cannot believe you right now' moments." and it's at that comment, grusha's own laughter mixing with his that he genuinely has to take a moment to recollect himself. "i have no plans on experiencing that again, trust -- though, 'm honored to stress you out that much." another snort, before the doors open mid-contemplation and kurama's bounding in. [... ...] "besides, cooking for pokemon in the wild is a completely different thing than cooking for yourself! y'know, with -- spices. and flavors. flavor profiles?" scoffs, but it does little to quell the amused beam still sitting across his face. "i'm sure you're also worlds better than the guy from kalos, or those brothers from unova. how'd i get this lucky, huh, grusha?"

silver hums to that, a reflectiveness about him as he tries to recall all the times he's had cuisine from separate regions. anything and everything he didn't notice at the time, coming to a point right there because grusha was actually making him think about it. bringing attention to the things he'd otherwise never thought of. and there's a budding thought somewhere in the back of his mind -- how exciting it would be for him and grusha to travel together. all the things he might not otherwise have noticed or thought of, just because he'd have another person with him... and not just any person. [... ...] “that does sound worlds better than what i’ve been doing for twenty five years.” he’s hesitant, a part of him almost hidden behind the softness of this morning and the feelings that he’s bathing in at this very second – reject the help, accept it? silver will accept it -- a shaky resolution despite the distant roar of protest. he hopes it doesn’t come up down the line again, accepting help had always been something so foreign and unwanted to him. but something was different with the way how grusha… wasn’t really offering. [... ...] their eyes meet at that, a raised eyebrow doing little to put the intended incredulity into his expression past all the overflowing amusement. silver pats weavile’s head behind plumage, “hear that, buddy? he’s forcing me to do everything for myself, now. look at how far we’ve come.” it cries out its name in response, sniffing about partner before gladly making his way back to the glaceon. it was almost his way of saying thank johto, good luck! silver rolls his eyes before meeting grusha’s eyes once more, fondness at both his person and the adorable flareon in his lap. “can you believe this? just like that.” brings himself to stand from his previous squat, moving them both into the kitchen before glancing around somewhat sheepishly. “prep? uh… well, i’d think eggs, for one. you said toast, too – so bread. eggs, bread.”

they start listing off things to retrieve, and silver can follow along at first – the point is helpful, and though he’s a little hesitant to just make himself at home in someone else’s house – grusha’s home – he finds his way back to the counter with toaster at the ready. silver furrows eyebrows in contemplation, visualizing the processes in his mind as grusha walks him through the steps and reasoning – wait, huh? [... ...] “you’ve got – your fucking work cut out for you.” finally manages to regain his composure somewhat, though it’s fragile with how his lips tremble at the threat of a laugh bursting force yet again. forces himself to breathe, in and out, before diving back into the fridge. “alright. parmesan.” reaches out, tentatively pulling open a drawer and grabbing the nearest thing that looks like a block of cheese. “butter and half-and-half.” this takes a little longer, and he has to empty hands out onto the counter before trying to peer around for the spinach. finds the eggs instead, once again finding their way to the counter. “where’s the… the rotary thing and the spinach?”

grusha’s quick to respond to his curse with a language, and silver had to physically pause and look at them with a hardly-contained smirk. “‘language’? i don’t even think steven’s reprimanded me with a ’language.’” just barely doesn’t break composure again there, just barely manages to pass off another chuckle in snorts. gauging a reaction… this could very well be something he could give grusha shit for, later. he really is funny. “really proving your point on ‘going on forty,’ here.” [... ...] and it’s there that grusha reaches and grabs the aforementioned knife, pointing out all characteristics that it made it that kind, and silver examines it thoroughly – with interest. knives have always held enjoyment / punishment and curiosity to him, but he never bothered to learn about the differences and the intricacies past the specialities in butterfly or pocket knives – especially those in the kitchen. this might as well have been a whole separate language. there’s a stabbing pain right through the middle of his palm to the knuckle, but the only thing indicative of a predictable sensation is a slight twitch of his eye. not right now. but silver wasn’t one to run away from a challenge, though. and by rainbow phoenix he’s paying attention, soaking in everything grusha says and shows him with diligence, envisioning a slight difference that they’d mentioned. he nods at the comparison, and takes the handle to put it back proper – but not without giving it a closer look, of course. right at the junction of metal to handle (plastic, maybe? metal? this looked like metal…) and curvature of the tip and blade. and when it’s away, he’s turning back to grusha with a brighter shine to his eyes. “i’m glad i’m helping in a way kinda like how you’re helping me. i’m grateful for this, on a more serious note.” sterling gaze flickers to the counter, a very obvious thought of interest breaching his mind and he has little mind to think about consequences. “i know there’s a way how chefs hold knives, and cut with them. there’s this artistry to it that’s… really captivating, actually – can you do that?”

toboe seemingly responding whenever grusha mentioned him directly was an adorable thing silver was quick to appreciate in observation. reminded him of how talkative weavile can be whenever it'd been in direct vicinity, or especially honchkrow. the ways how his corvid mimics and adds its own mischievous taunt, sometimes eerily turning silver's own words back at him was the subject of many hilarious (and kinda terrifying) memories. "i relate to a degree. feraligatr can often take it up under his responsibility to delegate to everyone else what to do when i... can't move out of bed." those days are always rough. but they've navigated it together, as a whole team, and everyone had roles and duties to fulfill when silver just couldn't do it. how he'd make it up to them when he was feeling well enough to get up again. it wasn't dissimilar to how they'd work in tandem to set up camp, watch each others' backs, and survive for however long they needed to out in the wilderness.

good job, even. silver slows to a quick stop. there's a widened way about his eyes at he looks at grusha, right when those words had been paired with a touch of humor -- 'till he's quick to match soft smile to theirs. the way how his heart fluttered and soared and set his cheeks three degrees warmer was something he'd... once again have to pick apart later. the next few days (weeks, probably) were about to be full of introspection and breaking apart of his feelings, silver was sure. he was... looking forward to it, actually. back to the task at hand. grusha points and he follows, surveying the differences in sizes before settling on what he deemed 'medium-sized.' turns to discover they'd pulled out the board, nodding in a gesture of gratitude. "color coded? does... does the color signify anything, does it mean what kind of material it is?" eyebrows knit somewhat, "can you cut wrong?" based on cutting board alone? and silver's too busy contemplating the cutting board in his head and the semantics of it all, trying to logic his way out of all the possible differences that could lead to maybe duller blades or a not-so-clean cut. maybe red was a thicker plastic... maybe wood was only used for vegetables? his vision's snapped to the somewhat unexpected sound, though he's curious ; grusha's words catch up to him with the visual and he gives an nod in agreement. [ ... ... ] so instead, silver takes a deep breath before taking an egg and giving a (what he would think) to be a good enough impact -- and surprisingly it's a clean cut. it slips easily into the bowl, and the success sparks a tiny glimmer of alright, this is easy in him. a tiny bit. he picks up the second egg, and while this cut is a little less clean, silver's able to pry it apart without getting shells into the mixture and without breaking the yolk. alright. alright. it's when he goes for the third egg, though, that perhaps he'd gotten slightly too hasty. he goes to crack the egg with a much harder grip, much too hard, and as shell meets bowl it practically exploded in his hand in one fell swoop. half of whites and egg shell make it onto the counter, the other half cupped in a hand held up in the air. silver turns his head to look at grusha with a bewildered and shocked raise of eyebrows / parting of his lips / wideness of his eyes. "this sucks as a tactile feeling. i hate this. i hate this a lot."

silver's quick in his disgusted shake of the head of the idea of weavile licking all of this slop off of his fingers, sandpaper tongue and all -- he just barely staved off a dry heave at the combination of it all across senses. he locates the sink and quickly makes his way over to it, careful not to let the whites drip down his forearm onto the floor (and rolled up sleeve). and immediately does he turn the faucet on, desperately trying to rinse and be free of the disgusting feeling of raw eggs on his skin. leans over the counter at that second and breathes out the air he'd been holding in since the little explosion, a shaky chuckle at the ridiculousness of it all. and yet somehow, silver doesn't feel like... he should be all that ashamed. or rather, that smothering, all-consuming fire of self-hatred he found himself being enveloped in whenever he so much as made one tiny mistake in front of someone -- never comes. there are shades of it, some feeling around the fringes of his mind of wastage, inconvenience, but it doesn't swallow him whole. no, in fact when he's turning around after the question's asked, and he sees that grusha had already taken care of the mess, silver's filled with a softer sense of gratitude. a tug at the corners of his mouth, right as he's grabbing all the wipes / evidence and throwing it in the trash to bring the can over. smart. "sorry about that… i can get you some more eggs tomorrow." it's a little sheepish, but it's a start. "and thanks -- for cleaning that up, i should've been a little faster." tiny dip of his head, right before taking a deliberately longer breath ( barely counted, maybe rushed, who cares ). "let's give this another shot." and yes, he'll grab another egg to make up for the loss, but first -- easy enough. a little shaky, silver had been a bit more unsure of himself, but no shells made it into the mixture. tries for the last egg, concentrating, and it's as good as the last one. task failed… successfully? he scoops up the shells and throws them all into the trash, turning to grusha with a grimace of a smile. "alright, then. now what?"

and there is it again — good. silver honest to phoenix could not believe how one word could affect him so intensely, especially when it hardly ever made him blink in the past. be it praise from the professors or his seniors, it hardly mattered to him in the end. praise from blue was nice, but the feeling tapered quickly. praise from steven was hard-fought and hard to come by, and nice as well, but it too would often fade after the moment it’d been spoken. he’d always find a way to let approval float to the wayside, no matter what was said or if the manner in which was impactful – he’d just find another way to hone in on strength and objectives. in a way, silver found himself falling into that similar pattern, wanting to keep up the (small) success and steamroll onto the next task. and the next. complete the mission, no matter the hardship. …but this was cooking. this was cooking in a kitchen, and grusha had praised him good for something so mundane and fuck there’s that warmth he feels on the nape of his neck again. yeah. when they said it, it was worlds different from everyone else. silver… wanted to keep hearing it. ( he puts that away for now. onwards. ) [ ... ... ] he’s aware enough to keep fingers closer inside / away from the blade, although movements are clunky and unsure at best. meticulously lines up the spinach on a vertical line, cutting stems away in two big sweeps of the knife. ( follow the curve of the blade and apply pressure? seems to be the way to go… ) easy enough. swipes the excess away to the edges, and pauses in mental mapping of how best to go about horizontal / vertical chops. decides to scoop them all in a relatively close pile, takes fingers to the blunt edge on top, and uses them as leverage to chop right and left; picks the knife up and repeats on a vertical angle. maybe a little small, and some of the leaves are a little mushy… but, they’re thoroughly chopped squares still. before silver can even help himself, he’s looking at grusha with a glint to his eyes – how’d i do?

grusha smiles, and chuckles, and silver felt like he’d been robbed of the air right from out of his lungs. perfect… he didn’t need to look back at the spinach to know he’d been far off from perfect, but even still. that word hits silver in tandem with the rush of emotion ( adoration, affection, really ) from before, and the flush that overtakes nose / cheeks / ears practically burns. how the fuck was he supposed to finish breakfast at this pace? every time they uttered even just a single word somewhere alongside ( incorrect, these had been direct ) a compliment or praise, silver felt like he could’ve walked outside that door and jogged an entire lap around the house in that very moment. it was astounding, really -- somewhat like whiplash, in the way how he seemed to bask in it. “i may be an artist, but maybe not that kind of artist… still, thank you.” he wants to say something more, wants to do something more, but he’s rooted to the spot and grusha’s turning to continue the mission ( cooking breakfast ). so he closes his mouth and decides for later. [ ... ... ] the very same eyes that have been soft and warm-hearted this entire morning, instantly revert back to their intense / analytical nature. he assesses grusha’s posture and condition with tense and bunched-up muscles, ready to move at the slightest sign of something a little more serious. but, grusha seems to walk themselves through with a breathing exercise not unlike silver’s own, and their commentary alone is enough for him to stay put. there’s two miniscule, unnoticeably slow bounces of silver's head, recognition from his own experiences and trust all in one. when grusha turns, though, handing him the bowl like everything was fine, silver was inclined to believe it. peered a little deeper into his face, his eyes, and wasn’t met with anything that immediately concerned him or pinged any radar. so he smiles, a tiny thing in the face of his previous flush. “nothing beats a good back crack. you alright, though?” he knows the answer judging by how they’re moving about and retrieving the bread (in between the teeth? i'd do the same), but it’s a question he tosses over their way regardless. better for verbal confirmation than a visual assessment – if grusha were anyone like silver (and they very much are), the possibility of them masking / covering up a greater issue is likely.

silver considers his partner’s words, following their gaze as it travels pointedly to the mentioned cheese. he’d had parmesan before, and can rightfully attest to the fact of saltiness; and while he does briefly consider retrieving the pepper, something tells him the way how grusha enunciated sprinkled that tells him they have two completely different palates on pepper alone. he raises an eyebrow at you’re the chef, a somewhat incredulous look playing alongside a smirk on one end of his mouth. he decides to forgo the pepper on that alone. like trust the process, but translating it to cooking – there were sciences and flavors at play that he’d only just begun delving into, an entire artistry. grusha had years of experience on silver, and he’d know better than anyone than to question offered guidance / suggestions. blue has tried teaching silver how to cook once before, and it’s ended up in disaster all the same; the hilarity of that alone had been enough for silver to decide cooking was simply not it for him. this time had, admittedly, been going so more smoothly than he’d ever anticipated.

he almost, almost missed the good thinking, too lost in his own mind with the queue of steps laid out in front of him before traitorous / angelic words distract him once again. silver meets their wondrous gaze with a smile, soft yet wide enough to crease his eyes. maybe it conveys all the thoughts and emotions he’s been chewing on since this entire situation had started, maybe it doesn’t – but there’s warmth in his face enough that he thinks grusha would understand. silver takes the bowl without missing a beat after instruction, grateful for the normal grip strength he possessed still in his left hand today – taking spatula mid-handle and scooping the mixture into the pan. the sizzle that follows instantly is quite satisfactory, he thinks, a symphony of sorts. feeling like it dances over multiple senses, earthy browns like an embrace’s squeeze around his shoulders. silver pauses as he relishes such a new, cozy feeling. and he scoops the sides of the bowl before setting it down, tossing a glance over his shoulder to grusha, observing them load the cheese with interest. he does move the spatula alongside the edges to keep from sticking, and ultimately it brings eyesight back to the pan in front of him in order to keep slight movements gentle in the folds (and not like with his strength before). [ ... ... ] lifts the spatula and sets it down beside the stove, taking the few steps forward to meet grusha and take the loaded grater. there’s a moment where he locks sight with him again, and his heart skips a beat. pure, unabashed adoration keeps him rooted in place – silver couldn’t drop that hold for a few moments. so before he’s walking back to check on the pan, he’s bending down to kiss their cheek with a breath of air akin to a soft laugh.

though this entire sequence had been entirely new, and slightly uncomfortable on account of the god awful feeling from before, it’s been going really well. the instruction from his partner paired with his diligence in following along proved success when he’d noticed the cheese properly cooking into the eggs. when the heat’s turned off, and the end result sat looking rather delicious in the pan. silver can’t help but marvel at it all somewhat. bright pastel yellows with bits of greens, paired with the savory smell brought about whole new pairings of emotions. things he hasn’t felt in years since he’d stayed with blue, or things he hadn’t felt in twenty five years as a whole. this felt… and it’s then that grusha brings his attention up to the mention of plates, gaze flitting from them, their arm, and the cabinet they gestured to. silver makes quick work of retrieving them, a surer step about him than when they had started this entire endeavor. he follows them, eyes catching such fluidity about their movements with a keenness. he’d seen people move and wheel around in a wheelchair before, but… he was fascinated. it was still an entirely new way of movement, and silver wanted to mentally study every single bit of muscle movement / hand placement / technique / action that went into it. perhaps as a greater understanding. perhaps out of his old childlike interest in the unknown / new. perhaps because he’d been completely and utterly entranced by all of grusha. task. task… [ ... ... ] grusha places both sets of toast onto the plates, moving to retrieve the butter – and silver can’t help but find curious gaze once again caught up in the movement. like he’d been committing it all to memory. “all things considered, that… wasn’t bad. and i’m talking ‘bad’ being the face of burnt rice, or a poor mixture of children’s cereal. it all smells delicious.”

savory dishes have a habit of being more filling, huh… that was an interesting thing to note. silver thought about that for a second, trying to recall the last full meal he’s eaten besides their dinner last night, though the feeling eludes him. something to keep in mind for the future, perhaps a little experiment he could set up himself to prove grusha’s point. they were definitely knowledgeable on nutrition, and silver does suppose it comes from being an athlete. being so involved with it would certainly cause all facets of life to shift towards the major goal or hobby or job. he distantly wonders if this was something that grusha had also stuffed away deep into his psyche, or if this might one of the few strings his still holds onto from the life he used to lead. wonders if… him teaching silver how to cook, maybe brought back some happier times. a taste of something sweet in the middle of a mess. wonders if it’s really just as simple as the duties of the ward of the mountain. he knows for a fact that this one meal held a lot more weight to him alone than just a simple breakfast might normally serve to someone else. it was something they both did together, something they both worked towards to finish and it worked out. they worked good together. silver’s never ‘worked good’ with someone else. [ ... ... ] they’re grabbing his hand, kissing his knuckles, practically showering him with praise and silver halts again. platinum never left multicolored, but three heartbeats pass of shock in his stare before there’s a fogginess to his vision. distanced somewhere in his mind and yet so very present, rooted to this moment and the way how he soared – and then silver’s barely holding back the laughter that follows. not barely, he’s simply unsuccessful. bends down / leans into grusha’s space a little at the ridiculousness of one stupid joke in the middle of that, and it wasn’t even meant to be a joke. “eggs – eggs of your labor?” and despite himself, despite the softer laughs now shaking shoulders, his free hand cups the side of grusha’s face and tenderness / fondness wells in like it’d meant to exist in his face from the get-go. “you are funny, i hope you know that.” gives a gentle sweep over their cheek, smile settling into something softer. “thank you. really. you, uh… you were very patient with me. i’m sorry i lost that egg.”

silver ponders grusha's 'repayment proposition' for a second, though, pursing his lips in an over-showing of inward deliberation. “hmm.. “ and though it's an acted joke, surprise actually does hit him somewhat – evident in the flutter of eyelids and a somewhat puzzled look creeping into his eyes. like he'd been caught off guard. “i – wasn’t the only one who made this, though. atleast not without your help.” but there’s a pointed pause to that, a moment where they hold sight and silver… relents with a nod. and a small smile returns with bashfulness. grusha meant what he said. [ ... ... ] though, silver’s once again caught off guard by their insistence, eyebrows raising as a prelude to the half-smile that follows. he gives a single nod, another conscious reminder to breathe, before he’s taking the pepper shaker and dusting it over the eggs ( little first, adjust as needed ). there’s a pause, just as fork lifts before something seems to solidify in his mind. maybe it was the accumulation of this entire morning, the eggs of his labor and the attention on him -- the expectancy for what it'd taste and feel like. he takes the bite. and silver’s reaction is almost instantaneous, eyes beholden to the textures of the table before they close behind eyelids and his head’s bobbing in an almost unconscious nod for seconds of time. “...alright. yeah. nothing beats home-cooked meals.” home-cooked. there's something about the way how that sounded. "i almost loathe to admit how much i feel like i've been missing out over the last few years." a finger rises to curl slightly over his mouth, a slight way of covering a much too unabashed smile in that moment. "my sister used to cook for me, back when i used to sometimes crash at her place... this reminds me of those days. but in a way... well, maybe not better, because they're two separate feelings -- but this is good. this is different and, uh, really good."

like now, when he snorts and levels them with the best half-serious look silver could muster, “oh, she has. that’s where the burnt rice is from.” and he laughs at his own ‘joke,’ the sheer irony of the scene and the places he and blue hailed from as context resulting in immediate peak comedy. “needless to say, i wasn’t keen on trying again after that.” he points to upstairs, and somewhere up there where he (assumes he) left his phone. “she’s the one on my lock screen if you’ve ever seen her — probably haven’t though, i don’t think i’ve just… flashed my phone at you before.” fondness warms his face almost as brightly as grusha, but it’s a different sort this time. “her name’s blue. she was someone i found after all the bullshit, and then… i just clung to her. she extended a hand out to me when i ran away, saw me in a world where no one else did — for better or for worse.” though the topic may be shadowed by his looming demon of history, none of it touches the love he feels for her at all simple conversation. the warmheartedness from recalling a beloved person while in the presence of his person… he chuckles. “she kickstarted me into learning how to read, ‘cause i didn’t know how to back then. and, by extension, her aunt introduced me into art.” he mirrors grusha in picking up a piece of toast, cutting a part of egg off with the side of his fork before scooping it / placing it on the bread. ponders for a moment. “blue… saved my life. and by no measure of exaggeration.”

wait, he knows blue? silver stops mid-chew, one eyebrow quirked up with another knitted in a quizzical look. it’s when he resumes as grusha continues on with their story that his face softens back into a smile, barely staving off another round of snorts. trainer finishes his bite, the swallow allowing amusement to finally blossom and take up hold on silver’s face. “that sounds like her.” and all he could see at the forefront of his mind was her bright smile, and the shit she’d give him for all the dumb things he found himself doing. he missed her. seeing blue more often after graduating has always been something silver’s looked forward to. that was a thought for later. “she’s saved the day multiple times with the things she’d pull from that bag. in a way, when i was a kid, i think i really started to equate her to a mother-like sort of figure – the magic she pulled with that thing only helped prove my point.” huffs out a breath of air in a chuckle, ”and it only did more when she handed me two items one day, told me to let sneasel and murkrow hold them, and then they’re evolving later on that same night.”

the surprise / revelation that is a story to watch as it fully lights grusha’s face is nothing short of adorable, and it’s then that he connects their expressions before and what whirlwind they might be feeling internally as well. there was a gravity there that silver didn’t notice at first, too caught up in the tenderness to recall and talk about blue – someone that had come into grusha’s life when they needed it the most, too. maybe she helped them in a way that she helped him? and with that is silver turning his phone around to look at the face of someone so dear / precious / loved, a thread that connected him and grusha even more. “the one and only. she means everything to me.” he smiles, almost back at blue on the screen, making a mental note to give her a call when he let his pokemon out and about later. it’s been a while since he has, and silver was all too aware ( and guilty ) that he really had to make more of a habit on checking up on her.. ( he’d have to thank her for dragging grusha to that festival, too, by the sound of it. ) [ ... ... ] it threatens to bubble over and instead, silver shakes his head and dives back in for some more eggs and toast. takes a few seconds to chew, swallow, breathe (really, heave a sigh), and grusha’s processing all the while. perhaps he’d also been stewing in disbelief, or at the very least processing a dozen links coming together – perhaps just ruminating over the sheer irony of it all. small world. small world, indeed. with a hand over his mouth as he chews, silver pauses at spirited away, disbelieving stare leveling with grusha’s. has to take a few seconds of contemplation before he’s swallowing and tilting his head somewhat at him. “how do you mean?”

[miniimerry]

rewatching and rereading one piece is such a cool experience because there’s always some fun little thread you didn’t see the first time, or a little comment or a little behavioral gag that seemed insignificant in the moment, but in hindsight was absolutely essential to the plot moving forward. it’s also neat seeing the ways character is established in seemingly innocuous ways. i think the fact that readers and viewers can do this is part of one piece’s charm.

[organised-disaster]

Aight @baxieblur-turnip and @randosfandos y'all know the drill here it is

SNOWBIRD: CHAPTER IV

I stare at the ceiling. It's quite nice. Wood panels. Inoffensive. I count the scratch marks in it, then the proper holes.

I've just nicked it more than I've actually hit it. I don't especially try when I throw my knife. It used to be Otto's. I feel bad launching it at the ceiling, but it's what I do when I'm bored.

I retrieve it from my drawer. I flick it open and close a few times, running my thumb over the dimpled texture of the green handle while I study the ceiling. I can almost see the shape of a face...

I throw the knife up into a blank spot. It makes a tiny scratch. Not enough force. It sails back down into my hand. I catch it easily, the blunt side of the blade slotting seamlessly between my fingers.

Again. It thuds into the ceiling, between the boards, and I almost think it's going to stay there. It slides out, however, rotating to be blade-first. It pierces the pillow next to my head. How unfortunate.

Again. A thunk can be heard as it stays put. I stand to retrieve it, my bed creaking in protest. The ceilings are not especially low, but Otto's knife is easily within my reach.

It comes away too easily. Not enough force, once again. I stay standing instead of lying down again. I look at the knife in my hand.

I could stop. I could stop damaging the ceiling over and over again, and I could stop blunting the knife. I should stop.

I am only breaking things. No, not even breaking. This is nothing.

This is just more purposeless damage. I am just stabbing the ceiling, the ceiling that can not die, or feel it at all. This is an exercise in futility. I am satisfying nothing.

The sound the knife makes as I personally drive it into the ceiling is very satisfying indeed.

I step off my bed, landing silently on my floor. I allow the knife to say in my ceiling. I don't need it, anyway. I have other, much sharper knives. Better knives.

I pass my empty wall. The spot with four holes in it as if something was once displayed there stares into me, accusing me. I face it, staring back. I blindfold it by displaying Sera's gift. Yumi's warm, grey eyes now bore a hole into my skull, but it's a marginal improvement.

I shut the door quietly behind me. I don't care about the noise I make, but I don't need to be loud. It would feel too small.

My footsteps echo in the empty hallway. There used to be photos in this house. Filling the walls. There also used to be laughter.

The one photo left sits alone on the mantle. I know what it looks like, of course. I wasted many days staring at it.

Yumi is approximately seven. My mother is desperately trying to keep a hold of her, obviously tired but still smiling. Yumi is wearing a large grin, several teeth missing, as she seems to yell and reach toward the photographer.

One of her hands is pushing my mother's face to the side, slightly squishing her smile. My father is holding me, smiling at my mother and Yumi rather than the camera. I look grumpy.

It was taken in winter, so we are all wearing warm clothing. I look adequately cared for, with a knit beanie and fluffy green jumpsuit covering all of me but my face. My father's puffy jacket is an equal green. Yumi's brown sweater matches the one our mother is wearing. Yumi had to be wrestled into that sweater.

It's a lovely, lively photo, full of warmth and happiness. It reflects nothing of what we are now, though. It's almost like looking into a broken mirror.

You know what's supposed to be there, what it's supposed to look like, and it just doesn't. You can tell what it was. You can tell what it did. And it will never be what it was again, even if you fix it.

It's far more complicated than a broken mirror, though. We've lost all but two of the pieces, and one is so dirty and scratched that it's functionally worthless. We don't even have the glue to put those two pieces back together.

I hate the year-old girl in that photo. I hate her dissatisfied frown and barely visible black hair. I hate her chubby, tiny, tightly balled fists. I hate her innocence. I hate her ignorance.

I'm not looking at the photo now, though, so there is nothing immediately in front of me to hate. At least until I reach the mirror. But I already know what I look like. I will just ignore myself, like always.

I wash my face for the third time today. I should apologise to Sera. I should also never speak to Sera again. I should also lie down in the sand and wait for the ocean to claim me.

It's unclear what order I should take those actions in. Logic states that the ocean will take up far more of my time than begging for Sera's forgiveness and exit from my life.

I do not like logic. It is normally against me. I don't really want to talk to Sera right now, either. I don't want to talk to her, full stop. She'll come to me, talk to me, convince me to talk to her. She always does.

Of course, the Reaping is soon. I have several hours to kill. Normally, I'd spend this time with Sera. It would be tense, and there would be something inherently sad about it, but we would have each other. And that would be how we held each other together.

But not today. I won't lose this. I don't lose. It isn't something I do. I don't need Sera. I need her like I need a gaping head wound. I need her like I need the knife in my ceiling. Gods, I hate that knife.

I hated Otto's urgency as she pressed it into Yumi's hands before pressing an equal kiss to her lips. I hated my father's soulless eyes as he dropped a box of Yumi's things on my lap. I hated the message at the bottom of that box.

I hate that message.

I twist the tap violently enough that it must have bruised my hand. What a shame. The tap drips for a moment, then realises it's done with its job and ceases. The ensuing silence is decidedly agitating. It is broken by the sound of the door creaking open.

I will not look in the mirror. I will not acknowledge who is staring back at me, and I especially will not acknowledge who is behind me. I bring my hands behind my head, gathering my hair into one area.

I make sure to keep my eyes closed. I slide my hairband off my wrist and wrap it once, twice, three times around my ponytail until it is tight and stays in its place just behind where my head curves. I drag the towel across my face, mildly hoping it'll miraculously turn into steel wool.

I push past the man with the unshaved face and uncombed hair. I do not speak to him. He has missed his chance. He lays a hand on my shoulder.

The father makes some semblance of an attempt to speak to his daughter. The daughter coldly brushes away her father's hand.

My gait is not hurried, but most would fall behind. I don't know where I'm going. I suppose I'll find out when I get there. More people are around now. Most of them are Peacekeepers.

Preparing for the yearly slaughter, of course. It's a miracle Annie won the last. The poor girl snapped like a twig the minute Moor was beheaded. I don't blame her.

We were... not friends. Never friends. I knew her. It wouldn't be right to say that I know her. But we interacted, and I didn't hate her. She's how I knew him.

I remember how she trembled in the chair she looked too small in when her other friends rushed in to wish her luck and comfort her. He would have loved to, but mentors aren't allowed to.

I don't envy her. Or him. Nothing good came of their victories, aside from the food parcels for District Four. He's off in the Capitol being treated like an object, and Annie is... hopefully still breathing.

Perhaps I should visit her. There was far too much screaming coming from her house in Victor's Village for a woman who lives alone the last time I tried to check on her, though. It's best that I stay away.

Seth is about her age, I believe. They've never once held a conversation, but Seth has a way of speaking without his voice. He is very regular with his visits to her.

He looks almost identical to his sister. Messy blonde curls that spill easily into his eyes and tie themselves into knots around his ears, dulled-gold irises, a constellation of freckles across his nose and cheeks, a solid, strong build. One of their very few physical differences is his facial hair, which isn't much more than some thicker patches of fuzz at the moment.

I'm told he's very handsome by his many fans. I don't see it. He's just a male version of Sera, so feasibly I should be able to see it, but it just doesn't appear to me. Perhaps it's his lack of everything that I find sweet about her. Sera's face in my vision every day for almost two decades could have warped my perception of what "good-looking" is...

Most people assume Seth is mute or deaf or both, but he turns when someone talks to him, and he responds with a mumble or vague noise if I ask him something.

Seth is... strange. He's oddly fascinated by seaweed and the like, wasting all his free time poking at samples of it pulled up of fishing trips. He doesn't feel anything until it's applied tenfold, and even then, it doesn't appear to bother him. He'll just stare at people if they talk to him.

He talks to his friends the most. They adore him. It's understandable, with his inexplicable odd charm. It was easy to assume at first that they were just acting like they liked him because they found it funny.

They're genuine, though. They gather, the five or so of them, without him occasionally. I once walked past them as they were talking, and he was mentioned many times.

They talked about how odd it was that he knew so much about seaweed, but changed it immediately by talking about what he knew and how interesting it was. They discussed if they should bring Seth along to an event, mainly debating if he would enjoy it. One of them mentioned a rock Seth had given him, holding it out and praising it.

I don't consider myself jealous. It made me wonder for a moment if that was how the people who knew me talked about me when I wasn't present. I felt relieved for a moment. I am not one to try to deny facts, however.

I'm not blind. I saw the glares Seth's friends gave me.

One of them was Otto's younger brother, Oswald. She had two, him and a boy named Fayrouz, who's now about thirteen. He hates me now, but I would sometimes see him when Otto came over to talk to Yumi.

I remember her fairly well, although I didn't know her as greatly.

Otto loved green and wore a lot of it. Mainly deep sages, but I'd occasionally see her wearing an almost blindingly lime shirt. She was one of the fishers and had the build to match. Her burnt umber skin was lined with scars, especially her hands, and her whole body rippled when she flexed.

She had distinctly sharp features, much like the Esthel twins. Unlike them, though, her caramel-colour gaze could easily cut diamond. Her face was also more square, drawing attention to her high, ever-bruised cheekbones. She would always wear her black, curling hair in a low ponytail.

Oswald and I talked a little then, while our sisters were busy with their schoolwork and their gossip. He's a nice enough guy. Or, he used to be, anyway. He has a lot of friends. Sera is one of them.

He's very fond of her. She's ushered me out of her house so she can talk to him before. It makes sense. He detests me, and Sera likes him for some reason, so she keeps us separate.

Mechi sometimes brings up how Ozzie being alone with Sera doesn't bother me, but them being alone does. I don't really have anything to address that. I can't really take him seriously, I guess. I know I'll never have to worry about Sera preferring him to me.

He looks just like Otto. His hair is curlier than hers, and he keeps it cut short, but very similar. His eyes used to have her same piercing quality, but now they smoulder when I look at him. He didn't use to try to look like her.

It's for the opposite of the reason I keep my hair long, I'd imagine.

When Yumi died, it was like his older sister had died all over again. But at least there was someone he could rightfully blame. He likes it when we're partnered together in training. Especially when weapons get involved. He never wins, but he doesn't care.

Yumi's swap was considered "a shock" and "a display of friendship." Mine was called "a tragedy" and "unjust" and "stealing."

Otto loved Yumi deeply. And then Yumi was called, and Otto couldn't imagine life without her. So Otto took Yumi's place without a moment's hesitation. Yumi was comforted and consoled, and Otto was mourned as a dead woman.

Yumi cared for me. And then I was called, and Yumi felt that I was her responsibility. So Yumi took my place without a moment's hesitation. I was scowled at and disregarded, and Yumi was mourned as a loss.

It's not unfair, not exactly. Yumi was all kinds of excellent, but Otto was different. Colder, but still as caring. Less patient, but still as willing to listen. She gave solutions when presented with problems.

I remember her voice being smooth and warm. Much like someone else's. I didn't cry at her funeral, either. Rumi Erudite doesn't cry.

There was so something so utterly tragic about Otto.

It doesn't matter, not anymore. She's dead.

Ah. So my destination was the beach. Logical. It's nice this time of year. Victors will often stop here on their tours.

I don't feel anything when I sit down in the sand, just ahead of where the waves lap at my feet. I don't want to get saltwater on these shoes. And I don't like the way the waves move. I don't like the way they're getting closer to me.

Some part of me laughs at that. They're waves. They can't be malicious. They can't be cunning. They can't be evil. They can't... hate...

I shake that away and shuffle further up the beach.

It would be nice if I could feel what I felt three hours or so ago. It would also be nice if I could describe that feeling. It's childish that all I know is that I feel it with Sera, childish that I know nothing of my own emotions.

I wish my appreciation of the sunsets and sunrises wasn't linked to Sera. I wish my best memories didn't involve her. I wish that I didn't feel short of breath when she laughs.

I wish, I wish, I wish...

How childish. How naïve. How old am I, really? That I'm stuck wishing and hoping and whining? I hate that. I hate it all. I hate Sera.

I stare out into the ocean. I normally try to identify the boats on the water, but it's all been put on hold for the Reaping. The ocean surface is empty. It's slightly odd. It's very much non-standard, but it isn't alien.

It's sort of like when the birds all fall silent and leave the skies when a storm is brewing. It's not like it isn't normal. It's just not a good sign.

No boats means a child of District Four dies.

I remember when Sera would come home from storms. If she was caught in one, it'd be because they blew in before they could react. I'd wrap a blanket around her shoulders as she laughed about how she had been thrown overboard and hauled back on more than once.

I've noticed a pattern with Sera. Every time something bad happens to her, she just... starts joking. It's like she can't take it seriously. She refuses to acknowledge her own injuries. I'll usually have to drag her over to Cod. The only time she's taken herself there was when she accidentally cut off part of her ring finger while chopping carrots, and even then, she still tried to deflect it as okay for about thirty seconds. She worries me sometimes.

One night after a storm, Sera didn't laugh. She knocked on my door and waited where she would normally just let herself in. Even when I answered, she just stood in front of the door, dripping wet from the pouring rain with her head hanging. I could barely hear her when she asked to come inside.

I wonder if it's possible to purge memories. The ones after Yumi's death are all blurred. Those aren't gone, though. I want them gone entirely, so I wouldn't even know that I was remembering them strangely.

Alas.

The ocean's calm, at least.

"Rumi." I jump slightly. The newcomer's soft voice surprised me, somehow so much louder than everything else. I glance at the sky instead of her. The light's changed. I have no idea how long I was staring out at the mostly-flat ocean.

I identify her by the stitching at the hem of her shirt as I turn to watch the ocean again.

"Figured I'd find you here," Mechi says vaguely.

"Yes, well..." I respond, equally non-specific.

There is more silence. I assume Mechi is admiring the sea.

"You made her cry, you know," she says after a few minutes.

"Okay." Mechi sighs.

"Showed up on our doorstep," she furthers.

"Okay." Mechi shifts next to me.

"She was bawling her eyes out about how she upset you. She blames herself for every little thing you do, you know."

"That seems like her problem."

"Gods, Rumi, don't you care? You're her best friend," Mechi says, irritated. I finally turn to her so I can glare at her.

She's exactly as she always is. Blank. Mechi does not show her emotions much. It's not deliberate, I don't think.

"Why should I care about what Sera blames herself for? Why should her issues be mine, too? When did I agree to that?" Mechi flexes her hands.

"When you became her friend, that's when," she says, maintaining her composure. I turn away from her. Mechi sighs again. "It's sort of difficult to calm her down when she gets like that, you know." I do know. I've known Sera for longer than she has. I hate it when people act like they know her better than me.

"She loves contact, yeah?" Mechi continues. "Likes having her hair fixed, likes being hugged, likes being held. She loves to have somebody wrap their arms around her." Mechi pauses for a moment. "Affection. From someone she trusts. That's all she really needs."

There's another long pause between the two of us.

"To make her feel safe again. You know how it is."

She's saying all that like she did it. That's all oddly intimate for someone who's just her friend. Mechi's not close to her like I am. I'm the only one who's allowed to do things like that. That's what I do with Sera, not her. That's ours, not hers. And I don't like what she's implying with that snarky little last comment. The sand crunches in my clenched fists.

"You're too cruel to her. You're on a good path to lose her, you realise." She really thinks she knows what she's talking about, doesn't she? "I can tell when she's upset. I can tell when she's scared. I know how she gets when you get angry."

Oh, of course. Because Mechi knows everything, apparently. She acts like this sometimes, like she's the smartest person in all of Panem. She acts like she's so much better than me.

Sera doesn't "get" anything when I'm angry. She knows it's not really her fault. It's not even directed at her most of the time. I always apologise to her afterwards, too. I hate to see her upset. Which I recognise better than Mechi.

Mechi doesn't have any right to assume things about me and Sera. She knows far less than I do. And she's making me angry. I bet she's doing it on purpose so she can lie some more and say that I'm always like this. Fine then. If she wants me to be angry, I'll get angry.

"Really?!" I snap at her. She doesn't flinch. "You really have the audacity to say that?! I've known Sera for fifteen years! You've known her for - for not even a third of that! Do you think you're even remotely capable of knowing her like I do?! Do you really think that you - "

"She says you scare her sometimes," Mechi says levelly, cutting me off. "She says you aren't really yourself."

I don't scare Sera. We're friends. She's not scared of me. She knows me. Maybe... maybe once, years ago, I did scare her, but we talked about that! And besides, she'd tell me if she was afraid of me. She wouldn't tell Mechi instead. She wouldn't hide her feelings from me. She wouldn't betray me like that.

I know Mechi's lying. She's doing it to make me angry. Sera would never betray me. Sera would never say that I'm not myself. She knows me. She knows who I am. She's the only one who does.

Mechi is a liar.

"You've got an excellent tactic right now, actually," she says, still daring to speak. "You're absolutely awful to her, then you tell her you care about her and act so sweet about it." How dare she. How dare she. I'm not. I'm not anything she says I am. I'm nothing she says I am. She's everything she says I am, if anything! She's the -

"What, are you just going to sit there and get redder?" Mechi prods. She's waiting for me to come to any kind of a conclusion on my own. I have a conclusion for her. I have so many conclusions for her, and right now, a lot of them end in her blood decorating the sand.

"You don't know anything about us!" I shout, going in the least violent direction. "I care about Sera! More than you ever could! And I -"

"You're doing such a great job manipulating Sera, Rumi."

She's so pretentious. She's so smug. She's so proud of herself. She thinks she knows me. She thinks she knows Sera. Sera is my friend, not hers. Sera spends the most time with me. Sera is mine.

She's mine, all mine. Mechi should give in. She's mine. She's not Mechi's, she's not Tyra's, she's not any of those stupid boys', she's definitely not Ozzie's. She's mine.

"That's why she's afraid," Mechi says, so quietly. I must have said all that out loud. I don't care. It's true. She knows it's true. And she knows she's lying.

Something breaks. Some restraint I was keeping, it's gone. She thinks she can say all that. All that without consequence. She thinks that because she's just oh so important, she can do whatever she wants.

I wasn't raised to take disrespect like that. I wasn't trained to tolerate attitude like hers. And I won't.

I strike her, hard. It knocks her over, and she cries out. I stand. She rubs the side of her face. She looks up at me. Where have I seen that expression before..?

I don't care. I don't care.

"Stand up," I snarl. She's afraid. She's cowering at my feet. She didn't expect to be hit.

Something tugs at me, at the back of my mind. I ignore it. I demand that Mechi stands up again. This time, she obeys. I hit her again. It doesn't... do as much this time.

I hit her with just as much force. I think.

I punch out at her again, but she brings her guard up and blocks it. I am abruptly reminded that Mechi has had nearly identical training to me. She sends a violent blow into my cheekbone, causing me to tear up.

I punch her in the teeth on my rebound. Her hand instinctively flies to her mouth. I take my opportunity and kick her knee, knocking her down.

I bring my own knee violently into her face.

It doesn't occur. So I bring my own knee violently into her face.

Don't I? She's at the perfect angle for it. It would probably break her nose. So I bring my own knee violently into her face.

But I don't. I stand. Useless. Mechi looks up at me. She swipes the back of her hand across her mouth, stepping up and away from me. Her face softens.

"I can tell you aren't trying," she says quietly. She doesn't even have a lisp. "You don't really want to hurt me. You're just angry."

"Shut up," I hiss. There's a good, cold fury in my voice. Mechi's expression is one of pity.

"You only did that because you hate that what I said was true."

How many times do I have to tell her? How many times do I need to bruise her? How many times do I need to split her lip?

She is a liar. I love Sera. I don't hurt her. I hate hurting her. I don't mean to. I mean it every time, and I regret it so much more every time. Something in me always whispers that she deserves it. Something in me is wrong. Some part of me is broken.

I must be doing something stupid with my face.

"You need to go talk to her. She loves you, Rumi. And you keep on breaking her heart," Mechi says, her voice weak and wavering. I mishear what she says next. I must've.

Because otherwise, Mechi just said that Sera is going to die.

Mechi wipes one of her eyes.

"I tried to talk her out of it. She said she didn't have a choice." Something icy spreads in my chest.

"She's rigged the Reaping, Rumi. For you. It's going to be her. I don't know why. She could have done anything else." Mechi is lying. Again. She must be lying. She must be. The ice creeps up my spine.

"Does she have a death wish?" I demand, although it's more desperate and pathetic and on the verge of tears than actually demanding. Mechi laughs, cold and hollow.

"Same thing I asked her," she mutters. "She didn't tell me. She just gave me this sad smile." I grab her, seizing her by the collar. The ice reaches my arms. I will not let go of her until she tells me the truth. Mechi reaches up to try to free herself, her hands landing on my wrists.

"I don't believe you," I hiss, more strangled than I would have liked it to be. It's true. I don't believe her. I won't believe her. I don't want to. Mechi shakes her head.

"It's what she told me, Rumi," she says, voice low.

My veins freeze over.

"It's my fault that she knew," Mechi says, shame colouring her face. "I overheard a guy we know, I forgot his name, bribing Papa to rig it to be you." Mechi squeezes my arms tighter.

"He accepted. Because he's shameless," she mutters angrily. "So I told Sera, because what else was I supposed to do? Let her watch you die?" she spits. Her words boil with anger and resentment.

"She got him to make it all her name," she says, some of the hate leaving her voice to make room for defeat. "He wouldn't listen to me when I asked him to just drop the whole thing."

Tears drip down her face as her posture weakens.

"He hates the Kaishurrs. He was basically being paid to kill one of them," she says. "I don't know what she's planning to stop you from volunteering, but Sera's smart. She's going to be in the Games." I release her, staggering back. I am cold. I am unnaturally cold, on this nice, warm morning.

The ocean laughs at me.

The ice does not release its horrible grip as my body starts to move. Mechi moves out of the way as the beach rushes past, the sand giving way to earth and the earth giving way to concrete.

My chest tightens. I can't breathe.

My feet carry me forward. I can't see. All I can hear is my heart hammering in my ears. And Mechi's awful words, echoing over and over again.

She's going to die. She's going to die. She's going to die. She's going to die, and it's my fault.

I can't go fast enough. My top speed is not fast enough. I am not strong enough. I can't save her. We're both going to drown.

Blood is spreading through the water like a grim plume. Rain is cutting into us like knives. I can't save her. I can't save her. I can't. I can't. I can't. I can't. I can'tIcan't. Ican'tIcan'tIcan'tIcan'tIcan'tIcan'tIcan'tIcan't.

WhyisnobodyherewhyisnobodyhelpinguswhyisshenotbreathingwhyamIuselesswhyamIworthlesswhycan'tIsaveherwhywhywhywhywhypleasepleasepleaseI'msorryI'msosorrypleaseopenyoureyespleaseplease -

A scream tears at my throat, but it comes out as a stream of bubbles, and comes back in as suffocating, surrounding water. Every desperate, sprinted step hurts. Everything hurts. My clothes feel heavy. Seawater burns my eyes and nose.

We will drown. We will drown, and it is my fault. She hadn't insisted. I had a choice. We will die. I am drowning. I am drowning. I am drowning.

I can't breathe. I can hear the ocean. Crashing waves. Dragging me down with no remorse. No mercy. No care.

Water roars in my ears. It hates me. It's always hated me. It let me feel safe for a long time, so I'd let my guard down. So it could kill me. It's docile when I see it, when the sun shines.

It shows me its true nature when it storms. It shouts at me, comes for me, hungers for me.

I fear it. Not when I am not alone. It doesn't dare touch me when I am not alone. But I know how cruel it truly is. It hates.

It consumes me. It swallows me whole and does not notice. It does not care what it is doing to me. It does not care how it seeps the life from me.

I can't move fast enough.

She comes into focus. Her face. Her head. Her mouth. The blood around her. The blood on the docks.

She turns to face me. I see her eyes widen. Through my pain and my rain and my desperation, I see her.

My arms come around her body. We fall to the ground. The solid, dry ground. I fall into blood-spoiled blonde curls and the forever poisoned scent of petrichor and saltwater and rotting wood and blood and exposed bone and desperate screaming and tear stained cheeks and regret and pain and lasting injuries and warm nights and happy embraces and death and love and loss.

I'm sorry, I tell her. I'm so sorry.

[beliscary]

i know they're a uniform item but still we don't talk nearly enough abt terence's sidelacing pants

[pyjamaenzel]

I figured it out....the darker metallic thread (used on the smaller spikes) is the same one i used for my previous piece, and the strands are thinner, so it doesn't snag as easily while stitching and shred itself to death. The gold outline took at least as long as the rest of it alone... (head in hands) I wonder if the type of needle might also be a factor. ...I also learned that the fabric I have isn't square, which is why it looks slightly squashed...other than that I think it came out pretty good.