#So Mellow | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

twentyfivemiceinatrenchcoat · 1 year ago

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gojo always seems to be off in a world of his own.

a little detached, you think. awkwardly long limbs constantly on the move, eyes stuck in a direction no one else can follow, a trajectory you don’t think even he knows. one blink and he's gone, just like that. too far ahead, too far above, even on the occasions he slows down and lets you catch up.

flimsy, maybe. like he’ll get carried away by the breeze when spring rolls around. like he’d turn into seafoam if you reached out and touched him.

satoru gojo is an anomaly, a blurry cluster of stars. or maybe more like a planet, big and blue, spinning around its own orbit, out of reach for every single star in the sky. high and mighty, cocky and cool, silly and bright — but there's a softness to him when he's alone. something that almost seems fragile, under the light of the moon, when the dark sky casts a shadow to obscure the contours of his face — and no one’s around to notice if his smile isn't as big as it should be.

no one except for you, anyhow.

(you wonder if your presence is really that inconsequential to him.)

the beach is entirely empty, save for you and gojo. and summer’s ending, burning into little cinders, sputtering out before your very eyes.

tokyo is just beginning to dip its toes into autumn, the frost and chill, the hiss of the biting wind. the rusting of leaves, contaminated by a muddy hue, turned orange and brown and red beneath your heavy feet; littering the murky, empty streets of the rainy towns you cross. smelling of rotten apples and cinnamon, old books and burning wood.

it’s dark out. painted a thick gray, the sky is blanketed by heavy clouds, the entire world hidden behind that coating of wool. not a single sliver of starlight slips through, but there's a comfort to it, that feeling of being cocooned — safe and warm. a feeling cruelly stripped away by the nipping of the wind at your bare skin, but you digress.

everything smells of saltwater. a little like rotten fish. every breath you exhale turns into a flurry of vapour, mingling with the breezy seasalt of the open air; scattering away into the thin layer of mist all around you, until you can’t tell which is which.

and a sense of foreboding sinks into your veins.

(you look out at the jagged rocks piercing the surface of the sea, and dully wonder how they’d feel piercing your skin.)

something shivers, to your right. a flicker of movement, a barely audible chatter of teeth. and then, a white puff of vapour.

”man, it’s cold.”

gojo looks displeased.

only vaguely, a little crease between his eyebrows as he stuffs his hands into the pockets of his puffy baseball jacket. moving his feet a little, to warm up, snowy tufts of white hair tousled by the ocean breeze. his shoes are muddied by the wet sand, but he doesn't seem to mind.

a soft scoff leaves your lips, mostly harmless. maybe just a little smug. ”told you,” you click your tongue.

gojo whines. his sunglasses are starting to fog up, you notice. ”it’s still summer!” he pouts. ”i thought the sea would be nice and breezy!”

an unimpressed look smooths over your features. gracing him with a raise of your brow, you don’t fully manage to bite back the soft smile that follows. don’t even really attempt to.

it’s been a long day. evidently not long enough for gojo, seeing as he dragged you down here — even though he knew it meant missing the train you were supposed to board after successfully finishing your mission. he just had to get a closer look at the sea. just for a moment or two.

and he was insistent, persuasive. awfully whiny. assuring you that he’d be quick, that you wouldn’t miss the next one.

(what made you agree was simply the thought of spending some more time with him. not like you could ever tell him that, though.)

so there you stand. two juveniles, shivering and shifting from foot to foot, on the brink of nightfall, the edge of summertime. watching the sea stretch out into infinity, across the gap between this world and the next. a murky blue. easy on the eyes.

the noise of the sea fills your ears; waves crashing into sand, the whistling of the wind, seagulls crying out in the distance. and faraway, the chatter of a rattling train. a cacophony of sounds, buzzing and crackling, melting together. scattered across the beach are countless tiny white seashells, and the occasional green glimmer of drift glass — mermaids’ tears, shed for lost sailors, or so you’ve heard.

you wonder if the mermaids ever shed tears for lost sorcerers. probably not.

a shiver runs through your body, down to your cold hands, the tips of your fingers. reddish and itching for warmth. you tuck them into your pockets with a breathless exhale, still shaking a little.

in truth, you and gojo aren’t very close. you’d like to call him a friend, but it's kind of hard; when he's so enamored with suguru, so animated around shoko. with you, he always seems kind of —

stiff?

or maybe more like bored.

he doesn't laugh as loudly, doesn’t act as cocky. doesn't flaunt his knowledge on sorcery, and isn't as clingy as he is with the other two.

(you've never liked people touching you. it's not hard for others to discern, with how you flinch away when they get close.

still, you can't help but feel a little jealous when you see him tugging suguru and shoko around.)

deep within your chest, like a stunted seaweed, sprouts a tiny pang of disappointment. it’d be nice if you could grow closer, you think.

just a little would be fine.

”i like the sea.”

you turn your head.

gojo looks a little lost in thought. gaze trained on that expanding ocean before you, those splotches of blue and gray, the waves that bruise the edge of the sand. forlorn, maybe.

a hum buzzes in your dry throat. ”do you?”

”mm.” little white breaths slip from his lips. you wonder if they’d taste as salty as the air. ”’ts nice.”

a silence stretches out before you. delicate, like a sheet of glass. gojo picks at a piece of lint on his sleeve, and you shift from foot to foot. then he closes his eyes — a flutter of his dewy eyelashes.

”kinda makes you feel like everything’s about to end, huh?”

you look at him, but don’t see anything. a single glimpse of his closed eyes is all you gain from the glance you cast his way, but it’s not enough. not enough blue to fall into, no expression to savour. he looks the same as always.

but you’ve never heard his voice sound like this before.

”… end?”

and with that, they flicker open. there it is, you think. that vibrant blue. only to be obscured once more, when he turns to you fully, a smile playing at his glossy lips. ”don’t think so?”

a second passes. you look forward.

what you see is as follows: waves upon waves upon waves. the same blue and gray, as far as the eye can see. a sea big enough to drown each and every one of your worries.

something comes over you. a sensation of loneliness, something close to longing. a feeling of being rather lost. searching for something. your heart feels heavy, an anchor sunk to the bottom of your gut. little fish nipping at your ribcage. your eyes trail over those jagged rocks, again; the mermaids’ tears, that all-consuming sea, right in front of you. like it could open its maw and devour the world.

you think of the lost sailors.

(one jump and it’s all over.)

a breath. salty on your tongue. ”… i guess i get it,” you whisper. a soft murmur, mingling with the mist.

silence.

out of the corner of your eye, you see gojo shift. one moment he’s looking at you, the next he’s staring at the sea. in tandem, the two of you, stuck within that shade of blue. and you think he looks a little mesmerized, like he’s seeing something not even he can fully comprehend.

(maybe he just hasn’t had many chances to go to the beach before. something to do with being a clan kid, maybe?)

but then he clears his throat, hands moving to brush some sand off his puffy jacket and jeans. turning on his heel, hair ruffled by the breeze. he tries to sound chipper, but there’s something else there. you don’t know what it is, but…

”anyway,” he chirps. ”let’s go. we can still make it to the next train if we hurry.”

you look at him. his retreating figure, a head of white hair, surrounded by mist. a little like an apparition. then you turn towards the sea.

”… nah, that’s fine.”

a pause.

gojo stills, just about to take the first step forward. but you stay rooted in place; unmoving, staring at the blue before you, a deep longing reflected in your eyes.

”let’s stay a little longer,” you hum, unsure of where the words came from. but you know you aren’t ready for the moment to end, just yet. that you aren’t quite ready for summer to pass.

…

all he does is stare, for a second or two. attempting to find some humour in your voice, you assume, any signs that you might just be joking. but he doesn’t find it. uncharacterstically silent, gojo stays frozen in place.

then he puffs out a breath — amused.

”you wanna freeze to death?” he grins, and you can hear it in his voice. you turn to face him, almost smiling. a little cheeky.

”you’ll warm me up, no?”

the words fall from your lips before you can think to reel them in. meant to sound a little snarky, you think, something akin to a chuckle — but instead come out sounding a little too much like an honest request.

the tips of your ears feel a little warm, suddenly.

a sense of surprise smooths over the contours of gojo’s face, and his grin falters. you can’t see his eyes, can’t tell if they widen or not, but his lips part, and you note that they look soft.

and it’s back. that grin. toothy, boyish. his cheeks are rosy, from the chill of the air, or so you assume. then he’s taking a couple strides forward, broaching the distance between you.

he throws an arm over your shoulder. a heavy weight against you, grounding, causing you to stumble. friendly, tugging you close. into his orbit.

(no infinity, you note. you can feel his body heat seeping through the fabric.)

it's nice. he's tall, and he's warm. cozy, protecting you from the bitter cold, like your own personal furnace. no wonder suguru never catches any colds, with someone like this draped over him all the time.

gojo speaks. there’s a sweetness to his voice, a mellow kind of contentment; bubbling up like seafoam, spilling from his glossy lips. you can feel his warm breath on your skin.

”well, duh.”

when your gaze falls on him, he's already looking at you. leaning closer, sunglasses slipping a little further down the bridge of his nose — enough to expose the blue of his eyes, the tiny splotches of white scattered across his aquamarine iris. like a cracked marble. or a summer sea.

he’s speaking again, and you almost don't hear it. distracted by those cracked marbles, the strawberry red of his cheeks, the warmth shared between you. the pitter patter of your heartbeat, like waves crashing against the sand. mesmerized. not daring to look away. almost like you’d cease to exist, were he to close his eyes. like your existence hinges entirely on the blue of those eyes.

(and maybe it does.)

he nods towards the sea, and grins. a mischievous glint in his eyes. ”wanna take a dip?” he asks, and you can’t tell if he’s joking or not.

it makes you laugh, either way.

”do you want to freeze to death?” you raise a brow, exhaling amusedly. subtly angling your body closer to his, hoping he won’t notice.

gojo honest to god giggles, at that, and you fear your knees might give out beneath your weight. fuck, has he always had dimples? why are you only noticing them now?

”hehe. i just think it'd be fun!” he chirps, still draped over you like an overgrown cat, and you almost find yourself saying yes. just to keep the summer from ending, keep him from being swept away by the breeze.

but summer is ending. slipping away, second by second, like two juveniles drowned by an ocean wave. never to be found. and in comes autumn, the smell of rotting apples, the crunch of sand beneath your feet; an arm over your shoulder, an intake of breath. the taste of nice, crispy air on your tongue.

a chuckle flows from your lips. all you see before you is blue, a murky shade, a vibrant hue. you think you could drown in it. you’re not sure you’d mind.

”maybe next time,” you whisper.

gojo’s eyes widen. ever so slightly, barely enough to even notice, until they bloom — with a kind of bubbly excitement. unconcealed giddiness. there’s something awfully precious about it, like a child buying cotton candy at their first fair. it makes you want to tuck him into your pocket. keep him safe.

you like him, unfortunately. inevitably. you think you may even like him a lot, a little more than you should. a little more than he could reciprocate.

satoru gojo. high and mighty, cocky and cool. silly and bright. a seaborne boy with his very own orbit, born to carry the weight of the world, spinning so close that you can almost delude yourself into thinking he feels the same.

almost.

(gojo glances at your lips. he wonders if they’d taste as salty as the air.)

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silverskye13 · 1 month ago

Note

rns angst prompt: something to do with evil beesuma and helsknight? And argument? A particularly bad fight? Maybe this was when hk wasn’t champion yet?

The Champion didn't like him. Of that much, Helsknight was certain. Which was a shame, because if Helsknight were being completely honest, he would have to say he looked up to the Champion. Sure Evil Beesuma was sharp and prideful, and seemed to walk around with a permanent chip on his shoulder, but he was also the brother of the man who ruled hels. It was a long, dark shadow to live under, yet he somehow still managed to burst out of it like a second sun rising. When people talked about him, they didn't talk about his brother. They talked about him. His strength. His perseverance. The fact that he built himself from nothing, with no help from Evil X. All his success, he earned himself. It was magnificent. His fights were legendary, all form and poise and bloodless efficiency. Mechanical. Perfect.

[It was a shame, too, that Helsknight was admiring that perfection from the ground.]

Helsknight's mouth tasted like blood. His head swam. There was an ache so deep in his teeth, he wondered if his jaw was broken. Above him, the hels ceiling shifted with phosphorescent colors as stars receded from his vision. Helsknight groaned and slowly, painstakingly, he turned onto his side and spat.

"Alright," Helsknight said raggedly, "give me a few minutes."

The showrunner coaching him relayed his request to the metal goliath standing over him. Evil Beesuma made a loud buzzing noise that Helsknight had come to associate with contempt. On his shadow on the sand, Helsknight watched him sign a dismissive motion, and while he couldn't hear what was said, the intention seemed obvious.

"Give the fool a few minutes. It won't change anything."

The showrunner helped Helsknight stagger to his feet, and together they limped to the stone bench in the practice arena. The broken nose and busted jaw were not the only hurts this particular bout had earned Helsknight. There was a wicked gash on his hip that was bleeding pretty badly, and he had a collection of bruises on his arms and chest that ached deep in his muscles.

"Listen Hels," the showrunner sighed, handing him a health potion.

"Helsknight."

"Whatever. Listen, I know you did well in the starter bracket--"

"Undefeated," Helsknight hummed, licking blood off his lips. It took him a few tries to get the potion uncapped, but when he managed it, he tossed it back. It warmed him all the way down his throat, and as the pain eased away from him, he felt tense muscles relax.

[Gods alive these things were good.]

"And I know you showed promise in the championship tryouts--"

Promise. He'd won eight out of ten of his matches. To get a sponsor, most only needed to win half. Helsknight didn't know who his sponsor was yet, but he knew there was a waiting list involved. A waiting list for him. A waiting list of people who hoped to outbid each other just to buy his gear, and sit in his box, and maybe shake his bloody hand after the match. It was ridiculous.

"But maybe going after the Champion is a little much for you still, yeah?" The showrunner asked pleadingly. "You're clearly outmatched, and a bad starting round can end your career if you're not... Mindful."

The showrunner did not say, if you lose your temper in front of the stands. The showrunner did not say, if Evil Beesuma wipes the floor with you, and it's a bad fight. He did not have to say these things. Helsknight was very well aware.

"We have two weeks before the match." Helsknight said steadfastly. "That's two weeks to prove I can take him."

The showrunner hissed out a long breath and pinched the space between his eyes. "Aren't you tired of getting your ass kicked?"

Anger, hot and quick, flickered to life in Helsknight's chest. It must have showed in his eyes, because the showrunner took a step back, hands raised in exasperation.

"Fine. Far be it from me to keep you from breaking all the bones in your body. Champion." He signed to Evil Beesuma, who had by now cleaned the blood off his knuckles, and retrieved a new sword to practice with. His other one had grown dull against Helsknight's armor and blade. "He still wants to train. Would you--"

Evil Beesuma buzzed something. It was a loud, long, grating note, nearly a roar. The lights of his eyes were narrowed in a glare, all four fists clenched. There was vicious humor there, and no small amount of loathing.

Helsknight didn't blame him. He was a threat to the Champion. The showrunner couldn't tell. It wasn't his job to tell. But Evil Beesuma knew, in the same bone-deep way Helsknight knew, that Helsknight was learning. Perfecting.

When they had started, Helsknight had lasted, oh, about half a minute. Compensating for Evil Beesuma's multiple arms was, unfortunately, the least of his problems. It was the efficiency of movement, calculated dancer-like grace, that was the real trouble. It was the fact that every swing of his sword was always just as strong as the last. No room for error in mechanics. Once a pattern was recognized, it took a fluke to flaw it, and Evil Beesuma was just person enough to compensate for flukes where computer efficiency failed.

But Helsknight was efficient too. He was not the perfect brawler. He was not the perfect gladiator. But he was the perfect knight. At least, he was the perfect knight by his Hermit's standards. His perfection included strength of arms, and a cunning blade, and a thirst for battle that could not be slaked. It apparently also included the ability to adapt and learn. And Helsknight was certainly learning, and learning well.

Two and a half minutes that last round had lasted. Two and a half minutes of dodging, and parrying, and figuring out what hurts he could fight through and what he couldn't. Two and a half minutes of pain tolerance, and the limits of adrenaline, and muscle memory. Two and a half minutes of learning what made a perfect warrior perfect, and adapting it into something he could achieve.

And he would achieve it. Like the sun rising. Like a wave devours a cliff. Helsknight would learn. It was only a matter of time.

Helsknight got to his feet. He took a moment to drink some water, and rinse his mouth, and wash the drying blood from beneath his nose. He made sure the buckles on his gauntlets were tight, and checked the guard on his sword.

Helsknight and the Champion met again on the sand. They were vicious; limbs and teeth and steel. Helsknight imagined someday he would go deaf from the ringing of metal. Someday. Today though, he was going to lose to the Champion again. It would take less than two and a half minutes. Even if the health potion revitalized his muscles, it didn't take the weariness out of his mind.

The Champion got him in a headlock. The movement was so baffling, Helsknight didn't even know how he'd managed it. He'd simply twisted, and what once had been freedom, and the shiver of stung nerves as blade met blade, turned into a vice around his neck and arms tangled in his, holding him still.

[Cheating. Helsknight thought scathingly. That's cheating.]

It was cheating for a knight. There was a certain amount of honor and decorum he was held to that the Champion was not.

The Champion was a brawler. He hadn't spawned into this world strong and implacable, a diamond and netherite wall. He had built himself this way, piece by piece and code by code. It was admirable. Enviable. He turned Helsknight feeble with flippant assuredness, and Helsknight had started strong. It was part of why Helsknight admired him. The Champion had achieved his greatness by building himself into something better.

It hadn't made him kind, and that too, Helsknight envied in its own way. The Champion was a weapon that was blunt and unyielding as a club, and he broke people precisely. He did not grieve his actions. He took pride in their efficiency, no matter how ugly it was. That was the nature of violence.

Evil Beesuma held him still, choking, until stars devoured his vision and novaed black. It was not a slow squeeze. There was no threat of slowly strangled air or struggle to wrench his arms into place. Evil Beesuma had closed on him like a bear trap, and did not release his iron jaws until Helsknight was sure he intended to suffocate him to death.

Helsknight awoke on the sand, gasping like a hooked fish, his throat refusing to open completely even when freed. It hurt. His lungs burned, and his throat was bruised, and the simple action of swallowing was thick and unbearable. He tried to turn onto his side, to help his damaged muscles move, but the Champion landed a foot in the center of his chest, pinning him on his back. Evil Beesuma looked down at him, arms crossed over his bent knee as he leaned his weight down on Helsknight. For someone already struggling to breathe, it was a cruelty. Helsknight felt his chest fall when his breath was squeezed out of him, and he felt every muscle in his chest protest as it struggled to rise against the weight.

"I ought to kill you," the Champion said, his voice a bored drone that seemed to leap into Helsknight's head when their eyes met. "You seem to think some passing skill with a blade entitles you to something. It doesn't. I don't owe you anything, knight."

Helsknight gripped at the Champion's ankle, a new burst of adrenaline spiking him as fear at his situation sank in. Stars, slow pinpricks, were gathering on the edges of his vision again. His entire world narrowed to the effort of breathing. The Champion reached down, and doing so pressed what was left of the air out of Helsknight's lungs. Cold metal splayed against the side of Helsknight's face as the Champion forced him to meet his eyes.

"You are a waste of my time," Evil Beesuma said, cold and inflectionless. The contempt of someone convinced they were watching someone far beneath them try to struggle upwards.

Helsknight realized he was scared. It surged to him through the stars devouring his sight again, followed swiftly by the darkness beyond. He was scared. Scared and cornered. Cornered. And angry. Rage filled the gaps in his lungs, consumed the stars in his vision. The world in front of him went briefly red, consumed by the determination to be spiteful and petty, and to make the Champion think twice before belittling him like this again.

Helsknight punched Evil Beesuma as hard as he could in the knee, the only thing he could really reach. His gauntlet saved him the sharpness of the metal around the Champion's legs, but he felt his knuckles break. He also felt the Champion's leg slip away from him. He fell like a tree, landing halfway on Helsknight's legs.

Helsknight gasped in a breath of air so deep he had to cough it all back out again. Everything about him to do with air and breathing rioted, tangled with the wash of nausea that came in the aftermath of adrenaline, and he nearly gagged. Helsknight tried to stand, made it halfway to his knees, when a shove to his side sent him back over again. Helsknight braced himself as best he could, waiting for some show of cruelty. He glared up at the Champion in ragged defiance, trying to find his breath.

The Champion was laughing at him. Elated. Surprised. Wholly unbothered. Helsknight had probably broken his hand on Evil Beesuma's knee, and it had all the effects of a bird landing.

"I'll give you one thing knight, you've got some fire," the Champion laughed, his voice cloyed with the derisive affection one might reserve for an arrogant child. "But you need to learn when a fight is lost." He made a dismissive motion with his hand, sweeping the idea of Helsknight aside. "Try me again in a few months, when you've figured out how to bend iron."

The Champion turned away from him. He was leaving. The tide of Helsknight's rage at the dismissal surged him to his feet. He reached for the dagger on his belt, determined to do something, anything, to chip away at that iron wall. Just a scratch would do. Proof the Champion was fallible. Mortal. Beatable.

He threw the dagger.

Later, months later, when Helsknight and EB were friends, EB would teach Helsknight how to properly throw a knife. It would be a game they played fondly, friendly competition, where they could get fierce safely. Where they learned how to challenge each other to be better. Now though, Helsknight didn't know how to throw a knife. He still felt vindicated though, when the handle hit Evil Beesuma squarely in the back of the head.

The Champion stopped in his tracks, turned with red eyed fury on the impudent knight. Helsknight's lip curled in a sneer. He moved his hands rapidly, in the only sign language he knew.

[He had meant for it to be a good thing, learning sign. Helsknight knew the Champion had a sizable crowd of deaf and mute fans; people who saw in him a brighter future, where they were seen and understood and appreciated equally. A world where people listened to them. Helsknight thought it was unfair then, that only the Champion bothered to incorporate sign into his sets. They should be able to hear the Champion's challenger without the help of an interpreter. And, just like they did, Evil Beesuma deserved to be met where he was, with words he could follow easily. He shouldn't have to memorize stage directions, and distant indecipherable mumbling, just because his challenger was lazy.]

[The showrunner Helsknight had been assigned told him it was a bad idea. He said he would be learning a language just to insult it's Champion with it. Helsknight had argued Evil Beesuma was the Colosseum's darling. For all his prideful shortcomings in the privacy of the cells, outwardly, as much as he could be to a crowd of thousands, he was just and strong and kind. If Helsknight was going to depose him, he was destined to be the heel anyway.]

[When Helsknight had told the Champion what he wanted to do, Evil Beesuma had actually considered his challenge. It was probably the only reason he'd humored him this long.]

[Helsknight really was stupid when he was angry.]

"Pride comes before the fall," Helsknight signed, and then he shouted, because Evil Beesuma was looking at him, and he didn't know the signs for his next words: "You absolute piece of shit!"

It was not his brightest moment.

It wasn't Evil Beesuma's either.

The Champion's eyes reddened and narrowed with anger. His hand flew to his sword, and he lanced forward in a flickering of color.

Helsknight respawned in his room in the cells, gasping in sucking breaths around a hole in his throat that was no longer there. He was still angry. Angrier, now that he'd faced a terror of respawn, and it had shaken him far more than he thought it would. When he rolled off his bed, his hands were shuddering, his nerves jangled. His only sword and armor were in the training yard, and he bolted for them. He shoved past gladiators in his way, pounded up the stairs, tore through the mess hall. When he burst onto the sand, Evil Beesuma was waiting for him, all wrath and stung pride.

He at least had the grace to let Helsknight grab his sword.

The moment their swords crossed again, Helsknight knew something was wrong. It took a few minutes for that wrongness to bash its way past his fury, but in a bone-deep way, he noticed it. Evil Beesuma was moving too slowly. Inefficiently. There was a jerkiness to his movements that hadn't been there before. Imperfection. A crack in the iron wall.

At first, Helsknight chalked it up to a loss of composure. He'd managed to piss the Champion off, and so his poise was slipping. Helsknight didn't lose his composure in quite the same way when he was angry and fighting. He slipped deep into muscle memory, and turned into a creature of reactions and instinct, all conscious thought fled in the wake of emotion and brute strength. It had won him more than one match. He was ready for it to win him this.

Helsknight slammed his blade into the Champion's near the hilt, and Evil Beesuma, strong as a hoglin with hands like vices, didn't drop it, but he backpedaled. It was not the appropriate response to what Helsknight had done. Imperfect. The wrongness Helsknight's conscious brain noticed needled at him again. He lifted his sword into a guard position and waited.

[He will spring for me, Helsknight thought. He is stronger, and his skills are more finely tuned. He works best when he overwhelms.]

The Champion did not spring forward. He took a step back instead, and seemed to catch his breath. The Champion was made of metal and redstone. He did not breathe. He did not bleed. And from what Helsknight could tell, nothing on him was broken. Helsknight wasn't strong enough, harmful enough, good enough, to break the Champion. He wasn't even sure he'd hit him once.

Helsknight narrowed his eyes, and let out a long slow breath, and dragged his anger down, called it to heel.

"Champion Beesuma," Helsknight asked, trying not to grind his teeth, trying not to be spiteful. He was a knight. He needed to act like one. "Are you well?"

Evil Beesuma laughed. It was a haughty thing, meant for bravado, but it too sounded off. Shaken. Yes, something was wrong. The Champion looked down to one of his hands, which Helsknight realized was shaking. Evil Beesuma blinked down at it. His sword lowered, and then dropped from his grasp. His sword hand, too, was shaking. He said something, speaking to himself, soft inflection. A question. The Champion wasn't looking at him, so Helsknight couldn't decipher the words, but the tone was dread.

Not here. Not now.

Helsknight sheathed his sword. He held out a hand, trying to show he meant no harm. "Champion?"

Evil Beesuma, the Champion of the Colosseum, collapsed. It happened so slowly, he almost seemed to fold in on himself. Not a swoon. Not a faint. Just a slow sink first to his knees, and then to the ground. The only sign the movement wasn't intentional was from the continued shaking in his hands, and the way the bright screen that made his face flickered and jolted through expressions, breaking into off-color pixels.

Helsknight's first worry, as he sank down beside him, was that in his anger he'd broken something irreparable. He didn't think he had, but he knew the Champion was different than a regular helsmet. More fragile, in odd ways. Redstone and mechanical pieces, much like his armor and weapons, didn't mend on respawn. The soul of a person did, the bits that made them work, but a broken ax didn't regain durability just because you died holding it. Evil Beesuma was subject to that; his mechanical parts more often than not needed mended and replaced after heavy matches. He had a small fleet of drones to help with this, little bee-shaped helpers who flew around him when he went about his business. But whatever was going wrong with him now seemed to infect them too. The two or three that had even managed to flit over to him flew in dizzy, decaying circles overhead, bumping into each other. One, simply dropped out of the sky.

"Champion, can you speak?" Helsknight asked as calmly as he could, trying to meet the Champion's eye, but finding it hard to know where to look when the screen was glitching so badly. "Can you tell me what's wrong, or how I can help you?"

[If he could help at all, besides simply holding the Champion's hand and saying useless platitudes about how all things pass.]

The showrunner, who had until that point, apparently, been content to watch them kill each other, materialized at his side in a rush.

"You can't help him," he said nervously. "I'm surprised you've never seen this before. It's--" he looked away and cleared his throat. "The Champion isn't well."

Helsknight blinked. His first instinct was to snap yes, of course he isn't well. He just blacked out, or fell into whatever equivalent an android could have for a seizure. Obviously he wasn't well. Then the statement sank in, the implication beneath digging hooks in.

The Champion was dying.

Helsknight, very stupidly, found himself on the verge of asking why. Why him? Why now? Why this? Why like this? Helsknight had only seen someone on the verge once before, the Universe temporarily dithering over someone's mortality. It had been when he was still a squire, and one of the knights had... It wasn't a fit exactly. They'd been training, and she became lightheaded and shaky, and had a hard time breathing. At the time, Helsknight thought it was heat stroke, or maybe that she'd overexerted herself. When she sat down to cool off, she'd fallen asleep.

It had taken her three days to wake, and when she did, she was quiet, and meek, and scared.

Helsknight sighed, and he swore. "How long has this been happening?"

"Last I heard it'd only happened once," the showrunner answered skeptically. "Then again, he hadn't wanted anyone to know."

"Well. They're going to know now," Helsknight said grimly. "Make yourself useful and get me a strength potion." Then he snapped, when the showrunner blinked at him in exasperation, "Unless you'd like to carry him down to his cell yourself?"

They scampered off. Helsknight sighed again, running a hand through his hair. Respawn had done him one good turn at least; he wouldn't have to take any armor off before trying to drag the Champion downstairs.

"Alright then," Helsknight grunted as he got his arm beneath Evil Beesuma's shoulders and started lifting him. He was heavy and unwieldy, with too many limbs that were all too long. The Champion was taller than Helsknight by just enough that it made a difference when trying to carry him.

It was hard work getting the Champion downstairs. It was even harder work trying to be discreet about it. People saw him. Helsknight couldn't help that. But he at least stuck to the less traveled stairways, so news would travel slower. When he finally made it down the long, loud hall to Evil Beesuma's cell, he was relieved and grateful. He deposited the Champion into his bed, and arranged his limbs into a position that seemed comfortable. Then, not entirely sure what to do, Helsknight left.

It took the Champion a day and a half to wake. In the grand scheme of things, it wasn't very long. Helsknight had heard of helsmets nearer to death falling asleep for days or weeks. The idea was terrifying to Helsknight, that he might, out on the streets one day, simply pass out and never wake again, smothered in the jaws of the Universe. This was not nearly so dramatic, Evil Beesuma might really have only suffered a handful of the episodes.

But it was enough time that people noticed, and they talked. They talked about whether the Champion was fit to fight. They talked about whether they would risk killing him. Some people were even so bold as to talk about him like he was dead already. They talked about what his statue would look like in the Colosseum hall. What they would do if he perished before a new Champion could be made. It made Helsknight angry hearing it. When he stumbled into those conversations, he found himself glowering and looming until the discussion broke off.

The day after Evil Beesuma woke, Helsknight gathered his courage and visited him. The Champion didn't like him, probably wouldn't appreciate him coming. Helsknight didn't blame him. It would sting someone's pride to act so high, and so cruel, and so triumphant, only to be felled a moment later by the hels equivalent of a lightning strike.

Evil Beesuma was alone when Helsknight entered his cell. He was sitting on his bed, face held in his hands, papers spread out on the sheets beside him. Helsknight caught a glance of a missive with the Colosseum seal on it.

"Your sponsor is concerned that, should you die in your next match--"

Helsknight averted his eyes quickly. He quietly backed out of the room, awkwardly considered his options. He thought, probably, the Champion might appreciate the chance to save some face around someone he didn't like. He sighed.

[Respect the honor of your fellow helsmet, he repeated to himself, trying not to feel ridiculous.]

Helsknight retreated up the hall a ways, and then made his footsteps loud when he came back again. He knocked obnoxiously on a few doors, and asked loudly and stupidly for directions to the Champion's cell. The walls in the cells were thin. He was easy to hear, even if the Champion couldn't catch the words. He would at least know someone was coming.

Sure enough, this time when he answered, Evil Beesuma was standing. The missives were collected in a neat, face-down pile on the bed. A dozen of his little buzzing drones hovered around his shoulders, scanning and doing maintenance. He had put on a practiced air of disdain and unconcern. Good. He didn't know his moment of despair had been witnessed.

"What are you here for?" Evil Beesuma demanded, all four of his arms crossed.

Helsknight briefly considered the best way to be respectful. He decided the best thing he could do was treat the Champion like nothing had changed. Enough people were treating him like he was fragile.

"I came to ask if you were well," Helsknight said simply, and when he was met with stony silence, begrudgingly added, "and I came to apologize for losing my temper."

Evil Beesuma side-eyed one of his drones, as though they were passing secret messages between each other. Helsknight thought it was a handy little trick to make people feel scrutinized. It added to the Champion's air of skepticism and disdain.

[Don't get angry, he hissed at himself, when the burn of emotion flickered in his stomach. Don't get angry.]

"Generally speaking, my Order is against outbursts like that," Helsknight continued, valiantly pretending he was unphased. "And it was arrogance on my part. I'm well aware I'm beneath your skill, and you offered me a kindness in using your time to train me."

Briefly, Helsknight considered kneeling. It would be a very knightly thing to do. He also thought his pride would eat him alive if he did it. He was still a bit too resentful of that foot planted on his chest, squeezing the life out of him. Helsknight settled on a small, stuff bow. It made Evil Beesuma laugh, a sharp derisive noise. Helsknight stubbornly ignored the thorn of anger pressing deeper into his side.

"I humbly ask you continue training me," Helsknight said, "and you consider accepting my challenge for the Championship."

"If you think just because you carried me down here I owe you something, I don't," Evil Beesuma said sharply.

"I don't think you owe me anything," Helsknight said, trying to keep both hands on his patience. "I'm asking politely for your time."

"And why in hels should I give it to you?" The Champion stepped towards him, towering. Anger, and the soft touch of nervousness, pulled a little harder against Helsknight's restraint. He wasn't used to being intimidated. He decided immediately he didn't like it. "As you've clearly noticed, I have little enough of it to go around. What makes you think you deserve it?"

"Because I'm a knight."

"Because you're a knight?" Evil Beesuma laughed. "Am I supposed to be impressed because you walk around in a fancy cape all day?"

Helsknight scowled. He clenched his fists at his sides, and for a long, cold moment, considered punching the Champion as hard as he could in the face. It probably wouldn't do anything besides wound his own knuckles, but gods alive it would feel great. And then he would wash his hands of the stupid gladiator, and all his spiteful, biting pride.

[Saint help me. Saint keep my temper somewhere else.]

"Being a knight means I will treat you with honor and respect, Champion," Helsknight said, trying to keep the aggravated growl out of his voice. "No matter what state you're in when the fighting starts."

The Champion narrowed his eyes at him.

Helsknight took that as a... positive sign.

"The showrunners aren't going to want to risk you in the Colosseum now," Helsknight said quietly. "Your fellow fighters will be tempted to stay their hands, to take it easy on you, because they're scared they'll be the ones to kill you."

"And you're not?" Evil Beesuma snorted skeptically. "I suppose you'll take pride in being the one that finally kills me."

"Don't insult me, Champion!" Helsknight snapped fiercely, taking an angry step forward, so they were chest to chest. "I would never take joy in something like that. Losing you would be a greater sin to this world than anything my winning would gain. People look up to you. They aspire to be like you -- at least the kind show you put on for the crowd."

Evil Beesuma made an uncomfortable noise, guilty.

[Good, he should be, for how he'd been acting.]

"And despite your ruthlessness teaching me," Helsknight said, trying again to regain control of his emotions, at least enough to keep from yelling quite so vehemently, "I respect you. For your strength, and perseverance, and what you've built. You have a legacy here. Something you are rightly proud of."

Helsknight huffed out a tense breath through his nose. "I think it would be a shame to be robbed of that legacy, and the vindication of the works of your hands, because someone else is too scared to accept your challenge. You should have the choice to fight, and keep fighting. Not to rot at the top because ambition fails. If I were in your place, I would hope someone would offer me the same."

Helsknight stepped back from the Champion, breathing intentional, slow breaths through his nose. Embarrassment was starting to chase him, the feeling of stupidity at his fervency, and his vulnerability. Evil Beesuma's gaze slid away from him, some of his previous spite and fire gone. At the very least, he didn't loom threateningly anymore.

Helsknight sighed. Perhaps... A tactical retreat was best. Before he opened his mouth and said some other ridiculous thing. He offered the Champion another stiff bow, silently dismissing himself. Just before he crossed the threshold, buzzing filtered towards him, low and weary. Helsknight turned to look at him.

"Tomorrow, first thing in the morning," the Champion said quietly. Then, with a bit more of his former bite, "Bring your dagger. That throw was trash."

Helsknight nodded. He exited into the hallway, wandering with ever quickening steps back to the stairs that would take him to his cell. Halfway up the stairs he sighed, and stopped, and leaned his forehead against the wall. His hands were shaking.

"If I'm the one who kills the Champion, they'll hate me," he whispered to himself. Between hels and his Hermit, and the spiteful Champion below, he supposed he would have to get used to being hated.

"Nowhere in your tenets does it say you need to be loved," Helsknight murmured. He sighed again, and ascended the steps.

[Some things were more important than his image anyway.]

#rns angst asks #leapdayowo #rns angst ficlet #rns ficlet #helsknight #evil beesuma #eb #[wiggling my arms] i have so many ideas for their relationship before HK was champion #EB was an insufferable prideful thing on an individual level #very hard to like #as with most of the characters hes mellowed out over the years lol #and i mean -- obviously he didnt die he got better #but we're not talking about that right now #anyway im sleepy and this isnt the best #but its nice to get the thoughts out

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