#a burning hill

[saltair-and-webweaves]

I think I was just born with something dark and ugly inside of me. Always waiting to be found out.

planetarium - adrienne rich/@twoheadedfawnn/ugly, bitter, and true - suzanne rivecca/a burning hill - mitski/a hora da estrela- clarice lispector/ @100493503004422/sharp objects - gillian flynn

[swirlingyouintomypoems]

it’s me. hi. i’m the problem. it’s me.

@padfoot-lupin77/@ryebreadgf/why am i like this? - orla gartland/the letters of virginia woolf/@dreamer-but-realist/anti-hero - taylor swift/sylvia plath/@jaggedjawjosh /@body-to-flame/making the bed - olivia rodrigo/anti-hero - taylor swift

[crismakesstuff]

I am a forest fire

And I am the fire and I am the forest

And I am a witness watching it

I stand in a valley watching it

And you are not there at all

[rorylovesangst]

A Burning Hill

construction worker/underground fighter simon riley x waitress

mood board

song of the chapter is I Bet On Losing Dogs by Mitski

tws: sh injury, physical discomfort, emotional distress, self-deprecation

previous chapter → chapter 3 -> next chapter

word count: 2.5k

The next time you see him, it’s not at the diner. But you really wish it was.

The bell above the pharmacy door cuts through the heavy quiet with a sharp, irritating jingle. The air is thick and stale, heavy with the scent of cardboard, antiseptic, and damp. You pull your coat tighter around your body, its nylon whispering as you move, and your sneakers squeak against the warped linoleum, leaving small wet prints behind.

The overhead lights flicker faintly, casting yellow, uneven shadows over the shambolic shelves. Rows of half-forgotten remedies line the aisles, their withered labels mucky and peeling. The heater in the corner gripes mellifluously, pushing out only the faintest suggestion of warmth.

You find the burn cream on the far aisle, tucked between dented bottles of rubbing alcohol and crushed boxes of gauze. You crouch, your cold, stiff fingers skimming over the boxes, your eyes snagging on the bold prices: $17.99. $23.95. $19.90. An acidic knot twists in your chest. It might as well cost your entire paycheck.

The bell above the door chimes again, and the sound of boots scuffing against the linoleum cuts through your thoughts. You shift slightly, keeping your focus on the shelves and their ludicrous prices.

Embittered, you snatch a box of the cheapest cream and stand up too fast, your heel catching gawkily on the edge of your coat. You stagger backward, colliding with something solid—no, someone.

“Shit—sorry,” a voice rumbles behind you, low and familiar, vibrating through you like an aftershock as their breath puffs across your shoulders, balmy and minty.

Your breath catches, and you whirl around on your heels. His face is right there. Broad shoulders framed by a battered green jacket, the same blond buzz cut, and eyes so stygian they feel like ink.

Riley. Coffee, light and sweet.

For a moment, you’re too agitated to speak. The box of burn cream slithers from your fingers, thudding softly to the floor. He bends to grab it, rising in one smooth motion, holding it out like an offering.

“You okay?” He’s watching you with a smirk, cool and coy.

“I’m fine,” you say nippily, hell for leather. You pluck the box from his hand, holding it in a hermetic embrace against your belly.

Your eyes flick from his hands, seething and raw, back to his face. “You should clean those up,” you blurt, leaking like a faucet from your mouth, as you stare at the shelf behind him, the vitamins coalescing into a colorful, prismatic haze.

He raises an eyebrow, the faintest hint of amusement wrestling at the corner of his mouth. His knuckles flex as he rubs one hand over the other, and his voice carries a dry, razz edge. “Clean ‘em up, huh? That coming from you? With that look on your face?”

You blink, startled. “What?”

He gestures loosely toward you, his dark eyes probing over your posture, your face. “Your eyebrows are all pinched up. You’re holdin’ that burn cream like your life depends on it.” His tone softens, a few opaline teeth keeking through his curling lips. “Not exactly subtle.”

Your cheeks prickled hot, and you innately loosen your grip on the box. “It’s fine.” You’re flaring, voice serrate, defensive. “I’m fine.”

“Sure you are,” he replies, tipping back slightly, though his gaze doesn’t waver. “Bet it doesn’t even hurt, right?”

“It doesn’t,” you snap again, the words brazen this time.

He chuckles, low and throaty, the sound entwining around you like vines. “Could’ve fooled me. You’re holding yourself so tight you might snap in two.”

You scowl, shifting on your feet, suddenly hyperaware of the dull throb radiating from your chest. “Shouldn’t you be worrying about your own injuries?”

“Oh, I am,” he says with a grin, holding up his hands dramatically. “Look at me. Poster child for health and safety.”

Against your better judgment, an infinitesimal laugh escapes you before you can stop it. A few more glistening teeth poke out from behind his grin, and you immediately hate yourself for finding him funny.

“Seriously, though,” he continues, his tone softening just a touch, “you should take care o’ that. Burns ain’t something you want to mess around with. Get infected easily, y’know?”

You flub for words, making them come out like a dog's breakfast. “I—I know,” you mutter.

“Good.” He nods toward the cream still clutched in your hand. “Tha’s a start. Now you jus’ need to stop looking like you’re about t’bolt.”

Your eyes dart to his, startled by his bluntness. “I’m not—”

He cuts you off with a wry smile. “Yeah, you are.”

You open your mouth to argue but close it again, the words failing you. You glance down at the burn cream, suddenly feeling the weight of his attention like a spotlight.

“I should go,” you blurt, stepping back.

“You’re good at that,” he says lightly, though there’s no malice in his tone.

“At what?” you snap, your embarrassment bubbling into a rolling boil.

“Running off,” he replies, shrugging. “Guess I’ll see you at the diner, sweetheart.”

The word sweetheart lands like a stone in your chest, sending a hot flush up your neck. Without another word, you turn and head for the exit.

It’s only when the cool air nips your face that you realize the burn is still safe and sound on the shelf where you’d slipped it in your panic. You don’t bother turning back. The burn will heal itself, without the aid of an overpriced cream.

Olive, of course, does not agree with you.

She’s protesting at you over the running water, your hands pruned and wet as you wash the dishes. “Blue, I’m so fucking serious! Why didn’t you get it?”

You shrug, handing her a plate to dry. “I dunno. Slipped my mind, I guess.”

“Slipped your mind?” she scoffs, glaring at you with her jade eyes, “You are telling me it slipped your mind to get the burn cream as if you can’t hear the gauze every time you move.” You nod, and she scoffs again. “Ill buy you some then.”

“No—no. Olive, seriously. I will get it. I swear.”

“You better,” she demands, draping the rag over your shoulder before going back out to the front. You watch her go, your hands still submerged in the soapy water. The warmth seeps into your skin, feeding the black holes that live deep inside you—parched, gnawing voids that grow where your bones should be. She tugs her umber hair into a clip as she walks, her hips swaying in that effortless, kittenish way she has. Olive always moves like she owns the space around her, like the world bows to her rhythm.

In the year and a half you’ve worked at the diner, she’s become a lifeline—motherly, but not your mother. She’s too young for that, only a few years older than you, and far too happy. It’s the kind of happiness that feels like a foreign language, one you’ll never learn to speak.

Olive had your back when no one else did. She let you crash at her place when things got bad, even found you that rundown ranch for dirt cheap—just a couple hundred a month. You try to repay her the only way you know how: covering shifts, cooking the occasional egg bake, and pretending not to need anyone.

But the truth is, Olive is the only one who’s seen through you.

And that’s why you’ll get the damn burn cream tomorrow. Probably.

You spend the rest of your shift crammed in the back, where the dishwater steam clings to your skin, making you feel as though you’re dissolving into the air. On your lunch break, you slump against the countertop, your arms folded like the weight of the day is too much to hold upright. Tony’s voice fills the space, rough but warm, as he flips something sizzling on the grill. He slides you a chicken quesadilla with a gruff, “Messed this one up,” followed by a quieter, “Looks like you could use the extra pounds.”

Olive’s voice cuts through the clatter of the kitchen. “Blue! Get out here a sec!”

You pause mid-bite, blinking toward the kitchen door. Tony gives you a pointed look, smirking as he flips a pancake. “Guess you’re wanted.” You sigh and stuff one more fat bite into your mouth, cheeks bulging like a chipmunk.

You rub your hands on your apron and push through the swinging door, the abrupt garishness of the diner’s main room making you squint. Olive stands near the counter, her back turned to you. But she’s not alone, and you almost choke on your food.

Olive peers over her shoulder, her perfect teeth glistening behind her pink lips. “This is Simon,” Olive says, nodding toward the man beside her. “He’s a family friend. Said he came in here the other day.”

Riley’s gaze meets yours, soft and steady. His dark brown eyes flicker with recognition, and he smiles faintly.

Olive glances from you to Riley—Simon?—her eyes narrowing as her gaze bounces between the two of you. “Have you two already met?”

Simon glances at you briefly, then back at Olive. “Something like that.”

You shift on your feet, feeling heat creep up your neck. “We ran into each other at the pharmacy,” you mumble, brushing a stray hair out of your face.

“Literally,” Simon adds with a small chuckle, but there’s no edge to it, no teasing smirk. Just an easy, almost apologetic tone.

“Ah,” Olive says, her curiosity lingering, but she waves it off. “Well, now it’s official. Blue, meet Simon. Simon, meet Blue.”

He holds out his hand, and for a moment, you hesitate. Then, reluctantly, you reach out to shake it, wary of the wrap engulfing his knuckles. His grip is warm despite his callouses and scars, and you wish you could curl up in his palm and steal all his warmth, but you pull away quickly.

“Nice to meet you,” he says, his voice low and calm. “Properly, I mean.”

“Yeah. You too,” you reply, your voice far more cloying than you intended, making you cringe.

The scrunch of your gauze sparks his attention, causing him to furrow his brows. “How’s the burn?”

You blink, taken aback. “The same as this morning,” you mumble, smoothing out your apron.

“Thought so,” he says, eyebrows slightly raised. “Burns aren’t something to mess around with.”

You nod, glancing away. “I’m taking care of it.”

“Glad to hear that,” he says with a faint smile.

Your gaze drops to his hands, the cuts on his knuckles. “What about you?” you ask, surprising yourself. “Your hands… are they okay?”

Simon glances down at them like he’d forgotten they were there, then shrugs. “They’re fine. Just clumsy, I guess.”

“Looks like more than just clumsy,” you murmur, but he doesn’t respond, just rubs the back of his neck sheepishly.

“You two done swapping injuries?” Olive cuts in with a grin. “Blue, Tony’s yelling back there. Simon, want me to grab you a coffee or something while you wait for Price?”

Simon nods, but his eyes linger on you for a beat longer. “It was nice seeing you again,” he says softly, stepping back to let you pass.

You mumble something resembling “You too” before slipping through the door, your pulse hastening for reasons you can’t quite place.

The quiet buzz of the diner feels like a bulky, smothering blanket, pressing down on you as you wipe the counter with bovine, ruffled motions. Your skin feels sticky, the burn on your chest starting to throb painfully; it’s alive and refusing to let you forget it, growing tentacles and eyes. The sting isn’t just a sting anymore. It’s oozing, sticky, raw in places it shouldn’t be, but you can’t bring yourself to look.

Olive’s voice breaks through the silence, humbler than usual. “Simon’s a good guy, you know.”

You freeze for just a moment, not ready to hear it. You know she’s talking about him, but you can’t quite bring yourself to nod or even respond. Your hands feel too rigid, the tingle of the burn creeping over your chest, making it hard to focus. You wish you could ignore it, wish it would go away.

Olive doesn’t push, though. She doesn’t seem to need you to respond. “I’ve known him for years. He’s the quiet type—keeps to himself mostly, but when it counts, he’s there.”

You wish your heart didn’t strain at her words. She makes it sound so simple, so tranquil. But everything about Simon feels like a weight you weren’t ready to carry. You can’t get comfortable around men. Haven’t been able to for as long as you can remember. Maybe it’s the way they look at you. Maybe it’s the way you look at them. Every part of you wants to space yourself, to keep up the walls you’ve spent years building.

You clear your throat, trying to push the uncomfortable feeling aside. “I thought his name was Riley,” you murmur, almost to yourself. “That’s what it said on his jacket.”

Olive glances up, her smile soft but knowing. “Riley’s his last name.”

You’re eyes flutter, caught off guard. “Oh.”

“Yeah, Simon Riley,” she adds, a slight warmth in her tone.

You nod, your fingers moving to polish at the counter again, but your movements are slugish now, bemused. Ronny coughs and sniffles from the back, a rough sound, cutting through the silence just as Olive speaks. His cough rattles through the diner, something almost intentionally loud about it, like he knows exactly what he's interrupting, exactly when to make his presence known. You can’t help but feel a strange sense of unease wash over you at the sound.

You shift anxiously, the burn on your chest now impossible to shrug off. It’s not just a dull throb anymore, but a sticky, aching kind of pain that pulls at the skin, and you can feel it starting to seep through the fabric of your shirt. You try to hide it, but it’s getting worse—making you feel more exposed with every second that ticks by. The tightness in your chest isn’t just from the burn. It’s the weight of your own discomfort, the way you can’t bring yourself to reach out for help, even if you know it’s getting too bad to handle alone.

Olive doesn’t press on Simon anymore, her gaze softening with a quiet understanding you can’t quite place. “He doesn’t talk much, kinda like you.”

Your hand intuitively goes to your chest, trying to kneed at the burn, but the pain intensifies, and you wince, clenching your jaw against it. You want to pull away, to escape the way it feels to be so visible—so vulnerable. But it’s too late.

Olive doesn’t say anything else, and the diner seems to settle back into its rhythm. But in the back of your mind, there’s that thought, small and growing: Simon. He might be a good guy. You just might not deserve someone like that. Not when you can’t even handle your own skin, let alone anyone else’s skin pressed against your own knowing the rot will spread.

[fishfetti]

i am the fire, and i am the forest and i am a witness watching it

[horreurscopes]

girl help this was supposed to be a meme

[denszuu]

a burning hill // mitski

[flower-blossoms654]

And I’ve been a forest fire

I am a forest fire

And I am the fire and I am the forest

And I am a witness watching it

I stand in a valley watching it

And you are not there at all

[asoftepiloguemylove]

Hey hey hey can you do one about the dull buzzing pain of despair ?

i hope you're doing okay <33

pinterest / 堕落天使 Fallen Angles (1995) dir. 王家卫 Wong Kar-wai / Gail Honeyman Eleanor Oliphant is Completely Fine (via @weltenwellen) / Mitski A Burning Hill / Jeanette Winterson Gut Symmetries / Euphoria (2019-) dir. Sam Levinson / Fernando Pessoa English Song; A Little Larger Than the Entire Universe: Selected Poems / Mayday Parade I'd Rather Make All These Mistakes Than Make Nothing at All

[anxident]

i am a forest fire

[taohun]

bandcamp description for the land is inhospitable and so are we / a burning hill

[m4ndysk4nkovich]

ian gallagher; a burning hill (mitski)

[cyclopssun]

a wild Raphael appears

[bagofbonesmp3]

turning my paintings into mitski song art part 12. i think

[rorylovesangst]

A Burning Hill

construction worker/underground fighter simon riley x waitress

mood board

song of the chapter is Pretend by Alex G

tws: sh injury, physical discomfort, violence

previous chapter → chapter 4 -> next chapter

word count: ~3.5k

You’re sick as a dog. Panting and slimy in your creaky bed, blanket kicked and crumpled to the footboard. The burn on your chest is swollen, angry, and oozing under the makeshift bandages Olive swathed you in days ago. Ronny has called you at least five times, each ring prising you from the fragile cocoon of restless sleep you’ve managed to weave. Your phone buzzes now, taunting you from the dresser. Just a mere few feet away. A short reach.

You stretch out your hand, your fingers twitching, aching for just one more inch of reach, hoping—praying—that your arm might suddenly grow longer. Long enough to brush the phone. Long enough to silence it. But every attempt leaves you with a limp hand dangling over the side of your bed and a hollow, wheezy sigh  escaping your lips.

Olive sent you home yesterday. She took one look at your sunken eyes, pale complexion, the way you swayed on your feet as you knotted your apron, and didn’t give you a choice. “I’ll cover your shifts,” she said, her tone tolerating no argument. “Until you’re looking more like a human being than a ghost.”

The thought comes to you slowly, sluggishly, like a heavy tide creeping in: Maybe this is an easy way out. Just stay here. Let the fever do its work. Let the infection take over, creeping through your veins like rust on old pipes. Rot away in your bed until the light above drinks you up. 

How pathetic. Dying of an infection from a self-inflicted burn. Too scared to do the job yourself, so you let the elements finish it for you. Let them break you down, piece by piece, until there’s nothing left to recognize.

Suddenly, a knock rattles through the silence, edged and obstinate, pulsing in your skull like a drumbeat. Your breath hitches, shallow and ragged, as if the sound itself has stolen the air from your lungs. Frozen in place, you don’t answer. You can’t. The weight of the fever presses down on you, but it’s the icy prickle of panic that locks your body in place. Your mind spins: Did someone find you? How? Each knock feels denser than the last, and a thousand explanations churn in your head.

The phone on the dresser buzzes again—another call from Ronny—and for a moment, you wonder if it’s connected, if somehow he’s sent someone here to lug you back to a life you’ve worked so hard to enshroud. Your pulse croons in your ears, every nerve on edge, waiting for what comes next.

Then, a voice muzzled by the door: “Blue, it’s Riley.”

You almost laugh—if you could find the strength. Riley. You think about his crooked nose, the way he speaks without hurry, like the world will wait for him to finish. A construction jacket and a coffee order. That’s all you know.

Another knock. Blairing this time. “I know you’re in there. Olive told me.” 

Olive. That traitor.

Your hand sags off the side of the bed, fingers twitching toward the phone that buzzes again, its vibrations rattling the chipped wood of your nightstand. You try to form words, but they deteriorate before they leave your tongue.

And then you hear it: the soft click of the front door. The scuffle of boots on your entryway floor. He’s inside.

“Blue?” His voice moves through the house like it belongs there, moored but heedful, as though he’s navigating a minefield. You want to yell, to tell him to leave, but all you manage is a puny groan that catches in your throat.

It doesn’t take him long to find you.

“Jesus Christ.”

He’s a haze in the doorway of your room, framed by peeling paint and sagging drywall. His shadow stretches across the floor, falling just short of your bed. You squint, trying to push away the fog in your eyes, and there he is. Tall, broad, the hem of his faded green jacket brushing his thighs. The material strains slightly at the shoulders when he crosses his arms, the soft crinkle of the paper bag in one hand breaking the tense silence.         

“Olive said you ‘aven’t been answerin’ her texts. Sent me to check on you,” he grumbles, stepping further into the room. His gaze sweeps over you—hair slick to your forehead, barely clothed, glowering—before landing on the burn. Raw. Oozing. Pleading. His lips press into a thinner line.

“She said you weren’t takin’ care o’ yourself. Thought maybe she was exaggeratin’,” he mutters, setting the bag on your nightstand. The red of the burn cream box catches your eye. “Lemme see it.”

Your head shakes feebly against the pillow. “No.”

“Fine. I’ll jus’ call Olive. Get ‘er over here.”

“No, no!” You want to sound flinty, but your voice is crazing and brambly. “You can’t tell her. She’ll hate herself—hate herself for not noticing. Please, please don’t.” You’re out of breath, your hand that was limply hanging over the bed now holding onto the fabric of his jeans.

He sighs, dragging his hand down his face. “I won’ tell her. But you hav’ to show me. I don’t believe that its fine.”

“The fuck would you know? I am fine.” You screw your eyes shut, wishing that when you open them, he is gone.

“Sure,” he drawls, squatting beside the bed. His presence is overwhelming, the scent of cedar and smoke luxuriant in the close space. “Sweatin’ like it’s a thousand degrees in ‘ere. Burnin’ up.” His hand moves, wiping the damp hair from your forehead, palm sultry against your molten skin. “Not to mention I can smell it. But yeah, let’s pretend you’re just peachy.”

“Fuck you,” you carp, turning your face away.

“Yeah, yeah,” he murmurs, his dark eyes scintillating with something like amusement. “Now sit up. If you can.”

You glare at him, a mix of dissent and exhaustion guttering in your fevered eyes, but you don’t argue. Not verbally, anyway. Instead, you brace your quavering arms against the mattress and push. The muscles in your shoulders scream in protest, your elbows wobbling under the weight of your own body. It’s a pitiful attempt, and you hate how much of that struggle he sees.

Before you can slumping back, his large hands are on you—steady, firm. His arms slink under yours, lifting you with ease, as if you weigh nothing more than the blanket tangled around your legs. His chest skims yours as he sets you against the headboard, and for a moment, you feel the surprising gentleness beneath the bulk of his strength, that faint cushion of chub that makes his size even more intimidating. His heat lingers even after he steps back.

“You’re not gonna yell at me for doin’ it myself?” His voice is low, imbued with dry humor as he glances at you.

“Shut up,” you mutter blandly, bending further into the headboard. The cool wood presses against your spine, a stark contrast to the fire licking at your chest.

Simon doesn’t press further. He reaches for the roll of bandages wrapped haphazardly around your chest, the adhesive tainted with sweat and… something worse. His thick fingers, marked with scars and nicks, work carefully to peel them away.

“Gonna sting,” he warns, glancing up at you, his dark eyes searching your face as if gauging how much you can take.

“No shit,” you sneer, though your voice lacks its bite.

The first pull makes you flinch, your head snapping forward on instinct. His free hand pinions gently against your shoulder, keeping you in place without force.

“Easy,” he murmurs, his voice softening in a way that almost makes you wince more than the pain. “I got you.”

You don’t respond. Can’t. The adhesive wrenches at your raw skin, ripping a low hiss from your lips. Simon pauses, glancing at you again, but you wave him on. The quicker it’s over, the better.

The bandage finally comes free, leaving your burn displayed to the cool air. A fresh wave of pain flourishes in its wake, sudden and throbbing, making you gasp. Simon grimaces, his lips pressing into a hard line as he takes in the furious, provoked wound.

“Bloody hell,” he mutters, his brow furrowing deeply. “That’s worse than I thought.”

Your stomach froths at his tone. “It’s not—”

“Don’t,” he cuts you off, his voice sharper now. He tosses the stained bandages into the paper bag before pulling out the burn cream and gauze. “You need more than this shit,” he grumbles under his breath, shaking the cream tube. “You need a fuckin’ doctor.”

“I said no hospital,” you snap, though the words come out weaker than you want. “No doctors. No Olive.”

He leans back on his heels, staring at you like he’s trying to decide whether to argue. Up close, his crooked nose casts a slight shadow on his face, and his lips part, only for him to close them again in frustration. His fingers tap against his thigh, the faint smell of cedarwood and smoke mixing with the metallic tang of your wound.

“Fine,” he says finally, the word heavy. “But you’re gonna let me clean this up proper. No arguing, no whining, no tellin’ me to fuck off. Got it?”

You nod, too jaded to fight.

“Good,” he mutters, leaning closer as he unscrews the cap of the cream. He scoops a dollop onto his finger and pauses, his eyes flickering to yours. “This is gonna hurt.”

“It already hurts,” you reply hoarsely, your voice more resigned than bold now.

His hand, warm and steady, presses against your skin, the cool cream a sharp contrast to the burning heat radiating from the infection. The pain grinds for a moment, making you wince and fist the sheets, but his touch is oddly precise, methodical. You feel every callous on his fingers as he works, but his hands never falter, never shake.

“Still breathin’?” he asks after a long moment, his voice lighter, almost playful.

“Barely,” you manage, earning a faint grin from him.

When he’s done, he wraps fresh gauze around your chest, his fingers unexpectedly gentle as they secure it in place. He steps back, surveying his work with a critical eye, his broad shoulders blocking the dim light of your bedroom.

“There,” he says, standing to his full height, his presence towering over you again. “Better than it was, but you need to keep it clean. No more half-assin’ it.” His voice relaxes slightly, though his words remain compressed. “And you’re gonna eat somethin’. I’ll grab somethin’ from the kitchen.”

“Bossy,” you gabble, letting your head fall back against the headboard.

“Someone’s gotta be,” he counters, the faintest hint of a smirk jerking at his lips as he turns and heads toward the door, the floorboards creaking under his heavy boots. The scent of cedarwood and smoke lingers behind him, a faint reminder of the storm of a man who’s somehow decided to fix you.

Simon returns less than ten minutes later, the floorboards creaking under his weight as he steps back into the room. In one hand, he’s holding a steaming bowl of soup; in the other, a plate with a single piece of buttered toast balanced precariously on the edge.

“Had to scrape together somethin’,” he mutters, setting the plate and bowl on your nightstand with a clatter. His dark eyes narrow as they flick over you, still slumped against the headboard. “You’ve got nothin’ in that fridge. I mean nothin’. How the hell are you not starvin’ to death?”

You don’t answer immediately, too busy concentrating on the smoke wafting off the soup. It smells faintly like chicken, or maybe just broth—nothing elaborate, but it stirs a hollow ache in your stomach you’d ignored was there in the first place.

Simon doesn’t wait for you to reply. “I found a half-empty jar of pickles, a loaf of bread that’s probably older than I am, and some butter that looks like it’s seen better days.” He crosses his arms, his bulk looming over you like a scolding parent. “You expect to live off that? What, you just sittin’ here waitin’ to waste away?”

You glare up at him weakly. “Wasn’t hungry,” you mutter, though even you don’t believe it. Your body practically wobbles with the need for sustenance.

“Bullshit,” he snaps, grabbing the plate and holding it in front of you. “Eat.”

You stare at the toast, mulishness flaring despite the gnawing in your gut. “I’m not a child.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” he quips. “Only difference is, kids don’t usually try to kill themselves by neglectin’ a fuckin’ infection.”

With a sigh, you reach for the toast, your fingers trembling as you bring it to your mouth. The butter has melted unevenly, pooling in one corner, but it doesn’t matter. The first bite is bliss, the saltiness grounding you in a way that feels almost humiliating.

Satisfied, Simon turns to the soup. He dips the spoon in and holds it out to you. “Come on.”

“I can do it,” you say, but your attempt to take the bowl from him is so poor it barely counts.

“Sure you can,” he replies sarcastically, keeping a steady grip on it. “Open your mouth.”

You scowl but comply, taking the spoonful of broth he offers. It’s warm, salty, and comforting, soothing some of the ache in your chest that isn’t from the burn. He feeds you spoonful by spoonful, his patience unexpected given the size of his frame and the frankness of his demeanor.

“You’re a terrible patient,” he grumbles between bites. “Makin’ me play nurse ‘cause you’re too stubborn to ask for help.”

“You volunteered,” you point out weakly, though the retort lacks bane. The warmth of the food is lulling you into a foggy calm, and your eyelids start to feel heavy.

He shakes his head, scoffing softly. “Yeah, well, don’t get used to it.”

By the time the bowl is empty, you’re slinking lower into the mattress, the exhaustion from your fever pulling at you more demandingly now. Simon notices, his gaze softening slightly as he sets the empty bowl and plate aside. He stands, brushing his hands off on his jeans, and pulls the blanket up over you.

“You’re a bloody mess,” he mutters, more to himself than to you. “Gotta figure out how to keep you alive long enough to fix that.”

His scent—cedarwood and smoke—lingers as he adjusts the blanket, making sure it covers you properly. You mumble something incoherent, your voice fading as sleep pulls you under.

When you finally drift off, your breathing slow and even, Simon lingers for a moment, watching. His broad shoulders sag slightly, the weight of something unspoken heavy in the air. Then, as silently as a man his size can manage, he slips out of the room with a quiet Pain in my ass. The front door clicks softly shut behind him, leaving behind only the faint traces of his scent and the warmth of his presence in the empty house.

He’s a shaken can of soda. Bottled up and eager to bubble and fizz over the edge at the first snap. His knuckles aren’t just bloody—they’re raw, split, and sparkling under the yellow warehouse lights. The wraps are long gone, shredded after the first round, leaving his bare hands to meet flesh and bone with nothing to soften the impact.  

The air down here is suffocating—thick with the stink of sweat, blood, and desperation. It clings to Simon’s skin like a reminder of where he belongs. Around him, the crowd churns, their voices a discordant purr of bets and roars, urging him forward like he’s nothing more than an animal in a pit.

He exhales slow, bouncing on the balls of his feet, his opponent looming like a freight train. The guy’s face is a mess—a swollen eye, split lip, blood streaking down his neck. Good. Simon’s done his work. But the man’s still standing, fists tight, chest heaving. Another swing could end it for either of them.

Simon feels the ache in his ribs. A rib is cracked—maybe two—but he pushes past it, lets it fuel the fire under his skin. Pain’s a language he knows better than most, and tonight he’s fluent.

But through the haze of bloodlust and adrenaline, a thought cuts through. You. The memory flickers, uninvited but sharp: you, curled up on that worn mattress, sweat gluing strands of hair to your temples, your voice small and tired when you said It doesn’t matter. I'm fine.

He hadn’t answered you then—hadn’t trusted himself to say something that wouldn’t make you retreat further into yourself. You’d looked so fragile, so wary of being seen like that. Vulnerable. Human. And yet, there was something in the way your eyes softened when he stayed, when he didn’t push too hard.

He adjusts his stance, shaking the thought loose. There’s no room for you here—not in this ring, not in this fight. But your image lingers, shadowing his movements like an echo of something he can’t quite name.

The signal comes—just a nod from Price—and Simon thrusts forward, fists flying, every ounce of pent-up rage and guilt exploding in raw, ruthless force. He lands a right hook that rocks his opponent back, the crunch of bone reverberating up his arm.

The guy swings back, wild and reckless, his fist grazing Simon’s jaw. It’s enough to make his ears ring, but he recovers fast, dodging low and countering with an uppercut that lands hard. The man stumbles, spit and blood spraying from his mouth as the crowd howls their approval.

For a moment, Simon falters—not physically, but somewhere deeper. He hears your voice again: It doesn’t matter. I’m fine. A lie so thin it was nearly transparent. How many times had he said the same thing to himself?

His opponent surges forward, and instinct takes over. Simon plants his feet, pivots, and throws everything he has into one last punch. His knuckles connect with the man’s temple, and it’s over.

The guy crumples to the ground, and the crowd erupts, a cacophony of cheers and stomping boots. Price is there almost immediately, clapping Simon on the back, his voice low and approving. “Good work,” he says, already turning away. “Now clean up and get outta here, I need you early tomorrow morning. New buildings and shit.”

Simon stands there, chest heaving, his vision swimming. The blood on his hands feels stickier than usual tonight. He doesn’t know why.

As he stumbles toward the shadows to catch his breath, your face drifts back to him again. Fragile, guarded, but alive in a way that this place never will be.

What the hell am I doing here?

The thought lingers, just long enough to sting. Then he shakes it off and sinks back into the noise.

[stsg420]

SATOSUGU MITSKI ANALYSIS BY ME😈

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this took me so long because if I think too much about mitski in general I can’t breathe😜

I highly suggest listening to the song on repeat while reading this, it enhances the comprehension and suffering <3

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A Burning Hill - Lyrics:

"Today I will wear my white button down

I'm tired of wanting more, I think I'm finally worn.

For you have a way of promising things

And I've been a forest fire; I am a forest fire,

And I am the fire and I am the forest and I am the witness watching it,

I stand in a valley watching it, and you are not there at all.

So, today I will wear my white button down.

I can at least be neat, walk out and be seen as clean.

And I'll go to work and I'll go to sleep and I'll love the littler things.

I'll love some littler things."

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ANALYSIS

"Today I will wear my white button down"

This is the KFC breakup. Today, Suguru is healing. He is giving up everything he's ever had and defecting from Jujutsu Tech. It's his turning point. He's letting go of his old life, closing all the doors to open new ones. His white button down is this new, free version of himself that isn't controlled by the system & forced to watch his friends die anymore. The tone and mood of the song is melancholic and bittersweet; Suguru has been/is grieving over this loss that he is about to experience by leaving, but the point is not to be happy, but to be free. Of his own inhibitions as well as the higher ups. This violent change, this new path he is forging for himself is the opposite of linear, and in leaving, he is letting go of his soul mate. It's hard. But necessary.

"I'm tired of wanting more, I think I'm finally worn."

Suguru is so emotionally and physically drained. Shifting the timeline to before his defection, Suguru was having a horrible time. This life he led at the school, it was slowly enabling his death. He was rotting from the inside out. All there was to life as a sorcerer was cruelty, death, and the inevitability that tomorrow would be no different than yesterday. Exorcize, Absorb, Repeat. Suguru was bone tired. Tired of seeing his friends die. Tired of not being able to do anything about it, even as a special grade. Tired of being told that it was all in the name of saving the helpless. This sickness, this rotting within him had finally crossed a threshold after Riko (rip).

"For you have a way of promising things"

Satoru was the last thread holding Suguru to Jujutsu Tech. Satoru was Suguru's person. His one and only. How nice life would've been with Satoru at his side. The yin to his yang. The two strongest sorcerers. This dream of a future with his other half was beautiful and so, so tempting. But the reality was that this future was never possible. Not as sorcerers in their timeline. Not when they were being used and thrown around by the system. If there was any one person who could've stopped him from defecting, though, it would've been Satoru. In the end, Suguru's love for him took precedence over his need to be together. Suguru chose love. Love over the promise of a future with his soul mate.

"And I've been a forest fire; I am a forest fire,

And I am the fire and I am the forest and I am the witness watching it,"

Flashback again. Suguru was rotting from the inside out. He was losing control. He was depressed and descending into madness. Riko’s death, combined with Gojo’s death & resurrection, had completely flipped his life over. His mind capsized and he lost faith in his once strong ideals. The anger and confusion and negativity were pouring out of his body and suffocating him everywhere he went. He had no control over his life, his friends' lives, and even some of the non-sorcerer's lives (Riko). He was becoming every cursed spirit he absorbed. He was inhaling the negative energy. He became the negative energy. He was surrounded by the negative energy. He was watching the negative energy eat at others, too. Everything was out of his control and he couldn't take it anymore.

"I stand in a valley watching it, and you are not there at all."

While Suguru descends further into madness after Riko's death, he compares his grieving to Satoru, who used his trauma to get stronger and develop new techniques. Suguru knows that Satoru compartmentalizes by hiding his feelings behind playful smiles and silly remarks, but it doesn't make it any easier to watch. Satoru can get through this, but Suguru feels as though he cannot. He cannot put himself through another friend's death on account of "justice" or finishing jobs the "right way". This is where he realizes that their paths must diverge. The end of their time together as the top sorcerers is in sight. Suguru knows he must leave Satoru behind. Satoru is strong enough the push past this and make a difference as a Jujutsu Sorcerer. Suguru being there would only be a hindrance, a complication that would hold Satoru back. Satoru is no longer a part of his future in the way he wants to be. Satoru might hate him, but it's for the best.

"So, today I will wear my white button down.

I can at least be neat, walk out and be seen as clean.

So, flashing forward to KFC again, their paths separate. Suguru has salvaged and remade some small part of himself. He is no longer Satoru's moral compass, he can't be. In doing so, he has let go of expectation and started listening to his heart instead. Suguru's being seen as clean is him finally standing up for his true self. He knows that this road he's heading down will lead to his death, but at least he is fighting for himself and those he truly cares for. For Satoru. This truth is all he needs to accept his inevitable death.

"And I'll go to work and I'll go to sleep and I'll love the littler things.

I'll love some littler things."

After KFC. Suguru starts his cult and gets the cogs moving for his plans. He pushes himself like he always has, but instead of saving those helpless against curses, he's against them. In this, he believes he is saving Satoru. Suguru's new life will go on until it doesn't anymore and he has come to terms with it. His life is his now, he can make his own decisions, and that is what matters to him. In the end, he had to let go of the biggest part of his life. The biggest love of his life. It was not easy to leave, and there is a gaping hole in Suguru's heart where Satoru belongs, but Suguru can deal. It's worth it if he can try to save Satoru instead, even if he despises him. He also started to love some littler things (mimiko and nanako) before he passed. In the end, he was driven by anger and hate, but amongst it all was the creation of those feelings: love.

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Wow okay everyone please go drink some water, head outside & reconnect with nature after this (I need to)

Please comment your thoughts down below, I would love to hear all the different interpretations y’all have!!!