#I Was Summoned to Another World as a Saviour but Since I’m a Woman in My Thirties That’s Unreasonable so I Quietly Started a Book Café

[waaanderingluna]

🥀 𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝕾𝖆𝖛𝖎𝖔𝖗’𝖘 𝕭𝖔𝖔𝖐 𝕮𝖆𝖋é 𝕾𝖙𝖔𝖗𝖞 𝖎𝖓 𝕬𝖓𝖔𝖙𝖍𝖊𝖗 𝖂𝖔𝖗𝖑𝖉

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《𝙼𝙰𝙽𝙶𝙰》

[lindoesntwin]

THE SAVIOR'S BOOK CAFE STORY IN ANOTHER WORLD

A woman in her thirties have been summoned by God to save another world however, all she wants to do is run a book cafe and live a peaceful life.

Alternate titles:  I Was Summoned to Another World as a Saviour, but Since I’m a Woman in My Thirties That’s Unreasonable, so I Quietly Started a Book Café; I Was Summoned to Another World to Be Their Savior, but That's Impossible as a Woman in My Thirties, so I Started a Quiet Book Café; Savior's bookcafe story in another world

[komattamono]

Isekai ni Kyuuseishu to shite Yobaremashita ga, Around 30 ni wa Muri na no de, hissori Book Café Hajimemashita. / 異世界に救世主として喚ばれましたが、アラサーには無理なので、ひっそりブックカフェ始めました。 by Oumiya / 近江谷 & Izumi Kyouka / 和泉杏花 .

[kashimos-hajime]

the colour yellow | jjk

summary: “You once said love manifests the most twisted curses. I never thought of it that way before, but I’m starting to think you’re right.”

WARNINGS: ANGST!! hanahaki disease but not an au, HOSPITALS, DEATH, DESCRIPTIONS OF DISEASE, UNHEALTHY WEIGHT LOSS, pining, unrequited love, complicated feelings, its just sad. there are some light-hearted moments, and happier/softer aspects in the ending but it is generally sad in the ‘what could have been’ department pairing: gojo satoru x fem!reader, past geto suguru x fem!reader, mentions of satosugu word count: 29.9k lmao

a/n: i just needed to get the hanahaki out of my system. it did not work. i took liberties w the timeline because idc about actual jjk canon in this fic thanks. 

playlist for this fic

crossposted on ao3 x

Your Innate Technique always gave you a green thumb. Meaning, similarly enough to Yaga, you could plant cursed energy into objects.

Where it deviated, Satoru knows, is the type of object. Plants—trees, leaves, flowers. 

Ironic, he thinks numbly as he walks through the hospital. Shoko had told him that at this point it was palliative care until you died—nothing else would work. Cursed energy only fed your sickness, and even her technique could not heal the damage fast enough. Stupid. Idiotic. Cruel.

Cruel. That was the word.

He hadn’t seen it himself but from how his old friend had described it, it could only be cruel. 

His footsteps tap along the linoleum floors, urgent, but not too fast. A part of him dreads what he will see—his mind swirls with the possibilities, and of guilt.

Why didn’t he just come sooner? Why did he think it was okay to wait, to dismiss Itadori when he said you’d been checked in for your coughing fits?

“She’s strong. She’ll be fine,” he had said. Itadori’s small frown. “A little feather in her throat isn’t going to knock her down.”

Why? Why? Why? Why did he say that?

Because it had to be serious to put you in the hospital. For fuck’s sake, you were still that teenage girl who stood outside his dorm window in the middle of a thunderstorm to bring Fushiguro a birthday present before you left for a curse expedition a thousand years ago, and the woman who welcomed him into your home unprompted on December 24th, your cheeks dry, lips pressed in a brave smile.

You had held him tight enough he could not see the blood, scrubbed him in a bathtub, ran your fingers through his hair until the sweat and grime was gone. You took care of him because he knows the belief that no one should be left behind to suffer alone has been engrained in you since the day he’s met you.

He should’ve known. A girl abandoned for being cursed had turned into woman with a saviour complex who’d barely even think about telling him you were dying. 

Dying, of all things, from a disease no one knows how to cure. And you’re a sorcerer.

He could’ve laughed. The irony is enough to make him smile.

Your room’s in a tiny corner of the hospital, down the hall from a nurse’s station, and as he walks through, he can see the grey sunlight streaming through the window, glaring against his glasses. He lifts them to rub the heel of his hand into his eye.

He doesn’t want you to worry when you see him, and mostly, he needs to stall. His heart is in knots in his chest, and he spots a chair beside the door with your name in the plastic slate, so he sits down. His knees feel gummy and he leans forward, the visitor’s pass clipped to the front of his shirt hanging. 

Satoru tugs the glasses off his face, fits his palm over his brow and squeezes his eyes shut. It’s chilling in this dead end, and he swallows tightly. Everything tastes so dry as he looks up and shoves his hand underneath the sanitizer dispenser, rubbing it all over his hands just so he has something to do.

After a few minutes, he gets up and sets a hand on the knob. 

It can’t be as bad as he’s imagining. At most, you’re a bit sick, but you’ll still be spritely, warm in the lips and with arms outstretched and, “Satoru, finally!”

He opens the door. 

You’re sitting hunched over in bed. Silhouette outlined by the white-grey sunlight from outside your hospital room, you’re trembling as you hold onto a receptacle. An IV is hooked to your arm, a hospital gown is barely hiding anything, and it feels immoral to even look so Satoru doesn’t. Instead, he pauses by the doorframe and closes his eyes for a moment as your gaze flashes to him. 

He feels it, to be honest. The heat of your stare until it is wrenched away by a violent cough you instinctually muffle by your palm, blood splattering over your hand, soft, velveteen purple petals falling from your lips and into the receptacle in your lap. 

You’re supposed to have a green thumb.

Vines bend to your will if you command it, you can summon forth thorns to impale your opponents, send thick creeping ivy to barricade a doorway. It doesn’t matter if there is no greenery in your immediate area. At the sweep of your hand, the ground could rumble with the sound of trees twisting their gnarled roots into feet to march at your command.

Just as long as they’re within range and you’ve touched them in the past few hours, they’re yours.

So, why can’t you stop this?

Plants are supposed to listen to you, right? As he stares at your shaking body on the bed, curved over the plastic tub, thick globs of bloodied spit drip from your lips and soaked purple blossom petals entwine with your life essence. His heart plummets to his chest. You retch, spit, choke, and every sound stabs him in the chest as he takes a weak step forward, hand stretched out limply.

Your name flutters, barely leaves his lips before you’re looking at him again, a bit of a mortifying image but nonetheless.

Even so, you smile, despite the blood painting your face, the exhaustion morphing your body. You look like you haven’t slept in weeks, and your hands shake around the receptacle. You look battered, bruised along the arms where the needles keeping you filled with antibiotics, medicine you need, had punctured you.

And still, you’re beaming at him. He thinks he’s going to be sick.

“Hi, Satoru.”

His hand falls. Eyes wide, he cannot take another step. You wipe at your lips, tossing the tissue into the trash before pushing the plastic receptacle onto the table and swinging your legs off the bed.

“Don’t—“ he croaks but you don’t listen, sliding your feet into slippers and grabbing your IV stand to take a step towards him. Your knees nearly give in but you stick out a hand before he can rush to catch you. Then, you’re pushing yourself up and walking over to him. It’s more of a shuffle, but Gojo finds he can’t care as you land on his chest, hands pressing into his back.

You’re a bit cold in his arms, and he wraps himself around you, trying to rub the heat back into your skin as you shudder, but your heart is still racing as it always does around him, and you…

You’re the type of person who can shift how the air feels and looks to his Six Eyes with your smile or your tears or your frown, and in that moment, the air bleeds yellow with your joy. It’s so bright in his soul that it makes his heart skip as you shift on your feet against him, hands sliding down so your arms can circle his waist and haul him closer. 

“Gojo Satoru turning off his infinity for little ole me,” you murmur, voice raspy, as he closes his eyes, cradling your head. Without another word, he sinks into you. “Talk about the world ending.”

Why didn’t you just call him? Why did you let him stay away for so long? He doesn’t want to ask why it’s happening, or how. He already knows you’ll just lie. But he wants to know if you think so lowly of him that you thought you didn’t matter to him.

After Suguru…

How could you think that? He’s screaming inside his mind as he touches your back, feels the faint protruding ridges along your skin when he pushes down. It makes your spine a bit more pronounced along the knobs, your shoulder blades a bit bumpy, but otherwise, it’s almost normal. One wouldn’t even be able to tell without touching you and actively searching for it. How could you think I don’t care?

This isn’t the work of a cursed spirit, that much he knows. It seems much more seductive, sneaking yet unhurried in its nature. This is agony in effigy. There’s something rotten inside you, but he can’t tell what it is. The energy is everywhere.

You pull back to look up at him with a soft smile, then tap his nose and tell him to join you before turning around and climbing back into bed with energy that betrays your earlier fits. You grab your robe that you’ve left on your bed before getting up again and walking around, shrugging the fabric back onto your shoulders.

He sits down in a visitor’s chair that is still cold.

“It comes and goes,” you explain first with your new, croaky voice, stretching your arms above your head and rubbing your neck. It doesn’t look painful, but you clear your throat a lot to see if it helps. So far, nothing. “So, it’s just like a really bad coughing fit, to be honest.”

“How long has it been going on?” Your hip cracks and you let out a relieved sigh. Satoru arches an eyebrow as you animatedly stretch your face. “What are you doing, silly?”

“It got worse a few weeks ago, enough that Nanami insisted I check myself in around two weeks ago?” you say, after counting on your fingers. Satoru’s heart plummets. “But it’s levelled out since I’ve been moved here and off-campus. And I’m stretching. When I get back out there, I have to remember how to emote.” You flash him a bedazzling grin and a bit of the weight lifts off his shoulders as you swallow down another cough. This time, it’s successful and you only let out a short, raspy breath before shaking it out.

You aren’t even doing that bad. 

The blood, the flowers, that must’ve been just a bad bout, but otherwise, you seem quite normal.

That’s what he tells himself, and he believes it.

With relief, he stretches out his legs, leaning his head back on his hands. Your room’s pretty nice—much nicer than an average hospital room. Plants on the windowsills, some get-well-soon cards and a desk in the corner filled books that you look like you haven’t even begun to read, some paintings hanging off the walls. 

You wave a hand to grab his attention again.

“Don’t look,” you chastise, tying the robe around your waist. “Some of these are works in progress.”

“So Itadori and Shoko were just exaggerating,” he assumes. You look up at him, quirking an eyebrow. “If you’re attempting to paint, I know all that’s happened is that you’ve lost your mind.”

“Shut up.”

“Well, they made it out as if you were dying. If it’s just a lung issue, they could probably just fix it and we can get back to exorcising curses and making fun of Fushiguro’s teen angst,” he says, crossing his legs at the ankles. You step over them to go to the window and examine your plants, and he eyes you in his peripheral, watching you inspect one of the leaves before looking next at some blooming flowers. You don’t answer, and the grey light makes you look melancholy until you shrug.

“The doctors say I need to rest, save my strength and all that,” you finally say vaguely. “And don’t make fun of Fushiguro.”

“I’d never do that.”

You tilt your head and arch an eyebrow skeptically before flicking his forehead with a sharp donk. “I’m not above slapping the shit out of you.” He opens his mouth to argue and you hold up a finger, shutting him up. “And you can’t hit back as revenge. Ill hospital patient rights.”

“You can’t take the moral stand. Vengeance has no gender bias,” he exclaims, sitting up but you merely smirk, leaning over and shoving your face into his space before turning your head to present your cheek. His eyes widen as you poke your own face tauntingly.

“Do it, then.”

Gawking for a moment, Satoru stares but you only wink and he pushes you away lightly. You stumble a bit and he jumps to his feet to catch you but you manage to right yourself up, shooting him a foul glare. He glares back in response.

“Well, obviously, I wasn’t going to actually slap you,” he says, indignant.

“So you pushed me instead? Gojo, in your words, you are the strongest. You never know how to control the strength you push out.”

“Yes, I do!”

“One time, you patted Megumi on the back and you sent him into the pavement.”

“He was nine.”

“It still happened!” you cry, although an impish smile is already curling at your lips and it isn’t long before it spreads to Satoru, warm bright yellow and enough that it absolves any of the remaining pain in his body as you straighten up, holding onto your IV stand for support. The metal rattles a bit as the wheels roll. Your feet brush the ground. You lift your head up wretchedly.

It’s almost like that weakness sobers you.

The expression that overtakes you frightens Satoru to fucking death. 

His face feels like it numbs, staring at the darkness that seeps the light away. You stare at the metal pole your fingers are wrapped so tightly around, and then you look at the bag hanging there, clear and round and soft to your touch as you straighten up.

“Satoru,” you say softly.

“Yeah?” His voice is so quiet he’s not sure he even speaks. He can’t remember the last time you had looked so dispassionate at anything in his life. Even death had left its mark—black frowns, long streaks underneath your eyes.

Your apathy is dark purple, an endless void colour. 

“When I die, make sure Shoko’s the one who cuts me open to find out what’s wrong with me.”

Something prickles at his fingertips. He touches your shoulder and half-thinks his fingers will go right through you.

“You’re not going to die,” he insists firmly. “It’s just a bad cough.” You look up at him and blink. Then you touch your lips and shudder down another cough.

“We all die.”

“It’s not your time, yet.” His fingers dig into your shoulder. You don’t even wince even though you’re clenching his jaw but he can’t find it in himself to loosen his hold. It feels like the Jaws of Death. A crocodile’s bite.

So much for not being able to control his own power.

“It’s just a bad cough.” He ignores everything Shoko had said. Sometimes she’s wrong—sometimes, it’s not even that bad. He’d just seen it, hadn’t he? You were stretching, jumping onto your bed, acting like nothing was wrong.

Palliative care? As if you needed it—

You blink, then, and look at him. Stare at him as if you’d never said those words, and he had never reached out. 

You jerk your shoulder out of his grip. It stings more than it should.

“Right. But I’m just saying. You know how you always say I’ve got a few screws loose. It just makes sense someone will wanna crack me open to see what was going on up there and I want it to be her.” 

You smile, and the yellow cancels out the purple. 

Colour theory. 

But Satoru doesn’t smile back.

“What about the flowers?” he asks after a while. You’ve climbed back onto bed and he’s sat back down. You’re blowing into a spirometer, and every time, without fail, the ball shoots up to the top, clattering against the plastic. He watches, hoping that the next time, it’ll do the same thing again.

You stop and look at him. “What about them?”

“Is it some optical illusion? Why are they in your throat?”

“That’s a harder nut to crack,” you muse. “I don’t really know. It’s like when you’ve got food in your esophagus and you’re trying to cough it up so it doesn’t feel stuck anymore except it keeps building up. That only started a few days ago, though, so maybe, someone drugged me or something.” He doesn’t laugh and you frown. “Not funny?”

He shakes his head. “It’s freaky.”

.

He sits on the bench on campus. 

He’s cancelled classes because he didn’t come up with a standard lesson plan and his students are glad to have a Monday afternoon off, even if they’d never say it to his face. In truth, he’d spent the whole weekend at the hospital until he reeked of antiseptic and pollen. 

You coughed up five petals, and without fail, a nurse would come in hourly intervals to collect them. Shoko came once, to check up on you and to collect the samples. If she was surprised Satoru was sitting in the corner on his phone, she didn’t voice it.

“She’s not even doing that bad,” he says to the air, more accusatory than anything. The woman standing by him doesn’t answer and sits down beside him uninvited. Turning to look at her, his eyes narrow behind his blindfold. “You said she needed palliative care until she died. The doctor said she could leave tonight.”

“Those aren’t mutually exclusive concepts,” she informs, not looking at him. Shoko looks a bit out of place in the warm colours of the garden. Half a corpse herself. Waif-like. “The doctor’s letting her relax in the comfort of her own home before she dies. That’s all.”

“She’s not going to die.”

She snorts. “Denial isn’t a good colour on you.” The words could’ve been delivered colder. Satoru is grateful that they weren’t. 

Shoko rests her hands on her knees, tilts her head up, and sighs. Her long hair is like warm chocolate in the sunlight, spilling down her arched back from the knot she tied. “If you have any idea on how to fix this, I’m listening with both ears.”

“I don’t even know what it is,” he says. “Coughing and flowers? I’ve never heard of a sickness like that before.”

“Nanami pointed out that it could be a curse someone placed on her. I don’t know why, but it’d be an explanation.” Satoru spreads his legs, plants an elbow on his knee and leans forward to look at the ants travelling along the cobblestone before his shoe. “It manifested on some negative emotion lingering inside her and it’s growing every day, but she won’t budge.” Shoko sighs. Her purple eye bags look worse in the sunlight, but he would never tell her that. “Maybe you’d have a better chance digging into her. With Geto gone, there’s no one else to ask, is there?”

“What about you? What happened to girls and their little secrets?” he jokes, trying to ignore the ache that begins to bloom in his chest. Shoko eyes him wryly.

“I have suspicions, but there are some things girls don’t ask other girls,” she retorts. “It’s never been my business anyway. My job is to treat her, and I’ve given her options. It’s up to her to take them. Grief is a birthing ground for curses, and if she’s letting them feed on her freely, you know what fate is waiting for her.”

With that, she gets up and leaves as quickly as she arrived. Satoru swallows the smell of flowers and feels sick.

.

Monday night, Satoru pulls up his laptop and looks through, searching up words he can string together in a coherent sense to get the answers he wants. As rare as it probably is, some research wouldn’t hurt, would it? Some curses had a trademark affliction—maybe this one does, too.

So he searches up flower coughing to see if there has ever been a record of strange deaths that have made the news. If not, he’ll go to the jujutsu databases, but for now, maybe some publicity could put some answers to this question.

He is surprised when one of the first results is flower coughing disease. 

When he hits enter, the white screen blasts into blue irises with numerous results all repeating the same two words.

HANAHAKI DISEASE

And Satoru reads, and reads, and reads. He reads two weeks to three months, he reads unrequited love, and removal, and disappearance of romantic feelings and capacity for romantic love.

He reads fictional disease and wonders how much of it really is fictional. 

His phone pings with a text, and he grabs at it, tilts it just enough to get a glimpse of the screen. It’s from you, and he hasn’t read a text from you in so long he almost doesn’t recognize who it’s from except he does because… who else could it be?

[Greenbean] 11:02 PM

hey!!! guess whos finally fucking free oh my god

ugh out of the hospital and forgot how actual air smelled like lol bitch im so hungry i could eat a zoo

Letting his phone clatter, he sighs and rubs his face roughy, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment before snapping his laptop shut and getting up. His phone buzzes again and he reaches for it blindly, the screen lighting up as he goes to bed.

[Greenbean] 11:03 PM

we should get smth to eat!! i wanna go to that new ramen place in ikebukoro

[Satoru] 11:03 PM

fine but you good???? who picked you up from the hospital? still insulted you didnt let me tbh

also what did the doctor say???

[Greenbean] 11:04 PM

bc ur a menace who doesnt know how to drive 

he said itd get worse before itd get better so still gotta go for checkups but yeah dont worry and nanami came bc he didnt trust me not to try and walk home lol but he did buy me dinner

wasnt enough though!!!

…

[Greenbean] 11:06 PM

ok but fr does he think im insane

clearly id flash some skin and hitch a ride duh

…

[Greenbean] 11:10 PM

youre just gonna leave me on read? yikes

[Satoru] 11:12 PM

i was getting ready to sleep silly

and yeah ill come pick you up on saturday for lunch?

[Greenbean] 11:15 PM

sorry making instant noodles rn but yeah that sounds fine

wait youre sleeping so early lmfao

[Satoru] 11:16 PM

im old :/

  [Greenbean] 11:18 PM

u sure are

(image sent)

look!!! my babies are still alive!!! idk how but miracles do exist im tellin ya

[Satoru] 11:24 PM

inumaki, maki, and fushiguro broke into ur home to water them but dont tell them i told u

[Greenbean] 11:24 PM

wtf

[Satoru] 11:25 PM

yeah idk when but i think u teaching inumaki how to pick locks has opened up too many possibilities but also its really funny thanks

now go to sleep u need to rest

[Greenbean] 11:28 PM

whos gonna make me lol youre not my dad

[Satoru] 11:29 PM

lol 

remember how i can teleport 

lol so cool

[Greenbean] 11:30 PM

dude

wtf

fine 

goodnight hoe </3

[Satoru] 11:31 PM

goodnight knock off poison ivy <3

.

“You’ve looked better,” Shoko says. Satoru raises his head wearily as he pushes off the wall. Shoko’s holding a cup of coffee, her lab coat fresh on her shoulders and eye bags looking more printed on rather than natural swelling. Satoru can’t help but feel the same exhaustion. “Definitely looked worse. What do you want? It’s early.”

“Have you ever heard of Hanahaki disease?” he asks. She shakes her head, and he pulls up the page on his phone and hands it to her. She takes it from him and her eyes scan the screen as he continues, “It’s this fictional disease, something that stems from unrequited love, and I think it could be related to whatever she’s experiencing.”

“I thought you were set on willing her to survive,” she replies dryly, shooting him a quick look and adjusting the coffee in her hand. “But this is definitely one of your stranger theories.”

Satoru ignores that last part. “It’d make sense. With her Cursed Technique, maybe it manifested in a way that links to it.”

She pushes into the office, setting the coffee on her desk and sitting down. Satoru sits down on the exam table closest and leans forward eagerly as she continues to read the page, scrolling down occasionally before scrolling back up and sighing. “This is a stretch. The timeline doesn’t match up to what this is saying.”

“This is a curse. It doesn’t have to follow fiction.” His body feels sore, janky even, everywhere. He barely got a wink of sleep last night and he knows he’s paying for it, now. “Hell knows life rarely does, anyway. But the symptoms matches too well, doesn’t it? The flowers—you’ve done scans, haven’t you?”

She deliberates his words carefully as she looks to the file cabinet and pulls out a binder. Satoru catches a flash of your name on the spine before she moves her coffee and his phone out of the way to flip it open.

“The scans we’ve taken have only just begun to show small growths in her trachea,” she allows, “and we don’t fully understand how cursed energy affects our bodies, so I suppose it could be something like Hanahaki, if the negative energy stemming from December 24th was what brought this on or if these symptoms started when we were still students, but she’s been experiencing shortness of breath a few months before Christmas.” Satoru’s lungs squeeze the last of the air out of them at that, and a cold sweat drops down his spine as she hands his phone back to him. “It only started getting worse Suguru’s death, which meant there had to have been a trigger before that.”

In the back of his head, he hears your voice, light and yellow, saying a few weeks. It got worse a few weeks ago. 

“Worse?”

“The first petal fell some time after Christmas. It’s been a slow, but steady progression since then. Sometimes, it’s two or three. When it’s not a good day, there can be as many as seven to ten.” Shoko switches on the lamp on the corner of her desk and adjusting the direction of the white light before flipping the page. “But if we can find the original trigger and alleviate that pressure it’s putting on her, we could buy her more time.”

“So it’s been nearly six months since the first petal,” he says. Shoko nods. Satoru is grateful for the blindfold—she can’t see how blank everything looks on his face. “It said sometimes, the disease can last for eighteen months.”

“As you said, this isn’t a fairytale.” She half-spins on her chair to face him and leans back into it, crossing one leg over the other and jiggling her knee. “I saw that one of the solutions is excise the growths at the cost of the attachment. That was one of the options I gave her when the growths first appeared. She said she wanted more time before she could decide.”

He frowned. “Why?”

“Because she’s smart, and likes to push her damned limits. And if this is truly the basis of the curse”—she gestures to Satoru’s phone. Her expression flickers—“those flowers are feeding off cursed energy. Cutting them out would remove those negative emotions, but at a cost of something else. Maybe whatever feelings she has regarding the trigger.”

Satoru looks down at his phone. It feels heavier than a thousand cinderblocks in his clammy hands. His fingers are numb as his screen dims and finally locks itself. Pressing the button, it illuminates again to reveal a picture of a cactus you gave him for his birthday years ago, blooming with delicate purple petals. 

His heart rends. That cactus is long dead now.

“But, Suguru’s dead.” 

“That’s why I asked you to ask her,” Shoko mutters. 

Turning to her binder again, she picks up a pen and clicks it, lowering it to the paper before pausing, and Satoru looks up as she stares at whatever words are printed into the page distantly. A strange affliction is on her face, almost tormented, and Satoru is not-so-kindly reminded that before Suguru and Satoru, Shoko was your best friend first. 

“Tell her how idiotic she’s being,” she enforces quietly. “The longer it lives, the more permanent damage is inflicted. With the unpredictable nature of curses, that won’t take long and by then, it’ll be too late to consider removing it.”

.

Saturday comes too fast, yet not fast enough. By the end of the week, Satoru is all but finished with teaching, and is waiting outside your apartment, leaning against the car as he scrolls through his phone. He’s done a bit more research on this Hanahaki disease, but even the word makes him shiver with the implications. 

“Satoru!” Turning, he catches you loping easily towards him. You’re dressed in billowy, wide-legged dark mint green pants and a pretty white top that makes you look more nymph than human, with a canvas tote bag hanging off your shoulder. You flash him a smile as you fiddle with the fabric tie at the waistband of your pants nervously. “Hi.”

“Hey. Hope you don’t mind I brought Ijichi along for the ride since someone claims I can’t drive.”

“You don’t have your license, sir,” Ijichi says wearily as you bend over to wave through the window. "It would be illegal for you to be on the road in any capacity—oh, hello, ma’am. It’s nice to see you doing so well.”

“Thanks, Ijichi. I think I’m doing better after getting out of there,” you say as Satoru opens the car door for you and he smirks, eyes crinkling behind his sunglasses. You straighten up, looking at him before poking his chest and it’s almost just like the good ole days as you break out into a grin that crinkles your entire face. “What’s with you being a gentleman? It better not be because I was in the hospital.”

“Of course not,” he admonishes. “I wouldn’t dare dream of being polite to you of all people.” Still, he sidesteps and sweeps his arm, gesturing for you to climb in first which you do, exhaling a bit shakily as you settle in and slide over. By the time he’s settled in beside you, you have a fist over your lips and you’re clearing your throat testily.

A worm of unease wriggles into his stomach as he clips in his seatbelt, pulling the lapels of his unbuttoned green shirt free from the strap. Legs spreading, he lets his hands fold in his lap as Ijichi begins to drive them to their destination. You’ve lowered your hand by now, looking out the window, and it’s not bright enough that Satoru can read your expression on the glass.

It’s clear you don’t want to talk about it, but still, that nagging feeling bites at him as he rolls the divider up between the backseat and the front—a mock of privacy.

“The place we’re going to gives me the same vibe as that family-owned restaurant we went to when we were students. The one in Kagurazaka,” you say after a while, turning back to look at him. You’re wearing a bracelet that jangles when you move your hand to adjust the seatbelt across your chest. “I think you’ll like it.”

“Have you been?”

“One time, before I checked in,” you tell him, smiling still. “It was really good. The perfect last meal.” Satoru does well enough to hide his frown at your choice of words as you meet his eyes. “You know, you can ask. I’m not fragile.”

“I don’t have anything to ask,” he lies. “I’m just glad you’re out of the hospital.”

“Me, too. I’ve missed so much and it drove me insane. Yaga-sensei insists that I don’t work until I’m sure I’m feeling better,” you add. “But to be honest, there’s nothing much that can be done to make me feel better.”

“I see. So you’re still coughing up flowers?”

“Petals,” you correct, “and a bit. Don’t worry. It’ll get better soon.” You wave a hand and turn to look out the window and Satoru’s appetite all but vanishes. He doesn’t know why you’re so intent on lying to him about the severity of your condition, but as your knee jiggles relentlessly the whole car ride with unbridled excitement, he wonders if you’re even aware of how sick you could be. 

His Six Eyes scan your body for signs of a curse. Normally, those plagued have their little burdens hanging off their shoulders, prying their head open, biting into an arm or leg, but he finds yours lives inside your chest, just barely hidden by the yellow light brimming from your body as you reach forward to lower the divider and talk to Ijichi.

They reach Ikebukuro before they’re dropped off after Satoru insists on walking the rest of the way.

“Give us some privacy, Ijichi! We both know you’ll just eavesdrop for the juicy details,” he exclaims loudly, leading to the man to blush furiously, stuttering that he’d do no such thing, and earning Satoru a smack on the back of his head, knocking his sunglasses askew.

“Thanks for the ride, Ijichi,” you say warmly as if you hadn’t slapped a concussion into Satoru. The Assistant Director dips his head. “See you later!” With that, he drives off and the two sorcerers are left in the busy street. Satoru looks around curiously, but you tug him along up the main road of the district and immediately turn right into one of the smaller streets. A few cyclists race past, as well as cars, but the traffic seems relatively slow despite it being the weekend. There are people walking along the white lines separating the lanes, chatting merrily as you lead him to the restaurant.

“I forgot how actual sunlight felt,” you sigh, stretching your arms high above your head as if to touch the wind breezing through. Inhaling deeply, you close your eyes. Satoru waits for you to begin to cough, and you hold it in, throat tensing a bit. 

He looks away, and pretends he doesn’t hear your sharp exhale, the soft cough you try to muffle with your hand. Instead, he looks at their surroundings, traces the green roads, watches a man park his bicycle and take the plastic bags out of the basket before rushing into a store. The air smells faintly of smoke, and Satoru waves in front of his face to see if it’ll help dispel the scent, but it’s so engrained with the hint of meat, honey, sweets, and flowers, that he can’t.

“I saw Suguru here once,” you tell him suddenly. He blinks, head snapping to you, and you’re already regarding him with a faint smile, eyes a bit dimmer. The warm yellow energy has faded to a burnt orange as you look ahead. “A year or two after he left. It’s why I moved closer a few years ago. I guess I had this weird hope that I’d see him again, but I never really did.” A faint grin graces your lips again, as if you’re not even aware you’re smiling. Fondness overtakes you. “I think about him a lot these days.”

“Me, too.”

“Of course,” you chuckle a bit, rubbing at the back of your neck. “I’m being insensitive.” 

“No, you’re not. He meant a lot to you, too. I don’t own him, or his memory.”

“I know, but he was still your best friend.” Unbidden, a voice in Satoru’s voice finishes it for you. My one and only. 

“Did you guys talk about anything?”

“Not really anything important,” you say, shrugging, but by the way your eyes shift in the light, glimmer differently, he knows you’re lying. He knows it’s none of his business, but a part of him hungers for new parts of Suguru and it’s powerful enough to take control of his tongue.

“Nothing’s not important. He was a wanted criminal.”

“I think we both know somehow that part never mattered to us.” You look at him, and run a thumb under the strap of your bag. “To any of us. But…” You tilt your head to him and your smile grows tender. “…since you asked, we talked about us. He told me about what he wanted, the kind of world he was determined to create. He paid for my dinner, kissed me goodnight like it was normal, and then he was gone. Never saw him again until last December.”

It shouldn’t sting as much as it does. 

He remembers that day ten years ago in Shinjuku. The coldness in which Suguru had looked at him. He can’t imagine that same poison directed at you. He couldn’t even imagine Suguru looking at him like that in the first place until he did.

“Are you the strongest because you’re Gojo Satoru or are you Gojo Satoru because you’re the strongest?”

“I used to have nightmares about it,” you continue distantly. “Because I could’ve left with him, but I didn’t. And I could’ve killed him, but I didn’t do that either.”

“If you want to kill me, kill me. There’s meaning in that, too.”

Satoru’s chest tightens. His heart feels rotten to the core. “I didn’t, either, until I did.” You smile a bit more, at the irony. “Would you? Have gone with him, that is.”

“I didn’t, so what’s the point in debating it?” you ask before shrugging thoughtlessly and answering anyway. “I think tackling curses at the source is important. I just didn’t like the way he was doing it. If I thought I could somehow change his mind, just a bit, on his methods, maybe, but by then, he was too far gone.” 

Your eyes, chips of glinting sunstone, mellow as a cyclist trills at them with a bell to get out of the way. You step out of the way, away from Satoru for a moment, before returning to him, and when the back of his hand brushes yours, he’s startled at how cold your skin is. 

Satoru is quiet as he absorbs all of this. He doesn’t really know what to say, and you don’t prod him for a reaction as they turn the corner again. 

“It’s just over there,” you say, pointing to a small restaurant, people milling by the door. There’s a sign hanging over the door, off-white with black kanji painted on and your arm falls. “There’s a line. Huh.”

“We can wait,” Satoru says when they stop at the edge of the crowd. “I don’t mind.”

“Okay. I’ll go put our names in then come back.” You disappear into the crowd for a moment before resurfacing and joining his side again, something in your hand. “It should be, like, fifteen minutes. I said the bar was okay.”

“That’s fine.” Shoving his sunglasses up into his hair, he cracks his knuckles and migrates to the wall. You follow, and he slouches against the concrete pillar. You adjust the tote bag against your body and lean against the other side just around the corner. Their elbows brush, and you tilt your head to look at him, smiling. Your face has caught the sun perfectly, and Satoru can’t help but smile back.

He wonders how to bring up this Hanahaki disease theory. You look so perfect, so happy in this moment where their eyes meet, that he can’t bring it up. Maybe it’s selfish, but it feels like it’s been so long since the two of them even managed to see each other for more than an hour. With how overworked jujutsu sorcerers are, it’s hard to recall the last time they both had downtime at the same time that wasn’t spent catching up on sleep.

You look away, shoulders shaking, as if that’s enough to hide your coughing, and he thinks, Later. There’ll be time for that later.

“Here’s the menu,” you tell him once you’ve calmed down, extending your hand. He takes the paper, unfolding it as you cross your arms and tilt your head back on the concrete. Reading down the list, he keeps an eye on you out of the corner of his vision, and your fingers play at your lips as you swallow. Reaching into your bag, you twist the cap of a water bottle and chug half of it down.

“Do you have any medicine? For your coughing?” he asks casually. You hit your chest with a firm fist, clearing your throat and looking at him in surprise. The water bottle returns to your bag.

“Oh, uh, no. It doesn’t work. Just gotta keep hydrated and avoid any possible triggers,” you inform. You turn up the street as you speak, crossing your legs at the ankles and sinking against the concrete. 

“And what are those triggers?”

“And you say Ijichi is the one digging for gossip,” you snort with short, choked huff. Satoru rolls his eyes, but keeps looking at the menu. “Don’t worry about it. I’m avoiding them.”

“That’s reassuring.”

“If I wanted your dry wit, I would’ve gone to the original.”

“I don’t copy off Shoko. I take bits of everyone’s personality and twist it to make it my own.”

You shake your head. “Whatever you say.”

Your name is called a few minutes later and the pair push off the concrete pillar, heading through the crowd and into the small restaurant. It’s not too dimly lit, a bunch of natural light from the street streaming in through the open windows, and the air is rich with the smells of the kitchen as they sit down at the bar.

It’s not long before they’ve ordered, and Satoru has gone through his first bowl and is well into pouring his second into what remains of his broth before he remembers to even check up on how you’re doing. You’d been right—he loves this place. The atmosphere isn’t overly loud, but the mumbling of nearby patrons is enough to make him feel like he isn’t quite alone. It’s sheltered away from the world, and although he’s used to girls staring, no one has gone up to him which is giving him time to his own thoughts and food. Everyone here seems to mind their business—everyone likes to stay in their own bubble. 

Here, he isn’t the strongest, or quite so special. It honestly feels kind of nice.

You’re sipping on your broth, tilting the spoon towards your mouth and your lips are pulled into the warmest smile he’s seen since they were kids. The light’s hitting you just perfect again, more cool than warm, but it’s got you on the cheekbone, illuminated your lips. Satoru wonders if you know how to manipulate light, or if that’s just your natural blessing as you tilt your head towards him, eyes squinting from your own joy.

For a moment, another image flashes in his head. Him along the end of their group of four—you and Shoko, Suguru and Satoru. It’s almost poetry how much of a glimpse he can see in your smile. You would always be laughing, and Suguru’s cheeks would always be red, and Shoko would charm the guy over the counter to hand over a bottle of shochu. Satoru would tease his stupid best friend, and pay for their meal because “I’m friends with a bunch of goddamn freeloaders.”

But that moment ends as quickly as it came, and it’s so fucking heartbreaking that Satoru never thought their last meal together would be their last meal together. He would’ve cherished it more—done anything to make them stay in that ramen shop in Kagurazaka.

“Do you like it here?” you ask. 

He blinks. You’re studying him behind that smile of yours. Watching. Always watching. “It reminds me of when we were kids,” he replies. When he realizes that didn’t answer the question, he adds, “Yeah. Yeah, I do.”

You grin, delighted. “If I knew how stupid you’d look sucking up these noodles, I would’ve brought my camera like when we were students. I still have it, you know.”

“Next time, then.”

“Yeah, next time.”

Satoru pays. He insists despite your protests, and snatches the bill from you anyway, swiping his card as quickly as he can. 

After, they walk slowly around the district, looking at the other restaurants and stores for desserts or souvenirs to bring back, and it makes him so nostalgic, his heart wilts a bit in his chest. 

He is saying something about buying some soymilk for Megumi when you stop suddenly, deviating to the side of the road to cough. It grows so intense so quickly that your eyes widen as if you’re surprised, too, and you place a palm flat against your chest as he comes to your side. You wave him back, and he frowns, running a hand down your back as you finally manage to dislodge the petals in your throat and spit them into your palm.

Satoru sighs, staring at the cursed things. The energy emitted from the petals are raw, potent, and his nose wrinkles at the stench that comes from powerful curses as he softly asks, “Do you know what Hanahaki is?”

“Flower vomiting?” you whisper through your raw vocal cords. You shake your head, slamming your sternum with a tight fist and flinging the drenched petals to the ground with a wet slap. “Itadori… said something about it, once. Never really paid attention, I—”

Satoru squeezes the back of your neck gently. “Whatever this curse is, it could be something like that.“

“You don’t want to open that can of worms, Gojo, of what is causing this.” Straightening up, your eyes widen and your cheeks puff up as you choke down another bout. Wobbly, you spit out, “It’s under control. I swear.”

“Are you sure?” His fingers brush your chin to turn your face towards him so he can look at it more clearly, and the instant their eyes meet, you lurch over, slapping his hand away and succumbing to the wracking. Hands shooting out to grab your elbows, Satoru barely eases you to the ground as your legs give in.

You collapse to your knees, hard. A hand is slapped over your mouth but your whole body shakes with the seizing of your lungs. Eyes widening, your cheeks puff up as Satoru grabs your shoulders, falling to his knees beside you.

“Hey! Hey, breathe!” His fingers dig into your shoulders and your nostrils flare, trying to follow his instructions. Bloodshot eyes and blueing lips, your inhales are shaking and incomplete, gasps for air that do not take in any oxygen before you’re kneeling over, hand falling from your lips. Blood splattered over your palm, you let out a low noise of pain. Satoru’s hand glides down your spine, rubbing in soothing circles as red spit falls to the pavement in thick globs. 

People all around stop to stare, eyes masked with concern, but he can’t care less at that moment despite the burning scrutiny. He shoves a hand into his pocket, speed-dialling one of the top numbers of his list.

“Ijichi, I need you to take us to the hospital, now!” Letting his phone drop with a clatter, he scoops you close but you slam your bloody hand against his chest, pushing him away. You throw yourself away, hands twisted tight in the fabric of your white shirt and Satoru looks down at the red handprint on his tee before blinking. “What are you doing? We need to get—“

“I’m—I’m fine!” Your voice, broken, is drenched with ice as you continue to wheeze, grasping at your chest as if you could reach and tear out the growths with your own hand. “Gojo, I’m fine!”

“No, you’re not!” Grabbing his phone, he hears a loud car horn, and looks up to see Ijichi leaning out of the driver’s seat, waving his arm frantically. Without another thought, he scoops you up and runs out into the street, ignoring the tires screeching, the cars horns blaring at him and the angry shouts as he jumps into the car and slam the door shut. 

Ijichi sets off at a drive, no directions needed. Satoru is sure he’s breaking as many laws as he can as he pushes you back against the seat to buckle you in. Blood dribbles down your lips in bubbles as a thick, gurgling sound begins to grow in your throat and he wipes at your chin with his sleeve, clicking the buckle into place just as you pitch forward. He jerks back just in time as you retch, and, slowly, torturously, you gag out three petals, one after another. Your fingers claw at your own throat, panicking and desperate as you struggle to breathe.

The petals fall in wet pools between your feet, landing on the carpet, and he spares them not even a glance before forcing your head between your knees. You’re still hyperventilating and as Satoru sweeps a hand down your back and up to your neck, his fingers come into contact with something sticky. 

Sweat. It drenches through your shirt so suddenly that Satoru reels at the wet marks spreading through your shirt, making the fabric translucent. Your heart is racing, tripping over itself. When you finally stop coughing, you breathe in harsh pants as he keeps your head between your knees.

Your fingers lace at the back of your head and he grabs them firmly, reassuring that he’s still beside you. 

.

“She’s stable,” Shoko announces to the waiting Satoru and six students. The latter came when their teacher had told them of what happened, and Itadori still clings to Fushiguro’s arm by an iron hand, fingers clawlike into his friend’s bicep. Kugisaki chews on her thumbnail, a bit paler than usual and there are crescent indents along her forearm where she had dug her nails in. Maki’s hand rests on her shoulder. Inumaki’s on the phone with Panda, and he turns the screen around so he can see the Strongest Sorcerer who does not feel quite so strong.

Satoru’s assurances that you would be fine had done nothing but send them into a quiet that scared even him. 

“Is she okay? When can she get out?” the kids demand suddenly.

“We’re waiting for the updates on her scans from the doctors, but she’ll need to stay here under observation.”

Satoru runs a hand through his hair, smiling in a way that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Guess that means she gets a few more days off while the rest of us are working our asses off,” he teases. Maki shoots him a glare and his eyes close in a way he hopes arranges his expression in one of joy as he shrugs helplessly. “Well, that means I have another girl I have to spoil.”

“Aren’t you too busy with the four already blowing up your phone?” Kugisaki mutters sourly. Satoru pretends not to hear. His phone has been silent without your texts, and it’s cold and heavy in his pocket.

“Can we see her?” Fushiguro asks. Shoko nods, but holds up a hand and the kids skid to a stop.

“She’s resting. I’m unsure if you know, but certain topics of conversation or trains of thought can lead to more attacks, so stick to talking about your curriculum. Topics you think are safe.” The woman shifts on her feet, a wisp of brown hair swaying in front of her eye. “It’s unavoidable, but use your judgement.”

“Yes, ma’am.” The students walk off down to the dead-end hallway, and Satoru turns to Shoko who has her arms crossed over her chest. She steps up, scanning him like he’s got contraband, and he raises his eyebrows innocently.

“What?”

“It’s getting worse. I hope you managed to get answers,” she says. At once, Satoru’s facade drops, and a sober sensation overtakes his face.

“No, I didn’t. She’s heard of the disease, at least. We talked about Suguru, but it wasn’t like it was under lock and key.” The brunette shakes her head at his words, gesturing for him to sit down beside her. Doing so, he leans back into the uncomfortable chair as she crosses a leg over the other. “She said she thinks about him a lot.”

“She still loves him,” Shoko says bluntly. “She gets that far-off look when she talks about him. You two should trade secrets some time.” A shake of her head, and she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “I healed what damage I could, but I can tell those growths inside are expanding. The attack only seems to have agitated and prompted them to take root.”

“How…” It’s hard to formulate the question. Luckily, Shoko knows him well enough.

“Without seeing the scans, I won’t know. Based on her last ones, I thought at least four months. Now?” Her lips press into a thin line. “She’ll be lucky if she gets two.” Shoko’s eyes flicker down Satoru’s front, and her lips press into a wry line. “And change you shirt. You look like a murder suspect.”

Glancing down, he looks at your dried bloody hand print, stark against white, and he gets up abruptly. Shoko doesn’t stop him.

He walks down to the dead-end hall. He can hear Itadori through your open door cracking jokes, Kugisaki relaying every detail of her shopping trips, and you’re wheezing your laughter despite Maki scolding you to save your strength. Satoru stops just outside your door, out of sight, and rests his head against the frame, content to just listen.

“Tuna mayo.”

“Is that right?” you ask Inumaki. “Lay it on me.” 

You sound exhausted, beaten to the bone, but still, when Fushiguro says something too quiet for him to make out, you still have the strength to tease him for worrying.

.

The night is warm, and he sets the last plant back into its place on your window sill before cracking the window a bit at your request. He’s busied himself making this place as homely as possible as quickly as possible, and in the process, had walked in on you staring at your own scans on the lightscreen mounted on your wall.

“Thanks, Satoru,” you say over your shoulder. He joins you by your side to stare at the scans. Granted, Satoru didn’t cheat his way through medschool like others have, so he doesn’t understand much, but he can tell what is and what isn’t supposed to be there. The floral-like growths situated right where the main bronchi meet the trachea, for one.

The roots spreading across your chest like cracks in concrete, for another.

“The doctors want to monitor this,” you explain, pointing at the roots, “to see whether or not it’ll grow around my lungs or continue outward, around the ribs and spine. If it’s the former, I’ll slowly suffocate and die. If it’s the latter, I’ll slowly suffocate, become paralyzed, and die.” You smile grimly. “Not quite a win-win.”

“Exactly the opposite.” He inspects the growths and through the blue-white-black imaging, he spots the tiny stems emerging from the main growth, sprouting into your lungs. He guesses, with time, those will grow into flowers of equal size before sprouting more shoots.

He wonders…

As if sensing his hesitance, you scratch your collarbone and look at the scans with a new glint.

“The doctors say if I avoid another attack like today, I’ll probably have two months, three if I’m blessed, but because of how big the growths have gotten already and its volatile nature, it’ll be impossible, so we’re looking at a month. Maybe a month-and-a-half?” You smile at him, throat bobbing. “Guess it’s good to have a number,” you add shakily, a short puff coming at the end of each breath as you struggle to fight the cough. “Being a sorcerer, too much uncertainty, I think.”

“You should tell Nanami that. Maybe this time, it’ll convince him to stay away,” he retorts, turning away from the scans. They’re burning his eyes and he doesn’t want to look at the real thing for much longer. You turn with him, walking back towards bed and climbing in. “Are you sure you don’t want the operation? Shoko could do it so fast you wouldn’t feel a thing.”

“No, not yet. There are some complications that’ll definitely occur and I don’t want that to happen.”

“But it would save your life,” he argues. “What risks are frightening enough that you’d even consider not having it?” Your gaze flickers as you take another wheezing breath. The strength seems sapped from your limbs—you’re a scarecrow hanging off its pole as you swallow tightly. Satoru leans against your window sill and crosses his arms over his chest so you can’t see the frustrated fists he wants to make. “If this is about Suguru…”

Resolutely: “It isn’t.”

“You’re going to die if you keep going down this road. I don’t understand why you’re hesitating.” In the back of his mind, klaxons begin to scream.

“Satoru, some things are just beyond logical reason.” He jerks his gaze away, pushing his glasses up his nose pointedly. You sigh. “I know it’s hard, but this is my choice. I just want you to be here so you know it’s okay.” 

Your hand stretches out. Blue eyes flash to your outstretched fingers and he takes it before he can stop himself. Your fingers curl over his palm, tugging him closer and he lets you, sneakers dragging over the tile until he’s sliding into the chair by your bed. It squeaks against the tile.

“Please don’t be angry with me.” That’s all. That’s all I ask.

A hard, heavy sigh, this time from his end. He tightens his hold on you as you sit there, smiling hopefully. His heart thunders in his chest. “I’m not angry.”

You perk up a bit, and his index finger unfurls to rub your wrist. It feels colder than normal. “Promise?”

He wishes he could lie half as well as you. Either way, he tries his hardest: “Promise.”

By the time it’s quarter past nine, you’re already getting ready to sleep. You have enough pillows to surround your entire body, and he fluffs them up, helps you arrange them until you’re sighing against the white sheets, burrowing in with a sedated smile on your face.

Satoru sits down again on his visitor’s chair and you watch him lazily through the dim orange light stemming from behind your bed.

“You don’t have to stay here and watch me, creep,” you mumble, turning your face away to stare at the ceiling. You cough dryly, but it subsides moments later. Your voice is nothing but a croak as you let out a tired groan, and Satoru smiles to himself, cheek to his fist. 

“I feel robbed of our afternoon together. Making up for it now.”

You look at him again incredulously. “We’re not even doing anything.”

“I don’t know when you were told that every second of us being together had to be us doing something,” he huffs. “I like being in here. Isn’t that enough?”

“It’s too much. You’re annoying me.” Even so, your voice turns fond as you roll onto your side, away from him to settle in to sleep and Satoru’s warm gaze lands on your shoulder gently rising and falling as you slowly drift off. 

He already knows you’re gone by the time he’s standing up and gathering his jacket. Walking around the bed, he glances at the bathroom to check the light’s off and catches a glimpse of his shirt. A coil wraps around his gut at the muddy red handprint pressed into the fabric and he turns away to look at you instead.

Your face is in perfect peace, half-buried into a pillow you’re hugging into your chest, and he only soaks in those features. His hand twitches, and his infinity wavers as he raises his hand as if to touch you. Your eyelids flutter and he freezes, fearing he might’ve woken you up, but you only mumble incoherently and turn into your pillow.

Satoru watches on silently just as a breeze sweeps into the room and he looks up where the window he had cracked open. The breeze takes hold of the plants, uplifts them until they sway like a tender dance. 

His chest begins to hurt. The smell of the antiseptic is starting to sting, so he moves his hand to the light switch instead. Flicking it off, he turns to leave.

.

Every time Satoru walks down to the end of the hallway, a different memory will play in his head until he’s playing a movie over and over every single day. Of the first time he met you, although that one is blurry. Your sixteenth birthday when the four of them had piled into your dorm room to drink themselves stupid.

One-and-a-half weeks go by before he realizes that he only replays the moments where you feature. Like his brain is preparing him, reminding him. For what, he doesn’t know. 

He can’t come every day—considering the low number of sorcerers has been taken down by one more, it means besides teaching, he still has to work for the Higher Ups as well as his own personal agenda—but when he does make it, he always makes sure that he soaks in every second. Even the horrible parts. Maybe, especially the horrible parts.

You have scans taken every other day to monitor your progress, so when he arrives at an empty room, he isn’t surprised. It’s when there’s movement in the bathroom that sends his nerves prickling until he catches a slab of golden hair and reading glasses flashing in the sunlight.

“Nanami,” he greets.

“Good afternoon.” His jacket’s off and his sleeves are rolled up. With a quick sweep of the room, Satoru notes that the windows are cracked open and the aforementioned jacket is folded over a chair sat in a square of sunlight.

“Do we need to be so formal?” he complains, bypassing the bathroom and searching for another chair. The one Nanami’s taken by the plants is still warm and Satoru isn’t keen on the idea of sweating so soon. During his search, he stops by the windowsill and his eyebrows rise curiously at the new plants and trash bin pressed up right underneath. “What’s happening here?”

“We were planting new seeds when she had to be taken for her scans. She insisted I finish potting the plants.�� Noting the empty terracotta, Satoru bends over and prods at the moist dirt. “I have to go soon, though. I had hoped it wouldn’t take as long as it did and she would be back by now.”

“They started taking MRI scans when the branches continued to grow outward rather than inward,” Satoru informs. “It takes around forty-five minutes, on top of the CT scans they’re taking, too. That’s if she doesn’t start coughing in the middle of it.” 

“I’m guessing she does.” Nanami adjusts the glasses on his nose, wiping at his hands free of the last of whatever dirt might’ve been clinging to his hands.

“Yup.”

“I see.” Satoru looks at the plants again. The blond man across the room throws the towel into the dirty clothes basket.“Has she… spoken to you of what to do with her effects?”

Gaze hardening, he doesn’t move at the question. Of course, he’s thought about it, but those bouts of weakness have never been longer than a few minutes. There’s no use in wasting time on a reality that won’t come until it does.

Hopefully, it never does.

“I’m so sick of everyone talking like she’s signed a death sentence,” Satoru murmurs, turning around to look at the blond man at the door to the washroom. “She still has time. Not a lot. It’s not convenient, but it should be enough.”

“She’s already considered the benefits of taking the surgery, and yet she actively decides to postpone it. You know she’s stalling,” comes the steady reply.

“And what about you?” Satoru asks. His words are biting, icy, but Nanami seems unfazed as he begins to loop the tie around his neck. “Would you do it?” Blue eyes meet a stoic face, and the coldness seeps into Satoru’s body. Nanami sighs.

A part of Satoru wonders why he even bothered asking. He already knows the answer—

“No.” Eyebrows shoot up. His mouth drops open and a strangled noise escapes his throat. Nanami merely continues on, quiet as death. “Perhaps it’s because I’m willing to accept my death, but, to be honest, I don’t know how to let any part of Haibara go. I’ve accepted it, but he’s still in my heart and my head.” Lips parting, Satoru takes a step forward as Nanami slants his body away, continuing to fold the fabric into a tie. He looks statuesque, unmovable, and something tightens in Satoru’s throat at the stone-like mask taking over his face. “I’m unwilling to do anything to taint that memory.”

Wordlessly, the blond walks over to Satoru to take his jacket from the chair, rolling down his sleeves and slapping his watch back onto his wrist. Standing less than two feet apart, the two men finally meet eyes.

“Gojo,” Nanami murmurs. “I can’t say I understand your burden, but I am by your side. I do not always agree with your choices, but I still respect them. As your kouhai and as your colleague.” His lips pull in a facsimile of a wry smile and there’s an understanding Satoru doesn’t understand haunting his handsome face. “However, she is your friend before mine. I think your opinion matters much more than mine. Don’t abuse that power.”

Satoru’s eyes nearly reflect in the lenses of Nanami’s glasses. He wishes his friend would take the damn pair off. 

In truth, the reason he’s so irritated is because he knows. If he insists enough, begs enough, there will always be a chance that he can convince you. That you will give in, not because you are selfless, but maybe because you’re too selfish to let him stay mad at you.

An unstoppable force meets an immovable object, and sometimes, the force wins.

But he’d promised, hadn’t he? To not be angry with the choices you’ve made?

“Jeez, it’s somber in here. Who died?” you tease as Shoko pushes the wheelchair in after you. Both men look away from each other. You’re still walking steadily, but an IV is hooked into your chest now, and it’s so obvious you’ve lost unhealthy weight that looking at you is hard sometimes. Satoru does, anyway. 

Noting Nanami, you straighten up. Surprised, but pleased: “You’re still here.”

“I was just leaving,” he says. You frown, but don’t protest. A jujutsu sorcerer’s work is never finished until one stops breathing. “I finished planting the seeds you asked me to, and watered them.”

“Thank you.” He dips his head to you, then to Shoko, before departing, and you watch him go for a moment before your eyes land on Satoru and you smile. The air around you shifts immediately to a vibrant yellow. 

“You’re early, Satoru.” You head towards the bed as Shoko parks the wheelchair by the door. “It took way longer than I thought.”

“That’s because you threw up pistils today,” Shoko replies dryly. Satoru straightens up and looks at Shoko more carefully. Placid lookimg—usual for his mortician friend in the jujutsu world—but there’s a blanching in her knuckles that isn’t usual. “The CT wasn’t good. You know that.”

“Well, it’s still more time than I could’ve asked for, you know.” Shoko shakes her head, and meets his eyes before leaving the room, presumably to talk to your doctors. “Party pooper.”

“First day knowing Shoko?”

You laugh sarcastically, adjusting the hospital gown on your body before climbing into bed slowly, as if your joints ache. Satoru’s feet shift on the tile when he realizes his body moves to help and he freezes. You’re breathing audibly by the time you settle in and you meet his eyes, wondering if he’s noticed.

Of course he has, he wants to tell you. He notices everything about you.

Then, you sigh, and the yellow energy around you flickers into something darker, something grey, something that reminds him of summer thunderstorms.

“The roots have reached the edge of my rib cage and are encroaching on my stomach now,” you inform bluntly. “I probably won’t be able to keep food down in the next couple of days so they’re going to up the ante on this thing.” You gesture to the catheter by your clavicle. “So that’s not really fun. And, they want to start taking scans every single day because the growth is increasing exponentially. The doctors think something triggered the flowers to begin blooming in earnest. Like spring has come to my body, and I’m having the worst fucking time of my life.”

Despite your admission, your smile only falters in that it no longer reaches your eyes. Satoru shoves his hands in his pockets because he doesn’t know what else to do.

The word Hanahaki still burns, whispers coyly in his ear. It teases the tip of his tongue as he watches you look to your windowsill where your new plants are and get up, walking over to inspect your friend’s work.

He wonders if he can bring it up again. If he can insist that there’s a way to save you—

But Nanami’s words linger, too, and he bites his tongue until he tastes iron. 

“Oh, look.” He blinks at your voice, turning to look. Your fingers sink into one of the pots and before he can ask, blue energy flares up around your hand and into the soil and a shoot breaks through the dirt, unfurling as it grows higher and higher into the air.

“What is it?” Petals are beginning to form, the shade of a warm, gentle red that fades in shade as it reaches the stem. Satoru comes up next to you as the first flower blooms and his eyebrows rise. “Tulips. Huh.”

“I used to love them,” you tell him, picking it off and extending it to him. Eyebrows furrowing in surprise, he takes it as you sink your fingers deeper into the soil, sending more cursed energy into the seeds. More stems to replace the one you had picked continue to grow and you pull your hand out, wiping at your fingers with a towel.

Satoru tilts the flower towards his nose, taking a whiff.

“Used to?” he repeats, and you nod.

“Trees and flowers have their own language.” Your eyes do not meet his as you watch the plant continue to grow. Your muscles go slack, and your fingers touch the petals, mind not quite aware of how you’re moving. “Red tulips mean eternal love, and fame.”

Blinking, he looks down at his own bloom. 

Suguru. He hears you say his name, even in the silence, and remembers years ago, walking through Tokyo. A neighbourhood he doesn’t remember, his best friend looking at the florist’s shop and immediately perking up to head inside and buy a bouquet after something had caught his eye.

“For a girl,” he had admitted sheepishly. 

“Only one?” Satoru asked, horrified. “You can’t settle down! We’re meant for so many more women than just one!”

A sharp nudge to the ribs. Raucous laughter. “Shut up!”

Quietly, Satoru’s fingers tighten around the stalk as you tilt your head to the sun, inspecting something he won’t understand. He doesn’t have a green thumb, and although you say you aren’t the smartest, he’s seen you grow the college’s gardens in a way that has amplified the beauty already lingering on the grounds. You had dismissed it as a little side project, but seeing you water your plants dutifully, spread feed and root out weeds, makes him wonder if you know how to put half-efforts into anything.

When you garden, you never take the easy route. You labour for the satisfaction, and pour sweat and tears into the soil.

When you love, you love with all of yourself and more. 

It’s what makes whatever he wants impossible.

Because he is the same, and they will never change.

When Satoru goes home, he places the tulip in a vase and the cursed energy prickles at his fingertips.

.

You get worse and worse with every visit. 

Each day brings him another raw wound, salt on blood. You slowly grow more and more ragged, even though you stay in the hospital, confined to your room. 

There are days Satoru walks into your room to you hunched over the toilet, spitting blood and flowers into the bowl and vomiting all you ate the night or day or hour before and he already knows what he has to do. A cold, damp rag to your forehead, a crouching stance beside you as your grip on the toilet seat becomes rigid like steel.

Other days, you’re still asleep because the night before, you’d been hacking up half a lung and half a bouquet. Sometimes, you’re curled around a plastic receptacle already full of your half-attempts to dislodge the pressure building in your chest. 

Or, you’re crying into your hands, breath coming in rapid bursts as you try to force your head between your knees to stop the world from spinning and Satoru holds you when you beg him to, and stands in the corner of the room when you push him away.

Afterwards, you always grab onto his sleeves, his arms, and sink against him, shivering. For hours after, he’ll curl around you on your hospital bed, no matter how much his body cramps, until you insist you’re fine.

“It’s a little like touching death,” you told him once, voice raw and fatigued. “When it’s a pretty bad day, and I think I’m going to die alone, it happens, so all I have to do is not think about it.”

There’s a flawed logic there, but Satoru was too busy pressing his nose into your hair and feeling the warmth of your body to reply any more than, “I’ll be there. I promise.”

Two weeks pass (fourteen sets of scans, a different pair hanging from the lightscreen every day tell him that) and Satoru watches as the branches spread through your body, past the reaches of your ribs, and the flowers have spread to your lungs so quickly he’s sure the time for you to decide is running out. 

You’re near-passed out against him on the bathroom floor one evening, and although it’s not closet-sized, it doens’t make the arrangement any less awkward. He’s up against the bathtub, legs sprawled all around you as he holds you in his arms. On the edge of the tub, there is a bar of bodysoap and a bottle of lotion he recognizes as the same one Shoko used to buy when they still had time. Your sink counter is filled with your toothbrush and cup, handsoap and a microfibre towel hanging off the edge smeared with lipstick, foundation, and black streaks of who knows what.

Shoko must have spent the night while he was out hunting a curse in Sendai. Good. He doesn’t like the nights when you’re alone and he can’t be there.

His fingers brush over your shoulder blade, and he travels over something rigid cloaked by your skin. Your eyes are closed, and you’re nearly asleep as you curl deeper against him. Looking down at you, he presses curious fingers into your shoulder blade only for you to let out a soft groan.

“Did that hurt?”

“No. It just feels like you pressed down on a big sore muscle,” you mumble slowly. He trails his fingers over, feels the bumps of the roots curling around your bones before following it towards your spine. It disappears the closer it reaches the trail of knobs that go down your back, and he moves back to your shoulder again. “Doesn’t hurt, though.”

“Does anything?”

“Mostly my stomach,” you tell him. “I’m so hungry all the time, but I can’t eat.” He glances at the IV stand, the only other witness to the events in this bathroom. It leads down through your gown and past your clavicle. Monitored every day in case the growths dislodge it, it’s one of the only things keeping you alive. “And my throat. It feels like I’ve scratched it out until it’s bleeding.”

He tilts his head. His lips barely brush your sweaty scalp despite how cold you feel in his arms “No surgery?”

You shake your head, what remains of your strength slowly coming back. “They say the flowers and roots have taken up sixty-five percent of my chest cavity. It’s not only inhibiting my lungs, but my heart and stomach, too, so it’d be kind of hard to get rid of it all. Not impossible, but it’s really risky. That, on top of the already-present consequences—”

“So let’s say we start with the lungs,” he cuts off, trying to not sound too desperate but these past few weeks have worn him down to the bone. Although he thinks he’s managed to hide it from his students, Shoko has offered multiple times to prescribe him sleeping pills just so he can shut his mind down.

He said no every time.

Your legs draw up and he squeezes your shoulder carefully, looking down. “Are you ready to get up?”

You nod. “I think so.” He wipes at your lips with the rag he left on the counter and you roll your eyes as he makes sure no blood is left on your face before throwing it back up and carefully adjusting you against him.

“Do you want my help?”

“My answer does not matter to you,” you shoot back teasingly and he lets you pull away from him before reaching up with one hand to push yourself up. Your arm wobbles, your feet kicking back underneath you and slowly finding theirselves on the floor. Satoru withdraws, ducking underneath and back up so he can stand, hands floating around your body as you draw the IV stand towards yourself and grab on. When he’s sure your knees might give in, he grabs your elbow, but you shake your head. “I think I’m okay.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m okay,” you breathe, raising your head to look at him. Your lips curl in a soft smile, and you clasp his shoulder. “Thank you.”

“I didn’t even do anything this time,” he says.

“Not everyone stays for the pathetic girl on the floor of the bathroom floor,” you quip. Turning around, you begin to head back to bed and he trails behind you carefully.

“If the girl’s you, then I think exceptions can be made.”

“Hospital bonus.”

“It adds that you’re in the hospital, too,” he agrees. “My morals are just.”

“Isn’t that a relief?” 

It is. It is a relief that you still have the strength to joke with him. 

You climb back into bed. Satoru returns to the bathroom to make sure the bathroom is flushed and it’s clean before returning and perching on the edge of your bed. Pulling out his phone, he shuffles his shoes off and tucks his legs to his chest, leaning against the foot of your bed and scrolling through his messages.

Not much to miss, to be honest. 

“There’s supposed to be a lunar eclipse on the morning of the 28th,” you say suddenly. Satoru looks up. You’re leaning back on the mountain of pillows, exhaling and inhaling measuredly in a way he now knows is your way of fighting off another bout. Squinting against the orange glow of the sunset, there’s a longing in your gaze. “I want to see it. Outside and everything.”

“You’re not supposed to leave the hospital.”

You don’t miss a beat. “Oh, we’re abiding by rules, now?”

“If it keeps you around, yes, we are.”

“When did my best friend turn into such a party pooper?” Looking at him, an impish glint lives in your eyes. He balks.

“Don’t you dare insinuate that I’m not fun.”

“Then… take me to see the eclipse.”

“No. There’s nothing to even see.”

“I want to see the moon disappear, Gojo,” you declare. “And if you won’t take me, I will definitely sneak out.” 

It paints a pretty pathetic picture, and he can’t help but arch his eyebrows at your determination. The air purifier drones on. The nurse turned it on after dinner, he guesses, and he has the strange urge to kick it as you fix him with a fierce stare. 

“You probably won’t be able to walk by then,” he says.

“That won’t stop me.” He knows it won’t. The corner of his lips pulls into a slight smile as you continue, “I just want to go outside one last time. Is that really too much to ask?” Your words are tinged with a fine dusting of humour, and he shakes his head.

“You’re incorrigible.”

“Big word for you, Satoru.”

“I still mean it.”

“And I learned that from you.”

He rolls his eyes and sighs. “Fine,” he caves. Your face lights up, and he sets down his phone, legs unfolding to brush the floor as he leans over to flick your forehead. Your eyes squeeze shut at the contact and you slap his arm away sluggishly before he soothes the smarting spot over with a smear of his thumb. “I’ll come by, and we’ll sneak out.”

You beam and he slips his feet back into his shoes and pockets his phone so he can focus his attention on you. 

When visiting hours end, the nurses offer to set up the cot for him like they always do. You pretend not to look at him out of the corner of his eye, awaiting his answer behind your laptop screen, and he spares you a quick glance before saying yes.

“She likes you,” you tell him after one particular nurse with dyed purple hair who always wears a fishtail bids them goodnight. Satoru fluffs up his pillow ceremoniously, having shed his jacket and taken off his jeans to hide underneath the blankets. The fabric is cold against his bare chest, and he pulls his glasses off, sets them on the stand right behind him.

The black frame holding up his mattress rattles a bit as he punches his pillow one last time and lies down. He turns on his side and looks at you. You’re turned on your side, too, and your brow is furrowed as you fight the sleepiness.

“Is that so?” he asks carefully. “What do you think about it?”

“I think if you wanted someone with a hectic schedule, you could pick someone else,” you say vaguely.

He raises an eyebrow. “Does she have a bad attitude or something?”

“I dunno.” There’s a subtle fire igniting in your words. You look a bit more awake, and your eyes are shifting the air into a smouldering red. He squints up. Your face is shadowed, but you’re still silhouetted by the orange light behind your bed as your shoulders rise and fall greatly in staggering, weighty breaths. “She wouldn’t understand. I guess.”

He hums. “So I should find someone who understands me but can’t be there for me? Sounds like the set up to every tragic love story ever.”

You laugh, and it’s the saddest sound in the world.

.

Friday, July 27th arrives in clouds.

Satoru scouted a spot before where they can watch the eclipse. He settles on one of the highest buildings on campus with a balcony where they can sit against the railing and watch the moon disappear. You can’t eat, but he still buys your favourite food from all over Japan, travelling to different prefectures in hopes that they still have your favourite dessert or drink that you mentioned once—he even gets you a new polaroid camera. He doesn’t know exactly how well the eclipse will show up on it, but, memories, right?

Maki makes a dry remark about how much he’s running around lately, probably to make amends to a girl he’s scorned. Satoru deflects and says he’s actually trying to impress one this time.

It’s been a five days since his promise to bring you. You lost your ability to walk steadily two days ago and to speak effortlessly only yesterday. The roots have extended through your body, pushing the muscle of your back and shoulders, and it’s made even moving painful, so he intends to carry you everywhere he can, holding your IV bags if he needs to. 

The doctors say eighty-five percent of your chest is now occupied with foreign growth. Satoru wishes they’d just tell it how it is—you’ll probably be dead by next week.

He arrives at the hospital and walks the path he’s walked so often over the past few weeks that he is sure he could do it with his eyes closed. The nurse’s station, and there’ll be the purple-haired one and the one with a double helix piercing on call at this time. Then, twenty-five steps to the end of the hall where the window often lets a lot of natural light in. Today, it’s grey and not much, but it’s enough to cast his shadow long and blurry.

He stops in front of your door to sanitize his hands when he hears voices within and hesitates.

Your door is closed, which means you don’t want people to interrupt, and he moves away from the rectangular window, back pressing against the tiny slab of wall between the frame and the corner of the hallway. Glasses slipping down his nose, he tries not to listen but he can’t help of himself.

“Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure,” you say weakly. You sound awful. Satoru wonders if he’s missed one of your panic attacks and curses himself. “If I don’t sound sure, it’s because I’m dying… and sounding like a fragile piece of shit… comes with the territory.” Your words are coarse, and a harsh anger grates his ears as you cough violently, a terrible retching sound ending with a splat following right after. 

“I wasn’t doubting you,” Nanami replies calmly. “But this could be done in so many other ways.”

“Look, Nanami. I’m not… brave enough to say any of it. Now, sit down. Your standing… it’s making me nervous… Thank you.” Satoru’s legs feel numb as he sinks down to the floor, tilting his head just enough to listen clearer through the sliver underneath the door. Resting his elbows on his knees, he runs a hand through shaggy white hair. It feels dry and lifeless. 

He can’t remember the last time he took a shower that was longer than ten minutes and more than ice-cold bordering on just beginning to warm.

“Take care of him for me,” you croak and his fingers tighten against his scalp. Nanami doesn’t answer, and you let out a sound that can only be described as pure agony as another bout grasps you tightly. You’re wheezing by the end of it, gasping painfully for air, and the monitors start beeping rapidly, a dinging that echoes in his head as Nanami’s low voice soothes you, tells you gently to calm down. “I’m—I’m sorry.”

“Breathe with me,” Nanami orders, and everything falls silent. Satoru stares at his lap. His head is beginning to pulse with the monitors when the beeping finally starts to fade. “Good. No sense to waste your strength.” 

Wobbly, spitting: “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” A pause. “It’s not your fault.”

You laugh, as if Nanami’s cracked a funny joke, and it’s gut-wrenching. “Remember how… we can curse each other? Ourselves? True curses.”

Faintly amused, immeasurably strained: “I thought it was still a hypothesis regarding those who don’t have the correct bloodline and the ability to curse through their own will.”

“No…Not a hypothesis. Real, Nanami. Real. No one knows how cursed energy affects us. Not really. Since, in my opinion, it’s entirely based on how we process things… it’s so difficult to say but when you know someone…” You break off to clear your throat. “The curse of adulthood… some of us got that too early… but we can survive that and even if it’s not a curse by… definition, we still feel it, right?” 

Satoru clasps his hands together just so he doesn’t rip the door open at the hinges.

“Right.”

“And… knowledge… can be a curse. Even if we can’t see it.” A ragged breath. Then, another laugh too loud for the grey light outside, too bright, a spark before it fizzles into, again, pained choking. “Nanami, remember last year… the job out in Yama… Yamaguchi?”

“Yes.”

“And we came back… Okkotsu was beginning his first year at the college… what I—what I told you?”

“…Yes.” A beat passes. A chair shifts on the linoleum floor and Nanami clears his throat. “I see.”

“I don’t want him to be so alone. I know I was never the strongest or the smartest or the most talented but I liked to think he let me in because I was there. Not because I understood. Maybe… Maybe because I didn’t. Nanami, please… he always try to stay so far away from the people he thinks he can’t love. Tell him… tell him—“

You break off and Nanami assures you with a steadfastness Satoru has counted on so many times before: “I will.” 

“…thank you.”

Eyes shutting tight, Satoru rests his brow against the heel of his hand. His head is aching, and a hard fist grabs his chest, squeezes his heart until it feels like it’ll burst. So this is how you’re really feeling. When you’re not smiling, this is what you are. Angry at the world, and heartbroken.

So terribly heartbroken.

And you couldn’t trust him with it? Because you thought he couldn’t handle it? 

He can take it. It’ll be okay because he’s the strongest. He has to be. 

I’m the strongest. I should be okay. I’m the strongest.

I’m the Strongest.

The headache gets worse so he gets up from that corner in the dead-end hallway, all the while three words replay in his head like a goddamn gramophone.

Nanami doesn’t come out of the room for a while. When he does, Satoru walks down the hall with takeout and a smile plastered on his face as if he had heard nothing at all.

.

At just past one-thirty AM, Satoru sits up from his cot and rubs at his eyes. After dinner, the both of them had forced themselves to go to sleep in order to have enough energy for their little late night excursion. He glances at you, a slumbering shape on the bed, and gets up, slowly sliding on the lights. They burn a dim orange, glowing on your face, and your eyebrows furrow as he touches your cheek.

“What?” you mumble, vexed, and he smiles.

“Are you ready?” he asks. A backpack is situated at the end of his bedframe and he reaches for it, unzipping it carefully as you crack your eyes open. “We’re going to go see the eclipse, remember?” Pulling out clothes he robbed from your room in the staff facility from when you used to work full time, he grabs your shoulder and shakes you gently. The gnarled roots under your skin feel strange against his fingers as you groan weakly. “Do you want five more minutes, Sleeping Beauty?”

You don’t answer, burying your face into your pillow and he shakes his head to himself. It’s going to be all right, he thinks. I planned for this setback.

Slipping into a dark long-sleeve, he parts the black-out curtains to let light come in. He checks his reflection in the bathroom mirror before running a hand through his hair and washing his hands with a cold stream of water. By the time he leaves the bathroom, you’re sitting up already, heel of your hand rubbing against your brow as you groan. In your other hand in your lap, there’s a splash of blood and a lone petal, and he rushes to your side instantly.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t even hear—“

“It came out easy,” you assure as he grabs a tissue to pick it off your hand and throw it into the receptacle at the table just beyond the foot of your bed. Wiping at your mouth roughly, he hears your complaints and your hand shoves against his shoulder to tell him to quit it. “Ah, I can do it myself!”

“Shh! Do you want every nurse storming in here while we conduct our super secret getaway?” he whispers, and your eyes fix on his. Dark circles mark your face like bruises, but that light is still the same—glimmering, bright, like twin suns and just as warm. Making sure your hands are clean, he wipes the invisible streaks of blood just to be sure before grabbing your clothes and setting them at the end of the bed.

You glance around the place sluggishly, at the paintings you never got to finish, and the books you haven’t finished reading, before settling on him. “What are we going to do about the… about the machines? And my IV…” 

“Oh, trust me. I may have bribed a nurse or two,” he confesses and you send him a scandalized look. He shrugs. “What? You told me a woman liked me and I couldn’t help but turn on my natural charm.”

“You’re awful,” you say without meaning it and he smiles as he moves your bed into a sitting position. You cough lightly, but sit up straighter as he carefully unhooks the huge bag and pump from your stand and gently slides it into the pocket in the backpack, resisting the urge to squish the pouch a bit. Strapping the pump in, he makes sure it’s secure as you peer around him to catch what he’s doing. “Is this… safe for me, you—you know, medically-speaking?”

“Nope.” He adjusts the tubing to avoid any kinks. “But, Purple gave me this backpack and she will come as soon as we come back to make sure you aren’t dying. And, if anything goes wrong, I promised her I’d come back as soon as possible.”

“Promised her?” you echo “I see. So that’s what Purple… was doing before my afternoon nap. I thought you guys traded suspicious looks.”

“Yeah. I’m pulling big strings. Now, c’mon, silly. Let’s get you dressed.”

You roll your eyes with a whistling breath. “Watch the tube… and c’mere, then, Gojo.”

He grabs the jacket first and does exactly as you order. Wrapping it around you, he helps you thread your arms through before zipping you up carefully as your shoulders begin to shake. Bending over, you reach blindly for the receptacle at the end of the bed and he hands it over to you.

A wad of saliva mixed with blood slips between your lips and you let out a low noise before forcing yourself to cough harshly again and again. Satoru watches. No matter how many times he sees you rip your throat up just to breathe with a bit less pressure in your chest, it doesn’t get any easier.

You manage to get up a whole magenta blossom. It blooms from your mouth like something out of a horror movie and lands in the receptacle before he’s wiping your mouth.

“Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize.”

They continue on.

Coat, next, zipped up, and a scarf, then he’s scooping up your legs to help you twist on the mattress until your feet are dangling off the edge. He weaves your legs through the sweat pants, careful not to let his gaze avert from his task even as the hospital gown trails up your legs. You shiver at the exposed skin and gooseflesh pimples your thighs as you lift up your hips to help with the effort. He pulls the hospital gown free from the waistband and lets it fall over the hem so you’re completely covered before falling back.

In a crouch, he pats your knees and makes the mistake of looking up only to find your eyes already on him, searching, nearly mystified. Satoru’s throat tightens. The faint light streaming from the window catches half of your face, as if half-divine. There’s a curiosity there, lingering, and the way you look at him makes him freeze in his spot.

Is this how Suguru saw you a thousand times before, a thousand lifetimes ago? Is this what he felt? 

Did he see the way your pupils dilate, the flare of your nostrils as you exhaled so quietly that it felt like a feather against his lips despite the distance between them? Did he see galaxies in your irises, home in the softness of your stare? Is that why he kissed you the last time he saw you? To memorialize their love for himself, to remember what it looked like when you loved him?  

Did he feel like he could fight dragons, crush demons, rip their world apart at the seams and rebuild it again with bloodied nails if it meant you would never cry again? Is that part of why he did it? So you would never be lonely again? 

Because if so, Satoru understands. 

Because if so, Satoru would do the same.

Because he always saw you as just pretty, because you had always been just his friend, and then his best friend’s girlfriend, and then his best friend, so there were always lines drawn in salt, scuffed and distorted over the years, but…

But in the light, tired and lost in his gaze, you’re nearly ethereal. The only reason he knows you’re not a goddess is because he’s still touching your knees, and your breath quivers, as if you’re just as disconnected from the world as he is in this moment.

Lips pressing together, he looks away, and the moment’s gone. 

He glances at the clock. 

How long has it been since he moved? It feels like hours.

Twenty-seven seconds.

Twenty-seven seconds of temptation, and then Satoru turned away. 

He slants to grab a pair of thick woolly socks to give himself something to do. You’re still watching him, head tilted down just so, and he carefully takes hold of your ankle.

He focuses on the little things: the iciness of your skin, the way you pick at the fabric of your sweatpants absently as you watch him work, the way you shiver a bit when he touches you.

He rubs heat back into the arch of your foot as you reach into your jacket slowly to carefully remove the nodes monitoring your vitals. You seem stiff to the bone, and your fingers are rigid with anticipated pain as you peel off the stickers. In the back of his mind, he remembers the days that feel like yesterday when you weren’t hooked up to so many machines to assure both you and him that you’re still alive.

Removing the cap for the oximeter from your finger, you shake yourself out a bit, clearing your throat. He slides one sock on, and then the other.

“How’re you feeling?” he finally utters.

It takes you a moment to answer. “Bottom half feels tingly. Usual these days. My body feels like a big giant bruise,” you inform quietly. Your voice is nothing more than a rasp. “Very warm and toasty, though… Thank you.”

“Just gotta get the shoes on and then we’ll teleport there.”

“Okay.” He helps you slip your feet in, something straight out of Cinderella, and then he stands up to take your hands. Your fingers slip into his palms, and he holds you so tightly as you slide off the bed. The instant your feet hit the floor, your grip intensifies and your head snaps down to the floor. You find your footing after a moment, and he lets go to crack open your window. Moving your plants aside, he climbs out to glance around. 

The air is crisp and cold, but not too bad for him. Even so, he’ll probably slip on a hoodie before they leave and he ducks back in to your room to do so, tugging it down his waist before grabbing the backpack.

“Arms through,” he instructs, slipping the backpack onto your shoulders. Guiding you closer, he helps you shuffle as close as possible towards him before turning around and bending over. “Alright, climb on. We’re going.” 

Your arms touch his shoulders, his hands shoot out behind him, and you fall.

Fingers hooking on your thighs, he boosts you up and your arms wrap around him, your own fingers wrapped so tightly around his collar that it nearly chokes him. Haphazardly stepping through the windows, his fingers sink into the fabric of your sweats. Your breath is warm against the shell of his ear, and he can feel your heart pulsing against his back as he turns to look at you. 

He smiles. “How’s it feel?”

“I’m still not sure if you’re going to let me die.” You press your face closer to his head and your arms tighten. “But the wind feels so good. So, so good.”

“That’d be too undignified,” he teases, and then he jumps. Time seems to slow as it always does when he’s about to teleport. He imagines the staff facility on the campus, quiet as a cemetery at this time of night, and his heart lurches forward. For a moment, his senses leave him all at once. He can’t taste or feel or see anything for a fraction of a second, then it comes to him in blinding speed. His hearing, as always, is first, then his eyes, smell and then touch and smell.

His foot lands on stone, as if he’s just finished a small skip, and he grins as he sweeps the courtyard. No one, as planned. The building’s to his immediate right, and he climbs the steps, using your knee to nudge the door open.

“That was fun,” you comment. “Convenient, too. Blink of an eye, and you’re somewhere else.”

“You can’t even begin to imagine how many lines I’ve skipped because of it,” he comments. The lights are all off, and he heads for the kitchen immediately to grab all the food he’s bought. Setting you down on the kitchen counter, he takes out another canvas bag and stuffs all of the food in.

Daifuku with of all kinds of fillings in the fridge, fresh dorayaki, canned coffee and aloe drinks, sweet soymilk and other wagashi they used to feast on when they were younger. Mostly because Satoru would buy enough to feed a kingdom so he always had something on hand for his overactive brain. You watch him with wide eyes as he moves around with such purpose one could think he was preparing to fight an army, but as soon as he finishes, he flashes you a smile.

“I think you’re going to like where we’re going a lot, silly.”

“Didn’t have to buy stuff,” you mutter, fingers playing with the tube leading into your backpack for a moment.

“You haven’t eaten in weeks. I thought maybe we could at least try. Maybe not now, but at the end of the night, before we go back. Just in case.”

“I can’t eat, though.”

“Don’t know until I stuff it down your throat,” he replies cheerily, and you smile at him so brightly it’s almost like you aren’t sick. Then, that smile turns into a cough, a fist in front of your lips, and your expression is frozen into one of exasperation before it flickers into strained. He sets down his bag, already knowing what comes next.

You make a hacking sound, deep in your throat, and he shifts you closer to the sink so you can lean over and throw up. Gagging, it comes in red and clear torrents, the cursed energy spilling out of your body nearly making it incinerating to even touch you as you clutch the edge of the sink basin. 

You fall to your elbows, and Satoru eases you off the counter so he can hold you up instead of the cramping body contortion you sink into. Cupping the juncture of your shoulder and neck, his thumb sweeps soothingly over your root-invested spine, tossing the ends of the scarf over your shoulder and out of the way.

Settling a hand on your hip, he presses you against the countertop so you don’t fall, and hopes your legs can hold you up long enough for him to reach for the hand towel. You spit just as he manages to grab it, snapping back into position and peering over your shoulder to inspect how much you’ve coughed up. You shudder and a tortured moan wrenches out of your throat as you sink, forehead against the cool metal.

You’re scorching to touch, but he tightens his hold on you anyway, setting the towel aside for just a moment. Carefully, he pulls you back up and you let out an drained whine, but he shushes you quietly, turning you around and guiding your head over his shoulder so you don’t stare at the rot any longer.

Satoru knows you would, even if you pretend like you aren’t plagued with morbid, self-destructive curiosity.

Looking into the sink, he counts a few petals and three whole flowers, and you’re quivering against him as he wraps his arm around you. 

“Alright, lean back for me,” he whispers into your ear, and you obey. His arm around you crooks so he supports your head, the other grabbing the towel again. Exhaustion seems to have sluiced through you, and your eyes are nearly unfocused as he dabs at your mouth carefully. His blue eyes focus on the gentle curve of your lips, and your cheeks puff up before you swallow tightly and let out a shaking breath.

“You’re really close,” you mumble in that exhale. He tilts your chin to the light to make sure he hasn’t missed a spot, and your eyelids flutter as the corners of his lips quirk up. His Six Eyes pick up a muted yellow emanating from you, and it’s so warm against his skin that he can’t help but relish in the feeling. “You smell nice.”

“Good. I took a shower before I came today. Well, yesterday,” he amends softly. “Alright, let’s go before you hack up your other lung.”

“Funny.” Nonetheless, he scoops you back up onto his back and he rinses down the sink as you rest your head against his. He feels you breathing steadily, much easier now than before. Red swirls down the drains, and he watches the magenta petals slowly reveal their true colours. There’s a flash of white in the center of each one, and he wonders silently what flower it is and what it means.

Maybe he’ll find out some day.

When the kitchen’s back to the state they entered, he grabs the bag of food and holds onto your legs tightly as your arms around his neck shift and pull him closer. 

This time, when he teleports, it’s not as jarring. Walking around the balcony, he makes sure no one’s in the area before checking that the door to the roof is locked and heading back out into the night air, towards where they can see the moon clearest.

“Hey, open your eyes,” he whispers over his ear, and your head shifts.

“Hm? Oh!” He feels you wriggle, but he doesn’t let you go as he walks closer to the spot he’s set up. Near the railing, a blanket surrounded by pillows is laid out surrounded by a few space heaters. The moon is hanging perfectly in front of them, and the light illuminates the forests in silver as a gentle wind whistles through. Tranquil, the only sound is his footsteps on wood as you manage to pull your legs free with a harsh twist of your torso. Your hand slaps against the railing and he whirls around to hold you up but you grit your teeth. “I can do it.”

Breathing in deeply, you pull yourself past him using mostly your arms. Your feet drag as if they’re not really attached to a living body but you still move steady onward, and he walks ahead to turn on the heaters and set the food down as far away as he can so it doesn’t spoil too quickly.

“Satoru,” you breathe as if for the first time,” it’s so fucking beautiful up here.” Looking up, his heartstrings twinge. Your face is bathed almost entirely in silver, and it drapes down your body like silk, illuminating the cord of your throat he can see above the scarf, the strength of your hands. A smile brighter than even the most blinding sun rays comes across your face and he finds that the moon pales in comparison as your knees begin to give.

Reaching forward, he helps you sink down slowly, and then sit down, legs hanging off the edge and then you’re leaning to rest your elbows on the middle bar of the wooden railing. You can’t stop staring at the moon, and Satoru can’t stop staring at you as he opens the box of daifuku and pops one into his mouth. 

“The eclipse should be starting in a few minutes,” he says, checking his watch. 2:10. Four minutes to go. You finally tear your eyes away from the moon to look at him.

“I forgot…” you muse. “I forgot how bright… the moon was.”  

He settles in beside you and offers a canned coffee, but you shake your head. He cracks it open for himself. 

“We’re about to watch the moon change,” he notes. “But I read that it’ll last six hours.”

“Really?” Excited, you look up at the moon again. The lunar rays outline your already-pronounced eye bags but it also makes you look more beatific. “That’s just proof… our time here on Earth is so inconsequential in the grand scheme of things. It really makes you—makes you think how much we really matter. Which doesn’t seem like a lot, compared to things like a… fucking lunar eclipse.”

The moon’s opinion doesn’t matter more than mine, he thinks. “Well, while we’re waiting for your next epiphany to hit you,” he says instead, “you never answered my question.”

You smile, intrigued. “What’s that?”

“What if we removed the flowers bit by bit, rather than all at once?” he asks. Your gaze snaps to him, but he only regards you honestly. “That gives you a fighting chance.” Your eyes widen imperceptibly, and he grabs another mochi ball and takes a bite.

“The roots and flowers are too entangled in my chest to be removed safely. It’s either they remove my lungs completely, or not at all, and finding a… match for one lung is hard enough, much less two perfect lungs…” You trail off and shrug. “Well, that’d take forever… and I wouldn’t get much… longer, anyway. I’m a sorcerer. I always knew… I was going to die, so why not die on my own t-terms?”

He frowns. “Why not try?”

“Give me your phone.”

He does so, and watches you type in a query you must’ve typed before with how quick your lethargic fingers fly over the screen before you’re shoving it back towards him and leaning forward on the railing, chin to your forearms. You don’t even look at him, as if you don’t want to watch him crumble.

He reads: The first year after the transplant is the most critical period wrought with surgical complications, chances of rejection, and infection… Although there are some reports of some people living for 20 years post-transplant, many people do not make it past 10 years and only half make it past 5…

His stomach curdles. “Five years is better than nothing.”

“Five years worrying when my lungs are going to… kick it,” you correct. “Besides, my ribs are mangled by the roots. And my heart. My stomach. My spine. I’m undernourished, exhausted, and everything in here”—you gesture slowly around your abdomen—“is doing overtime. My body’s too weak to handle any kind of surgery that wouldn’t heal me… immediately.” 

Your eyes find his, and it’s as if lightning strikes through him like a spear—piercing cold and electrifying. You’re beginning to blue in the lips like you’re freezing to death, but he’s sweating under the blast of the heaters. 

Pulling off his hoodie, he drapes it around your shoulders. You don’t react anymore than: “Sucks, but that’s how it is.”

A few more minutes pass by in silence. Their knees knock into one another, and Satoru can’t stop looking at you as you breathe in the home you left months ago, head lifted to the inky universe.

“You know I can tell when you’re—when you’re angry with me,” you utter, not looking at him. “No matter how much you smile at me, you’re still too passive aggressive to cover it up.”

The words spill out of his mouth as you lower your gaze to him. “I’m sorry.” No sense in lying. 

“That’s okay.” You smile for a moment, like he hasn’t said something worth ruining a night over, but when you look up at the stars, it fades. Wistful, you cock your head at the moon that hasn’t gone away just yet and lower your chin to your arms again. “It’s not really something that was… fair of me to ask anyway.” 

.

Just as the moon turns yellow, he remembers something. Bending back to root through your backpack, he excuses himself. You frown. “What are you—“

“I got a camera for this occasion,” he announces, withdrawing the camera and a plastic bag, leaning back to snap a quick picture of you. You squint at the flash, mouth opened in an incredulous smile and face half-turned away, before the photo rolls out. “Like the one you used to carry around.”

“Some memories to hold on to, huh.” You reach for the camera and your fingers wrap around it, aiming it right at him. A flash and two peace signs later, another image joins the one of you Satoru slides into the plastic zip bag. “Hold on. I want to take another one.”

“We should do one of both of us.”

“Ugh, fine… I don’t look good at all, though.“

“Too late.” He snatches the camera from you and sticks out his hand, dragging an arm around your shoulders and you lean into him, temple against his cheek as he snaps another photo, and then another of him making a stupid face. Another of you mid-laugh. You’re wheezing for air as he keeps grabbing the polaroids as fast as he can with the arm that’s around your shoulder, leading to a bunch of jostling that has you in stitches at his frantic panic whenever the new photo chugs out of the slit.

When he’s had his fill of making you laugh, Satoru leaves you alone to look at the moon. He can’t stop grinning stupidly with every photo and while you watch the moon slowly descent into the earth’s shadow, he shuffles through the photos he just took of them together, trying to brand them to memory.

The way he looks at you in these photos makes him believe in something. In something that could’ve been there if they had more time, and he could convince you to open your heart up to a new possibility.

.

Another hour passes. The moon hangs a strange transition between black and blood red and a paler peach orange. A glimmering yellow dot sparkles below it, and he wonders if that’s Mars.

The forests seem almost hauntingly quiet, and no one has spoken in the darkness. You regard the moon, so enraptured, and more photos have joined the zip bag, but they’re mostly of you. He’s managed to sneak them in by turning off the flash and upping the brightness settings so it’d still be visible, and he hopes you never realize that he’s got them. 

Satoru has never been interested in astronomy, but the stars in your eyes are changing his mind.

He’s dug his hand into the bag of dorayaki already. He remembers it’s supposed to be for you, too, but his hands are too empty without the camera, his brain going a mile a minute and the air absolutely quiet with nothing. 

Twenty minutes ago, you asked him to help you take off your coat so you can pull on his hoodie, and haven’t moved since zipping yourself back up. The air smells only of canned coffee and the stinging wind carrying the scent of cedar. Feet swinging, he drapes his arms over the railing and looks up at the red moon.

It is pretty. Magnificent, and ominous, almost. The night is so much darker without the moon. Sheesh, colder, too. I wonder if you’re feeling okay. Maybe I should check, but you don’t seem to be shaking. Worst comes to worst, I could up the level on the space heaters…

“I don’t think I ever got to hear his last words,” you muse quietly, voice cracking, rousing him from his monologue. His head swings to you. Your eyes are barely open as you rest your cheek against your forearm, and you don’t look at Satoru despite your head turned towards him. Instead, he can watch the pieces of you fall apart without your scrutiny. “I used to think… that I didn’t care.”

“Do you want me to tell you?” he asks slowly as you continue to stare blankly over his ear. Your chest stutters in its inhale and the exhale is just as shaky as you smile a bit to yourself. He takes that as answer, and as he speaks, he sees Suguru’s smile—bright against the darkness of the alleyway, and a reminder of a simpler time. Satoru’s heart quickens from the memory “‘At least curse me a little at the very end.’”

You’re quiet for a moment, as if soaking that in. Then, you draw yourself up and sigh. “That sounds like him.”

You say it fighting off a laugh, even though it wracks your body with such intense pain you can barely breathe. You begin to wheeze not even a second in, and still, your face is cracked into an agonizing smile as you blink, tears slipping down your cheeks. Your eyes squeeze shut and your body goes stiff as you cough, hands flying over your lips. Your shoulders shake so uncontrollably it’s like an earthquake in your body, but Satoru cannot find it in him to calm you down as you hunch over yourself.

It comes in its own course, until you’re nothing but a gasping body, crying into bloodied palms cupping purple flowers, and the low sobs that spill and stutter out of your throat makes Satoru wish he never told you.

“‘At least curse me a little at the very end,’” you repeat to yourself, voice raw and iron-like, and your eyes finally rise to meet his. Nothing but hollow purple pierces through him once more. “Yeah… Yeah, that sounds like him.” 

An apology bubbles at his lips, but you continue before he can even begin. Your hands fall to to your laps, and you look at the decaying flowers, thumbs stroking the petals. “I could never make him truly happy… could I? Just like he said… nothing would’ve been good enough for him while we lived in this kind of world. No matter how many times I sat by him while he swallowed… swallowed those curses, held his hand, held him, I would have never been… enough to make him laugh from his heart.” Your tears cast dark shadows. “I held him, Satoru, with all my might… and I still felt him slip away between my fingers.”

That’s how Satoru learns you were there that day, December 24th, not a snowflake in sight. Just a few metres away, you stood for only a moment before you walked away from the man you loved so he could die without any regret, at the cost of your own guilt eating you alive.

No one speaks after that. Satoru cleans your hands slowly, carefully, giving attention to each finger, before swiping your lips, and then he wipes your tears away but you’re not crying anymore.

You just look up at the moon emptily and he scoots closer in hopes to keep your returning trembling at bay.

“Ten years is a very… long time to love someone.” You break the silence. He doesn’t know how long it’s been. Fifteen, thirty minutes? He looks at you, and your lips press into a thin smile. He lifts his arm so you can scoot up close next to him. Your eyes never leave his face, regarding him with new clarity. “I just… realized.”

“Ten years is a very long time for anything,” he replies quietly, their faces very close. Their noses brush, and a warmth spreads through his cheeks as he presses the tip of your nose against his. You don’t pull away. Instead, you almost lean closer. Your nose is cold against his hot face, and he rubs it slowly with his own, trying to send heat back into your skin.

“A very long time to… wait.” Your eyes flutter shut, and your breath is warm over his lips as you slowly tilt your head so their foreheads meet. His hand squeezes your waist. You smell like the hospital, but there’s still the fragrance of the fresh-cut grass and herbs clinging to your skin as he moves his head just to the side so his nose presses into your frozen cheek. Your arm moves as if dragging through honey until it’s wrapped around his neck, palm flat against his shoulder, just as their brows press against one another. 

Something ignites inside his chest, incinerating the rot that seems to grow inside his own chest—it’s his dread, he realizes a moment later. An ugly knot of dread for what’s to come, the guilt, the cold grief that’s just out of reach. 

It’ll unfurl soon, he knows, but for now, he welcomes the relief you bring him.

In this moment, you are his, and he is yours, and that is all that matters.

His eyes close. His cheeks are burning hotter than the heaters surrounding them, and he feels a smile pulling at his lips as your fingers curl against the back of his neck.

“When will people… stop waiting?” you ask him, hushed like a secret.

Eyes opening, he answers you in the same soft voice, “Probably when they die.”

Your eyes crack open once more and he catches a sliver between your heavy lids. You’re so close he sees every detail of your irises, the pores of your eye bags, the way memories flicker through your pupils like fish in a river.

Your exhausted smile grows more genuine—something inside you seems to rear its bright little head, but it’s sad, and he realizes, then, what you must’ve been thinking. Words fumble at his mouth, but he doesn’t let anything slip as you lift your face away to rest your head against his shoulder.

.

You’re dozing against him. Satoru is staring up at the moon in your stead. It’s nearly fully that famous shade of dark blood red, but not quite. He can’t hear anything except the buzz of the space heaters and your breathing. His arm is still wrapped tight around you, holding you flush against him. He’s wished he’d done it so many times before that now, he doesn’t quite know what to do with himself.

You’re dying. Even as you rest against him, he feels it. The weakness in your body, the way you’ve turned ghost-like. The strength of your Cursed Energy has become more prominent now that you don’t have the energy to channel it properly, and it’s centred so strongly in your chest that he can feel it poking curiously at him, leaving little marks, a souvenir for when you’re gone.

His fingers dig into your side. You let out a noise, head shifting, and he rips his gaze away away from the sky as your hand falls away from where it had rested around his neck into his lap.

“Satoru?” you whisper brokenly, and he nods, smiling. He pulls you closer, but their bodies are so pressed against each other that it only serves to make you huff a bit.

“Hey. You’re still with us, don’t worry,”

“Not worried,” you mumble, lifting your head with difficulty. “Just glad you’re here.” You tilt your face to the moon. “It’s still… red, huh…” You shake, your hand at the hem of his shirt twisting tightly. He reaches to squeeze your arm and hopes it’ll be enough now. “Pretty.” Throat dry, he does not answer. His white hair falls into his eyes as you look up at him, and he decays at the vulnerability in your gaze. “Aren’t you glad… that we saw the eclipse?”

Jaw clenching, he nods and tries his best to smile. Your hand lets go of his shirt and you shuffle up close enough that your other arm sneaks around his waist. Touching his chin with trembling fingers, your eyes glitter in the darkness of his shadow.

“I’m going to miss this. The moon, stars, how… fucking short… ’n’ beautiful life is,” you finally whisper, throat tight. “Makes shit worth living for. Maybe… won’t miss it… the most… but, top three.”

“Top three?” he echoes. “Top three sounds pretty good to me.”

“And, y’know what, Satoru?” you continue in the same low, husky tone, as if you’re about to change his world one more time.

He drops to the lowest, quietest voice he can manage and moves his head closer. Their noses nearly bump into each other again, and you smile as he quirks an eyebrow. “What’s that?”

“You’re… going to miss me… more.” 

Your hand on his waist travels up his shoulder and he feels the last of your strength in your muscles as you pull him towards you. Letting you, his arms wrap around your waist as your other arm shoots around his neck, clinging on so hard that he’s sure his spine might break. 

Flattening his palms against your uneven back, he closes his eyes and slides a hand to cradle your head close.

“And promise… me something,” you breathe into his ear. Your lips brush the shell of his ear, and a shiver shoots down his spine.

“Anything.”

“When I kick it,” you whisper, “take my body, and bury me… yourself.”

Throat swelling shut, Satoru’s glad you can’t see the way the blood drains from his face as he nods and holds you tighter. “I will.”

.

“One more photo for the road?” he asks. You lift your head from his chest, and he looks as you reach to sweep his lips with cold, trembling fingers. He smiles, his hand on your thigh squeezing meaningfully even though you can barely feel it now. Your arms are bundled between your chest and his, and he hauls your legs on his thighs more securely up his lap, arm tightening around your torso.

“Satoru,” you murmur, tilting your head to him. His eyes never move from yours as he picks up the camera, and your hand falls from his lips. “I’m glad… that it was you.”

He snaps the shot and the only sound that fills the silence is the camera chugging out the polaroid. Your eyes are dark, murky and unfocused, and he feels your stammering inhale in his very lungs as he presses his forehead against yours.

“I’m happy it was you, too,” he whispers. You search his gaze for only a moment, and then turn your head to the moon once more. 

Lowering the camera to the floor, he sneaks his other arm around you and rests his chin atop of your head, eyes sliding shut.

.

Nanami, Yaga, and Ijichi approach, dress shoes tapping against linoleum floors. Satoru and Shoko say nothing to them as they join in watching through the glass doors.

Satoru doesn’t like the room they’ve moved you to. It’s too full of machines, too open to passersby who could just look in if the curtains aren’t drawn, and even then…

It smells too clinical here. Too full of artificial light. The ICU is a mechanical sort of silence than the quiet peace of the dead-end hallway. There is no warmth, no books, no paintings. Your plants have been removed, and Nanami has taken all of them into his apartment except the red tulips which rest on the dinner table in Satoru’s kitchen.

You stopped being able to breathe on your own only a day after the eclipse. That was two days ago, and the ventilator is doing nothing more than prolonging your agony. Soon, the growths will block your lungs entirely, suffocating you from the inside out. 

The doctors have stopped taking scans.

“It’s only a matter of time, now,” Shoko had said. “Her directive says we let her go as soon as she can’t come back.” Quieter: “Her pulse ox has been dropping. It won’t be long.”

Ijichi’s face is stony. Satoru doesn’t know why he focuses on him out of everyone. Leaning against the nurse’s station, he stares blankly at the Assistant Director’s. Maybe because he thought he’d be a wreck. Out of all of them, Ijichi’s the most emotional, but his lips are set firm from where he stands between Nanami and their principal.

Maybe Satoru’s just looking for permission to fall apart, but that’d be stupid. 

I’m the strongest. I’ll be fine.

“I’m going to go in,” he announces. No one protests. Nanami sits down and crosses one leg over the other, fingers steepled and eyes indecipherable. Shoko sits beside him. There’s the faint scent of smoke clinging to her lab coat. 

Ijichi dips his head, but doesn’t sit and Yaga excuses himself to talk to the nurse about your condition.

Satoru sanitizes his hands, approaches the door, and pulls it open before stepping in and sliding it shut behind him. 

Click. Hiss. 

The sound of the ventilator is the only thing that occupies the room. That and the monitors. It’s very dark, despite it being the middle of the day. Mostly because you can’t open your eyes wide enough to withstand the sun anymore, so Satoru had asked the nurses to bring the same blackout curtains from your room here. The lights are dimmed until it’s only an orange glow right behind your bed. 

Click. Hiss.

Sitting down, he doesn’t take hold of your hand just in case you’re sleeping. The intubation tube rests on a pile of towels on your chest, and it takes a long time before your eyes open and your head tilts just enough to look. Your hand twists on top of the covers until your palm is tilted open.

He slips fingers in, takes hold. The feel of your skin making everything worse. You’re colder than you should be—it’s sweltering in this room, enough that Satoru is already beginning to sweat even through his short-sleeve—and your fingers just barely twitch against the back of his hand, tracing strange shapes.

You blink, tapping his knuckle, and he frowns.

“What’s up?” Withdrawing, he feels your nail scrape against his flesh and he looks down. Curiously, he takes your hand and places it on top of his so your fingers can touch the lines of his palm. “Are you spelling something out?” he asks, amused, glancing up again.

Another blink, slower this time.

He leans forward on his elbow to touch your cheek before resting his cheek against his fist.

“Alright, give it your best shot.” 

Your eyelids flutter, lips trembling in a weak smile. Your index finger begins to trace shapes, kanji, into his palm. Your chest rises and fall slowly, pumped full of air by a machine hooked to your lungs, forcing breath into you as your writing grows sloppy by the passing second but you still persist.

ANGRY?

“Angry?” he repeats, and you blink slowly again, fingers insistent on grabbing his palm. Folding his fingers over yours, he arches his eyebrows. “If I was angry at a terminally ill patient, that’d make me the asshole here.” Your eyes squeeze shut, eyebrows rearranging in what he recognizes as your laugh in silence. More seriously, his hold on you tightens and he lifts his head to brush his fingers over your brow. You tilt your head more to him, gaze murky warm. “How’re you feeling?”

It takes a while, but he feels your hand shuffle back to trace your answer on his hand.

BETTER

“Better. Yeah?”

Another lethargic blink. Yes.

“It’s because of me, right? I knew it. I knew it. We should tell Shoko—I’m the newest medical innovation in town,” he proclaims, and his smile begs to slip off his face but he only forces it back on, shoves it into place. Your eyebrows move again, like you’re struggling to hold back your laugh. Your eyes slip shut and do not open again. 

Your face goes lax a moment later, and your fingers loosen a bit, but he doesn’t let go. He just wants to touch your face and trace the lines into his memory. 

Satoru stretches his thumb along the swell of your bottom lip while carefully avoiding the tube. He runs his knuckles down your cheek. His fingers brush your pulse point along your neck, and he feels the slow, weak beat.

Click. Hiss.

He thinks you’re asleep for a while, until your finger drags over the flesh of his palm and he looks down, hand lifting from your face. 

“Hey, I’m still here,” he whispers, and your face turns towards him slightly, the tube in your mouth shuffling. He reaches forward, cupping your face and holding you still. “Hey. Don’t move. Your lungs are weaker than the rest of you and I’m not about to watch you die.” Something grabs onto the front of his shirt near his stomach and he looks down to see your fingers hooking on the cotton of his tee, twisting it weakly. “Oh, sorry.”

He draws back and slips his palm back into yours. Your index finger taps against the heel of his hand before your nail drags deliberately. One stroke. Then another, and another. Gojo wishes your eyes were open, because then he would be able to determine what the rest of the sentence could spell out before you’re done, but he’s patient. 

HERE

“Here?” You tap on his hand. Yes. “What’s here?”

YOU AND ME

“You and me,” he repeats thoughtfully. “Yeah, I get that. At least… now you can see Suguru again, right?” Your hand goes still and he looks at your face, reaching to touch your cheek again. You’re placid—doll-like, eyes shut, living dead. “I’m a bit jealous of that, but you should rest easy. It’s been a hard few months, hasn’t it?”

Another weak twitch of your finger on his hand.

“No matter what happens, don’t think I’m angry at you, or the choices you’ve made,” he continues. “As long as you let me stay here, I won’t waste a single second of it, okay?” Tap. He squeezes your hand so tightly your eyebrows twitch, even as you slip away from him. “For all your saying that you’re weaker than me, I never thought that. Not really.” Satoru raises your hand to his lips and he closes his eyes. “Being the strongest is pretty lonely. Used to be so fucking cocky about it, huh. Thought no one could touch me or the people I cared about because everyone would be too scared.”

Your fingers curl against his palm and he lowers his head to press your knuckles against his brow.

“I was wrong. I’d give anything to have you both back, but I can’t, and I hate it. You’re supposed to be with me at the top. I don’t want to be alone again.” His eyes are burning from the strain of keeping them open, but he refuses to miss a second of you being alive when the time is trickling like sand in an hourglass. He feels it like a heavy stare on his back, wondering if this next breath will be the last one before your brain finally decides to shut down. Your organs have been shutting down for nearly weeks now. He knows it’s out of pure selfishness that they’re dragging precious moments into agonizing hours. 

He knows you’re exhausted. 

Resting his chin on your fingers, he swallows. “I don’t know how to let you go. I wished I’d come sooner. I was careless. I know that. We could’ve had more time…”

Your fingers squeeze his as tight as you can before letting go. Somehow, he hears your voice in his ear. Something about being grateful for the time they did have.

“You were right, silly.” He chuckles to himself, bitter, anguished, and lowers your hand back to the bed, not letting go yet. “Ten years is a long time to wait. I let you down, but I’ll make sure you go easy. I promise.”

Satoru lays his head down on his forearm and he swears he catches your lips pull into the faintest smile. He stays there for hours, watching your face, stretching up to touch your unmoving face. The only sound is his steady breaths, the beep of your monitors and the click-hiss of your ventilator. 

It’s 1:04 PM when he falls asleep to the sleepy circles you trace into his wrist

It’s 6:22 PM when only one of them wakes up.

.

At 11:00 AM the next morning, during one of the hourly tests, they declare you brain-dead. With the announcement of your directive being honoured by your chosen proxy, Satoru himself, classes are cancelled and they are scheduled to take you off life support at six.

Ijichi brings them lunch and dinner. Satoru doesn’t eat. Only sits by your side, leaned back into the chair and looking at you while he still can until the clock ticks and ticks and ticks towards doomsday. The kids come to say final goodbyes while he watches on. Inumaki, as always, brings Panda through his phone, and Satoru wishes there could’ve been some way to sneak Panda into a high-class hospital just so their last moments together aren’t cheapened by a screen.

Shoko enters five minutes before it’s time, hand finding his shoulder and he looks up just long enough to catch her blank stare resting on your face.

She doesn’t say anything, only moves to the other side of the bed and sits down in the other chair.

The doctor pumps you full of sedation drugs, so you won’t feel any of the pain, unhooks the machines, and extubates you, explaining all the while what he’s doing just to fill the silence. As he pulls the tube from your throat, something in Satoru turns icy when a purple petal is plastered to the side of the plastic, but the doctor does not acknowledge it any more than murmuring that he will give them privacy.

Your rattling breaths echo in his ears as he watches the numbers slowly drop, but even your inhales fade to nothing more than soft, slight wheezes. The tape has left a strange mark around your mouth, and you’re unmoving otherwise. Shoko gently reaches and touches the eye bags that are, for once, worse than hers before shaking her head and pulling back. Everyone else waits outside.

Hours pass by in torturous years. 

Satoru wears the same stony expression the whole while, finally surrendering into his desire to hold your hand. 

His heart hardens. He goes completely still. Shoko talks but he can’t really hear anything except the slow beeps of your monitor once you pass certain thresholds. 

There are nurses waiting outside. They’ve grown used to the company, he thinks. He thinks one or two are crying. Soon enough, they’ll come in to turn off the machines tracking your vitals so the sounds don’t drive them crazy, banging in home that you’re dead, dead, dead.

After a while, Satoru realizes you aren’t quite breathing, although your chest moves. Sometimes, there’s a gasping sound, like someone surprised the breath out of you and you’re inhaling sharply to replace it, and he imagines your fingers twitching against his hand one last time.

It’s very slow. Much slower than he imagined it to be. Maybe you’re still fighting. Maybe you don’t want to go.

Satoru can’t imagine why. Where you’re going, there’s no pain, or exhaustion, or blood. Where you’re going, Suguru waits.

He leans against his hand, elbow on the slight incline of your bed. Letting go of your hand, he touches your face, feels the soft puff of your breath, the curve of your jaw. You’ve lost so much weight from the sickness you barely look like yourself, but you’re still you. The cursed energy is still yours. His Six Eyes sees it. His soul feels it.

It tangles with his own where he touches you, and a wave of exhaustion washes over him. 

He wants to sleep, let time pass, and wake up to you dead.

It seems a much better alternative to watching you slip away, but he’s always been selfish when it came to personal affairs.

.

You die two hours later.

Shoko closes her eyes and leans back into her chair as the nurse comes in to turn off the droning monitor. Her face is dry and she takes long, measured breaths as if trying to temper something swirling inside her. Satoru’s hard heart cracks as he squeezes your hand to see if you’ll wake up. It doesn’t quite sink in, even though he can hear someone crying outside, and when your limp hand doesn’t react at all, he shakes his head and gets up, pulling his sunglasses off the collar of his shirt and sliding them back onto his face.

He shoves his hands into his pockets and rakes his face over your body, your face.

He’s seen a dozen dead bodies before, maybe more. You look just like he did on December 24th. At peace, younger. Like you’re glad the suffering is over, and Satoru turns his face away sharply and leaves the room. He doesn’t know what to say and he’s not sure if his voice is still here. 

Everything feels dry and dull and grey.

“Sensei,” Itadori whispers wetly, reaching out a hand, making him stop. The students are all sitting in a small area, but they stand upon seeing him leave the room, and he gives them a plastic smile that makes all of them flinch. Maki is scowling furiously at the ground as Inumaki takes hold of her bicep but she flings the hand off and stalks away, hiding her red face.

“It’s going to be okay,” he tells them as Kugisaki runs after Maki. He watches the two go before turning his attention back on the students. “The important thing is that she didn’t suffer. Arrangements will be made, but there won’t be any rush, alright?” The words feel lacking, but he still manages to smile. “It’s been a long day. Go home. Rest, shower, eat. Let’s remember that she doesn’t want us to be here, slumping around looking like idiots. She wants you to all to take care of yourselves.” He arches his eyebrows insistently at his students, but they don’t seem to hear him.

They’re only looking through the glass doors at your coolling corpse, at Shoko who stands, and speaks to the doctor when he comes back in.

Fushiguro is the only one really looking at him, and the teenager has a silent question in his stare. 

Satoru shakes his head, and Megumi nods.

“Classes are cancelled for the rest of the week,” Yaga adds. “Ijichi will drive you all back to the college in thirty minutes. Make sure you tell the girls.” He directs this to Inumaki, who nods.

“Salmon.”

Later, Megumi finds him smoking a cigarette leaning against Shoko’s car. Satoru’s never liked the taste of the stuff so he doesn’t really know why he’s smoking other than the fact he doesn’t know what to do. 

Up is down, left is right, and you’re dead. 

Nothing seems right, but Megumi gives him a good excuse to stop. Flinging the cig to the ground, he stomps out the ember and re-arranges his expression into that shielded smile of his, but it feels a bit weaker. Sharp, janky, wrong.

“Why haven’t you gone home yet? Ijichi should’ve taken you all back by now,” Satoru says wearily as Fushiguro stops before him, hands shoved in his pockets.

“I stayed behind to look for you,” informs Megumi. He looks a bit fractured, but the boy’s never been one to wear his heart on his sleeve. Satoru makes a mental note to dig into his psyche at a later date, and stretches an arm out to wrangle the boy into a hug against his side.

For all of his complaints and mumbles and scowls, Megumi’s body still relaxes a bit against his, and even though he doesn’t hug him back, when he tells him, “You should go home and get some sleep, too. These past few months haven’t been easy on you, either,” Satoru feels a part of his old self raise its bloody head. 

Glancing down at a head of spiky hair, he knocks his knuckles into his student’s skull. “Have you been keeping an eye on me?”

Megumi crosses his arms, glares over Satoru’s elbow, but even his voice is quieter. “You need to take care of yourself.”

Satoru smiles again. It doesn’t reach his eyes. “But you’re not worried about me, are you, Fushiguro?”

Megumi ducks his head and doesn’t answer any more than, “Someone has to pick up the slack, now.”

.

“Thanks, Ijichi,” Satoru says with a huff, digging the shovel into the ground and stepping on the metal edge. “Not every day you help me carry a dead body and dig a grave, huh.”

“No, sir,” Ijichi replies. He sounds a bit hoarse and tired as he wipes at his brow.

It’s been two days since you’ve died. The college grounds feels a lot less lively. He took a walk in the gardens yesterday, and saw Yaga planting new flowers. He had strode past and ignored the tears on his sensei’s face, and absently wonders now why he hasn’t cried yet as he grabs the shovel and yanks it out of the dirt, tossing it to Ijichi.

It feels kind of stupid, but despite how eviscerated everything inside him feels, he just can’t.

Either way, he’ll deal with it when it becomes a problem.

Satoru wipes at his brow, too, with a heavy sigh, and heads to where a cloth-covered shape is resting on the ground. Your corpse is light in his arms as he bridal carries you to the hole he’s just dug into the grass. It looks suspicious as hell, but it’d probably be even worse if he’d been walking around with a dead body over his shoulder, stitched back together after an autopsy by your best friend. 

Good thing they’re only in the forests outside the college campus. There won’t be any civilians for miles.

“You can go,” he says over his shoulder, setting you down by the hole they’ve dug. He takes in a deep breath to calm himself and Ijichi’s footsteps hesitate before beginning and fading away moments later. Falling to his knees, Satoru begins to carefully unfold the cloth just enough that he can see your face and chest. 

He squints behind his blindfold at the ripples of energy still seeping from the stitches along your chest. Sinking his hands into the lush, cold grass, he twists the blades with rigid fingers at the stench of rot coming from the curse before he draws back.

Hands on his lap, he stares at your face. You look frozen in time, eyes closed, skin clean, and there’s that unnatural stillness about you that only comes with the dead. It’s strange. He probably couldn’t have imagined someone so vivacious could be so motionless if he hadn’t seen it first with Suguru.

He had asked not to hear the results of your autopsy. Not now, maybe not ever. It’d be fresh lemon juice in a weeping wound. All he knows is that the curse clings to your corpse, and Shoko could only remove the growths that were no longer being fed for examination.

“Weird that this is where we’ve found ourselves,” he begins humourlessly. “With how we were living, Suguru always said I’d die first. Doing something stupid, being too cocky.” He slides a hand into his pocket and withdraws something he’d snipped this morning from the last plant you had grown with your Technique. A red tulip with a short stem that’s a bit crushed, and beginning to decay, but… everything can’t be perfect.

“I never thought I’d outlive you.”

Reaching forward, he places the tulip gently on your chest, takes your cold arms that are just beginning to loosen up again from rigor mortis, and folds your hands over the stem.

“Eternal love, and fame,” he repeats to himself. The energy nearly swallows up the tulip, but as it radiates from your chest, flickers in the slight breeze, Satoru sees flashes of red and green, much brighter than everything else around him, and knows that it won’t be consumed. Sitting down, he hugs his legs to his chest and stares at your dead body blankly, chin on his knees.

He had had a plan. He was going to just… put the flower there, exorcise the curse inside you, and bury you so you could finally rest. He wouldn’t hesitate because this is something you entrusted him to do.

But this is the first time in months he hasn’t had a cloud hanging over his head, and his body feels so much ligher without the burden of your disease hanging off his shoulders, that he can’t help but relish in it. Speak to you without worrying about saying the wrong thing, of people overhearing. He’s finally… free. 

It feels fucking awful.

“You were right, by the way.” His voice is dull, resonating deep in his chest. There is no August sun breaking through the trees above, only from behind him, and the golden beams touch your chin, down your throat and chest. It sets the red of the tulip on fire. “I miss you. And I wish I could’ve said so many things, but we ran out of time.” A faint smile. “No matter what you think, Suguru loved you. It’s why he came to see you one last time. I knew him better than I knew myself, and I know he was happiest knowing you were at his side.” Closing his eyes, the ache in his heart swells as he utters out, “So was I.”

Burying his his face in his forearms, a cup inside him seems to tip over and everything feels too hot for him to breathe in. Ripping his blindfold off and tossing it away from him blindly, his eyes snap open wide as he tries to breathe. His ribs constrict his lungs, and he presses his eyes into his arms, hands shaking as he sinks his nails into his biceps. 

Harsh pants puff against his face as he tries to reign in his shuddering, but he can’t. The knot in his heart twists until he thinks he might die, and distantly, he hears soft footsteps so faint he’s not sure if he imagines it. Gritting his teeth, he stifles the bruising feeling welling up in his throat.

Gentle hands brush down his shoulders soothingly, sending a wave of nausea through his body, and he jerks away.

“Damn it, Ijichi, leave me alone!” Wrenching his head up, his eyes widen at the figure crouched in front of him.

Arms falling lax to the grass and his knees widening, his jaw drops as a thumb teases his parted lips. You step between his legs and crouch down, limber and strong. You look healthy again, bright eyes and full cheeks, young like spring, and when you smile, it fills him utterly with light. In your hands is his blindfold, and you ruffle his hair, tilting your head curiously.

“I’m not Ijichi, but… do you really want me to go so soon?” you ask as he rakes his gaze up and down your body. There is still a purple shell encasing your legs, but as you shift your weight on your feet, it falls like fragile eggshells to the ground and sinks into the dirt, disappearing for good. Peering around you, his eyes widen when he sees shards of a purple shell in shatters all over your corpse.

He’d only seen this once before, eight months ago, with a certain student of his and the cursed spirit of the girl he loved and who loved him.

Face burning, his gaze snaps back to you as you poke his cheek and continue to grin. Leaning back on his hands, he tries to stop the intense shattering of his walls by clenching his jaw, but the shudders overtake his body, his chest, his throat until he’s letting out an ugly sound and blinking hard as if that’ll hide it away from you. Something devastatingly warm immediately shoots down his cheeks. Covering his mouth with the crook of his elbow, he turns his face away but your warm hands cradle him carefully, thumbs brushing underneath his eyes.

“Yuuta, you’re right. Rika isn’t cursing you.”

“No,” he whispers, arm falling. His fingers sink into his shoulder as if that would be enough to wake him from this nightmare. “No. I can’t—Did I—Did I kill you?” You squint studiously, not letting go of his face as he lifts the hand from his shoulder and reaches to touch you. It shakes, and he snaps it into a fist to stop it, looking at his fingers that have done so much harm—shed so much blood. “Did I do this to you?”

“You cursed Rika.”

You chuckle fondly, like he’s said something silly, and set a hand on his fist, pushing it down firmly. “You can’t control how other people react to your words, Satoru.” Your voice changes, and your eyebrows draw together in something bittersweet. “And you can’t change something you didn’t know. The chances of you cursing me and me cursing myself are irrelevant. It doesn’t change anything about where we are, now.”

Satoru watches you, lips parted, as you tie the blindfold around his neck. You feel so real, so close, and as you slide your hands down his shoulders, to his chest, he jerks his head down to stare at your shoes in the grass. 

So he did. 

“I see,” he murmurs.

That’s it, then.

“Satoru, please look at me,” you whisper, fingers stretching to his chin. With the gentlest of pressures, you prompt him up and he finds your face, your smile, where all colours begin and end. For a moment, the world seems to inhale all of its life back into its core—the leaves whistle, the sun is warm and golden, and he lifts his hand to touch you again, but you pull back before he can. 

“I can only thank you for being my friend. For staying with me until the very end.” You laugh quietly to yourself and lift your hand from his face. “I would make a joke about a curse, but I know it still hurts, so I’ll save it for when I see you on the other side, okay? When it heals a bit more.”

“It’s never going to hurt less,” he croaks. “Don’t pretend like you don’t know how much you mean to me.”

Your smile softens. Satoru tries to eternalize that expression forever. “I’m honoured, but, I hope it does heal. I don’t want you to learn how to carry so much pain around. I don’t want you to be numb.” You touch his cheek again, as if you’re trying to soak in as much of him as you can, too. 

“Do you have any last words?” he manages to ask raspily, and you chuckle, tilting your head and running your hand through his hair again. His eyes flutter shut at the scratch, the sensation of your nails against his scalp, and then there’s your hand at his jaw, holding him all together. He wants to hold you so badly he thinks his muscles might cramp into stone at the desire.

“What does it matter?” you ask curiously. “You already know how I feel. That will never change. And if you ever want to know what I think, or what I’d do, you can just ask Shoko and think about it yourself. You know me well enough to not need me nagging about it.”

“But, it won’t be enough.”

“It never will be,” you agree. “But isn’t it wonderful that we even got to know each other at all?” You lean forward, and his eyes flutter shut as you hold him to your chest. He can’t hear your heartbeat anymore, but your warmth is almost the same. The echo of your voice rumbles in his head as you speak, and maybe that is enough. “If you want my last words, you already have them.”

You draw him back, and give him one last smile. The air shifts golden yellow to his Six Eyes, for the last time. 

“Until we meet again, my Satoru.” 

You fade without giving him a chance to answer, taking all the colour with you. 

Staring at the empty air where you had been just a moment before with wide, burning blues, he whispers your name brokenly before burying his hands in the dirt, squeezing his eyes shut, and letting boiling tears scald his face red.

.

“If you want my last words, you already have them.”

Spinning the key ring on his finger, Satoru looks dully at the door knob he had just unlocked. There’s no one in the hall, and he debates whether or not he should turn around, but Shoko had insisted. There’d been something left for him in your old apartment, and according to her, it would be spoiled soon if he didn’t go.

“Oh, what the hell,” he mutters, catching the key in his palm and shoving it into his long coat. Tugging it tighter around himself, he twists the knob and pushes it open. He can’t remember the last time he was in here. Maybe five or six months ago, when they both had a day off that didn’t need to be spent at the college.

There aren’t any plants anymore. He supposes Nanami, Ijichi, maybe even Yaga have taken them. He swears he’s seen a few in the gardens lately, but who is he to say? Toeing off his shoes, he makes his way down the hall. 

 Everything is just as you left it, with clean counters and empty tables. The curtains are spread, letting in so much September sunlight. It hits random display pedestals of different sizes, all the surfaces big enough to fit a pot on. Your watering can sits by the sink. There are photos hanging on the walls, propped up on the desk, on your shelves, polaroids taped to the walls. 

Reminders that someone did live here. That there is a whole life unknown to strangers but evidence enough that whoever used to be here, they had people who would miss them.

Walking up to the counter, he drags his fingers along the surface, feeling the dust collect up to a square of pale light. A clean circle is all that’s left as a clue that there used to be something there, and his heart twists.

Who knew he could miss fucking plants of all things?

Sweeping his gaze around, he brushes off the dust on his jacket and hooks a thumb on his blindfold, sweeping the area with an eccentric eye. The TV is off, your bookshelves are in their usual untidy state, but even the reaching vines of the bean plant is gone from the highest shelf.

 “They really scooped this place dry,” he muses dryly to no one. He can still hear the music you’d play for late nights, the smell of dumpling soup. He walks down the hall and still remembers how many steps it takes to reach the bathroom that guests would use. 

He had hunched over that bath on December 25th, and let water soak through his hair as strong fingers worked the sweat from his scalp and skin.

Four more steps to the guest best room on the right, and another three to the end of the hall where a door leads to your room. It’s already open, and he steps in easily, tugging his blindfold all the way down off his face. Hair falling over his eyes, he sweeps it aside and surveys the room. The walls are still that pretty shade of cream, and your bed is made carefully, dark olive blankets resting atop your white sheets. He smiles to himself, despite the twang in his chest.

Walking deeper, he approaches the cabinet by your bathroom, and picks up the photo you have by your jewelry stand.

A smile curls his mouth. He remembers this one. First year, their first September. All four of them had gone together to Sapporo for the autumn festival. 

He sets the photo back down and looks into the bathroom. Your toiletries are all lined up, waiting for their next use, and he swallows as he raises his gaze up to the mirror. His blue eyes look a big too big on his face from the past month alone, and there are red-purple half moons printed onto his face that have only just started to fade. He swears it only looks worse because of how much pale light is streaming in from the windows, and he tugs at his collar uncomfortably, clearing his throat.

Turning around, he looks at the offenders for making him look so awful, and finds a medium-sized pot sitting on the window seat. It’s the only thing sitting on the flat, wooden surface, in partial shade and almost unfurling before his very eyes.

Satoru frowns, walking around your bed to inspect the plant. 

The flowers are a warm magenta colour, and his eyes widen at the flash of white he can see leading to the center of each bloom. Brushing a thumb over the petals, his jaw sets as he tilts his head to get a better look at the plant. So this is what was growing inside of you. Huh.

There’s another slip of white near the dirt, and his eyebrows furrow, fingers seeking the thing. It crinkles when he touches it, and his frown deepens as he manages to grasp it, pulling it free underneath the leaves and stems of the plants. Sitting down beside the pot, he dusts off the dirt clinging to the paper, and reads his name along the front in your print before flipping the envelope around. There’s something sticking out of it, a sloping shape that’s hard but not too big.

Curiosity peaked, he tears the envelope open carefully and peers inside. A binder clip is inside, holding something together, and he flips it upside down, letting everything fall. The letter slides out first, followed by whatever the binder clip is holding together and he squeezes his thighs together so it doesn’t fall to the floor.

Setting the letter aside, he picks the bundle up. 

Polaroids.

They’re polaroids of different sizes that have him smiling despite the heavy sorrow twisting his entire chest.

Various pictures of Satoru, Suguru, Shoko, and you together, and he finds most of them are of him and you. Pictures of him hiding behind plants of various sizes, a picture of him drinking soju, because Suguru liked it the most and insisted he try, while leaning against Shoko who was knocking back a shot of tequila. There is a shot of Suguru, wet with mud and smiling like sunshine, while a drenched Satoru was in the background, flipping the camera off in the middle of a storm. 

More and more pictures, enough to spill out of his lap, and he picks up each one, desperate to remember when or where you took them.

And, sometimes, he can’t. Sometimes, they are just moments that he’s lost because he never thought they’d be important, and now moments he’d give anything to remember.

There are pictures of a fern he had named their first year, little annotations on the bottom of some others. Dates, but with no context otherwise. Names scribbled in black ink. 

You’re in a lot of them, your smile timeless, your joy infectious even through film.

Arms slung around Suguru, face smushed against his, artfully blurry perhaps on accident, and annotated with scrawl that read: I call this masterpiece “Dumb Sweethearts” by Gojo Satoru :)

A picture of him and Shoko and Suguru, of them in one of Tokyo’s night markets, you behind the camera, the lights flashing and warm and pink, making them all look like they’ve transported to some other kind of cyberpunk world. 

You and Shoko lounging in the gardens, having a tiny picnic at your insistence, and in Suguru’s handwriting in black: JUST GIRLS BEING PALS

Satoru stares at Suguru’s writing the longest, not even at his words, just the strokes of his pen. This is a new part of him Satoru thought had been destroyed, and he starves for it. It’s like his one and only lives and breathes in the ink, in those snapshots of him caught in eternal youth. When they’d been happy and unaware and not innocent, but cocky enough to think they could rule the world. 

It’s hungry, the way he goes through each photo, searching for another glimpse of you, of him, of them together, until Satoru is all out of moments to feed on, and still, he feels empty, flicking through the last few photos.

You in a pool, arms wrapped around Shoko and beaming like the sun.

A shot of Satoru and Suguru climbing trees shot from below, your eyes and skeptically raised eyebrows in frame, captioned big dumb monkeys

And the last one…

He holds it to the sunlight and his gaze softens.

A selfie of you kissing Suguru on the cheek. It’s mostly dark, but they were definitely in the bathroom, and the flash made Suguru’s outstretched arm look pale as a ghost, but even so, there’s no mistaking the happiness captured there. He was sticking out his tongue, winking, and red as a beet so he was either drunk or you had said something or both. Your arms were wrapped around his neck, nose squished against his cheek, eyes squeezed tight as he took the shot.

Turning it over, Satoru’s heart plummets into his chest. In Suguru’s clean, blocky writing:

THE GIRL IM GOING TO MARRY ONE DAY <3

And crossed out is your reply followed by a little note:

dummy doesnt have the nerve to propose SHHH!!!! ONE DAY C:

One day.

It sounds so much emptier now.

He lowers the photo back to his lap, and glances around him, at all these scattered moments captured forever. Gathering them up again, he relives them all over again, looking at each photo for longer to see if he’s missed anything, but mostly his stare lingers on your face, and on Suguru’s, and his own, too, because he can’t remember what it felt like back then, but he is sure it feels so much better than now.

The polaroids come together a neat stack and he is careful not to scratch any of them when he clips them together. The top photo is of you with your arms wrangled around Suguru and Satoru, your face split in a maniacal laugh, their mouths open in shock, eyes bulging in how you must’ve scared them witless. 

Shoko’s messy writing at the bottom, for it must’ve been her who had taken the photo: BREAKING NEWS: Japan’s Strongest Conquered by a Woman.

A smile cracks his weary face and he runs a thumb over their faces before sliding the photos back into the envelope for safe-keeping. 

Then, he grabs the letter. His name is written again on the first flap, and he reads it three times over before unfolding the paper, not quite ready but also not sure if he ever will be.

Immediately, a faint, herbal-like scent slashed with antiseptic flows from the page and his stomach curdles as your script pours down the page. 

Swallowing, Satoru shifts and leans against the wall, hiking a foot up onto the seat and holding your inked characters to the light. There’s a date inscribed at the top.

Thursday. 

The first Thursday after you had been released from the hospital. Your last Thursday before you were back in for good.

“Shit.”

He folds the letter again and tilts his head back against the wall, staring at the ceiling.

Does he want to read this? Does he really want to fucking read this? 

Taking a deep breath, he clears his throat and lowers his gaze to stare determinedly ahead of him. The purple flowers greet him warmly and he shakes the shiver out of his body before tightening his grip on your letter and unfolding it again, forcing his eyes on the page.

My Satoru,

I sent all the pictures I had of Shoko to her, and she has some of Suguru, too. Now that I’m gone, there’s no use if I keep them. Maybe you two could share some time, laugh it up over these old memories. I know she says she can’t stand you, but to be honest, who else is there that will remember us now? Who else is there to remember Suguru for more than his bloody hands and me as more than that girl too sick to do anything but die? 

Some legacy we said we’d leave, huh.

I don’t think I told you this, but with this disease catching up to me, it’s hard not to form hypotheses on why it’s happening or how. I have quite a few theories, and, unfortunately, none of them are pleasant or unriddled with angst. By now, you’ve probably figured out it’s a curse, and if you’re smart enough to ignore how much I’ll probably deny it, that it’s some love bullshit. If you didn’t know, now you do.

I know it’s weird. Suguru is dead. It shouldn’t be happening, right?

That’s what I thought, too

You once said love manifests the most twisted curses. I never thought of it that way before, but I’m starting to think you’re right. I don’t want to curse you by dying, but I can’t help but wonder if we can control who we curse. If I hadn’t heard you say that, would I still be here? Healthy? Okay? 

I don’t know. I can’t predict alternate timelines, because I got to live one life, and that’s more than most people get. But, because I know you, you want me to entertain you. I’m sighing as I write this.

Look, I know the pain would still be there. I know I still wouldn’t be able to forgive myself for what I did, even if it was what had to be done. I know I would still miss him. I know that I would still long for the day I didn’t feel guilty for loving someone else.

If you didn’t curse me, I cursed myself. It drives me crazy that this is how the die was cast, even now, even after months where I could’ve accepted this, but at least this physical manifestation almost makes me… calm. Like seeing what this life has done to me makes me brave enough to fight it. If anything at all, the curse brought me a greater understanding of how powerful our world is in comparison to people who… are normal. The people we have to protect.

I’m sorry. Reading this back, it sounds like I’m the one cursing you now; telling you all this knowledge that can only bring you more anguish. I promise, this isn’t what it is. I just want you to understand. You couldn’t have saved me, Satoru. I couldn’t have given you the absolution you wanted, and if that’s how it is, then I just hope that one day you can look back on this and it won’t hurt anymore.

It’s always been so complicated between us, after what happened to Suguru, and after what he did, even ten years ago. What we couldn’t stop and what we had to do that day. There was always a line that I thought I couldn’t cross, or a line you didn’t want to cross, and it was shaped a lot like him. I don’t know if it was just in my head, but there was something holding us back, and I was fine dancing around it because I saw how you felt about him and I understood. Your eyes always changed when you looked at him. When you spoke of him. Even after.

Always after.

Don’t think I’m angry. I’m not blind. I know how much you two meant to each other, and I could never be angry that Suguru is so cherished. Missed. It makes everything so much harder, so much more painful.

Look, in the end, I loved him, and you did, too. And if we both still do, that’s okay. He deserved love. 

I guess it just feels like a stab in the back that it wasn’t enough. 

But life isn’t a fairytale. None of it really matters. To be honest, I wouldn’t trade any of it for a second, and I hope you wouldn’t either. 

Maybe life isn’t supposed to be lived happily, but lived contently. And I did. I am satisfied with what I’ve done, even if I wanted to do so much more. 

I’m so grateful to have known you, to have had you by my side. I hope you can say the same. 

Don’t regret my death. Remember how much fun we had when we were stupid kids, and smile. Because I don’t want you to think your best years are behind you. I want you to be happy, even if I can’t be there to see it. I want you to be excited for your future, even if I can’t be in it.

I’ll always be watching over you, so smile for me every once in a while. Even if it seems like you’ll never feel anything again. One day, I promise you will, and it won’t feel so bad.

Yours forever and ever and ever,

(Name)

.

Throat crushed, he reads one line over and over the most. He’s memorized your letter heart, but he still carries it around with him, anyway.

“I know that I would still long for the day I didn’t feel guilty for loving someone else.”

Sometimes, he just wants to imagine your hand whispering over the page, the pen tapping against your chin, your face as you wrote, the sigh that you said you heaved. Because he’ll never hear you laugh again, see your smile. Your voice will never tease his ear, your fingers will never touch his face. There is no more laugh-wrinkles set in a face always perfectly hit by sunlight, and this is all he has left. His memory, and what you’ve left behind.

It makes him laugh how almost lovestruck stupid he’s being, but… he doubts anyone blames him. As long as he’s still doing his job, as long as he’s still the Strongest, what does it matter if he carries a dead woman’s letter in his pocket everywhere?

“Warm weather, even in the evenings. That’s a bit unusual,” Nanami observes, startling Satoru and he looks up at the blond who stops by him in the gardens. The man is wearing his grey suit, as always, and his watch glimmers in the fading gold light. “How are you?”

Satoru’s fingers tighten around the letter in his hands. As usual, the urge to crumple it up, throw it into the garbage to never see it again, has reared its head after his latest re-read, but he’ll stave it off. He always manages to.

“Fine,” he replies, glancing at the startling blood red and burnt orange leaves casually. Colours seem a bit brighter, and Satoru still squints a bit against them, despite the soft light of the sunset. He doesn’t know when his Six Eyes got so sensitive to that kind of stuff, but it almost feels good to be distracted by something so trivial as sensitive eyesight. “It is a bit warm for October.” 

Nanami hums. “How are your plants doing?”

“Mine are doing good,” he says, smiling. “The tulips have gone dormant, so nothing to worry about there. The one with purple flowers, though. It’s a tough one. It took me a while to figure out what it liked, but it didn’t go dormant or anything as long as I gave it enough water and paid attention to it.”

“That’s good.” Nanami adjusts his green lenses and sighs like he’s bracing himself for something difficult. “Gojo,” he begins, but Satoru merely folds your letter up and slides it into his breast pocket, holding up a hand.

“Whatever you’re going to say, Nanami, I don’t need to hear it.”

“Are you sure?” he asks skeptically, gaze following as Satoru stands, patting his jacket. Adjusting the lapel, he turns to his friend and when he grins, it feels like it reaches his eyes behind his sunglasses for the first time in two months.

“I’ve done this before, Nanami. I’ll be fine.” He waves it away. Nanami frowns. “I’m gonna get some dinner, though. Care to join? There’s a real good ramen place in Ikebukuro that you have to try.” The blond man observes him for a moment, before shaking his head, saying he had dinner already. “Suit yourself. Next time, I’m treating you, though.” 

Lips puckered in a whistle, Satoru turns around and begins to walk away. 

A breeze sweeps through the gardens, rustling the leaves in a discordant harmony, and sneaking into his jacket, sending a slight shiver up his spine as Nanami’s voice follows after him.

“The flower she left you is the sakurasou.” Satoru stops, hands in his pockets, but he doesn’t turn around as Nanami continues, “I wasn’t certain if if you knew.”

“Nope, I didn’t. Thanks for the info.” Lifting a hand, he barely looks over his shoulder before saluting with two fingers and smiling cheekily. It’s not as forced as it used to be. In fact, it comes quite easy as he reaches into his pocket for his phone. He knows what he has to find out now. “See ya later, Nanami.”

“Good evening,” he replies, and in a blink of an eye, Satoru is gone.

On the windowsill of his empty apartment, the sakurasou soaks in the last remnants of the day before wilting against two photos.

One of four students, arms entangled, and faces framed in eternal youth.

And another immortalizing what could’ve been longer than a few shaky months if someone had been just a bit braver.

a/n: satoru’s google search result: the meaning of sakurasou - desire and long-lasting love. 

and yes, there was an actual lunar eclipse on july 27th, 2018 (28th in japan time). it was very pretty. i researched a bit about both the lunar eclipse and the medical stuff, but excuse any inaccuracies! tis but a work of fiction <3 also, fun fact: the polaroid camera is supposed to be the instax mini 90 but ive never used it so excuse those inaccuracies as well SKNDALSDKN

ngl i did wanna write an alternative ending, but i can’t see this ending any other way. this is it. this is the canon, and we got a bit of happy feelies at the end as a treat. thank you for reading!

[havetheavengersdoneanythingwrong]

Act 2 -- Il Dottore Part 3

[tagging @hasnightingaledoneanythingwrong ]

An engineer, a man of wit and mystery, takes the field.

He must take the script.

He must take the script.

He must take the script. Correct?

--

There's a mirror in front of me.

I can see through it -- I can see that man's eyes.

What's left of them.

'My' own hands, and the spear that would no doubt pierce my skull.

'Myself' -- separated from that body. Even my name, my 'self,' would elude me. I try to call for my name, to unconsciously understand my body, to grip on and 'reconnect,' yet --

There's no controller. My hands reach out in this endless abyss of gears, locked tightly by some horrible fluid, crunching something as it desperately tried to spin.

The clicking of an overextended piston.

The ground beneath me trembled.

Even my eyesight grows blurry, staring through the mirror, towards the white-haired woman who approaches 'me' so angrily.

That speartip grows closer still, and I--

--

...

There's a horde of gears beneath me.

Perhaps I'm laying down -- the clicking of struggling gears is all I can hear, or feel, against my back -- my feet. All around me, rust falls -- like snowflakes falling from the roof of metal, hanging wires and leaking engines, steadily coating the environment in its own twisted form of 'lakes' -- pools of oil, mixed with rust flakes, populating the areas surrounding me. Forming a path of broken parts, brittle and rusted over -- pointing forwards.

...There's an ache in my head. A pounding, drilling feeling. My body flickers -- certainly, I am to exist, as I feel 'me' being ripped away-

Groping around behind me, the wall, the ground I was leaning on, my greyed hands grasped something tough --

...A book.

A play with no visible name.

Just a blank hardcover back, dyed black, flecks of rust on its form.

...I force myself off the ground, onto the wall.

One foot in front of the other.

The wall cracks beneath my feet. The brittle floor crunches, shudders, underneath even the weight of my step.

My lightest footsteps cracked the beams beneath my feet -- long since, I assumed, brought to ruin by the surrounding environment. Eaten away -- desecrated.

And yet, still only the snap -- the crack, of the wall on which I walked.

...I raised my hand -- wiped a few drops of oil from it, stepping away from a broken engine just above me -- and placed my eyes on the book before me.

...The feeling in my head -- the drilling, drives itself deeper into my temples.

[It is yours. It is your script/life/world. It is your 'existence.']

...Words, in my mind. The unimaginable language that worms its way into my mind -- whispers its meanings without being heard, to get across what words alone could not.

It ate -- tore at me, 'myself.' Taking a chunk of my mind -- my 'self,' suddenly, even--

"...What do you mean?"

[...It is simple. What you have done now is your purpose -- to stop that man. To break/destroy/harm him. Do you now understand?]

...

...The man. The one I had watched 'me' deface -- attempt to harm. Had harmed.

Through the mirror, the shattered visage of the man remained -- his body twitching, shuddering.

Muscles spasming as each jagged edge dug itself deeper --

...I found my hand moving to my mouth, distracting my quivering stomach with the piercing scent of oil and rust.

"I didn't do that. That... That wasn't me. I've been here this whole time."

[And does that matter? Whose hands are stained/coated/reveling in the blood?]

...

...I found my hands wouldn't open -- wouldn't drop this book.

'Was the voice coming from this -- or..?'

[...You are an actor/pawn/word in a story. Look at you/rself.]

...A 'thunk' -- a creaking in the metal beams -- disturbed the grounds. My eyes raise themselves from the book.

Towards 'me.'

Donning the clear mask, dripping with liquids.

A body like mine -- a gaudy, old-fashioned black outfit, long since stained and worn down with the rust, the oil, the...

...

"..."

...Not a word. The 'me' steps forward. Readies a knife.

[...You are not what you were in other times/worlds/beings. You are neither a hero/god/saviour, nor even a worker/engineer/bee.]

...The 'me' throws his knife. My body jerks -- twitches, forcing itself to the side, catching my heels, my body thrown off its balance.

[You are an actor/pawn/fool. Accept your script.]

The brittle, rust ridden ground beneath me --

-- in a moment, collapses.

--

...

There's a buzzing.

A loud screaming of scratching metals -- the hum of an old light trying to keep itself alive.

There's a warmth about me. My hand raises -- my blurry eyes, for a moment, catch a glowing, red, something, before it scatters.

And in its place, is --

...Light.

Endless light.

My eyes slowly focus in on this -- this...

...'Feeling.'

A feeling made manifest.

Feelings, made manifest.

Of what was lost to me -- such a being, unmoved by the surrounding gears, the pieces, remained. Surrounding me.

Then --

[...Are you awake/asleep/open, my beloved?]

...A thousand voices. A million voices. Speaking in unison -- a Greek chorus of words, spoken all at once, in each tone an entire person spoken.

"...Who.. are you..?"

[...If such simple questions explained me/us/you, we would not stand here.]

...There's a golden light -- it reverberates, shining off what remained of the iron, steel components of this land I fell to.

[...We were summoned, here -- for you/me/them. To help. This story of ours/theirs/us we wished to watch -- is not, we/I/you realize, as we expected/wished/wanted.]

"...Are you... a Familiar? Or are you a Servant, like they.. The... That they spoke of..?"

...A Servant. One I'd understood -- even if the memory was lost. A replica of a hero from history. But where I was now was assuredly not the 'real world' -- not a place where a Servant could even be.

[...We/I/you/them/ are the Audience. There is little else to know.]

...

"...You mentioned you were to... help."

...The drilling returns -- intensifies. My lungs quiver, and tighten -- my brain 'pulsing,' in pain. In realization, of--

[...We/I/You may not help in the way of saving you. However, I would have you hold these, my beloved, and attempt to move. To remember/believe/forget.]

...Two objects appeared at my feet --

[...I wish you/me/us/them the best.]

--and the light faded.

...

The first -- a lone amulet. A necklace. A pale silver, carefully crafted, held shut by a tiny clasp.

...Something I carried with me -- the drill in my mind, the drill tearing off the 'pieces' of me, could not remove such a thing.

The second -- a revolver.

At a glance, an old model, that I'd never seen before. Placing the amulet around my neck, I gripped and raised the gun -- a curious model, with six 'barrels' in place of the usual one. It may have been fully loaded -- but I supposed it wouldn't be the brightest idea to check.

...My eyes settle on my hands, grasping onto the gun. Colour spread throughout my fingers, bringing it from a dull grey to a light peach --

--...to what my mind was now realizing -- were normal.

And in a moment, 'He' approached me. The room, with the light removed, remained its rusted, dripping self.

Oil pooled around my feet, in a circle -- 'He' stepped forward, readied his blade.

[...You keep fighting. Despite your fate/story/script being secured -- despite your very existence being drawn/placed/muddled into question.]

...My hand gripped the handle of this revolver -- my spare hand now rising to my chest, where this amulet now lay. Warmth began to spread throughout me -- one I only recognized as 'correct,' flowing through me.

[I ask you. What gives you the right to break your role/script/self? What gives you the right to exist?]

The drill keeps moving -- it burrows further into my brain. My eyes flash to black, return -- the 'Him,' unrecognizable, his face, his body impossible to understand.

A swarming 'humanoid' mass. A coalescence of 'being,' tied only by a 'form' I could no longer perceive.

"...What gives me the right... to exist?"

...The drill, digging deeper --

--as I tried to grasp for memories, for a reasoning, I found less and less. It took hold of me, stole those 'memories,' yet --

...As the 'Him' before me stepped forward, I found my hand unconsciously grasping my amulet -- opening it up, just as my vision blacked out again --

...I found my voice.

It were humming.

A tune I couldn't place.

One so deep in my brain, that even the drill could not alter its calming, melodic tune.

With each high note, a face returned.

A coworker. A patron. A supplier.

With each low note, a time.

A creation.

Little creatures I so dearly referred to as 'Mousers.'

Even fluids -- 'medicines' I'd borne witness to.

...

With the bridge of this hummed tune, my vision returned.

And with it -- my hand, holding the revolver, raised itself slowly.

The gears beneath me, surrounding me, shuddered -- flakes of rust shooting off its surface, evaporating.

The shine of steel repaired itself -- one by one, these broken, rusted gears began to turn -- sewing itself back together with welds made as though by a miracle.

I found, in my hand, lay a small jar. 'Vick'xxx.' Something that heavily increased libido.

Facing 'him' -- me -- momentarily, I had to wonder -- 'just what could this do?'

...But the funny thing about these creations of mine were their ease of use.

And how easily I could alter the mixture -- and change how it worked.

With a toss in the air, the jar shimmered, and fell back in my hand --

This world I was in -- it wasn't real life.

It was my own mind. That pocket of 'conscious' where I now fought against this invader.

For my right to exist -- and to ignore this script.

The script, on the ground -- perhaps dropped as my mind were drilled into -- was kicked aside in a moment, an unconscious move of my leg in the effort to cement that.

The being stepped forward -- another step, then brandished the knife and dashed my way.

"...I know why I should exist."

[...And what would that be?]

In a moment, I raised my revolver. Cracking open the jar, I tossed that viscous fluid across the form of the attacker.

"Because I have things left to make. I have a job left to do -- and there are many specimens, beings in my mind, that I haven't yet put to real life."

A swarm of robots -- powered with magecraft, swarming around 'me.'

Those Mousers, holding with them the most minute amounts of oil, from the engines that once leaked -- laying them on the ground around the dashing man.

In a moment, I can see those papers I'd left behind at the Clock Tower -- the journey here, to Carcosa, to find parts for my latest, greatest creation.

I can see my coworkers, even the ones I spoke to and taught in my off time.

In a moment, the faces of each creation I'd seen and brought life to -- each little dose of magecraft, each Mystic Code I brought to existence --

--and deep in my mind, the face of a pink-haired woman who smiled ever-so-slightly, even though I couldn't even understand who she was.

"My life isn't going to be spent tormenting some man I've never even met. Least of all when my competition are beings with strength incomparable to mine."

...

"This is my life -- and I deserve to exist. I want to keep moving forward, and create what nobody before me has! If nothing else -- I have my drive, and that's good enough to me."

Lining up the pepperbox pistol, I fired one lone shot towards 'me.'

The Vick'xxx, modified with ethanol, the oils the Mousers had placed --

--the gunpowder shot struck through 'me,' through the Mask, and set him ablaze.

"...My name is Julius. No matter what awaits me if I break this script, this is my life, and nobody else's."

The blaze evaporated the man -- the gears around me, whirring, spinning at full speed, began to allow the pneumatic pistons to raise one final time.

Onwards, upwards -- the fires dwindling, leaving behind only the mask the man had, now coloured a soot black from the ashes.

[...Are you so willing to join the suffering/pain/descent of that man that you would throw away your chance to fade/die/dwindle peacefully?]

"...If that's what it means to give me freedom, then so be it."

I raised my leg up --

--and brought my foot down upon the mask.

[auror-lovie]

I Loved You, Mr. Scamander; Chapter 2

━━━•✦.✧. Author’s Note.✧.✦•━

Chapter 2 is O U T!

GOSH THE AMOUNT OF RESEARCH I DID JUST TO MAKE THIS CHAPTER. 

Besides the point, I had a lot of fun doing the research. (Where was this version of me in high school-)

I hope you guys enjoy it! This chapter is a bit longer than I anticipated. It was a mix of research, personal experiences, and listening to the same song for hours-

You can find the playlist and the taglist form link in my bio! (Or you can just comment, send an ask, or PM- whichever feels comfortable)

━━━━━•✦.✧. Summary .✧.✦•━

After Hogwarts, (Y/N) and Victoria become the MOM’s Investigation Department’s secret weapon. While celebrating the completion of a recent case, she meets someone new. Who knew that this someone is related to her first love?

━━━━━•✦.✧. Add-Ons .✧.✦•━

A little back story of what happened during their last year at Hogwarts

Theseus~! ( Gosh, I hope I didn’t write him too out of character. Then again, in this chapter, he’s fresh out of WWI )

Victoria and (Y/N)’s friendship is solely based on the friendship I have with my fellow RavenPuff best friend. ( If she ever finds this fic, though I doubt it, I love you~! )

Fluff! (Hopefully)

Theseus and Reader being oblivious to these coincidences.

CLICHE ROMANCE STUFF. I’M A HOPELESS ROMANTIC, OKAY???

Hilarity ensues

Blood, but it’s a short scene

Slight angst at the end

━━━━━━•✦.✧.☾.✧.✦•━━━━━

Before Newt left, he promised to owl them. He was set on working for the Ministry to work with magical creatures in some way. Though his letters always came at odd hours- stupid time zones.

The day after Newt's expulsion, (Y/N) and Victoria had cut ties with Leta. They couldn’t trust her after what had happened. Despite all that, (Y/N) wished Leta the best in life.

For once the roles reversed, Victoria wanted to hex the hell out of Leta, but (Y/N) talked her out of it. Told her that it wasn’t worth it. Instead of spending all that energy on hating someone, it was better to wish them the best and let them go.

Sixth year had come to an end. On the day everyone was set to go back home for the summer holiday, Headmaster Dippet had summoned Victoria to his office.

“Headmaster Dippet,” She said as she stepped into his office. “What can I do for you?”

“You can take this, Miss Howard.” He replied, his hand gesturing to a small, yet elegant metal box that sat near her side of the desk.

Puzzled, Victoria walked closer. She hesitantly grabbed the box and opened it. On the small cushion, laid a navy blue pin, with the words HEAD GIRL in bronze.

“T-This is an honor, sir.” She stumbled, picking it up. It was funny how valuable a small badge would be. How much weight and responsibility it held while being almost as light as a feather.

“I want you to wear it on the first day back.” He gave a small smile.

“I understand, Professor. I can’t thank you enough-“

“Hush child. Come next year, you’ll curse me out for giving you the responsibilities.”

In their final year at Hogwarts, they made it their best year yet. They went to all the Quidditch games and Hogsmeade trips. They studied their hardest and gave it their all. When they graduated, they both got “Exceeds Expectations” and “Outstanding” in all the subjects needed to apply for the Auror Training Program. These subjects were Potions, Defense Against the Dark Arts, Transfiguration, Herbology, and Charms.

~*~*~

Auror training required strenuous work to complete, but nothing they couldn’t handle. It was mandatory to undergo a rigorous series of character and aptitude tests. These tests showcased how well they reacted under pressure. They trained extensively in advanced magical combat, other elements of practical defense, and methods of criminal investigation.

Other training courses were Concealment and Disguise, Stealth and Tracking, Battle Instinct, Best-Laid Plans, Duelling in the Dark, Field Training, History of the Dark Arts, Method in the Mad-Eye, Resilience Training, and The Auror Advantage; while poisons and antidotes were also essential studies. Their training lasted for three years and was difficult work.

(Y/N) excelled in courses like Battle Instinct and Dueling in the Dark. Victoria showed her prowess in courses like Stealth and Tracking and Best-Laid Plans. Their personalities complimented each other. Apart, they had their successes, but together? They were a force not to be reckoned with. You’ve heard of power couples, but they were a powerful dynamic duo.

The Ministry of Magic in the Investigation Department is where they started. They were the department’s secret weapon. The only people who knew of them were those also in the Investigation Department. If they left the department due to any reason, they would be obliviated of their memory of (Y/N) and Victoria.

•✦.✧.🔎.✧.✦•

Another report was finalized and another dark wizard in Azkaban. In celebration, Victoria had convinced (Y/N) to go out to a pub with her. Coincidentally, the muggle world was celebrating a victory of their own.

At the pub, (Y/N) and Victoria was sitting at the bar, both on their second glass of Sidecar cocktail. Their work clothes were more wrinkled than usual as they relaxed on the stools.

The place was hot (despite it being winter), loud, and reeked of perfume and alcohol. People were celebrating the victory of “The War to End All Wars”. Men in uniforms were all around. Some were at home with loved ones. Others were kissing random strangers at the pub or hanging around with their mates. Then there were a couple of groups raising a glass to their fallen comrades.

“I’m headed to the restroom. You coming?” Victoria asked after finishing her glass.

(Y/N) swished her drink in her glass. “I’m good. I’ll wait here for you.”

Victoria nodded, “Alright, dear. Remember no boys, and if one won’t leave you alone- hex him or punch him.”

(Y/N) gave her a look.

Victoria laughed. “Be alert.” She said before leaving.

She nodded, “I will, Vi. I always am.” (Y/N) let out a sigh as she watched Victoria walk towards the restroom.

Her train of thought started with work but soon drifted to Newt. Over the years, she and Newt continued to stay in touch. Since she graduated, Newt had served on the Eastern Front- not in the war, no. He was there to wrangle some Ukrainian Ironbellys. That year, Augustus Worme commissioned him to write a book about magical creatures.

“Of course he took the job. It’s the perfect job for him…” She mumbled before taking another sip.

If there was anything (Y/N) wanted to do right now, it would be to go home. Being at a pub wasn’t her thing- neither was it Victoria’s, but she let it slide this time. ‘To whatever God or higher celestial being up there, please keep Newt safe.’ She thought, staring at the remaining liquid.

“Hey, what’s a pretty little lady like you doing in a place like this all by herself?” A male voice cooed as he sat on the barstool to her left.

Snapping out of her thoughts, (Y/N) turned to face a man in uniform. He had short blonde hair (but if it were any longer, it would break regulation) and light brown eyes. Attractive? Yes. Her type? Definitely not.

“I’m not here by myself,” (Y/N) eyed the single chevron patch sewn on the upper half of his uniform’s sleeve. “-Private.” She said before meeting his gaze. “I’m here with a friend.”

“Private Keaton Williams.” He said as he took one of her hands in his, bringing it up to kiss her knuckles.

‘Merlin’s beard. Where’s Victoria?’ She thought as she saw the satisfaction on his face. (Y/N) slowly retracted her hand, holding it close to her chest.

“Thank you, Private- er, Williams. But I should be looking for my friend.” She said, getting ready to stand.

He held onto her wrist, preventing her from leaving. “Come on. We both know it’s a lie. You’re not really here with anyone.” Keaton teased.

She tried to think of a way to turn him down. She couldn’t hex him- he was a muggle. There were rules about using magic in the presence of muggles! And she couldn’t punch him. How could she punch a man who had fought for the country she called home?

“She’s with me.” said another male’s voice. This time, it came from behind her.

Keaton looked past (Y/N) to see another man in uniform. “Oh wow. I’m another bloke in a uniform. What makes you so special?” He mocked.

“I don’t condone men flaunting their uniform as a way to catch a woman’s heart.” The one behind her replied. “I’ve dealt with idiots like him. Play along.” He whispered in her ear. (Y/N) nodded, before taking back her wrist.

“I know how to get what I want 's all,” Keaton boasted, then turned his attention back to (Y/N). “Let’s go, love. Let this soldier show you a good time.”

(Y/N) turned to get a look at her savior. Oh great. Yet she stared for a second longer- he looked so familiar.

Shaking her head from her thoughts, she leaned into his chest. “I’m sorry, Private Williams. You had no chance from the start. This soldier had already caught my attention.”

The man looked shocked for a split second before playing along with her little skit. “Ah yes. I’m glad I was able to return home to the love of my life all in one piece.” He said before wrapping an arm around (Y/N)’s shoulder.

She blushed. ‘Love of his life? No- stop it. It’s a ruse.’

Keaton looked at the other, eyeing his rank. “What’s a Sergeant got that I don’t?”

The man shifted, a crimson ribbon pinned to the pocket flap of his left breast pocket revealing itself. “I have the right mind to back off when a woman says no.”

Keaton looked again, seeing the ribbon, and gasped. The Victoria Cross Award. “Y-You’re him. T-That Theseus guy… The War Hero.”

Theseus. The name of her saviour was revealed!

Theseus rolled his eyes. “It’s Sergeant to you. Now scram before I report you to your commanding officer.”

“Y-Yes Sergeant,” Keaton said before walking away from the pair.

(Y/N) let out a sigh of relief as she relaxed her shoulders. “Thank you… Theseus, was it?”

Theseus hummed in agreement, removing his arm from her shoulder. “It’s no problem…” He trailed off, running his hand through his hair.

She turned in her chair to face him. His hair now slightly messed up due to his recent action. His uniform suited him- good and squared away. But his face. It was so damn familiar. It was as if she’d seen those blue eyes somewhere before.

“Uh… Like what you see?” Theseus joked.

(Y/N) blushed. “I-I didn’t mean to stare…” A small pause before sticking her hand out, “I’m (Y/N).”

Theseus gently took her hand, bringing it to his lips, and placed a gentle kiss on her knuckles. “Theseus. Charmed to meet you.”

‘Did… Did he just…?’ (Y/N) giggled, taking her hand back and interlocking her fingers together. “So what’s a wizard like you serving in the military?”

He sighed, sitting on the seat that was once Victoria’s, “The military part was a cover-up to get me on the front lines. Even if the muggles were at war, that didn’t mean dark wizards would stop their heinous crimes. I was working double time. A field agent for the Ministry and a Sergeant for the British Armed Forces.”

(Y/N) nodded. “Thank you for your service… For our world and theirs.” She smiled at him.

The silence was deafening between them, but it wasn’t awkward in any way. It was more comforting.

(Y/N) brought herself to look at his eyes again, her pupils dilating. His eyes made her heart swell with love- the type of love she reserved only for Newt. Though, she couldn’t help but spill a little bit of that to Theseus. Love at first sight?

Theseus returned the smile. How could someone, let alone a stranger he met, be this beautiful? His mind drifted to a small montage of made-up scenarios. He could see a growing relationship with her- a family even. Would his mother approve? Would Newt approve? She’d make a great addition to the Scamander family.

“Sorry I took too long. Ready to- Merlin, (Y/N)! I leave for five minutes!” Victoria’s voice yelled from behind Theseus.

“Sorry about that.” (Y/N) mumbled.

He turned in his seat to face Victoria. “I-I’m sure you’d like an explanation, but first, hello.” He stuttered.

(Y/N) emerged from behind him, walking over to her friend. “Vi! This is Theseus. Theseus this is my best friend, Victoria.”

‘He looks so familiar. I’ve seen his face somewhere before.’ Victoria thought.

•✦.✧.🔎.✧.✦•

On Theseus and (Y/N)’s first date, they went to a coffee shop.

“So you’re part of the law enforcement? Are you sure you retired from your military work?” She joked.

Theseus chuckled softly before sipping on his tea- he was never a coffee person. “First, yes. I’m retired. And yes, I work within law enforcement. I’m what you call “well respected”. And what about you, love?”

She blushed. “I work in the field then do some paperwork. That’s all. Nothing that special.”

“Hm…” He thought for a moment before an idea popped into his head. “Ever thought about working for the Ministry? They could use a couple of recruits in the Auror Department. I’m sure Victoria would join as well. Training is only about three years and with your skills, I’m sure you two would be a great Aurors.”

(Y/N) smiled before sipping on her cup of coffee. ‘Only if you knew…’

~*~*~

For their next date, they went out for a walk in the park. It was cold out, so they wore their long coats and their house scarves.

“No way! You were a Hufflepuff? I thought you were a Gryffindor!” (Y/N) exclaimed as he neared their meeting spot.

Theseus smiled, “Well, hello to you too.” He then stood in front of her, ruffling her hair. “Well then, Little Miss Ravenclaw, aren’t you full of surprises?” He teased.

She huffed, crossing her arms over her chest. “What house did you think I was in…?”

He gestured to his Hufflepuff scarf.

“If the Sorting Hat sorted me again, I’m pretty sure I’d be in Hufflepuff. If Victoria got sorted again… She’d definitely be a Slytherin.”

“Then again, you’re the feistiest Ravenclaw I’ve ever met.” Theseus teased, poking her cheek softly.

(Y/N) swatted his hand away from her face, “W-Well you’re the cockiest Hufflepuff I’ve ever met.

~*~*~

The third time they went out, they went to a fancy restaurant.

“Theseus… Where are we going?” She asked as they walked hand in hand.

“Somewhere special. I’ve been dying to take you out here for months.”

“Oh?” She asked. “What did I do to deserve this?”

He smiled as they turned the corner. “Ah, here we are!”

(Y/N) looked at the building and gasped. “Theseus… The Ritz?! This must've cost you a fortune!”

He kissed her cheek, “Anything for you.”

~*~*~

Then came their fourth date. Theseus had decided on that night, he’d make their relationship official. He would’ve done it sooner, but he’d only met her a year ago. He wanted time to get to know her and make sure it wasn’t an impulse decision. To his surprise, she agreed. So after a year-long wait, he took his chance. Nothing to lose… right?

After dinner, they decided to take a walk in the park. A last-minute plan she was not dressed for.

“You know, despite its kleptomania for shiny things, I always wanted a Niffler. They’re such interesting creatures.” She admitted.

Theseus chuckled- a sound that was now music to (Y/N)’s ears. “You sound like my brother. He’s into all that care of magical creatures stuff. Me? Not so much.”

She hummed, “I’d like to meet your brother sometime…”

“I’ll set up a date for all us to have tea when he comes back from his travels.”

“C-Can’t wait!” She stuttered as she rubbed her upper arms for warmth.

He noticed this and nonchalantly removed his coat. He draped it over her shoulders, “Sorry. It’s my fault you’re cold.”

She held the lapels of his coat, “But now you’ll get cold!”

“It looks better on you than it did me.” He gave her a playful wink.

(Y/N) gasped as she remembered a moment like that. All those years ago at Hogwarts- with Newt. Though she dismissed the thoughts of her first love. Newt wasn’t there with her. Theseus was. Newt hadn’t taken her out on those wonderful dates. Theseus had. Newt didn’t love her. Theseus did- or so she hoped.

Theseus had stopped them in front of a water fountain. The sound of trickling water and the echoes of the city filled the silence. He shoved his hands into his pockets. Were his hands always this sweaty? He took a deep breath and exhaled. It was now or never.

“Theseus, darling, A-Are you alright?” She asked, one of her hands cupping his cheek.

He hummed and leaned into her touch. Despite the cold, her hand was radiating so much warmth. He looked at her lovingly, “Yes, dear. Everything is fine.”

“(Y/N)… During my Hogwarts years, I never gave dating a second thought. And after I graduated, I immediately started working for the Ministry. Then I got sent to war. Merlin- I never want to step foot in a muggle war ever again.” He paused to make sure she was paying attention.

Her hand returned to the warmth of his coat. She nodded, giving him the okay to continue.

“And when I returned home, I was so set on returning to my duties at the Ministry. Then I met you. You wonderful, beautiful, intelligent woman. I couldn’t believe that I caught your attention. I know I’m rambling and your feet must be in pain for standing for so long, so let me ask you this.” He paused for a second. “Will you allow me to date you properly? To make this- us, official?”

(Y/N) smiled. “Theseus… I never thought you’d ask. I’d love to be your girlfriend.”

Full of joy, Theseus wrapped his arms around her and spun around. Their laughs mixed, composing a duet that harmonized with each other perfectly.

When he set her down, she sighed in content. “Oh, Theseus…”

He cupped her face, his thumb caressing her cheek. “Can… Can I kiss you?”

She nodded. “Yes-”

He cut her response short, closing the gap between their lips.

•✦.✧.🔎.✧.✦•

The New Year’s season came to pass and it was the start of the 1920s. Victoria and (Y/N) transferred to the Aurors Department. Effective immediately. They loved the Investigation Department and everyone there. Must've been something serious if their transfer was immediate.

Little did they know, Theseus was the Head of the Auror department.

On the way to the meeting room, (Y/N) was ranting about the sudden change. Victoria was saying her thoughts about the matter but listened to her friend’s distress. They walked past an office and Victoria caught the nameplate on the door that read “Theseus Scamander”

Scamander? Oh-

Before Victoria could ask questions, they had gotten to the meeting room. There were other Aurors in the department. Everyone there knew each other, so Victoria and (Y/N) were the “newbies”.

Victoria turned to (Y/N), “Hey… You know that boyfriend of yours, did you by any chance get his last name?” She whispered.

(Y/N) shrugged, “No. I didn’t think it mattered.”

“Well, let me tell you-”

The Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, Torquil Travers, entered the room from the back entrance. “Fellow Aurors! As you all know, Grindelwald is gathering up recruits for his “For the Greater Good” revolution. All of you are here today to form up a special task force in bringing him and his organization down. Leading you in this endeavor is the new Head of Auror Office and retired War Hero, Theseus Scamander.”

A round of applause erupted, welcoming the new Head of Auror Office.

Turning towards Travers, Victoria clapped along. “I’m sure it’s not your Theseus-”

“Oh shit.” (Y/N) cursed as she saw her beloved walk through the doors.

Theseus nodded as he walked towards his new task force.

Travers patted his back, “You’ll need to choose an assistant and a communications liaison, but take your time.”

Theseus scanned the room. He knew all of the people, some he trusted, and some he didn’t. Then he saw a pair he knew all too well- but he only saw them outside of work- (Y/N) and Victoria.

(Y/N) gave a shy smile, tucking a strand of her hair behind her ear.

Victoria smirked, “You’re screwed.”

As the applause died down, Theseus announced, “I’ve already chosen the people for the positions. For my assistant, I’ll be having Miss (Y/N) (L/N).”

She blushed as she felt everyone’s eyes on her. Though slightly confused, the other Aurors in the room applauded.

Victoria leaned down again, “Try not to make too much noise in his office, eh?”

(Y/N) opened her mouth to gasp, but nothing came out. “I would never!”

“And my Communications Liaison will be Miss Victoria Howard.”

(Y/N) nudged her friend, “You’re stuck with us now.”

Victoria laughed nervously, waving at everyone. “Brilliant…”

~*~*~

The three of them were in Theseus’ office. (Y/N) was pacing back and forth as Theseus was sitting at his desk and Victoria leaning against the bookshelf.

“Why me? Why another Scamander?” She groaned in agony. “How did I not know!” She muttered.

“Love, what’s the problem?” Theseus asked, slightly worried.

“You wouldn’t by any chance have a brother would you?” Victoria asked, looking at him.

“Yeah.” He replied, his attention still towards (Y/N), who was still pacing back and forth.

“About this tall?” She said, extending her arm to its highest point.

“Around there.”

“Loves magical creatures?” She asked, now crossing her arms over her chest.

“More than life itself.”

“Got expelled from Hogwarts in his sixth year?”

“Yes. Wait, how did you-”

“I figured.” She gave a curt nod before looking at her distressed friend. “Honey, you need to calm down.”

(Y/N) stopped in her tracks and faced Victoria. Her eyes were on the verge of tears.

Victoria's expression softened as she shoved aside the blunt responses she had prepared in her mind. “Hey… Come here…” She cooed as she walked over to her with arms wide open.

(Y/N) quickly ran into Victoria’s embrace, letting the tears fall. She mumbled something into her shoulder.

“What was that, dear?” She asked softly.

(Y/N) pulled away, “I said, what am I going to tell Newt? I’ve told him that I recently got a boyfriend. How is he going to react when it’s his brother?”

Victoria rolled her eyes. “What’s it to him? He’s your best friend.” She said, emphasizing the fact that Newt was just her friend. “If it’s his brother or not, who you date is not his business.”

Theseus stood from his seat and walked over to the pair. “If it makes you feel better, we can invite him over for tea and tell him.”

(Y/N) moves from Victoria’s arms and walks over to Theseus. “I… I think I’d like that.”

•✦.✧.🔎.✧.✦•

Despite Theseus and (Y/N)’s relationship, they never let it get in the way of their work. (Y/N) had the same workload and deadlines as the others in the task force.

Victoria was still expected to represent the Ministry’s Auror department, write news releases, and coordinate the distribution of information along with her fieldwork.

Theseus randomly assigned partners in every stakeout or raid- mostly because he’d feel like he’d protect the hell out of (Y/N) if she was paired up with him all the time. (Y/N) was capable, and he knew that.

Though there are sometimes where one of them got hurt and the other can’t help but care for them.

(Y/N) had made Theseus take off his blazer and rolled up the sleeve of his left arm. Blood dripped from the wound caused by one of Grindelwald’s recruits. She sat on a short stool with a bucket of warm water off to the side, just within arms reach.

Theseus slouched in the chair, flinching at the slightest touches (Y/N) made with the towel. She had wiped off all the dried blood surrounding the wound. Then she started dabbing the towel ever so gently on top of it. The towel was damp and warm, but it didn’t make the pain any softer.

He grimaced as he inhaled sharply, jerking his arm away from her.

“I need to clean your wound, love” (Y/N) said, reaching over to where he moved his arm.

“But (Y/N) it hurts!” He whined.

“You’re being childish.” She replied.

“W-Well you’re not the one on the receiving end!”

“Honey, you were a soldier. I’m sure you’ve dealt with more serious wounds than this…”

“That’s because I didn’t have someone as cute as you cleaning me up.”

“Flattery won’t get your wound cleaned up.”

“Can’t you just use a spell?”

“Unlike most wizards, I like to do some things without the use of magic.”

He huffed childishly, not looking at her.

“If you didn’t move, it wouldn’t hurt as much.”

Theseus grumbled, still moving his arm away.

“Theseus Scamander, hold still or so help me I will hex you!”

“I thought we didn’t allow magic in the bedroom~” He teased.

“Theseus! We’re at work!”

•✦.✧.🔎.✧.✦•

After months of asking and asking, Theseus had finally convinced Newt to come and visit him- to finally meet his girlfriend. (Y/N) had already decided on the tea so they were waiting for Newt to arrive.

As they waited, Theseus was looking over some reports as (Y/N) was leaning on his bookshelf, doing some light reading.

He sighed, setting the papers in his hand back down on his desk. Glancing over to (Y/N), he smiled, ‘She’s beautiful even when she’s reading…’

Theseus looked at her ensemble. A white long-sleeved button-up, a grey vest with a matching blazer, and dress pants. He looked at his suit- the same color scheme. Were they always matching?

He looked at her again and noticed that this time, she wore a tie with her suit, but not just any tie. A yellow and black tie- His Hufflepuff tie. Theseus smiled, “Hey (L/N), nice tie.”

(Y/N) nodded, turning the page of her book. “Yeah? I put it on this morning.” She said nonchalantly.

Theseus stood and made his way over. When he stood in front of her, he took the book from her hands and set it to the side. “Where’d you get it?”

She looked up at him. Was he always this tall? “Hogwarts. From when I went there. Duh.”

“Really? Because I remember you telling me that you were a Ravenclaw,” He said untucking the tie from under her vest. “This is clearly a Hufflepuff tie.” He held up the end of the tie in her line of view.

(Y/N) gasped. “I swear, it was an honest mistake!”

“Hmm…” He trailed off. “I kind of like seeing you in my ties. It’s cute.” He said, leaning in close.

“Thes… We’re at work… A-And your brother could walk in any minute-”

His fingers slid up the material, finally wrapping around the knot. “Yeah… But I haven’t kissed you since we left my flat…” He whispered, tugging softly as if to bring her closer.

She could feel herself leaning in close. Her lip mere millimeters away-

“Here we are! Head of Aurors Office!” Victoria said, opening the door to Theseus’ office. She and Newt walked in.

(Y/N) quickly pushed Theseus away, shoving the tie back under her vest.

“Newt!” (Y/N) exclaimed, shoving herself off the bookshelf.

“Brother!” Theseus said happily as he walked over to Newt.

There, Newt stood in a nice suit, a mustard yellow vest, and a blue overcoat. In his hand was a suitcase. The enchanted suitcase that (Y/N) had read so much about in his letters.

“Wait, when you told me in your letter that you had a boyfriend, you never told me it was my brother,” Newt said, slightly hurt.

“We meant to tell you!” Theseus said defensively.

“When? When I catch you almost snogging each other?” Newt retorted, glaring at his brother

“No! It would be over tea! Which we would be having right now…” She pouted.

“I think… I think I’d like a rain check on that…” He said as he started to back away.

“Newt! Don’t do this!” Victoria pleaded.

He finally turned around and walked to the door. When he got there, he stopped in Victoria’s line of view. Newt didn’t face her. He looked straight ahead, grip tightening on the handle of his case. “You knew and didn’t tell me?” Newt asked bitterly.

Victoria placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. She opened her mouth to say something and for once, she didn’t have a blunt response or snarky remark. “It wasn’t my position to say…”

Newt scoffed. “It would’ve been nice to know beforehand,” He said before shoving her hand off and walking away from Theseus’ office. Away from his brother. Away from his friend. Away from her. Newt hadn’t seen then in so long and now that he had the chance… He just left…?

(Y/N) quickly ran after him, “Newt, wait!”

Victoria leaned against the door frame, banging the back of her head against the wood. “It’s always a Scamander…”

Theseus looked at Victoria. “Did… Did they have something?”

Victoria sighed, stopping from her current action to look at Theseus. “It’s not my position to say…”

~*~*~

In the hallway, (Y/N) finally caught up to Newt. She held onto the material of his sleeve.

“Back there,” She panted. “What was that about?”

“You… You’re dating my brother?” He asked. Stupid question, but he needed to hear it again to make sure he wasn’t imagining it.

“Yeah, what’s it to you?” (Y/N) said, but her tone made it sound rude.

“Didn’t think he’d be your type…” Newt mumbled.

“And you know what my type is?” She replied, slightly offended.

“I…” Newt paused. ‘I was hoping that it’d be me.’ He thought.

(Y/N) sighed, finally letting go of his sleeve. “Look, you’re my best friend and I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I’ll admit that it was my fault, but I don’t want to lose you just because I’m dating your brother. I-”

“What?” Newt interrupted. “One Scamander isn’t enough? You need both of us in your life, do you? Why do you need me? You already have Theseus wrapped around your fingers.” He snapped.

“What is up with you, Newton?” She groaned in frustration. “You know what? Now is not the time. I’ll give you all the time and space you need. When you’re ready to talk about this, I’m only an owl away.” She turned to leave, but not before saying something that made Newt realize how he felt about his best friend.

“Just know that before Theseus,” She paused. “It was always you.”

[aromantic-romance-writer]

Giyu Tomioka x Fem! Reader [A happiness that I can never leave]

Read Chapter 202 and I thank the heavens that it didn't make me cry too much.

But the sight of a bloody Giyu breaks my heart. Y'all had no idea how painful it was for me when I saw him cry ;;;;

So I leave you, A GIYU X READER

Enjoy!

Crunch. Crunch. The snow crunched with every step the Water Pillar took. Such a pure color, the snow. He was envious of it. He was tainted, impure. He bears so much sorrow and suffering everyday. But it wasn't as much as burden he has to carry on his shoulders every single day.

His mismatched haori was a weight on his shoulders. It symbolizes his guilt. That he's a fake. That he doesn't deserve a position to save lives, as he was the reason why his own best friend died.

He stops for a moment, listening carefully. A distant cry of a woman.

...Then again, the snow can be tainted with different impurites and evil, such as...

Blood.

He starts running, following the trail. Faster. Faster. He can't let anyone else die this time.

The woman was covered in her dead mother and brother's blood, as well as her own. She has used the last of her strength from summoning a cry for help.

"We both know your efforts are useless." She trembled against the cold, and under the blood-thirsty eyes of a demon.

"Don't look at me like that, sweetheart." the demon smiled, sharp and blood-stained teeth exposed. The woman's vision is getting blurry as she clutched on to her side, trying to stop the bleeding of the wound. He caressed her cheek, making her flinch. "You're making this hard for the both of us. That must hurt. I can make the pain go--" he stops mid-sentence, wide-eyed. He quickly stood up and cursed to himself. He gave her one last look of loathing, before running away.

She can finally relax. Even just a little bit. She couldn't feel the pain anymore. She stared at her dead mother and brother, who were trying to protect each other. Hot tears stung her eyes. She's alone. Alone in this cruel world. And she'll die alone as well. Without anyone knowing. But it didn't matter. She's ready to see her mother and brother again. She closed her eyes, giving in to the arms of death.

Then footsteps. They were getting closer. She felt a pair of arms carry her. She no longer felt cold, despite the cold wind gently hitting her face. She slightly open her eyes to meet blue orbs staring down at her with guilt and sorrow.

Such sad eyes her saviour had...

"I'm sorry I was too late."

�� ° °

Your eyes flutter open, and quickly sat up. Suddenly, a sharp pain surged from your abdomen's side. You hiss in pain. A wound? Why would you have a wound? You scanned the unfamiliar room. Where are you?

Who are you?

Why don't you remember anything?

You thought hard. No, you remember who you are. Well, you remember your name at least. It was [L/N] [Y/N]. But that's about it.

No...and a pair of sad eyes. Ocean eyes that carried waves and tides of sorrow and guilt.

That's some useless info to remember.

Were you kidnapped? Is that why you have a wound? Is your father rich and a bunch of bad people kidnapped you to blackmail him?

"I see you're awake."

"AH!" You grab the blanket and attempt to hide yourself, only to discontinue and hold your wound, jeering in pain.

The man walks over to you. You noticed that he was wearing...what was that?

"You're wearing a demon slayer unifrom...did you save me from a demon?" you ask him.

He looked away and nodded.

"I see..." You mumble. "Well, I don't remember what happened, but thank you." you bow.

He turn his head back to you in such a fast motion, you thought his head would snap off. "You...you don't remember anything?" he asks. You nod. "Not even your...family?" You nod again. Wherever they are though, you hope that they're okay.

For a moment, Giyu wanted to switch places with you. He wants to forget his pain as well. He wants to remember nothing from his past, as well as why was he wearing this haori in the first place.

But then he reminded himself that losing all your memories was not a miracle. It was a bad thing to happen to a person. But then again, it's one of the reasons why he wants to switch places with you.

It was a cruel thing that can happen to anyone, and he thinks he deserves it.

The man was looking down. You saw his eyes. Deep, and empty. You wonder whose sad and guilty eyes were they in your memory. "May I know your name?"

He looks back at you, as if snapping him from his train of thought. "There is no need to know my name. Once you're fully recovered, you are to leave this place."

His already empty eyes just turned into an abyss of nothingness that came with his deadpan expression. Yet you smiled. "Then let me call my saviour by his name until then."

He thinks for a moment. "Giyu. Tomioka Giyu."

Your smile becomes warm, making the raventte unaware that something awoke inside of him. "Nice to meet you, Giyu-san. I'm [L/N] [Y/N]."

° ° °

You were alone in the residence of Giyu. He said that he is needed somewhere, but never told you when he'll be back or where did he go. You just assumed he was on a mission. For the rest of the morning, you forced yourself to remember at least one memory. It can be anything. As long as you know even just one bit of yourself.

You groan in frustration. Nothing - absolutely nothing - is coming to mind.

"All this thinking is useless!" you exclaim to yourself. "Maybe I should do something for Tomioka-san as thanks before he gets home. He did save my life, after all." You proceeded to stand--

Bad idea.

Sharp pain surged from your side. You gasp in pain. You weren't gonna give up now. As long as you still can, you will do it.

You try to stand, and each time, you fall to your knees or bottom. Little beads of sweat starts to form on your forehead as you sigh in exhaustion. You were determined. When you saw his eyes, a fire lit up inside you.

Why must a hero have such pitiful eyes?

"One last try, I...swear..." You wheezed. You used your right leg as a base and proceeded to stand once again, until you were standing on both legs. You smiled to yourself as you wiped your sweat with your sleeve. "Hopefully, I know how to cook."

° ° °

Giyu was standing in front of the shoji. He scanned the wooden bottle Koccho had given him.

"Let her drink this. Make sure she doesn't strain herself. It's only been three days. She's your responsibility now, Tomioka-san."

He wanted to wipe that shit-eating grin off her face.

He enters the home, and immediately smells the aroma of newly cooked food. You weren't supposed to stand yet.

He rushes to the kitchen to see it clean, like no one has been using it.

And you cleaned his kitchen? How nosy.

He heads to the dining area and sees the dinner you have cooked for him on the kotatsu. But you weren't there.

He finds you in the spare room where you usually sleep, passed out. He sees the little blood stained on your clothes.

He takes a new set of bandages and rushes to your side. He puts your head on his lap and examined your wound. He proceeds to change the bandage as you stirred. Luckily, no much damage.

"Are you a fool? Why would you force yourself to do these nonsense things?" He scolds you.

Your eyes flutter open. Deep blue eyes...full of worry and irritation. "Because you deserved it." you muster up a kind smile.

Giyu remains silent. No, he doesn't deserve this. He doesn't deserve your efforts. Why would you waste your energy on someone who failed to save your family? On someone who failed to protect the people he loves?

He realized that you have fallen asleep, snoring lightly. He carefully moves you on the futon. He can't help but think of how stupid you are to cook for him. He stands and walks back to the dining area. He stares at the udon that made.

"Not even well-presented." He huffs.

In the end, he eventually ate the dinner you have prepared for him.

° ° °

It's been three weeks. Giyu hasn't left his home since then. He doesn't visit your room. When he does, it's only to give you your medicine and food. You don't complain. He's actually good at cooking.

On your first week, you practiced walking. It was much less painful this time and you can stand without straining yourself. At first, you practiced on your own inside your room. Then Giyu caught you. You looked kind of helpless, leaning on the wall like that. You don't lean on walls, you lean on people.

He almost wished he was one of the people you can lean on.

"Can you walk now?" He quickly puts your food down next to your futon and rushes over to you, leaving you shocked at how fast he was. "Don't force yourself."

Giyu genuinely cares. Everytime he would visit, you would always smile and thank him. Sometimes, you would ask about his day and tell him that your memories aren't back yet when he doesn't even ask. Soon, he's become fond of your smile that he even stays for a while after visiting you. At first, you weren't used to it, but you too have become fond of his presence.

"No, I can handle it." you smile. Why do you keep smiling? He hesitantly offers his hand. Why is he doing this?

You stared at it at first, before realizing what he meant. You gladly took it and he leads the way outside.

You become temporarily blind until your eyes adjusts to the sunlight. As if your smile wasn't bright enough, it becomes radiant this time. You close your eyes to inhale the fresh breeze.

Giyu just stared. He was honestly glad that you don't remember anything yet. What would he do if you found out that he wasn't able to save your family? Truthfully, he was afraid. Afraid that your smile might turn into a rage towards him, and may never forgive him. It's like that smile found its way to the door to his heartm, and have unlocked one of many padlocks that are yet to open.

It's been like that for another week; holding and guiding you, helping you balance yourself, and staying under the sun just for a few minutes before heading back inside. The next week, you can walk without his support. It made you so happy that you jumped around and even danced a little.

It hurt, but not as much. You were starting to think that you were a bother to him, so you decided to show him that you're okay, even when you're not.

For the first time in years, Giyu smiled. Watching you be so happy was such a sight for him. What he would give to keep seeing you this happy...

You finally stopped, careful not to overdo it.

You turn to face him, gasping for air. He quickly turned away, regaining his expressionless features. "Wait, Giyu-san, were you smiling?" you ask with a cheeky grin.

"No, I wasn't." he says, monotone.

"You definitely were though!"

"Stop deluding yourself."

"Psh, whatever you say." you turn away with your hands behind your back. Your expression turned solemn. "I guess this means I have to leave now." Not that you were actually fully recovered, since it still hurts a bit when you jumped around. It just seemed like he was eager for you to leave on the first day.

To be honest, you didn't want to leave. You can't imagine spending a day without seeing him.

"You don't have anywhere to go, do you?" You didn't notice that he was already beside you. You stare at him and shake your head. He stays silent.

Does that mean you can stay?

Apparently, it does.

It's your third week, and you're watching Giyu train. You have made onigiri as a snack for him.

"Giyu-san!" you call him. He stops swinging his sword and walks over to you. He sits beside you on the engawa and you give him an onigiri. He accepts and takes a bite.

It was peaceful. You didn't mind being like this for the rest of the day. Truthfully, you've grown feelings for Giyu. He's cold at first, and still tries to be, but in the end he couldn't keep up the facade. He spends a lot of time with you now. Whenever he gets home from a mission, it's like the first thing he has to do is eat with you and tell you stories about his missions. Sure, he doesn't smile a lot, but that's what you found most endearing. Whenever he smiles, he hides it or just denies it. And it was so cute.

But something was holding him back. You can feel it. He's not free. And you have a hint what was one of the reasons why he's the cell keeper of his own cell.

"[Y/N]." he says once he was done eating. You turn to him. But he didn't say anything else. He was just staring at your face. Soon, you feel yourself getting flustered.

You turn away and fan yourself. "Don't just stare at me like that!"

"Sorry."

You wanted to kick him. What a straightforward apology! Is he that dense? You could have sworn your face was obviously red.

He was quiet again. You turn back to him, worried that--

He was still staring.

You swear, you're on the verge on punching his face.

Or maybe he wants to tell you something? But he can't actually say it? You hope that's the case. And you wish he wants to open up to you.

"Giyu-san." You start, trying not to blush under his gaze again. "Do you want to tell me something?"

For a split-second, his eyes flickered. He looks down at his lap. "Yes."

"What is it? You know you can trust me. And I can always lend an ear." He turns to you. You were smiling that smile again.

That smile makes him want to waver, even just for a minute. All these years, he's kept this pain to himself. He believed it will disappear eventually, but it never did. In fact, it just grew and grew until it swallowed him.

You make him vulnerable. You make him weak. In a good way.

"Giyu..." you wrap your hands around his and gave him the warmest of smiles. "Don't make yourself suffer any longer. You don't deserve such great pain..."

It was the last straw. He can feel tears streaming across his face. You move closer and hugged him, rubbing your hand on his back. He cried on your chest as he told you everything. His past. His sister. His best friend.

But he can't bring himself to tell you about your family. About how he was too late. He can't afford to lose you too. He can't, now that he's like this. He doesn't want to break away from your warm and gentle arms. He can't let go of his light.

You felt like he was holding something back, but you instantly knew what it was.

"Giyu..." you make him look at you, but you don't let go of his hand. The sight was painful to look at; his eyes were sore from crying, his face stained with tears...why must the good suffer? "Don't kick yourself too much just because you weren't able to save my family as well."

He widened his eyes. He wondered why you weren't shouting at him. He wondered why you weren't hitting him. He wondered why he wasn't on his knees, begging for your forgiveness.

"I remembered everything last night. I don't regret being alive and well, because you saved me. I don't regret being here with you. So please, don't feel guilty because I'm happy here with you. And I'm sure my family is happy as well because I am."

His sobs turned into sniffles, then turnd into silence. You were staring into each other's eyes. He slowly moves his hand to caress your face. You were glad to see light in those once empty blue eyes. And you were that light.

"[Y/N]..." he moves closer to you until your noses grazed each other. "Don't leave. Ever. I can't imagine a day without you."

You finally land a kiss on his lips, slightly startling him. "Why would I leave the only place that makes me happy?"

He kisses you this time, and you gladly kiss back. Tender and warm, it was clear to you, and as well as him, that he's grown to love you.

And he was sure, that he'll give his last breath just to protect you.

You sat on the engawa, in each other's arms and happy. A happiness that you found in each other.

A happiness that would be permanent.

[razieltwelve]

Berserker (Fate/Zero x Final Rose)

Sigrid looks at the… man who had summoned her and feels nothing but pity. Yet as he speaks, as this haggard, sickly, wounded man tells her of his reason, she feels nothing but all-consuming rage. Dimly, she is aware of her Semblance activating, of Saviour’s restrictions releasing one after the other as the primal, basic desire to protect flares in her chest, as hot and heavy as magma.

“He dies now.” She ignores her Master’s startled cry and tears a hole through space and time. They reappear in the basement, and the rage she feels grows even greater. Her ears are ringing. Her jaw is clenched. Yet everything is crystal clear. It always is with Saviour. Beneath her, the… horde of worms convulses and recoils. 

“So… you managed to summon a Servant?” Zouken sneers. “And a powerful one at -” He trails off and stares dumbly at the sword sticking out of his chest. And then he laughs. “Really? Do you think something like that can…” He trails off. 

A savage smile crosses her lips.

“You are unworthy of life, unworthy even of existing. You may think yourself immortal, but my sword can sever the very foundations of Creation itself. You were dead the moment I came into this world.”

Saviour can craft weapons that embody and even transcend concepts and ideals. It can craft weapons that can overturn the very rules that govern Creation. One of the very first she learned to create was a sword capable of not simply killing whatever it hit but also extirpating the very idea of it. The sword didn’t kill things. It didn’t even erase them. It removed the very possibility or idea of their existence in the first place. Of course, the tricky part had been managing the effect to not go to far. It wouldn't do, after all, to use the sword on an opponent and wipe out everyone descended from them too.

In the case of Zouken, it removed him and all of his familiars, crest worms, and other horrors. 

As the Worms vanished, Sigrid leapt forward to catch Sakura. The girl stared at her with vacant eyes, and Sigrid’s jaw clenched so hard it hurt. If only she’d been summoned earlier. Even just a little bit earlier…

“Here.” Sigrid stepped and reappeared next to Kariya. “Take her.”

“I…” He bowed as deeply as he could and then took Sakura in his arms. “Thank you.”

“We still have a Grail War to win,” Sigrid murmured. “But for tonight this will be enough.” She could feel the Grail even from a distance, and the corruption within it grated on her nerves. It was tempting to simply purge the accursed thing from existence, but she wanted to know more before she acted. “Wait.” She frowned. “When I killed Zouken, the taint within you was removed as well. However, your body has already been severely weakened. I can reverse the damage.”

“Can it wait until tomorrow?” he asked quietly. “I… I just want to get Sakura away from this place.”

“Tomorrow then,” Sigrid agreed. “Do you want me to burn this place to the ground?”

“Yes,” Kariya replied. “Zouken… that… bastard sent the rest of my family away in case something went wrong during the Grail War. There’s nobody here but us. He gave me access to some accounts to help fund things during the Grail War, so we can find a hotel room or something.”

“All right. Once we’re out of here, I will destroy it. Perhaps later, it can be rebuilt, but the very ground here is impure. It will have to be cleansed first.”

“If I live through this,” Kariya said. “I’ll buy another house, somewhere else, somewhere without all of this… history.”

X     X     X

Sigrid was not especially renowned for her sneaking ability. It was largely a product of how she was used on the battlefield. Saviour had the finesse of a rapier… with the power of an avalanche. It was more efficient to force the enemy to gather its force, so she could crush them in a single decisive blow.

Of course, just because she wasn’t renowned for sneaking didn’t mean she was bad at it. Her mother had been on of the greatest huntresses the Yun had ever produced, and her cousins were all exceedingly sneaky as well. Through a combination of training and osmosis, she’d learned how to conceal herself with the best of them.

And weren’t the results from this little sneaking sessions fascinating?

With her presence concealed, she had a front row seat to the debacle that was Rider, Saber, and Lancer doing a combination of talking and fighting. Their masters were also nearby, and Saber’s had concealed himself particularly well. Assassin was lurking around too, but she had little interest in him. It as not arrogance but fact to say that someone who relied on surprise and concealment had little chance against Saviour.

And then Archer appeared.

His technique was interesting enough, and she wondered what expression he would have if she disrupted it. After all, Saviour was fully capable of cutting off the links between pocket dimensions and the normal world. True, such severance could be countered, but she wondered if he was capable of it. Still, in combat, she’d save that trick for the split-second before she attacked. By the time he noticed anything was amiss, he’d be dead.

Of course, that was when he decided to assert his dominance by spamming projectiles at everyone. In her mind, Kariya asked her to intervene. He despised Tokiomi - and Sigrid did too after learning he was the one who’d handed Sakura to Zouken - so he could hardly let him get an advantage this early in the game even if they had no intention of letting it play out to its conclusion.

Glad that she’d chosen to wear a suit for her sneaking (she did so love her mother’s sense of style), she leapt out into the open and summoned one of Saviour’s lesser blades. It would still suffice, and annoying Archer seemed like it would be fun. Certainly, Saviour wanted her to.

She landed in front of the group, and her blade swept out in a blur, too fast to follow. Half a dozen of Archer’s projectiles shattered like glass, and she bit back a smile at the look of outrage on his face.

“You dare!” he snarled as more portals formed. But even as he prepared to attack again, she could see a hint of wariness in his eyes. He must have taken a closer look at the sword in her hands. “What is that sword?”

“This?” She smiled thinly and tossed it aside. The blade disintegrated and another, slightly different one formed in her hands. “A trinket for one such as myself.”

She felt the unease of the other Servants behind her. From her understanding, just looking at her weaponry gave magus headaches since they were akin to Divine Constructs yet different in that they should not be able to exist. That made sense. Saviour itself was a Semblance that set itself apart from all else, imposing its will on everything and reshaping rules as it saw fit. If it happened to break all the rules, well, that was simply the cost of doing business.

“Hmph.” Archer sneered again. “It would seem you mongrels are in luck. I’ve seen enough. We shall finish this later.” He vanished, and Sigrid let him go before turning to the other Servants.

“Berserker?” Saber asked warily. “But…”

“I seem too lucid for one?” Sigrid understood the classification system. She had, at some point, been driven almost insane by her Semblance when awakening the third level, but she’d regained control. Still, it was enough for her to qualify, and she could feel Saviour’s influence more strongly now than at almost any point in her past life. Thankfully, her control was still intact. Right now, her Semblance wanted to slaughter all of her enemies and conquer the world. Still, it was curious seeing a counterpart from her earlier life summoned as Servant although from this world, not Remnant. “There are reasons for that, I suppose.”

Sigrid is not the master or reading people that her cousin, Victoria is, but she’s not half bad either. And Saviour really does see everything. It can see the protective way Saber has moved to stand between her and the white-haired woman. Rider, likewise, has moved his bulky frame between her and his Master. Only Lancer is more relaxed, and that is because he thinks his master is still concealed. It’s a joke, of course. Relying solely on magic for concealment is foolish. 

“I’m not here for a fight. I was ordered to observe. However, my Master wished to see if i could handle Archer’s projectiles. It would seem I can.”

“Your sword?” Saber asked. “I do not recognise it.”

“You wouldn’t. My legend was never about my sword. And I’m as good with a spear as I am with a sword, anyway.” The air shimmered beside her, and a spear appeared. Lancer’s eyes gleamed with interest, and she glanced at him. “Another time, Lancer. Your Master’s patience must be fading already.”

He winced and nodded. “I am being ordered to withdraw. My apologies. Perhaps next time we meet, we can test each other’s skill.”

The others withdraw soon after. Sigrid feels something in her stir at the sight of Saber and Irisviel. She knew them in her other life, or people who looked and acted much like they did. Still, it is Rider who has the parting word.

“Would you not join me?” Rider boomed jovially.

Sigrid inclined her head. “You are a king, are you not?” He nodded. “Then I must refuse. I have only ever served one royal family, and I see little reason to change that.” 

X     X     X

“You know,” Sigrid drawled. “If you hadn’t called to have the building evacuated, I’d have killed you where you stood.”

Kiritsugu fired on her without a second thought. She caught a bullet out of the air and letsthe others simply veer off into the walls of the construction site, a casual application of Saviour’s ability to bend space that had long long since become second nature. “Saber -”

“Save your command seal,” she said. “If I wanted you dead, I wouldn’t have bothered to reveal myself.” She sat down on a slab of upraised concrete. “I’m simply curious.”

“About what?” He is wary, and he is right to be. She could sense Maiya moving into position, but a casual flick of her wrist embedded a sword in the wall beside her head. Of course, she could have just fired a projectile, but they didn’t know she could do that yet. “We’re having a polite conversation now. If you’re smart you’ll keep it that way.”

His eyes narrowed, and Maiya backed away. “Fine. What do you want to know?”

“Why the Grail?” she asked. “You’re an assassin. Perhaps the Einzbern hired you, but I doubt that’s the whole story.” She glanced back at the collapsing hotel. “Oh, and Kayneth isn’t dead.”

“What?”

“We’ll come back to that. But why do you want the Grail?”

X     X     X

Author’s Notes

So, this is just an idea I came up with. I’m just poking the metaphorical tree to see what falls out. Out of the first three bearers of Saviour (Lightning, Averia, and Sigrid), Sigrid is the one most likely to be summoned as a Berserker. Otherwise, she is likely to arrive as either a Saber or a Lancer. Unlike Averia, she probably wouldn’t qualify as an Assassin since Averia actually did a lot of those missions whereas Sigrid was more commonly deployed as the proverbial big gun for Arendelle.

If you’re interested in my thoughts on writing and other topics, you can find those here.

You can find my original fiction on Amazon here.

[alindakb]

How Love Hurts - Chapter 8.3 - by Alinda

“Can’t I really not come with him?” Draco asks Hermione for the hundred time since the court adjourned for the day. Harry has no idea how long he was questioned, first by Marion who tricked him to speak up about the abuse. She made him recall fights he rather forgets. She even got him to tell about the weekend that he cheated on Ginny with Draco, how he had tried to convince Ginny to make time for their marriage, to reconnect so he could forget the feelings that were boiling inside him. He told the entire courtroom how she had hexed him and left without saying another word and how that was the final push out of the door. And then he told them all how Draco had told him to go back to his wife and family, how even though he loved him he wasn’t willing to be the person that destroyed a marriage. It was Harry who made the decision to leave Ginny and pursue a life with Draco, not the other way around.

And once that was done, Ginny’s lawyer had tried to twist all his words, make it sound like Harry was the one who always started the fights. Harry had struggled to answer his questions. The man was harsh and unconsidered of Harry’s pain. Surely if Ginny was really that awful woman Harry made her out to be, Harry would have spoken up during the custody hearing. Harry had tried to explain that he hadn’t said anything back then because he believed he had deserved it, that Ginny was not to blame for the pain she caused him.

“No Draco, you can’t. The judge was really clear on it. Those kids still need to testify tomorrow and it’s already a big deal Harry gets to talk to them now.”

“So it will be just me and the kids?” Harry asks. It will be hard to tell them without Draco there to support him, but he has to do it. He can’t have them hear it from someone else. Or read it in the papers that are sure to come out with a special evening edition to break the news of how Harry Potter, the Saviour of the Wizarding World, was the victim of domestic abuse.

“Ginny’s lawyer will be there and Marion,” Hermione answers.

“Why does that arsehole need to be there, this is something between Harry and the children,” Draco snaps.

“Draco, I understand why you feel that way, but they want to make sure Harry doesn’t put words in their mouths for tomorrow.”

Harry shakes his head and takes Draco’s hand in his. “I don’t want him there, Hermione. I don’t want him to be able to twist my words.”

“They are not allowed to intervene as long as you don’t bring up Christmas eve or ask them about what they know about it all. Marion is prepping the kids as we speak, so they understand that they can only listen and not talk about the time you had no custody rights.”

“Can you come with me? I’m going to need a friendly face with me,” Harry asks. His hands are sweaty and he wants to run away and hide in his bedroom for the rest of the week until this awful trial is over. And maybe even longer than that, until the world forgets who he is and that he let his wife hex him on a regular basis.

“I’m sure they won’t make a problem about that. I’ve been in contact with both you and the kids this entire time, and I haven’t just been summoned to testify, as Draco has.”

“Yes, I still don’t understand why they want me on that stand. I wasn’t even in the country when it happened,” Draco complains. “At least tell me I’m first before the children have to testify. I would hate to not be there for them.”

“I think you are, Marion said something about getting the idea of you making a love potion to make Harry fall in love with you out of the way as soon as possible. So I think you’re up first thing tomorrow morning.”

Draco nods and Harry squeezes his hand. He’s glad Marion only decided to get Draco on that stand after Ginny’s lawyer wouldn’t stop talking about how Draco manipulated Harry into leaving his wife and kids. Harry had tried to explain it wasn’t like that, but Marion believes that Draco’s testimony will help.

“Are you ready, Harry?” Hermione asks. Harry nods, he turns to Draco and gives him a kiss. They smile at each other while Harry steps backwards to follow Hermione to the room where his kids are waiting. Only when the distance becomes too far they both let go of each other's hand.

“I’ll be waiting for you right outside that door when your done,” Draco says before Harry turns around and walks the last steps to the door that Hermione holds open. As soon as he’s through the door three teenagers are on him. They all tell him how much they missed him and how happy they are that he’s doing so much better and so on. Harry hugs all of them and then sits them down around the table. Hermione sits down too while Marion and Ginny’s lawyer stand somewhere to the side. Harry tries not to look at them and focus on his kids in front of him and the horrible truth he’ll have to tell them now.

“Dad, Marion said you needed to tell us something important,” James says.

“If it’s that you’re bisexual and engaged to Draco, don’t worry, we already know,” Lily chips in. Both James and Albus look at her with wide eyes.

“What do you mean engaged? Dad is not engaged with Draco, I’m sure he would have told us already,” Albus says.

Harry struggles not to laugh. Of course Lily had already figured it out. She had played with the ring on Harry’s finger when they had stopped by that first weekend Harry was out of the hospital.

“Haven’t you noticed the ring on his finger? And I told papa he should marry dad.”

“Is this true?” James asks. He looks hopeful and nervous. “Is this what you wanted to tell us.”

Harry smiles at his kids and shakes his head. “Yes, I am engaged with Draco,” Harry starts.

“NO WAY, Scorp and I are going to be real brothers. Dad, this is so cool,” Albus shouts.

“Congrats dad,” James says with a shy smile.

“But it’s not why I needed to talk to you all tonight,” Harry continues. “It’s something I had to tell when I gave my testimony today. I didn’t want to at first but I did in the end and it will be in the papers and people will talk about it and I wanted you all to hear it from me.”

Harry lays his hands on the table and looks at them. He doesn’t really want to do this, he knows it will break his kids’ hearts. But when one by one his kids lay their hand on top of his he finds the courage to look them in the eyes and tell them why he really left Ginny.

“Your mother, when we would fight, she sometimes would hurt me. And not just because her words were hurtful. She would raise her wand and hex me. All the scars on my back, well most of them are there because of what she did.”

“Mommy hurt you, as she did on Christmas eve?” Lily asks.

“You can’t answer that,” Ginny’s lawyer booms over the room.

“He knows,” Hermione says. “Lily, remember what Marion told you, you can’t talk about Christmas eve right now.”

Lily nods her head. “I just don’t understand what daddy means. Mommy wouldn’t hurt him like that, would she?”

“We’ll talk about it later, okay,” Hermione tells her. “After you tell your story tomorrow I’ll make sure you can talk to your dad again and he can explain it even better. He’s just not allowed to say that much about it right now.”

Lily nods her head and moves to sit on Harry’s lap. “I love you, daddy,” she says. Harry hugs her and tells her he loves her too. Then he looks up to his two sons on the other side of the table. Tears slowly travel over Albus’ cheeks and James looks at his hands on the table.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you before,” Harry says. He keeps his eyes on Albus and James.

“How long? I know it was bad in the end, but when did it start?” James asks without looking up.

“When you were just a little baby,” Harry says. Ginny’s lawyer opens his mouth again, but Hermione shuts him up with telling him it will be in the papers tonight anyway.

James looks up and his hand reaches for Harry’s again. Harry takes it and squeezes.

“You said the scars were from your work,” Albus chips in.

“I know, I’m sorry I lied. I didn’t want you to hate your mother,” Harry tells him. Albus nods and lets James hug him while he cries. Harry can’t believe how calm James is.

“Did you know?” Harry asks him. James nods and squeezes Harry’s hand. “I’m sorry,” Harry says again.

“Why didn’t you leave sooner?” James asks. “Why did you let her?”

Harry shakes his head. He can’t do this here, without Draco and with Marion and Ginny’s lawyer in the room. Tears stream down his face.

“Daddy, you’re shaking,” Lily says. Her hand cups his face and she wipes some of the tears away. Harry kisses her hair and tries to smile at his kids.

“You’ll tell me later? When you’re ready,” James says. Harry nods and that seems to be enough.

They sit for a little while in silence and then it’s time to say goodbye. Harry hates that he needs to get up and leave his kids alone again. He knows that Molly is taking good care of them and that they are safe. Only it still feels wrong to drop this bomb on them and then leave them. With pain in his heart, he hugs them one by one and then walks out of the room with Hermione. Draco has his arms around Harry as soon as the door is closed. Harry burrows his face in Draco’s shoulder and lets the tears fall.

[rufeepeach]

37 — meeting in prison AU for Rumbelle. (Optional EF setting; it popped into my mind for some reason.)

A/N: I really enjoyed this one! Enjoy :D

He hears her hurled into her cell. A high cry, a whimper, and then the door slammed.

They never lock prisoners in with the Dark One. Never. Snow and Charming are too kind for that, at least. Or maybe they just think isolation will soften his mind.

Through the dark silence of the cell, the girl begins to cry.

He shifts, scuttles, tries to find a spot in the cell to sit where he cannot hear her. It is an impossible task; she stops abruptly when he sighs.

“Is anyone there?” her voice comes high and frightened.

“‘Tis just I, dearie,” he trills, his voice sharp and mocking but his heart not in it. “They’ve trapped you alone with the Dark One, fancy that!”

“Oh,” she sniffles, but she does not scream or renew her sobs. “Well at least I’m not alone, then.”

It’s a brave answer, if somewhat foolish. “Some would say you would be better off alone,” he says. He cannot hide the bitterness creeping into his voice. “Better that than trapped alone in the dark with me.”

“If you could hurt me you wouldn’t be here,” she replies, shrewdly. “You’d be out there, hurting them.”

That brings him up short. The sobbing waif has a mind, then. Perhaps a conversational companion wouldn’t be such a burden, at least until they move her elsewhere. Or until Regina gets up the nerve to cast the curse, whichever comes first.

“Y-your name is Rumpelstiltskin, isn’t it?” she says, after a long moment in silence. “I’ve read about you.”

“They write books about me now?” he muses, with a spiralling gesture nobody but him can see. “How quaint. And what do these books of yours say?”

“That you barter in firstborns and hunt children for their pelts,” the woman replies, with a note of irony in her voice. “Is that true?”

“I’ve… facilitated the occasional adoption,” he replies, idly. “The pelts would be a waste of time, however. Any tanner will tell you that adult flesh hardens into better leather, and you get more of it per kill.”

He hears her sharp intake of breath. He has shocked her.

“That one was a quip,” he advises, when she does not speak. “Not serious.”

Her gusty sigh is accompanied by a laugh of relief. “Oh,” she says. “Of course.” She pauses, then speaks again, “That’s why you’re in here, isn’t it?”

“Why? Because our illustrious rulers have no sense of humour? I quite agree.”

“No,” she chuckles again, and it’s a pleasant sound, a reprieve from dank, dripping water and his own mutterings. “Because you… ah… facilitated an adoption?”

“Oh yes,” he grins into the darkness, leaning his head back against the stone wall. “Dear Cinderella, who tried to break our bargain.”

“They say you tricked her,” she says. Rumpelstiltskin shrugged.

“She didn’t read the contract, so desperate was she to don that pretty dress and run off to the ball. The words 'you owe me your firstborn’ weren’t even in particularly small print. I cannot be held responsible for other people’s idiocy, can I?”

Silence. He sighs.

“I was very easily apprehended,” he says, betraying a secret he has no business speaking aloud. “And Cinderella’s baby will be born healthy.”

She doesn’t reply. They sit in silence for a long time.

“What was your crime, then?” he asks, when the stifling quiet has become tiresome.

“I started the ogre war,” the woman replies.

He should have known her immediately by her accent. Who else would they throw down here, with him?

“Princess Belle of the Frontlands,” he murmurs, toying with her title, “The girl who tortured an ogre child.”

“That’s what they say,” she says, and he can hear her gritting her teeth, her voice tight and bitter.

“Is it true?”

“No.”

“I suppose that’s what they all say,” he muses.

“I was trying to save the poor thing!” Belle cries. “I was… you don’t care.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, dearie,” he trills. “I am interested in what you have to say. Please continue.”

“I…” Belle trails off, and sighs in frustration. “My fiance wanted a war. He tortured the child to punish its tribe for its role in the war a century ago. He wanted to provoke them.”

“And why would he do that?”

“He had to prove himself,” Belle mutters, with a depth of disdain that impresses even Rumpelstiltskin. “He thought he could provoke the tribe into a fight, buy an easy victory, and prove to his father he was no longer the runt of the litter.”

“Well,” Rumpelstiltskin drawls, thinking of the wreckage and devastation of the following months, the villages razed and crops burned. “That was a miscalculation.”

Belle snorts. “That’s an understatement.”

“Then why are you here, and not he?” he queries. “Surely he would not blame his blushing bride!”

“I was no longer his bride,” Belle replies, simply. “I refused to marry him and threatened to expose him. I miscalculated too. I thought my father would believe me… but he needed men and arms more than he needed a daughter.”

“Ah,” Rumpelstiltskin sighs. It is a sad story, and one undeserving of an innocent woman. There is nothing so dangerous, he thinks, as a strong man with something to prove.

“Yeah,” Belle replies.

“Even the great Snow White will not hear your pleas for clemency?” Rumpelstiltskin enquires. “I, at least, am guilty of what they have accused me of.”

“I have told my story loudly and clearly everyb day,” Belle replies, stoutly. “And they continue to buy arms from Gaston’s father, and throw Gaston’s soldiers at their enemies. They are allies of Snow White and detractors of Queen Regina. They call me a monster, so why should they listen?”

“Why indeed?” Rumpelstiltskin murmurs.

He has no more to say. It seems neither does she.

After a while, he hears her whimper. Her stomach growls so loudly, he can hear it in the next cell.

“Belle?”

“Yes?”

“Can you keep a secret?” he asks. He can almost taste her confusion.

“Who would I tell?”

It’s a fair point. He waves a hand, and hears the clatter as an array of dishes laden with hot food appear before her. He can smell the meal wafting through, although the cavern walls prevent him from seeing it. He hears her cry out with delight.

“I have let them believe I am powerless down here,” he says. “I would prefer if that myth was maintained.”

“Mmm-hmm!” comes the response: he chuckles, as her mouth is clearly full of food.

“Thank you!” she gasps, as she pauses for breath. “I haven’t had a - thank you so much!”

“You’re very welcome, dearie,” he says. He wonders if he should demand payment, some price to be exacted when the world ends and they are both free.

But he keeps his mouth shut. He does have a karmic debt to pay, after all.

“What do I owe you?” she asks, when the sounds of her ravenous eating have calmed somewhat. “I don’t think I’ll have a firstborn any time soon.”

He considers the question. She has nothing to offer him, not really, and he didn’t ask for payment in advance. Sometimes, maybe, a meal can just be a meal. Kindness can just be kindness, even from a monster.

“Consider it a gift,” he says, lightly. “One monster to another.”

“Thank you,” she breathes. “I… I don’t think you’re a monster, Rumpelstiltskin. Any more than I am.”

“That’s a full belly talking,” he says, indulgently. “Sleep it off and you’ll regain your senses.”

“No. No, I’ve… I’ve heard more of your deeds than just Cinderella. I heard you helped Prince Charming to reawaken Snow White, is that true?”

“The fool was lost in the endless forest,” he says. “Someone had to fish him out.”

She snickers. “And now you provide free food to a starving prisoner. Not so monstrous after all.”

“You promised to keep secrets, dearie,” he sing-songs. “Don’t be putting it around.”

“Who would I tell?” she asks again. He waves a negligent hand and banishes the dishes. A moment later, she yawns, and he imagines she has gone to sleep.

If she awakens with a pillow beneath her head, its twin beneath his, then there’s no one to know but the rats.

—

It is eleven pm before Gold’s stomach rumbles.

He has forgotten that, in this world, he needs to eat. His body in Storybrooke is none so powerful as he had been in the Enchanted Forest, weak and human once more, and so his invulnerability to hunger and exhaustion have fled. It’s been a steep learning curve, these past twenty-four hours since the Saviour arrived, and he can’t say he’s enjoying his renewed frailty.

Perhaps when the curse breaks, and magic returns, his strength will return. For now, he continues to acclimatise.

The door to the shop swings open. “We’re closed, dearie!” he calls out. “Come back tomorrow!”

“Your light was on!” A voice comes through, low and feminine. A voice he recognises, although only the voice. His one-time cellmate survived the journey, then. He only knew her a few weeks, and most of that in silence as she slept or read the books he summoned to entertain her. He’d liked her, though. She was smart, and funny, and her company had lifted those long days.

He is curious, too curious. He never saw her face.

He comes through the curtain, to see an astonishingly beautiful woman standing in his shop, clutching a take-out bag from Granny’s.

When she sees him, there is no recognition in her eyes. But then, why would there be? His face and voice have changed immeasurably, and even had they not, she is still cursed. Mr Gold’s false memories fill in the blanks. Here she is Lacey French, the flighty daughter of an oafish florist. She is engaged to Gary Hunter, and works as a waitress at Granny’s Diner. She is unhappy, but then, everyone is unhappy here. Such is the nature of the Dark Curse.

“I told you,” he says, but gentler now, gentler than he intended it. “We’re closed.”

“I saw your light on,” she says, pressing on with false, brassy confidence. “I thought you might be hungry, since it’s so late.”

“Why would you presume I haven’t eaten at home?” he asks.

“I had a hunch,” she says, shrugging her slender shoulders. She really is remarkably pretty, he thinks. He’d assumed it impossible her face could match her mind and her heart, but here she is, proof that inner and outer beauty can coexist. He wonders if the outfit she wears, a sinfully short, tight black skirt and sheer blue blouse, would have been her preference had she her true mind about her. He assumes not, but then, how would he know?

“Why?” he presses. Of course she does not know. Some small, instinctive part of her remembers that once upon a time he fed her, and that part is reaching to repay the debt. Lacey doesn’t know, but somewhere deep down Belle does.

“Was I right?” she challenges back. This new girl has all of Belle’s stubbornness, but none of her ability to pause for thought. His stomach growls again, betraying him.

She laughs, and hands him the bag. “Bottom one has extra pickle,” she says. “The usual.”

“Indeed,” he murmurs, remembering now his visits to Granny’s, curse memories sliding neatly into place. “Thank you.”

“Yeah, well, don’t let it get around.”

She winks, and settles herself in. They eat in silence.

“What do I owe you?” he asks, when they’re finished. Lacey shrugs.

“’S on the house,” she says, swallowing her final mouthful. “A burger’s just a burger, right?”

[themachiavellianpig]

The Walking Dead, Episode 10: Making Friends and Influencing People

Episode 10 of the Walking Dead and, wow, why do the bad guys always get to have the good plans in this world? 

As always, full review and spoilers below. 

We start off with Beta heading off to find Gamma, as the flashback helpfully reminded us of, but he starts off in a mysterious abandoned RV with two Whisperers guarding the entrance to some very shadowy underground tunnels. As far as camouflage goes, it’s a solid cover up - even someone scavenging for supplies would be unlikely to rip up a chair to check under the carpet. 

Meanwhile, Rosita's back at Alexandria and struggling to keep her shit together, haunted by nightmares of Whisperers standing over her daughter's crib. Which, you know, fair enough, given what nearly happened to poor little Coco before the mid-season hiatus. Her understandable trauma is temporarily put on hold when Gamma appears at the gates to Alexandria with information about the missing group, and then right back to the forefront when she knocks Gamma clear out after the Whisperer agrees to tell them the location of the cave with the horde. 

Gamma comes to facedown in the bloodstain left in Alexandria's cell after Gabriel's execution of Dante. Gabriel is very much back to being Father Gabriel this week, in a very Battle Pope kind of way; the fact that his pastoral experiences and all that time in the confessional would have made him a pretty good judge of character is used to easily break Gamma, who admits openly that she killed her sister for Alpha, and not even because Alpha told her to do so. We get a pretty hardcore boast from Gabriel in this scene - "I've spoken to God and He's told me to hang you" would have sounded ridiculous coming from the terrified pastor we met way back in Season 4, but I completely buy it from this updated version, who later on advises his people to take "fingers and teeth" from any Whisperers they catch until they have all the information they need. 

Yeah, so that last line was probably a step too far, and I was deeply pleased when Rosita calls him out for such an extreme comment; the scenes between Gabriel and Rosita this week were actually really good, I thought, especially as these are two characters than have not really had anything resembling character development for a while now. They are both, in their own ways, deeply broken by recent events and both recognise that trauma in each other while struggling to process their own. It's sweet, and a little dysfunctional, and actually shows the survivors looking out for each other and communicating clearly, which we all know is what I really want from this show. 

While the Alexandrians prepare to help their missing friends, we get a very sweet scene of Judith and Gamma talking - but seriously, is Judith really so starved for friends that she keeps feeling the need to befriend people who her family have imprisoned in their basement? Gamma tells Judith her real name (Mary) but admits that she can't really remember what she was like before she was a Whisperer. She was normal, allegedly, but spent the first part of the apocalypse making so many bad decisions with her sister that she was glad to find a leader like Alpha who could make their decisions for them. 

Judith's counter-point - that Mary and her sister found the wrong person first - is a delightfully simple one from the little Grimes. Her belief that Gamma/Mary would have been better off if she'd met Rick or Michonne first instead is probably true enough, but it shows a little of the sweet innocence and trust in parents that really no one was expecting to survive the end of the world. (I mean, it does also strongly imply that no one's ever told Judith about the Ricktatorship, but she's still little enough to be entitled to her optimism). Their conversation is cut short when Alexandria goes into lockdown in preparation for most of their fighters heading out to save the group trapped in the cave. 

The rescue plan is temporarily put on hold when some of the outer scouts warn Alexandria of an incoming herd - Gabriel takes most of the fighters to scatter the herd before it can hit Alexandria, but leaves Rosita behind to watch the settlement. In a genuinely delightful move, Rosita doesn't take offence at Gabriel's decision and instead admits that she shouldn't be out there just yet. She even tells him about the nightmares! And so they part on excellent terms with very few regrets or recriminations, which is probably a very good sign that both are going to survive the episode entirely. 

We leap ahead a little to some point after nightfall, where we are treated to one of the most gloriously creepy sequences that I think we might ever have had on The Walking Dead - Beta in Alexandria. Firstly, erupting from a grave like every classic horror movie trope you could possibly want to hope for, then stalking his way through a house or two, slaughtering defenceless Alexandrians and then *waiting calmly for them to rise again as his little undead task force*. Seriously, I had chills. 

With his new undead buddies causing one hell of a distraction, Beta finds his way to the cell and orders Gamma to come with him, promising her a quick death if she doesn't fight. She calls bullshit, having finally realised that all Alpha wants is them all in pain, and decides to stand her ground. Their little impasse is interrupted by Laura, the former-Saviour whose name I had to google while writing, who gets Beta at halberd-point but is sadly later crushed by the giant man. There is still technically a question mark over her fate, but the crunch of her bones hitting the walls of the cell did not sound good at all. 

(The fact that this character’s apparent death needed to be confirmed via The Talking Dead is possibly one of my major gripes with the episode; I’m glad in part that the show no longer feels the need to labour over every grisly details of every death, but surely we could at least have deaths which register properly on screen.)

Gamma/Mary is less foolish than once she was, so she doesn't miss a chance to run from an angry Beta and end up hiding in Judith's home with the girl and her little brother. And Judith, because she's sweet and innocent but also very definitely not an idiot, shoots Beta through a closed door when he tries to force the lock. If someone had ever taught Judith about confirming kills - ideally with a headshot taken from a safe distance, Alpha would have lost her greatest soldier. 

Instead, and also I suppose understandably, Judith takes RJ and runs the second Beta hits the floor. In all fairness, there really wasn't any part of the Whisperer MO that made me think "bulletproof vests" *before* they let a child shoot Beta. 

Judith and RJ make it out safely, but Gamma/Mary isn't so lucky. Beta's attempt to drag her away is interrupted by Rosita, who really does a very good job of hurting Beta before nearly getting her skull caved in. She's saved by Gamma/Mary, who holds a knife to her own throat - Alpha will only get her back alive, as she wants, if Beta leaves Alexandria with her right then. It’s a brilliant threat, and a great moment of self-sacrifice - one that I hope will endear her to the Alexandrians. 

The two set out back to the Whisperers, with Beta talking creepily all the way about how Gamma/Mary will die and rise again and be reunited with her sister in death. I honestly can't tell if he was trying to be creepy or comforting at this point, but fortunately they were interrupted by Gabriel and the gang returning from their wild-goose hunt after a non-existent herd. They drive Beta away, but Gamma/Mary holds her ground and tries to explain what had happened.

Now, there was a moment where I really, really thought that Gabriel was going to shoot her. His irrational threats of torture and his bone-deep confidence that he could tell when people were telling him the truth seemed set up to kick him in the teeth sooner or later, and him pulling the trigger on the woman who sacrificed herself to save Rosita would have been a particularly bitter slice of humble pie. 

But he didn't, and I'm actually kind of glad. The moment at the end when Mary reclaims her name to introduce herself to Rosita is a sweet little taste of the kind of future Rick wanted for his people - where people can be forgiven and become part of the community - it even looks like she's getting a trip to Hilltop to meet her nephew, which is all she's really asked for since trying to leave Alpha. 

Meanwhile, the other plotline of the week sees Daryl having his own moment of righteous but foolish anger, as his plan for finding another way into the cave to save Connie and Magna involves finding Alpha and beating the information out of her. 

Alpha's made of slightly sterner stuff than that, though, and the first assault leaves both of them pretty brutally injured and Daryl with no more information that he started with. When half-blinded by his own blood and surrounded by walkers, he retreats, and is followed to an abandoned gas station by a bloody but not yet beaten Alpha. 

The brutality of the first fight, however, has left both of them essentially unable to commit to round two - Alpha's losing too much blood, and Daryl's more or less immobile with Alpha's knife in his thigh - so Alpha decides to even up the odds by summoning some more of her undead friends, who head straight for the bleeding Daryl. Even injured, Daryl can take care of three walkers, but he was out of weapons by the time the third and final walker got close, so he yanks Alpha's knife out of his own flesh and makes do. This does, admittedly, kill the walker, but it does also leave Daryl really quite definitely bleeding out. 

With no more walkers to do her dirty work, and apparently hallucinating from blood loss, Alpha resorts to actually talking to Daryl, but becomes enraged when he says that she never loved Lydia. 

And, as if summoned, Lydia is suddenly there with them in the gas station; the interaction is largely shown from Alpha's point of view, which is trippy enough to imply "hallucination" pretty strongly, but Lydia is actually there, having been watching both groups since her departure to try and decide where she belongs. 

In a very twisted moment, Alpha ruins their little reunion by trying to get Lydia to kill her and take her place as leader, claiming that she had made sure that Lydia would be ready for such a moment. In yet another rejection, Lydia tells her mother that the Alexandrians aren't perfect, but they're human - and that's all she's ever wanted, and something that her mother simply can't give her. Lydia leaves her mother behind, but hauls Daryl out of there and to relative safety somewhere else in the forest. 

She leaves one last message as she goes - "Your way is not the only way", scratched into a table with Alpha's own knife. 

It's the final, irrefutable proof for Alpha that she didn't imagine this little reunion - Lydia really was there, she really did refuse to either kill or help her mother, and she did once again choose the weak strangers over her own family. 

And, judging by Alpha's terrifying final monologue, this really was the last straw for an already dangerously deranged woman. 

Previous season 10 recaps are available here. 

[aamccarthy]

Lucifer and Thomas - The Pet

Wattpad Link: https://www.wattpad.com/story/186855778-lucifer-and-thomas

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10 

Chapter 11

Astaroth stood in front of the mirror and frowned. She hated that her Father never accepted her for her true self. When she was created, she was created in the form of man, but she hated her body and the way it looked. She prayed each night that her Father make her a woman, but her prayers were unanswered. She wanted to change her form but could never go against her Father as His will was right. It wasn’t until she spent time with Lucifer, that he caused Astaroth to question their Father’s teachings. Was He always right? What if He made mistakes too? Did Astaroth truly have to stay as a man? What was wrong with being a woman? Lucifer asked these questions, not wanting to follow the path their Father set for them.

When they were cast from Heaven, Astaroth had wept. She hadn’t realised that by agreeing with Lucifer, she too would be cast aside. She had only wanted her Father to accept her for the gender that her heart was, but He discarded her, saying she went against his teachings.

She fought as a man alongside her brothers in the War against Belial and helped her brother claim the title of Satan. She took out her rage and her anger against her Father against Hell, destroying well over 200 Legions, but even after all the destruction, even after the war, her heart still shook in anger. It was that day, the day Lucifer took the throne of Hell, that she finally felt her heart still. Lucifer had just been proclaimed the new Satan and after the ceremony, he visited her in her chambers. It was then that he encouraged her to take the form that she was most comfortable with and presented her with a green and black dress.

She closed her eyes, remembering his words as she ran her hands over same green and black dress she wore today, looking at herself in the mirror.

“Your brothers don’t mind having a younger sister. Be what makes you happy, and know that this is your home. Your brothers, your family, will support whatever decision you make.”

Smiling at Lucifer’s words, she gazed at her reflection. The top was a sweetheart neckline with accentuated her breasts, with black lace running along the top and off her shoulders. The top half was black, flowing down her waist before changing into the colour of forest green, dotted with emeralds at her waist. She looked into the mirror and smiled, although her heart was now calm, she was patient, one day, one day, she would have the strength to raise a hand to her Father. She would convince him that he was wrong. That he should accept her for the daughter she is. Her thoughts were jolted to a stop when she heard a knock at her door. “Enter.”

“Are you ready?” She looked up at the voice and saw Asmodeus standing at her door.

“Not really.” She frowned, gazing back at her reflection, not at all prepared to enter Heaven. What if she met her Father? Surely He would know.

Asmodeus leaned over, placing a kiss on her cheek. “No matter what Father thinks, you are always our sister.”

She nodded then took a step back and a green glow encircled her form, before shattering and a black haired man with green eyes emerged in her place. The brown haired man took a step forward, and touched the glass, “Although this isn’t me, I hate the male form.”

Asmodeus nodded in understanding and stepped back as yellow flame consumed his form, burning his hair short and changing his facial features. “Let us hope that non recognise us. Come.” He held out his hand and Astaroth took it, causing both of them to vanish.

Berith looked across the horizon in thought. The Human World was interesting, but he could never understand Father’s obsession with watching over it. Was it because he was the creator? Was it like a child, obsessed with a sandcastle they just built?

Berith had taken on the full form of an Eagle and was perched in a large tree, his golden eyes surveying the environment around him. Ten. Twenty. Thirty. He mentally counted each of the Summon Circles around him. There had been hundreds recently, but he had destroyed most of them. Despite his Cataclysm, they were still appearing. His eyes narrowed, looking around as demons of various forms slinked in and out of shadows, some were humanoid, others animalistic, while the remainder were grotesques mixes of the two. His eyes narrowed as he saw four demons walking down a pathway, stalking a human child.

The child was oblivious, of course. He was walking towards a park, his brown hair ruffling in the wind, completely unaware of the danger behind him. Suddenly a man with long black hair appeared behind the boy. Was that Leviathan?

‘Do your job properly.’ Berith stiffened as Leviathan’s voice filled his head. Leviathan looked back, his cool blue eyes locking with Berith’s form. He ruffled his feathers in response and dropped to the ground below, landing in his lion form between the four demons. He lashed out, striking them down as they each disappeared into a black mist. He stood up, flexing his paw and stared at Leviathan. He had glamoured himself, rendering himself invisible to humans. He turned to give the finger to Leviathan, but stopped when brown eyes locked on him. He raised an eyebrow in question at the child, wondering just what it was he was looking at.

The boy took a step towards Leviathan, gripping his pant leg, staring with his mouth wide open. “Mr Levi, who is that?”

Berith froze. His eyes darkened and he leaned forward and growled. If a human saw him, then he must destroy it. He leapt forward and Leviathan shouted, shoving the child behind him, “Berith, no!”

Berith stopped as a wall of purple flame erupted between him and Leviathan. “Leviathan!” He roared, pacing on the other side of the flame wall, “What is the meaning of this?”

Leviathan glared, his blue eyes had turned dark blue. “You are not to harm humans.”

“That child can see me.” He hissed.

“Mr Levi!” The boy’s eyes were wide as he gripped Leviathan’s pant leg. Reaching around, Leviathan placed a hand on his shoulder.

“It’s OK. Lucifer asked me to protect you.”

“What?!” Berith’s eyes bulged. Since when? Why was Leviathan, Lucifer’s second-in-command, a General of Hell, protecting a human child? What was the child to Lucifer?

“Our Lord Satan formed a,” Leviathan paused, trying to work out the best way to explain it, “a contract with the child. Lucifer has tasked me with his protection while he is absent.” He acknowledged each of Berith’s thoughts.

He hated it when people read his mind. Leviathan was just like Asmodeus. “That still doesn’t explain how he can see me.” Berith hissed in response. He didn’t like it. Humans were not supposed to see Fallen or Demons, particularly under the guise of a glamour. It was how the dominions of Hell could move around. How is it, that the boy didn’t even notice the demons, yet could see him? Only Angels had that ability to see through a glamour, yet this boy, this human boy could see him.

His eyes narrowed and glowed momentarily as he stared at the boy, peering into his soul. He was human. Definitely human and very pure. Not a single mark of tainment. Was this one of his Father’s tricks? Could this child be the next saviour?

“Let it go, Berith.” Leviathan stepped forward, raising his hand as blue scales formed across his arm. Purple lightning danced around his fingertips, causing Berith to take a step back. The last time Berith had seen that ability was in the Battle against Belial. It was an all powerful Cataclysm that caused lightning to rain down from the sky, burning enemies from the inside out. Leviathan had destroyed 350 Legions of Hell with that single attack.

Berith took a another step back, feeling Leviathan’s bloodlust wash over him He knew he wouldn’t survive that attack. He lowered his paws and breathed out a sigh, dropping from his lion form to his human form.

Leviathan lowered his hand and the wall of flame disappeared.

“If that child betrays us,” Berith looked at the boy and turned, walking away, “I will destroy him with my own two hands.”

Leviathan pursed his lips and grabbed Thomas’ hand, “C’mon kid, let’s go somewhere else.”

He lead Thomas back to his house, inviting the boy inside. “Take a seat.” He gestured to the table and Thomas sat at the table, quietly.

“That man was scary.” Thomas whispered.

Pulling out a chair opposite him, Leviathan took a seat and sighed, “You’ll have to forgive my younger brother. He has a bit of a temper.”

Thomas looked up, his brown eyes staring at him in question, “You have a brother?”

“Seven, actually. Plus a sister. I’m not sure if Lucifer told you, but he is my older brother.”

The boy shook his head, placing both hands on the table and stared up at him, “Is that why you all feel the same?”

“What?”

“You feel,” Thomas raised both his hands up, holding them in the air, “different. My hands feel like hands, but I can tell which is my left hand, and which is my right hand. You feel like my left hand.”

Berith’s thoughts and observations passed through his head. Although Berith hadn’t said anything out loud, Leviathan could clearly hear each thought that passed through Berith’s mind. He rubbed at his chin, troubled by the analogy. If was often said that the Angels of Heaven were within the right hand of God, whereas Hell was seen as the left hand. Why had the boy used that precise analogy.

“When is Luce back?” Thomas sighed, stretching out across the table blowing a raspberry. “I’m bored.”

“A few days still.” Leviathan mused. He hoped that Lucifer returned sooner, he needed to let him know what this child had done. He looked over at the boy who was scratching his nail on the table in boredom, he didn’t think the child was the next Saviour. Surely not. His Father was arrogant, and liked to make a show of things. Last time a Saviour was born on Earth, He had sent his Angels to announce the birth and guide the child through his life. Looking at this boy though, he just appeared to be any normal child.

“I think Mr Lion hates me.” Thomas mumbled, sliding down in his chair. “I don’t want Luce’s brother to hate me.”

Mr… Lion? A smirk crossed Leviathan’s face at Berith’s new name. Oh, that was gold. He was pulled from his thoughts at the sound of a sniffle. Thomas had started crying.

Leviathan balked, completely unsure of what to do. He stood up and awkwardly petted the boy on his back, offering him words of comfort, “Look, I’m sure it’s a mistake. I’ll talk to Berith. He doesn’t like people in general, so don’t feel bad.”

A small hiccup and sob escaped Thomas and he rubbed at his eyes, “Okay.” He whispered, looking down at the ground, “I think I should go home.”

Frowning, Leviathan knelt down in front of the child. He couldn’t trust that Berith would leave him be. Placing a hand on Thomas’ head, he spoke gently to the boy, “I’m going to cast a spell, is that OK?”

“What kind of spell?”

“A Protection spell. It might be scary when it happens, but it won’t hurt. I promise.”

Thomas nodded and Leviathan concentrated his energy into his palm, small flicks of lightning danced around and flame ran down the boy’s skin. Thomas tried to pull back, but Leviathan held him in place, his blue eyes had turned red as he held the boy still. Leviathan felt his Essence surge through the boy, exploring as the Protection Enchantment was cast.

A few minutes passed and finally, he was done. His eyes returned to their normal blue and he released his hold over the boy. Thomas nearly collapsed but Leviathan propped him him, “How do you feel?”

“Fuzzy.” Thomas held his head, squinting his eyes. “What did you do?”

“Watch.” Leviathan summoned a purple fireball and threw it at the boy. Before Thomas could even react, lightning lashed out, destroying the ball of flame.

“That’s soo cooooool.” Thomas stared wide-eyed as twisted around, looking at his hands, arms and body. “Am I a superhero now?”

“Er, no.” Leviathan didn’t even know what a superhero was, but was pretty sure he didn’t make this boy one. “I’ve covered you in a layer of my defense Essence, so if anything or anyone attempts to attack you, it will protect you. However, it’s only strong enough to protect you from an attack of a Cherub or lower. And only once, got it?”

“What’s a Cherub?”

“Someone like Berith.”

“I thought he’s a lion.”

Leviathan sighed, how do you even talk to children? “Look, if you happen to come across Berith again, just run away. If he attacks you, I will feel it, so I’ll deal with him.”

“...Is he going to attack me?”

“I’ll talk to him. Hopefully he won’t, but I can’t be certain.”

Thomas stared down at his feet and he opened his mouth to speak, “Luce said he trusts you.” He looked up, his brown eyes holding Leviathan’s blue, “He said that he trusts you the most. Luce is my friend, and if he trusts you, then I trust you.”

Leviathan blinked in surprise, he didn’t know that Lucifer talked about him to the boy. He felt oddly flattered at the statement; he knew he was his second-in-command, but that he trusted him the most? It was comforting. A smile formed on Leviathan’s lips and he ruffled the boy’s hair, “Thanks for that kid. Now, go on home.”

“Okay. Bye Mr Levi!” Thomas opened the door, waved and ran outside.

Closing the door, Leviathan leaned against the frame and stared at his hand. He had cast that Enchantment for two reasons, one was to protect the kid from Berith, but the other was to work out what the child was.

His Essence had reached all through the child’s body, but he had no answers, only more questions. He felt his soul, it was pure and golden, like that of an Angel from Heaven, and yet, human, but there was something else that he couldn’t quite place. It was familiar, and yet not familiar.

Chuckling, he curled up his hand into a fist, Lucifer had definitely found an interesting pet.

Continue to Chapter 11

[drewocs-blog]

Seungcheol gazes at the white granite pillars, the startlingly honest paintings on the walls, the arches and statues and glassless windows. He thinks of Rome and Greece and the Würzburg Residence in Germany. There are beautiful women walking around in gossamer dresses, relaxed and smiling, chatting and laughing with each-other. Men lounge on windowsills in loose cotton shirts and pants.

Everything is picturesque in this Territory, Seungcheol thinks. If Enjora were here, she would be itching to paint the temples. Seungcheol walks out of the temple and into the bustling town square, searching for a place to get directions. He looks startling in contrast to locals. His upturned eyes, dark tunic and pale skin-dark hair-light eyes combination are stark against the brown, smooth skinned, dark eyed, breezily dressed locals.

He could have stopped earlier in the day to get some clothing appropriate for both the climate and culture of the Aruité Territory, but desperation had curbed his desire to try and blend in. Desperation to find a way to contact Enjora and Akatsuki, however that may be.

Directions are important, he thinks distractedly. His eyes skate over stalls with food and trinkets and clothes and jewelry. Maybe clothes should take priority for a moment. Seungcheol pulls his pouch of money out of his rucksack, hands shaking slightly, and starts to look for a stall that would sell clothes he would be comfortable in.

“You, boy! You look lost, hungry, ravaged, foreign. Come here, and let a bored woman help you.” Seungcheol’s head whips up to meet the eyes of an elegant lady. She’s tall, taller than he is, with soft looking skin, tumbling curls and sharp green eyes. On her brow rests a diadem of silver and what Seungcheol can only assume is moonstone. Sheer white fabric covers her broad shoulders, forming a V over her chest and cinching at her waist before flowing out down to her bare feet. She looks likes royalty, though he doesn’t entertain that thought as possible.

“Who, me?” His voice cracks on the last word from misuse.

The woman smiles breezily at him. “Of course, you’re the only one that looks lost around here.”

Seungcheol narrows his eyes at her. “What’s the catch, miss? Am I selling my soul to Deiri if I accept your help?” His hand moves to his hip, where a dagger sits at his belt.

She hums. “Deiri? So you’re from the North, hmm? We can work with your manners, I suppose.” Seungcheol shuffles uncomfortably. Of course, having spent two years in the northern Territory of Keimari had rubbed off on him. “I’m Asheeva. And I’m going to clean you right up.”

Asheeva’s eyes glint in the war sunlight. Seungcheol gives her another once over, deeming her safe for the moment, and nods. “Lee Seungcheol.” Asheeva smiles brightly, grabbing for Seungcheol’s hand. He deftly moves away from her reach, and looks at her pointedly. No touching. Asheeva’s brow furrows, and her diadem shifts minutely. Seungcheol keeps his face carefully blank as he watches her watch him. The staring contest continues for a minute before Asheeva sighs and gestures for him to follow her. They begin walking towards the richer part of the city, and Seungcheol tries to focus on his surroundings instead of the slapping of Asheeva’s bare feet on the marble ground of the city square.

The colors and sounds distract and overwhelm Seungcheol fairly quickly, making him jumpy and irritated. Autism and ADHD put together, he thinks, is surely the worst thing to ever happen to him when it comes to loud, busy places.

“Hurry, hurry, Seungcheol! We have places to be, people to impress, clothes to fix!” Asheeva’s airy voice cracks Seungcheol’s thought process, and he realizes he’s stopped moving. He shakes his head, counts to 10 in Korean and back, before nodding to his companion and moving forward. She seems concerned but doesn’t push.

She leads him out of the bustling city center and out into the wealthy streets. The whole city is wealthy, and no one lives in poverty from what he’s seen and heard about Aruité, but this part of the city is decidedly wealthier than the rest. The buildings are tall and wide, made from pale colored stones interspersed with bright windows. Accents of gold and bronze and silver adorn windowsills and doorways and walls.

Seungcheol hasn’t seen anything so lavish and beautiful in so long. Even in his wildest dreams he couldn’t have imagined such beautiful buildings. Lush gardens fill out the front of the houses. Beautiful ladies dressed similarly to Asheeva sit with fruits in their hands in the gardens, children jump around in fountains and run around adults legs. He notes everyone in this peaceful city has the pointed ears of the Fae. He self-consciously ruffles his hair to cover up his plain human ears.

People walk up to Asheeva as they move through the street, smiling widely and chatting amiably. They glance at Seungcheol when hey see him, but don’t make a move to be overly friendly. A polite Hello, Wanderer. Or a pleasant I see Sheeva here has roped you into being one of her little helpers! Lucky you. Seungcheol nods politely at them when they talk to him, but doesn’t engage in conversation.

A little kid tugs on his coat tails lightly, almost too light for him to have felt it. He bends down to the little girls level, and nods at her. “Good morning. Is there something you need, imoto?” She looks around 12, 10 years his junior, so imoto seems like an appropriate title to bestow upon her.

She tilts her head slightly, making her long hair sway and the little woven-in jewels and beads click like chimes. “What does that word mean?”

“Uh, well. Where I’m from, it means little sister. I don’t know your name, so I thought I might call  you that. Until you tell me your name, I guess.” Seungcheol scratches the back of his neck awkwardly. While imoto is Japanese, and he is decidedly not that, it’s the only thing he could think of.

The girl’s eyebrows shoot up towards her hairline. “Oh, oh, how do you say big brother in your language? And what’s your language called? Where are you from? Are you from the North?”  

Now, he can talk about Korea. “I guess, since you’re a girl, you would say oppa. If you were a boy you would say hyung. Um, my language is called Korean. I’m from Korea. It’s...not in the North. It’s a long way away. I haven’t been back there for a few years.” She looks at him sadly and he smiles at her. “It’s alright, though. Now, what where you tugging on my coat for, imoto? And what is your name?”

The girl suddenly gets shy. “I was wondering if you wanted to come and sit with me, over by the shrine. No one is talking to you, and I thought you looked lonely. And my name is Eva!”

“Well, Eva. My name’s Seungcheol.” Eva grins up at Seungcheol. She grabs for his hand, pulling him up and tugging him towards the shrine.

“This is where I sit during the day. None of the other younglings play with me, so I sit and draw or read or write or, sometimes I practice my magic! Do you have magic, Seungcheol? Can I call you big brother in... Coran?”

Seungcheol laughs. “Korean. But sure, if you want. And I do, actually. I have...a lot of magic. I use it a lot. What about you, hmm? What magic do you have?”

Eva goes bright red, wringing her hands in her lap. “Um, I can manipulate and summon jewels and change things into other things.”

“So can I. Change things, that is.”

“Really? Mama said that there’s no one else who can do that, other than me. People can make things disappear and new things reappear, but that no one else can actually change things like I can…” She runs her fingers through the leaves of a nearby bush, and when her hand comes away, there’s a chunk of moss agate stone between her fingers. “See? And now I can make it moonstone if I want.” Eva runs her fingers over the stone and it starts to shine, taking on a milky white color with iridescent blue marbling.

The stone sits in her palm now, looking much nicer than the already nice moonstones that Seungcheol saw on Asheeva’s diadem. Seungcheol nods at her and picks up a small rock from the ground. He rubs the stone slowly, willing it to become a pretty white rose. Eva makes an excited noise in her throat. “So you can do it!” Seungcheol smiles at her again and leans over, threading the rose behind her ear. She smiles sweetly, as people tend to do when Seungcheol does something sweet.

The hustle and bustle of the street suddenly quiets down. Seungcheol turns to see what the sudden disquiet is about, only to find everyone staring his and Eva’s way. People start whispering to each other without looking away from Seungcheol’s direction. He shifts uncomfortably under the sudden scrutinisation. “Why…” He pauses to swallow bile. “Why are they all staring?” He turns back to Eva.

“Because you’re the saviour the Wise One talked about, years ago, Lee Seungcheol.” Seungcheol looks to his left, where a willowy wisp of a woman sits beside him in Eva’s place. She looks like Eva, if Eva were a grown woman with pale silver hair and a circlet of stars. She’s wearing a gold dress similar to Asheeva’s, though this woman’s dress is much more extravagant.

“Oh, no you don’t. A saviour? What do you mean saviour? I just want to find my sister, man. I don’t have time to be a saviour!” He’s whining, and not reacting the way he thinks he should be reacting, but at this point in time Seungcheol honestly just wants a break from all the things that digress from finding his damn sister on this damn continent in this damn world he knows too little about.