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bibliocratic · 4 years ago

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clear the area jonmartin, post-MAG200 content warnings in the tags

They earn their ending. A happy-ever-after beyond the gaze of any eyes.

Jon endures his abdication. This world has no Archivists, has need of none, the thankless crown of Knowing finally unburdened from his shoulders. The blood washes off Martin’s hands with soap and scrubbing and scalding water. They live.

The end. In conclusion. Fin.

Jon’s new scar, the packaging of his skin split ragged from collarbone to sternum, fades like sun-caught paint. A maw of red pursing to a gummy primrose pink, settling into a rough cartography of white.

The first few months are hard. Brimstone flare-up silences and ice-pick shouting, open-handed forgiveness and closed-fist weeping. They drain themselves to husks with anger and worry and grief until there is enough space for better things to grow there in their stead. Jon’s nightmares were a nightly stormfront to bear, sweated sheets and dawn fanfares of panic and dread, but he is learning now, with the space for his ribs to expand, that it is ok for them to breathe here.

Jon digs up the garden with a rusty trowel until it is a bumpy canvas of mulch and soil, dirt tucked under his fingernails and decorated with smudges up to his elbows. He hums while he irons their shirts in front of the television, thoughtless and senseless with tune.

Martin has tried to, but the sound goes down the wrong way.

Martin is happy.

It isn’t the sight as such, that might sit as a film over his vision to tinge his waking sepia. The reddest thing they own is a terracotta plant plot brimming with raggedy thyme that lives a precarious cliff-top existence on the kitchen windowsill. He observes Jon’s face in all its variations, even pained – when he snags splinters in his fingers, when he stubs his toe on the stone front step and swears damnation – and his response is sympathy tempered by admonishment.

It’s not the sensation, not really, that might tremble on his skin. Martin’s palms tend to dryness inside their homely bubble of creaky central heating, hemmed in by boisterous coastal winds. He handles bread knives and butter knives and steak knives and carving knives without the muscle memory of other blades, and he thinks he might be getting pretty handy with his oven experimentation.

It’s the sound. It wakes him, the noise lingering like the echo of a slap.

The slick punch of metal into muscle. A tooth-bared, tense-jawed gasp.

Resurfacing to shocked consciousness, he would be seized by a frenzy, to know, to check. His scattering hand scrabbling for the lamp with such force he hit it off the nightstand to roll in a giddy clatter, throwing off the covers to rapidly pollute both of them with the outside air. Jon would be rocked from sleep, groggy, panicked, and Martin’s words would not come, a train of thought trying to race full steam where no one had laid tracks, so it would be just the two of them, exhausted and upset and amping the other up in misery.

Now, upon his rousing, Martin knows not to turn on the light. He does not check. The aftermath of punch-gasp curls in his ear, and he inhale-exhale-inhales with the ferocity of mantra, and clamps the threatened tears in the clench of his teeth.

He does not wake Jon.

“How did you sleep?”

“Oh, you know me. Like a log.”

He is happy. He is. Why wouldn’t he be?

Jon rumbles like a rusty mechanism with snoring whenever he drops off on his back, and he mumbles accusatory when Martin coaxes him to his side. Martin finds black hairs on his pillowcase, in the shower plug. Jon is a vista of experience since the Eye left him, who gets hungry and tired and grumpy and drunk and silly and fed-up and giggly. Jon searches him out with the surety of magnets, and loves him, loves him, loves him. He seals kisses to Martin’s new landscape of extensive scars. Their disagreements, when they surface, are as meaningful and lasting as stones skipped on water.

Martin wanted this. He wants this. The rhythms of domesticity fading to foam on an untroubled shore.

He is out of practise with happiness, that’s all. It doesn’t come to him like breathing. He needs to till the earth of it, shelter its seeds from a thousand circling crows until it bears harvest.

He just has to try harder.

Night-time.

An episode or two of something simple, Jon nodding off like a capsizing ship before the credits. Encouraging him up in grousing, unwilling increments, rubbing out the nettle sting of pins and needles up his own arm. Check the locks, the light switches. Brush teeth. Pyjamas. Put his phone to charge, read until Jon succumbs to sleep. Click the light off, pushing Jon onto his side so his mouth doesn’t dry. Jon squirming around like a fastidious octopus until he has at least half his limbs hooked over Martin.

The dark creating shadow play. In the absence, Martin colouring in the gaps with lurid shades of disaster.

A creak – the rattle of a door downstairs, an intruder unfastening the back door, transferring their weight upon the staircase. A unfamiliar scent – the recollection of smoke-stench in his nostrils, the acrid promise of gas, the ferrous pungency of blood. The rain will flood their house to drown them. The wind will blow their roof in. Jon hooks his leg around Martin, the skin void of hair where Daisy’s mouth had almost torn it off, and all he can envision is the ways this could be destroyed as he watches.

Bundle Jon close. Ignore the rain, the itch at the bottom of his stomach, the queasy roil of his fear. Drift into unkind sleep populated with its garden of earthly terrors.

Martin is… not happy. Not exactly. And that’s fine. It’s fine.

Jon is happy.

Jon, rubbing at the compression lines around his hips, the accusatory splay of the top button refusing to budge closed:

“I can’t fit into my jeans.”

Martin enfolds him from behind, planting his palms over the slight paunch of Jon’s stomach, filled out through sensible eating and small indulgences and a hunger that will never be ravenous but has restored its human qualities.

“Hmm. It’s a good look on you. Healthier.”

“Or it’s middle age.”

“Or it’s eating things that aren’t tea and meal-deal sandwiches.”

“Or other people’s terror.”

“Oh yes, you’re right, I completely forgot about your subsistence diet of eldritch and unbidden horrors in a luscious wholegrain wrap, forgive me.”

Jon laughs at that. The sound has not yet lost its novelty for either of them.

He shifts, turns, his arms a buoy around Martin’s stomach.

“You’ve lost weight.”

“Must be all the clean air,” Martin quips. “All that healthy living.”

Punch. Gasp. Exhale.

Martin wakes up.

When his heart has wound down from the pace of its gallop, he extricates himself from Jon’s grip. It is a laborious task to find the places where they’ve joined in the night and pull them apart, like separating fabric snagged on rosebushes.

He gets some water from the cold tap in the kitchen. Sits heavily on the sofa, the room cossetted by the gloom.

Punch. Gasp. Exhale.

His hands shake.

He doesn’t go back to bed.

He isn’t happy, but he could grow to be. He could. He could. He just isn’t trying hard enough.

Some days, he feels like he’s waiting for the ice to give under them.

Check the passers-by as they walk. Anyone familiar, any teeth filed too sharp, anything animal or blood-shot, any eyes that glance too deep.

Check the oven. The gas knobs are angled to off but a leak is not impossible in a house this old, their alarm might malfunction, they might fall asleep and some spark from a plug socket could catch and incite a conflagration.

Check the window latches. The opening wide enough for a body to squirm through, the claws of a Hunter marring the sill. Wriggling infestations that invade through the letter box, the keyhole, the gap under the door where the wind can whistle through.

Check. Check. Check.

Jon is happy. Jon has a job, work friends, a hundred small luxuries that he has struggled to earn. Jon is happy, so why can’t he be? He went through so much less, the blood washed off easily with soap, what the fuck does he have to cry over –

Martin has always crafted his masks from scrap, tongue out in concentration, piecing things together in low light, a make-do-and-mend of his own devising. His early efforts, the paper mâché and glue easily cracked before he learned to shore up his constructions. He has a small collection garnered over years.

The quiet-voiced, muffled-stepped, muted-smiled creation of a Good Son.

The zipped-mouth, no-refusals-no-complaints-yes-of-course-how-high earnestness of the Good Employee, the desperation sanded off the edges so no one could see.

The I’ll-get-the-first-round friendliness, the open-handed, open-hearted, too-naïve Good Colleague.

This new mask forms in increments, in the same way a rising mound of dirt marks the extent of a grave being dug.

He doesn’t mean to. It’s just he’s better at not talking about things. He always has been. And it is an ugly, easy comfort, to slip back into bad habits.

And Jon is happy.

All the things Martin does not wish to permit the light to touch he compresses inside like shaken soda. The rot in him deepens structural, the places where he papers over moulds and fungal speckles with the distraction of their new life. His smile parades simple, contented, cheeky, teasing, and there is a meticulous artistry in each. He sketches interest, paints joy, manufactures irritation out of the clay of nothingness that he allows himself to feel instead of the overwhelming rush of everything else.

I love you, his mouth murmurs, laughs, sighs, groans, and that at least is always true.

The mask of a Good Partner slips on tailor-made.

They find their nine-to-fives. Jon’s job is uneventful, boring, and nowhere near an Archive. He works in a registry office for the council, filing and organising and he’s cheerfully lied on his CV in order to get it. He gets the bus and texts Martin grumpy faces and GIFs summarising his mood when he gets suck in the commute or some idiot parks in a bus lane, he has a couple of colleagues he likes and a greater number that he tolerates, he gets a hot chocolate from this universe’s overpriced multinational chain on his lunch hour. When he gets home, he complains with delight at the mundanity of his dissatisfactions, regales Martin with tales of meagre drama.

Martin gets a cleaning job at a school. It is monotonous, dull and safe. Martin loses track of the time easily, quagmired in his musings. The children are wary of him and his visible scarring but it doesn’t bother him as much as he thought it would. The teachers are friendly enough, as well as the other cleaning staff, but he does not make friends. They’ll have to move anyway, if anything finds them here, if the Fears emerge again.

Martin tries not to feel like he’s waiting.

He wants to have a good night’s sleep.

“I’ll have breakfast at the school, don’t worry.”

“There were some leftovers from the canteen, so I’m kind of full.”

“It was one of the teacher’s birthdays, you know, Denise? Heh, might have had a bit too much cake. I’ll pop this in the fridge for later though, it’ll keep till tomorrow.”

“I’m just not that hungry tonight, Jon.”

He feels sharper when he doesn’t eat. It is uncomfortable, a scratched-out, hollowing sensation, but things focus more. He can control nothing else but this, and it feels good, to have this mastery over himself when so much is beyond him.

He drops down notches on his belt and tells Jon it’s all the walking he’s doing.

The world continues to happen to them. He goes to the cinema with Jon and picks at popcorn and encourages Jon’s outraged opinion. He meets Jon’s mildly interesting work friends and plays nice and excels at small talk, and he drinks half a cider that he nurses over the evening because it’s making his head fuggy. His body communicates its sharpness to him and he gains grim satisfaction from ignoring it. He goes to work and goes home and doesn’t sleep and goes to work and goes home and doesn’t sleep.

Martin does his best at living, and his mask doesn’t slip.

“You seem tired,” Jon pries his words out carefully, picking them out of his teeth as one would scraps. “Is… is everything ok?”

“Yeah, sure it is. Why?”

“… you seem a bit down today. Recently. Is anything… is there anything you want to talk about?”

“I’ve just been working too hard. Been a while since I had to do double-shifts, heh, I’m not as young as I used to be.”

“If you’re sure?”

Jon shifts to a different position where he’s sat on the sofa, his legs tucking up under him. Martin endures his questioning gaze with practise.

“Yeah, I’m all good.”

Martin delivers a hand-crafted smile that’s gilded heavily with guilelessness and reassurance. He watches as Jon believes him and hates himself.

“You know… You don’t have to if you don’t want to, but you can – you know you can talk to me, Martin?”

Martin’s eyes focus on Jon’s chest at the point where a knife once sunk in, and doesn’t reply.

Punch. Gasp. Exhale.

Martin wakes up.

Jon has twisted over onto his back again, rattling like a chain-smoker’s cough with his snoring. They were quiet that evening, tangled up in their own thoughts, but there is none of that distance in sleep. During the night, Jon’s wormed himself out of the covers with a single-minded determination, his restless legs squashing the duvet to the bottom of the bed on his side, encouraging Martin’s to follow suit.

He’s shirtless, his top chucked off to pile unceremoniously on the floor. The temperature is ripe with a burgeoning summer heat, and Jon tosses and complains if he’s overwarm, and Martin didn’t think he’d get to feel the drudgery of another lived summer. He’s shirtless, and the room is palled in sweltering dark that softens the vague shapes of the wardrobe, the chest of drawers, the knickknacks of the life they’re building together. He’s shirtless, and Martin cannot see where the scar is, the only scar of Jon’s he has ever thought ugly, but he knows it is there. That he put it there. That he could just as easily be waking up alone.

His body pains him to live in it. His stomach tight and bottomed out empty.

He is so so tired.

Martin’s heartbeat does not slow down. His chest constricting, and he swallows, a sharp sound hiccupping in his throat. He stifles it with a forceful sniff but more come as a painful spasming wave, and he has to sit up if any air is to dribble into his lungs.

He should get up. He has to get up, do this in the bathroom, doubled-over the sink, stifling his weakness where it cannot be witnessed. He cannot do this here.

Punch. Gasp.

His burning face is soaked as he bunches up his sleeves against his reddening eyes. A calming exhale drains out shaky, moulds itself into another loud sob. He plants his hands over his mouth, screwing his eyes closed, and this will pass, he’s fine, this will pass…

“Martin?”

I’m sorry to wake you, he thinks to say. It’s nothing, go back to sleep, stop looking at me Jon, I’m fine, I’m fine, it’s nothing, it’s nothing…

His shoulders start to shake.

“Martin?” Jon repeats slowly. And the ice creaks and cracks and Martin gasps and then it breaks, and the force of his damned-up grief is tidal, catastrophic and he sobs into his hands.

“It’s… it’s alright – it’s… it was a nightmare, that’s all, ‘s alright…”

“It’s not!” Martin bubbles out, the words mashed to a wail in his hands. “It’s not, it’s not, it’ll ruin this…”

“Hey.” Jon brings his arm around Martin and he buries his head in the bony crook of his shoulder because he does not want to meet Jon’s eyes. “What do you mean? Martin?”

Jon rubs at his back. Martin’s body betrays him in a hundred ways as it collapses around him. His weeping wrings him out, dry-mouthed and headachy and trembling when he subsides into shivery breaths.

“Talk to me,” Jon says. “Please.”

“You’re so happy,” Martin sniffs out. “I-I want you to be happy, god, o-of course I do. Things are, they’re good, they’re good and we won, s-s-so why does it feel like I’m still holding my breath? I-I go to bed and I’m frightened of every noise, and I wake up and I’m terrified that someone somehow could take this all away, and I can’t sleep, and I-I’m tired, Jon, I’m tired of holding my breath, and it’s all – it’s all so much a-a-a-and I can’t – ”

“Oh, Martin – ”

His words fail him then. Jon holds him up and his arms do not loosen.

“We-we’re going to fix this,” Jon says after a long while. “I promise you, together, we’ll – we’ll talk to someone. You aren’t alone in this. Together, alright, we’ll do this together. We’ve survived – everything else, we can get through this too.”

“I don’t know if I can believe you,” Martin says, too drained to avoid honesty.

“…Maybe not yet,” Jon says after a pause. “That’s OK. I can wait.”

I’m sorry, Martin attempts to say but Jon presses a kiss to his forehead.

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” Jon says. He strokes Martin’s sweat-soaked hair.

“… Can we talk? Tomorrow? You don’t have to tell me everything, but… I’d like to be there for you, if you want me. If you’ll let me.”

Martin nods because he doesn’t trust his gummed-up throat. Jon takes that as an answer.

Dawn comes in slowly enough but they see it in together.

#tma #the magnus archives #cw racing thoughts #cw anxiety #tw eating disorder #tw ptsd #ask to tag #cw nightmares #martin blackwood #jonathan sims #jonmartin #tma spoilers

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gureishi · 4 years ago

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I'm the same anon who asked!

Could you talk about Saeran? It doesn't need to be detailed or NSFW, I'm good with anything, I just want to know more about your headcanons!

Hello again lovely anon! ♡

Oops aaaand once again (no surprise, I know): it’s long. I just wanna preface this one with a couple things:

1. There are quite a few Certified Saeran Simps on this site who truly know him much better than I do. Take whatever I say with a grain of salt—I’m no expert!

2. I’m also not an expert on DID! Which isn’t the focus of these HCs, but is obviously relevant. I read lots of books! About brains n stuff! But please never hesitate to tell me if I describe something poorly.

3. I wrote for the AS timeline here but if you want me to talk about SE Saeran or Unknown tell me and you know I will <3

Tw: discussion of childhood abuse, neglect, and subsequent trauma symptoms

Saeran’s body headcanons

A child who grows up the way Saeran did—kept indoors, often physically restrained, and sometimes starved—is not going to develop in a healthy way. There’s a reason why, even as an adult, Saeran is a full 2 cm shorter than his identical twin: he never gets the nutrition and exercise that kids need in order to grow.

We know that his mother uses his sickliness as an excuse to keep him indoors: but was he born sickly, or is he sick and weak because he’s been malnourished and kept from running or playing or interacting with other children? He breathes stale, dry air all day; he’s living on mostly white bread, and not always at regular intervals (plus whatever sweets his brother can steal for him from the outside world). He is not well.

Child Saeran never learns any sports or games. He doesn’t learn how to play with other children, or tie his shoes, or make himself a snack. Adult Saeran doesn’t know how to skip—you’ll have to teach him.

If the twins didn’t have each other, neither one of them would have survived.

And as we know, the neglect that Saeran endures worsens tenfold after Saeyoung leaves. Any glimpses he was getting of the outside world—sneaking out when their mother was unconscious, getting whatever snacks and books Saeyoung could gather for him at church—are cut off.

I’m not gonna tell you when the alters appear, because I am by no means an expert on DID. From studies I’ve read, I can say that typically alters become manifest after a “traumatic turning point” (which is not necessarily the “worst” trauma endured, but simply a particularly salient traumatic experience). It’s definitely possible that the alters emerge in late childhood, while he is still in the house with his mother.

When Saeran is taken from his mother’s home by Rika and V, he is (needless to say) not in good shape. He is painfully skinny, extremely malnourished, and very weak. He still has his red hair and golden eyes, but already he is looking less and less like his brother: his cheeks are hollow and his eyes are dull.

There is a brief period of time, before his “cleansing” (Oh god. We’ll get there), where he is reasonably well cared for. For the first time in his life, he is eating meals—and he is getting to bathe regularly, and he is getting his hair cut and combed. He still believes, at this time, that he’ll be reunited with his brother. And he is going outside! He is learning how the grass feels between his toes and how the sky looks through clear eyes.

As we know: this doesn’t last.

The elixir is a truly horrifying combination of hallucinogenic substances. No human could consume this cocktail of drugs repeatedly and feel well: and Saeran is already physically weak, and severely underweight. The fact that he survives as long as he does under these conditions is a miracle.

We know that he is being tortured at this time, too: physically as well as emotionally. Saeran has scars, like his brother; while Saeyoung has lots and lots of tiny scars all over his body, Saeran has larger, more distinct scars: perhaps on his wrists, and his throat, and his ankles.

It is around this time that his eyes and hair change. The means by which this happens is incredibly vague in-game, and everyone’s individual HCs are valid. My personal belief is this: he dyes his own hair—first, in a frenzied, desperate attempt to stop seeing his brother looking back at him from the mirror. He keeps dying it because Rika approves: and he never does a good job, and it’s rough and fried, and that “pink” at the bottom? Just the red showing through his patchy dye job.

As for his eyes: I personally believe they change as a result of the elixir. If they were contacts, I don’t think that GE Saeran would necessarily still wear them—and in every timeline, he has those startling blue-green eyes.

The alters take care of the body in different ways.

Ray does not feed himself. He lives on caffeine pills and sweets (and, of course, the concoction of drugs that he’s being fed in increasingly large amounts). The body becomes even skinner when Ray is fronting. And he bites his nails and fingers—brutally, so they are chapped and cut and scarred. But Ray goes outside, and he works in the garden under the sun: his body is getting some form of exercise: and this is good for his lungs, and invigorates his weak, tired muscles.

Ray also takes care of his appearance—something Saeran never did before. He brushes and styles his hair; he dresses himself carefully in the clothes Rika has picked for him; he covers himself in beautiful scents so that he is more appealing to you.

When Suit is fronting, he wants to strip his body of anything that reminds him of Ray. So he styles his hair differently (but still: he is styling it), and he tries desperately to wash the scent of Ray off his skin. He doesn’t feed himself, either—but, if any of the alters are trying to become physically strong, it is Suit (of course). I’m certain that the Believers have a workout regime they’re supposed to be following; maybe Suit even does it (on his own, of course, in secret). He knows he needs to be able to protect himself—and he needs to feel powerful.

When you meet Ray, you don’t notice right away just how poorly he is doing. Rika has intentionally dressed him in a way that hides just how bony he is—and he wears those little gloves, of course, so you don’t see his ravaged fingers. But it doesn’t take long to catch on: he is so skinny you could almost blow him away, and there are dark shadows under his eyes, and he doesn’t sound like he’s taken a deep breath in years.

By the time you meet Suit, you already know the state their body is in: malnourished and weak. Ray cooked for you, but you wish you could cook for all of them; and even when Suit is starving you (in other words: reenacting the very abuse that was dealt to him in childhood), you wish you could wrap him in a big blanket and feed him a bowl of soup.

The Saeran that escapes Magenta with you—GE Saeran: the fusion of Ray and Suit (or a new alter, depending on what you believe)—has never made a single choice for himself in his whole life, until this moment. He never got to pick his own clothes, or what he would eat (if he ate at all), or how he would speak, or what he would do. Running away with you is the first real choice he has ever made—and no wonder this is pivotal and transformative for him.

The AE doesn’t portray the timeline of healing in a realistic way. After two weeks, we see GE Saeran so much healthier, both physically and mentally. And yes: two weeks of eating real food and sleeping in a bed make a difference: we see him with fuller cheeks and brighter eyes.

But what the game doesn’t address is the withdrawal he likely endures when he stops taking the elixir, which is full of substances that are both dangerous and addictive. It doesn’t address the time it takes to build up muscle mass, and get accustomed to healthy sleeping and eating habits, and to begin to heal from years and years of repeated trauma.

GE Saeran doesn’t heal right away, because healing doesn’t work that way. It’s not linear, or straightforward, or simple, or beautiful. It’s slow, and sometimes it’s painful.

But he does heal.

A Saeran who is in love with you is soft, and patient, and willing to put in the months and years (a lifetime!) of hard work to heal his body and his heart. You’ll get to watch as the dark circles under his eyes disappear, and his cheeks become less hollow, and his body grows stronger as he cooks (with you, and for you) and eats real meals and learns to run in the grass the way he never did before. He’ll make a garden, and you’ll get to see how he looks with sun on his face, his eyes clear as the sky as he gazes up at you—smiling.

You can show him how to moisturize his dry lips and cracked hands; you can help him pick out clothes he likes to wear; and you will learn how to support him when his memories haunt him.

And you can hold him: this beautiful, small, soft man, with his thin shoulders and scarred fingers. He’ll close his eyes and you’ll taste the sun on his skin as you kiss his eyelashes. He smells of earth and sky; he loves you with all the power of the universe.

#mystic messenger #saeran choi #ray #suit saeran #headcanons #asks #anon #body headcanons

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odeto-gyu · 3 years ago

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we were like coffee, weren’t we? - kwon soonyoung

hi hello! this is my very first svt fic i’m releasing online, so i’m really hoping you enjoy!

synopsis : blue envelopes and a four year long crush who wears coca cola chapsticks and grapefruit cologne. god, kwon soonyoung is just a boy of everyone’s dreams.

genre : fluff and fluff and floofy fluff but disappointment warning at the end rip (femreader x soonyoung, highschool boy soonyoung, highschool girl reader)

word count : 3k

Dear Soonyoung,

I know you’re a pretty popular guy in our school. You’re way out of my league, and to be honest I can’t really tell if you like having me around at all. First day of freshman year of high school was when I first laid my eyes on you.

You were with your other equally good-looking and popular friends. And I actually wasn’t planning on approaching you at all at first. I was planning to talk to Wonwoo first if anything...but then when I nearly tripped while passing you by, you pulled me back and ended up falling yourself.

That was funny. But I still remember it, I mean how could I not? You started laughing so hard the entire hallway was looking at you all weird. I guess it started then. Your stupid head pats and hair ruffles, the chocolate you gave me on Valentines because everyone got some but I was the only one who didn’t.

I feel stupid confessing to you like this, acting like I’m special. I know you’re just a nice guy who likes doing nice things for others. But, it’s senior year now and even if I feel like a middle-schooler writing bullshit like this, I couldn’t stand saying all this to your face.

I have feelings for you, Soonyoung.

Sincerely, ___

You sigh.

It’s not the first time you’ve written a letter like this to your four year long crush. You have piles and piles of the same confession letters collecting dust in your drawer. It somehow doesn’t get boring though. Maybe it’s slightly enjoyable, or maybe it’s just that momentary satiation you get from finally saying your feelings out loud.

Just as you shove your umpteenth letter into your drawer, the bell of your house rings. With quick steps, you rush out of your room and make a beeline straight towards the front door. Thankfully, your room isn’t that far from the main entrance to have you running.

Through the small peephole of the door, you see Soonyoung in a plain, gray hoodie and wet hair that curtains down his forehead. As always, he looks good.

When you open the door, he casually slips in. Strangely enough, he hasn’t been to your house more than once, but he seems quite at home despite the fact. You and Soonyoung aren’t exceptionally close, but you’ve been invited to hang out with him and his friends a couple times.

And this time you got paired up for a project, so you suggested he visit your place to work on it together.

“Why didn’t you come after drying your hair? You’ll get sick.” You follow suit after his steps, nagging.

“Saves electricity and time. Besides, letting your hair air-dry is much healthier than using a blow dryer.” He shakes his hair in your face, droplets of water landing on your cheeks.

Once he realizes he reached the living room - a cozy, small space with a single couch and coffee table - he swings his backpack and lets it fall on the sofa. He claps, once, turning to face you.

“So,” he says.

Puzzled, “So…?” You parrot. He groans, plopping down onto the carpeted floor with a hard thump.

“You don’t think I came here to do the actual project, do you?” The question is rhetoric. Soonyoung sits cross-legged, while his elbows rest on the coffee table in front of him.

You tilt your head in confusion. “You didn’t?”

He gives a sassy roll of his eyes before hopping back up on his feet. Abruptly, he leans in closer, not that close, but close enough that you could feel a gentle breath fan your face. Still, the proximity has your heart skipping a couple beats.

“Nerd.” He laughs light-heartedly, pulling away. His fruity cologne wafts in the air with every movement. He always smells like grapefruits and cocktails on a summer night.

“What did you want to do, then?” You ask, genuinely curious. He shrugs his shoulders,

“I don’t know, hang out with you. Everyone else is kind of boring.” He says. His fingers timidly play with the hem of his hoodie, and his lips are pulled into a cute frown.

God, he just knows how to tug at your heartstrings. Your cheeks flush into a cherry red shade, and you silently will the sudden heat in your face to go away. You’re left speechless.

“Oh,” is all you manage. Attention averted from his rather uninteresting hoodie to you, his mood seems to turn slightly blue at your response.

“Never--nevermind, let’s just get started on the project then. I forget you’re top of the class sometimes.” There’s a tinge of rejection that tweaks his words, and you realize you’ve fucked up for the nth time in your life.

“Wait! It’s not that I don’t want to hang out with you,” you bite your cheek, “or anything...uh,”

His ears perk up, he hopes for a reciprocated response this time. If you ace this project, you don’t have to retake an exam you missed (for the first time in your life, because you were busy quarrelling with your sister in the morning).

But...you think you can retake that stupid test if it means you get to spend more time with Soonyoung. Fuck it, I guess.

“My room is just down the hall, first door to the right. Wait there and I’ll bring some snacks ‘round.” You instruct. You think a small bit of rebellious pride bubbles in your stomach, but you blame the feeling on the butterflies that never leave when Soonyoung’s around.

With a newfound joy, he clicks his tongue with a wink. “Yes ma’am.”

You can’t help but let out a small laugh as he navigates away to find your room. You take your time laying out different snacks (sweets, you have an unhealthy sugar addiction), bringing a full carton of orange juice with you since you couldn’t bother pulling cups out. The house is completely empty, your family members having promised they wouldn’t come back until late night.

When you enter your room with a full plate of some peppero, kancho, some mochi and homemade cookies, you find Soonyoung hovering over your desk.

Shit. Your fucking letters.

Your drawer stays unopened, but you’re still skeptical, even when Soonyoung snaps his attention away from the mess of notebooks on your desk. You mutely observe him. He looks normal. Unbothered.

Internally, you sigh in relief.

Shuffling to your desk, your hands quickly shove your belongings on it away to make some space. You set the plate down while Soonyoung simply intently watches you. It puts you at a slight unrest, as his gaze rakes over you intensely.

“Take a picture, it lasts longer.” You joke, moving to sit down on your bed. He finally stirs his eyes away from you, laughing lightly.

“I would.” Mumbles. You couldn’t hear it though. It’s not like he meant for you to hear, anyway.

He takes a seat on the bed beside you, leaning backwards on his palms. His eyes rove over your room. The space isn’t really big, he thinks. There’s a desk just next to your bed, with a closet on the other end of the room.

It’s decorated with some crystals on the shelves and succulents on the windowsill. He takes note that you like green and yellow, considering the large amount of plants and yellow accents. He’s pretty sure that the big plant pot in the corner of the room is a bonsai tree.

But he’s not big on nature, so he’s not sure.

“Nice room. Last time I came here it was all blue and stuff.” He says. You snort.

“I was fourteen when you were last here. Besides, I pretended to be obsessed with blue to impress yo--” Slip up. “Boys. To impress boys.”

You clear your throat.

He laughs. “Didn’t peg you to be the type that tries to impress boys or anything.”

“I didn’t really. It was just for someone specifically.” You say, shifting your attention to your fidgeting hands. Unconsciously, you find yourself biting your lip, a habit you haven’t been able to discard.

Small scars litter your bottom lip, swollen and red from the damage. There’s a moment of silence before you feel an unfamiliar finger on your lips. Eyes wide, you look up. Soonyoung gently pulls your lip away from the grasp of your teeth with the pad of his thumb.

There’s a lot of things Soonyoung’s bad at. He’s frankly horrible at math. But if you had to name something he’s good at, you could list a million things beyond school subjects.

Like, you. He’s good with you. Slightly gentler, slightly less loud and slightly more understanding. You don’t know why, but you appreciate it.

The finger grazes above the small dent your canines made, soothing it over. He sighs.

“It hurts, doesn’t it?” He pouts, hand moving away. You nod, that cherry red returning back to your cheeks. It was probably that thumb of his at your lips just a second ago, but an odd sense of adrenaline rushes through you.

“Blue is your favourite color, right?” You find yourself asking, before you even have the time to register the question itself. A nod.

“Yeah, I guess. Why?” He rakes his hair with one hand, eyes sparkling. Somehow - you’re not really sure where you discovered the courage - you wordlessly stand up to open your drawer.

In it, there’s blue envelopes upon other blue envelopes, signed to be sent to Soonyoung. You pick up your most recent one in between your fingers. With a stroke of your inner prowess, you face the destination of the letter himself.

He tilts his head in question.

“Here. Read it when you get home. Only when you’re alone, okay?” You hand it to him, and he accepts it with humble hands.

“Okay.” He breathes.

It had been days since he went home with the blue envelope tucked in his pocket. He hadn’t spoken to you at all, even when you passed by him in the hallways or when you sat next to each other during English class. It’s not that you didn’t expect it.

You knew you kept your hopes too high. He had more than just you that he could turn to for company, girls swarmed around him every chance they got. Prettier girls. Girls who liked the things he did.

Another school day finished, chit chats with some classmates keeping your mind off things. Focusing on school would be the best, for now anyway. College is just around the corner, and you’d hate to lose your straight A streak because of some silly crush.

It’s about six in the evening when you complete studying the required chapters for an upcoming test. You’re now collecting some belongings from your locker to finally head home. You usually stay back at school to study in the library instead of going home. It helps you concentrate better, in a way. A yawn escapes you, tired. The school is empty for the most part, save a couple students walking around.

“How do you study so much?” A voice creeps up from behind, making you jump. Familiar, but not Soonyoung. Momentarily, you pause the act of shoving books into your bag. You crane your neck to meet the person, just to find that it’s,

“Seokmin,” you question, “what are you doing here so late?”

Seokmin is just another one of your classmates, he shares physics and chemistry classes with you. Someone who hangs around Soonyoung and Wonwoo a lot. Most students here know their name, pretty much everyone has seen them at least once in this entire building. He’s good-looking and most definitely humorous, you’ve shared some laughs with him.

“Waiting for you, kind of.” He says.

Huh? Seokmin? For you?

Almost like he could read your mind, “I have something to give you really quick but I didn’t want to disturb your studies, so,” he explains.

Your mouth forms the shape of an ‘o’. “What is it?”

An envelope is pulled out of one of his back pockets, and he sheepishly hands it to you. You only notice the sage green color of it once it’s in your own hands.

“Alright, I gotta run now. See you on Monday!” He waves, before he sprints off and down the hallway, disappearing behind the corner.

You huff, curiously exploring the envelope. Pastel yellow heart cut-outs glued onto the front and back of it, with wrinkled paper lines on the sides. A hand-made origami envelope. You giggle a little bit at the evident effort.

You pull out a folded piece of paper, which you open to be greeted by scribbly, messy handwriting. You recognize this handwriting.

Dear ___,

I’m going to be completely honest...I’ve never written anything remotely like this since 1st grade when we were writing thank you letters for Parent’s Day. But, I’ll try my best, since yours was so beautifully written. That day at your house, I actually opened one of these. I’m sorry for invading your privacy like that by the way. I saw my name on the receiver’s name and I couldn’t help it.

I was pretty surprised. It never crossed my mind that you thought of me that way, since you always seemed a little bit...indifferent? I swear I’m not trying to insult you or anything, I just don’t know how else to put it. I remember that day too, first day of freshman year. Your hair was in a ponytail and your backpack was huge.

I also remember I wanted to ask you out for the school dance in sophomore year so bad but I didn’t have the courage so I went with my friends instead. I never got to tell you how stunning you looked that day. I always observed you from afar, because I was afraid you wouldn’t like guys like me, loud and most definitely not smart. I guess I was wrong.

I’ve seriously liked you for the longest time ever. So like meet me in the janitor’s closet at 6:15 today?

I’ll be waiting. (just until 7 tho, I can’t be late for dinner or my mom will have my head)

Yours Truly, Kwon Soonyoung

Your cheeks are pulled up into one of your best smiles. At a rapid speed, you shove the letter back in the envelope, although carefully. Abandoning your backpack and all other clobber, you check the time.

6:12

Quickly - that was the only thing plaguing your mind as you steered along different halls, looking for that door with big ‘JANITORS CLOSET’ letters splayed across it. And it was there. In a haste, you opened the door to see a Soonyoung leaning against one of the steel shelves.

He looks up, a giddy grin on his lips.

“___,” He calls. You like the way your name rolls off his tongue. It makes you sound special, somewhat.

“Soonyoung, I-” Soonyoung doesn’t give you any more time before he grabs your wrist to pull you close. Chest to chest, knee to knee. He’s close, so so close.

Enough that you could count the sparkly flecks in those deep brown swirls of his if you wanted to. Proximately near that all you can smell is that fucking citrus cologne that he wears everyday, so addictive you want him this close all the time.

“Can I kiss you?” Soonyoung asks, hushed. Your nod is all he needs.

His soft lips meet yours, timid at first. Gentle and sweet, he tilts his head to get a better angle, and there it is, the taste of Coca Cola chapstick. Strangely, you find yourself not being able to get enough of it. Your arms move to wrap around his neck, but due to the lack of space, your back ends up bumping into some equipment.

“Ow,” you mumble against his lips. Momentum broken.

He laughs, pulling away. A little bit out of breath, you both take a couple seconds to catch it, foreheads against each other.

“You okay?” He exhales, minty breath fanning your cheeks.

With a giggle, you respond with a ‘yes’. You lean in for a soft peck. Everything was just so perfect, at the time.

;

Of course, it’s easy to say that things feel perfect. Because it’s true, at the given time, it really was. But after years pass, things change. Now that you sit at your high school reunion six years later, you realize that.

It’s a warm and cute cafe where the reunion is held. A juxtaposition next to the wintry weather just outside the glass windows. Here they all are.

Wonwoo, the dude you didn’t really know, but heard of in every hall, now sitting tall and quiet across you. Seokmin, a handsome funny kid, always loud in the halls, looking even better and just as loud as more than half a decade ago. Taehee, a girl you shared almost every single one of your classes with, someone you shared a lot of memories with.

A couple others whom you spent a fair-share of your high school years with.

And, Soonyoung. Your ever-so-good-looking high school boyfriend, a man you held most dear to your heart. Six years. Six years since that day you first got together. Funny how even though it’s been that long he didn’t change, at all. Apart from his features maturing to sculpt him just right, like a fossil, he’s almost the exact same.

They’re all laughing about something you vaguely heard was about graduation day, and how half of them didn’t know what was next. You observe them all, sipping on your coffee.

It’s so sweet it makes your teeth ache. You don’t like coffee, to be frank. There’s always that bitter aftertaste you can’t get rid of no matter how much sugar you stir into it.

“___, what happened to you and Soonyoung? You guys used to be all over each other.” Seokmin mentions, while chewing on some cake he ordered. You turn to look at Soonyoung.

He’s smiling at you, that smile you remember from years ago. Returning his twinkle with a smile of your own, you both shrug in unison.

“Not everything lasts, I guess.” Wonwoo mutters, tuning into the conversation.

Like the painful sweetness of this coffee, yours and Soonyoung’s love was like the weight of thousands of sugar cubes. But the bitterness at the end was inevitable. You both didn’t like the unpleasant tang it offered, but the sweetness was warm and fuzzy while it lasted.

It was like coffee. You and him.

---

thank you so much if you’ve read till the very end <3 feedback is always appreciated! please reblog if you liked it, it boosts my reach :)

#seventeen #svt #hoshi #kwonhoshi #kwonsoonyoung #soonyoung #svtfic #hoshi fic #soonyoung fic #seventeen fluff #hoshi fluff #fluff #soonyoungfluff

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kpopnlockit · 3 years ago

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Tethered

This is a very sad and personal piece to me but I wanted to share because it has been some of my best writing lately. It may be triggering to some so those who do not do well mentions with angst, depression, co-dependent relationships or eating disorder may want to steer clear. - Admin O

Your heart hurt. In both the physical and figurative sense. Your eyes burned and you knew they were bloodshot from the crying you had been doing. You were emotionally exhausted to the point of numbness. You could feel the way your facial features sat neutral. Your mouth was dry from dehydration and your stomach ached from hunger. You couldn’t bring yourself to eat or drink. You hated everything at the moment, including yourself.

It was how you coped. Self-destruction. You knew it wasn’t your fault. But it felt like it was. So you punished yourself. You knew it was a remnant from the unloving upbringing you had. Internalizing the blame that had been shifted to you and letting it consume you whole until there was nothing left but a shell, or rather a puppet, that went along with the motions. You were never taught how to handle things like this. You were only taught that everyone else’s misery was your fault.

Age didn’t change anything. At times like these, you were still that teen that didn’t eat and sat alone in their room with a pen and paper and lived in made up fantasies where you weren’t even a character. It wasn’t for a lack of knowing better though. You knew you were doing it and you knew that you were blameless, but that didn’t change the pain. So you did what you always did to alleviate it.

Even as anxiety sat heavy on your chest like a boulder crushing your rib cage, you let your glazed over eyes not focus on any one thing and retreated into your mind. The safest and most dangerous place on Earth. It was such a shame to waste such a beautiful day wallowing in feelings that you tried to ignore and lock away. They always slammed into you like an eighteen wheeler on the highway when you could have been making better use of your time. You could have been out on a shopping trip with a friend or taking a walk alone through the neighborhood basking in the summer breeze on your skin. Instead you sat wretched, under a blanket on the couch in your apartment.

You wanted to laugh at yourself, at your foolishness. How could you stay the same while everyone grew, changed, was happy? You felt a headache building in your forehead as you thought about how you always let it get to this point. You took everyone’s shit until you imploded, hurting yourself and never those that deserved it. That was the type of person you were. Rather, that was the type of person you were molded to be. A scapegoat. A pathetic thing that was always smiling until one day it became too much and all you could do was sit in one place and sob into a towel. Because if anyone heard you, it would be an inconvenience to them. It would be a nuisance to let them feel the guilt for what they had done to you.

It was always engrossing when you let yourself feel. It ate up your time and energy. It ate you up. That’s why you hated it. But you couldn’t avoid it. You would let it pile up, adding more and more to the finite box you kept your emotions in until they burst forth, spilling all over to the point where you couldn’t shove them back in. You had to let them sit with you, you had to feel them, when it got that bad. And without fail, it was too much.

Feeling was never something you were good at. It didn’t seem like anyone around you was good at it either. More often than not, for them it came out as anger, doors being slammed, cars being revved, shouting matches that the neighbors could hear. Encompassing bouts of rage put on display for others. Maybe that was the healthier way to sort it out. Explode like a firework and let others deal with the ashes. You wondered why you couldn’t be like that, why you suffered alone? You knew why though. You didn’t want others to deal with your problems like you had to deal with theirs. Actually, what you dealt with was them not dealing with their problems. That was what was the most painful. It had nothing to do with you.

As your emotions had nothing to do with others, you let them devour you in solitude. There would be no catharsis after though. This you knew. It would just be nothingness. An empty box that would get filled to the brim again and repeat the whole cycle. You would try to fill the void with junk food and burn away the anxiety with boiling tea. It would be a temporary fix, as always. Momentary, makeshift solace.

When would you deserve real happiness? When would you think you deserved it?

You wanted it to have been raining. Maybe it would have been more endurable if it was raining. Instead it felt like the sun was mocking you, reminding you that you could not enjoy the beauty of that day. That you wallowed and regretted and the world went on. You’d see pictures of people out at the restaurant you had put on makeup that morning to go to. They’d be eating funnel cakes at the fair you’d been talking about all week. Jealousy caused a dull ache in your belly.

Why couldn’t you get over it? Why were you stuck for hours, unable to fake a smile or savor anything? Everything was so easy when it fit in the box. Food didn’t taste like soot and you could actually cherish the memories you made.

You could hear him rattling around in the bedroom, trying to sleep but failing. Each creak of the bed, every movement of his limbs, irked you. His ridiculousness was the cause of all of this and he wasn’t even sorry. Chances were he wouldn’t even remember why you argued. He couldn’t even make sense when you were exchanging verbal blows. He was too delirious from his depression fog. He couldn’t be reasoned with. That left you, rational and frustrated, to deal with each feeling, each articulated assault that ricocheted off of him and back into your face. It was talking to a brick wall. You had known that when you fought back and that was what brought on the tears. Hot wet pellets of raw anger.

In moments of clarity, he promised dates and travel. Then within minutes he was unable to speak or function and your hopes were trampled. That’s likely what bruised the most. Him letting you anticipate only to be left there with shaky hands and a broken heart. You wanted to live. You wanted to experience everything he talked about. You wanted to be outside, in the good weather, doing something, anything. But he could never deliver. And you knew it wasn’t him. It was his depression. It weighed him down and shrouded him in an air of darkness. You could barely make out the man you fell in love with through it.

It was painful now though and you couldn’t see when it wouldn’t be any longer. Could you keep enduring? It felt like you had been enduring forever. Would he feel abandoned? But you too, were broken. You suffered alongside him. Could he see that? Did he know how you struggled to stuff everything into that box day in and day out? Did he know that you sat grieving the loss of him meters away from him?

Fresh tears fell. Your nose ran. Your stomach grumbled. You had started as half and were made whole by him, or so you thought. Now it felt like you were both a quarter, coming together to barely make a half. How had it come to this? When had it? Had he whittled you down or had he been three-quarters and was now not?

He hadn’t showered in over a week. When he asked if you wanted to go out to eat that day as you lay cuddled in his arms, you asked if he would wash his hair. He said yes. Then as you put on eyeliner an hour later, he said he was waiting to leave, you could drive. You asked if he was going to shower. He didn’t answer. He was ready to go to the restaurant. You could tell he was in a fog. You finished your face anyways, hope still present. Then he asked if he looked bad, feeling that was what you were insinuating. You said no. He asked why then did he need to bathe? Not thinking, you said you could see his dandruff and it would be nice to go to eat without that. Then it evolved into a fight, raised voices and you trying to talk sense into a senseless being.

When he flip-flopped, so did your heart. You felt like you were drowning with a weight tied to your ankle only pulling you down further. You didn’t have the strength to pull both of you up. You remembered the picture of your friend, with her husband and children eating at a diner that morning. Why could you not have a simple existence like that? You didn’t want too much, you thought. Just...to live. To not feel tethered. To be happy together, in each other’s presence. Like what had been.

You were living in the past. Perhaps the man from back then was still somewhere near but you couldn’t see him. Holding on blindly was stupid. There was no future guaranteed. It didn’t seem like rolling the dice on it was worth it either. Yet, here you were. Listening to him tossing and turning while you cried, wishing things were different, wishing he were different. You waited, and would most likely keep waiting.

#angst #depression #co dependency #admin o

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yukiwrites · 4 years ago

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Edelgard, Gulping

Thank you so much for your support as always, @xpegasusuniverse! This one was so much fun akçsdlkmasd I hope you like it!

Summary: Meticulous to a fault, Edelgard liked to always follow her routine no matter where she was. Yet, one morning, she was compelled to follow a different path, finding something well worth of her deviation... There was a wonderful sight waiting for her.

Commission info HERE and HERE!

_______________________________

Edelgard von Hresvelg's days started early, no matter the place she woke up at. Be it back at the Empire, at Garreg Mach Monastery or here, in Askr.

She tied her hair up in a tight ponytail, wearing her usual training garments to begin with her morning jog, despite dawn being only slightly close to breaking. The chilly air that blowed during the transition between night and day was always refreshing for her lungs to breathe in, so she usually gladly welcomed it.

For the past few days, however, Edelgard had noticed that someone had been using the same route as she did -- but not by encountering them, no, but by feeling their presence. Even after they had long left (she couldn't be sure of how long had passed since the person left because she always woke up at the same time no matter what), there was a lingering presence of someone who took training more seriously than the Imperial Princess herself.

Who could they be? Edelgard always followed the same route without deviations, but she never met them. Today, however, marked the first week since she had realized the phenomenon, so she decided to investigate it herself, since it wasn't something that would need to involve Hubert with.

Besides, most of her time in Askr was spent in the betterment of herself -- be it accumulating knowledge through other Heroes or strengthening her body -- since Kiran had a myriad of soldiers at his disposal and only selected a few at a time.

For the first time since arriving in Askr, Edelgard deviated from the calm route she used through the back garden of the castle occupied by the Order of Heroes, following the path that led through a colonnade towards an inner garden. There was a forgotten gazebo in the middle, being engulfed by the wilderness -- according to what Edelgard had heard, at least.

There had never been a reason for the Imperial Princess to go that way, so she only kept a mental tab of the castle's rough blueprint so as not to get lost, but the sight that welcomed her there was unexpected.

"... Dorothea? I never saw you as an early riser." The Princess commented as she approached her classmate through the stone path, noticing how the songstress sighed dreamly before turning to her.

"Well, I couldn't miss the show, so you could say that I've been keeping up with a healthier schedule of life for the duration of our stay here in Askr." She tilted her head to the abandoned garden, making Edelgard narrow her eyes with suspicion.

Yes, she had noticed that there was someone training there the moment she stepped towards Dorothea, but what could be the- oh, perhaps that person was the one who shared her training route-

The Princess' brain stopped functioning for a hot second. She couldn't even finish her thoughts as her eyes followed the precise and strong movements of the training lance in front of her.

The sleeves were rolled up to the forearms, showcasing a pair of the most defined arms Edelgard had ever seen (and she studied at the Officer's Academy!), which made her inadvertently gulp. The loose clothing made it somehow even harder for the Princess to pull away her gaze, due to the fact that it allowed her imagination to fill in the gaps of the folds, wondering if everything under it were-

"Edie, you're staring, girl." Dorothea snorted, patting Edelgard's back so as to snap her out of it.

Startled, Edelgard cleared her throat and shook her head, though due to her overly white skin, she couldn't hide the flushing of her cheeks. "I, ah, I am quite alright. It would be tremendously rude to even suggest doing such a thing-"

"Sure, girl. Don't worry, we get it." Dorothea giggled, diverting her gaze back to the spectacle.

Edelgard tilted her head to the side in confusion, glancing away from the muscles- er, from the person to look at Dorothea. "We-"

"Hello there, Your Highness." Mercedes smiled softly, crossing arms with Dorothea as though both of them were using one another as emotional (and physical) support through all of that staring- er, cheering.

Edelgard's cheeks burned even hotter. "I did not see you there, Mercedes. Do forgive me."

"Oh, don't you worry, Your Highness." Mercedes waved, already looking back at the muscles- er... "It's completely understandable." She fanned herself with the same hand she had waved to Edelgard, suddenly doing away with her shawl.

Honestly, Edelgard wanted to do her same with her jacket- wait, she wasn't wearing her uniform... How would she deal with this heat-

The sound of the powerful thrusts with the lance stopped. "Oh! I didn't see you arriving. Did you wait long?"

"Not at all, Sully dear." Dorothea's voice was an octave higher than when she had spoken to Edelgard, her eyes blinking eagerly. "We brought you water. I'm sure you must be," she looked down from the sweat that dripped down Sully's neck towards her collarbone and disappeared into her cleavage with dazed eyes, gulping right after, "thirsty."

"Thanks a bunch, I was thinking to head back to fill my water since I finished it earlier than usual today." The Shepherd winked at the duo before throwing her head back to drink the water, stealing a sigh from Mercedes who leaned her head on Dorothea's shoulder for support. "Pwah! Much better." She dried her mouth with the back of her hand, though since all of herself was covered with sweat, it didn't matter much in the end.

Then, her eyes fell on Edelgard, whose brain had stopped functioning yet again at the Shepherd's sudden approach.

"Friend of yours?" Sully pointed with her thumb to the blushing young woman, noticing that she wore training clothes.

Dorothea pressed her lips together so as not to let a laugh escape. "Yes, she's our classmate and the Imperial Princess, Edelgard. You can just call her Edie, though." Dorothea teased, winking at the recovering princess.

"I, ah, yes. I am Edelgard von Hresvelg, the heir to the throne of the Adrestian Empire."

"You know, I've been here a while, but there're so many of your royal type around. Feels more like there's no meaning to being a prince or a princess or whatever anymore, har!" Sully threw her back in laughter.

"Indeed, it does make one wonder why some have a higher rank than others when all they have done was being born somewhere different." Edelgard nodded in agreement.

Sully's laugh ended in a smirk, the lazy sun brightening the surroundings and making her blazing red hair gleam. "You get it. Hey, let's spar. I've been challenging everyone around here to test my arm, so today's your turn!"

"Why, gladly." Edelgard stepped into the grass, then stopped herself. "I did not bring a weapon, though."

"Hah, don't worry about that! I use this place every day, so I keep my stuff here." Sully pointed with her chin to the other end of the corridor Edelgard had come from. "There's a storage room there with some practice weapons I use. Get whichever." She rolled her head to stretch her neck, missing the lingering look Edelgard gave her before nodding to leave to the storeroom.

After finding a wooden axe, Edelgard gave it a few swings before exiting the room, facing a blushing and sighing Mercedes. "What has happ-" she meant to ask, but when she followed the woman's gaze, she found that Sully was taking off her top. "W-what is-"

Once the shirt was completely off and properly thrown on the ground, Edelgard saw that Sully wore a tight, sleeveless undershirt.

"Damn, that's so much better." Sully huffed, drying the sweat that poured from her forehead with the back of her forearm. "Oh, hey, you're back," she commented, then scoffed: "Pfft, you gonna keep staring or are you gonna try to take a piece of me?"

"Oh I would if I could, no doubt about it." Dorothea muttered as Edelgard passed by her, which made the Imperial Princess close her eyes so as to find her inner peace to prepare herself to spar with... all of that.

Smirking, Sully twirled her lance around masterfully, pointing it in Edelgard's direction, taunting her with one hand. "Come at me!"

"No need to ask me twice!" Edelgard leaped to deal the first blow.

From the sidelines, Mercedes did away with her cravat, opening the neck button of her uniform while Dorothea fanned herself, stealing a drink at the bottle she had lent Sully a few moments previous.

The match didn't take long, though it wasn't a quick defeat either. Edelgard panted as she placed her axe on the ground, leaning on its hilt. "I am impressed. I did not think the lance could be used in such a way."

"You're not bad yourself, girlie. Why don't you stick around a bit more? It's 'bout damn time the others arrive, too."

"The others?" Still recovering her breath, Edelgard looked from Sully to the farther Dorothea, receiving only a knowing gaze, a smirk and a nod in response. The Princess held back the urge to gulp, her throat suddenly even drier than after the heated match she just fought. "May I ask..."

"Ho there, Sully! I'm late today, aren't I?" A woman with silver, short hair waved from the entrance closest to Mercedes. "I started putting on my armor while half-asleep so I had to take it all off to run here."

"'Bout damn time, Echidna!" Sully stuck her lance on the ground to walk over to Echidna and receive her greeting as a high five.

"I did my laps already and, MAN," she shook her head, throwing her bandanna on the ground as she reached for her shirt to take it off. "It's stuffy here in Askr, what the hell."

"Oh, no." Edelgard didn't realize she had said that out loud, though thankfully no one was near enough to listen.

She watched as Echidna, too, removed her top to reveal her inner shirt, though hers was more of a crop top instead, showcasing her well defined muscles.

Mercedes and Dorothea sighed dreamily, fanning each other as Edelgard cleared her throat to gulp.

The two women started exchanging a loud conversation about their training regimen while they 'waited for the others', their words, which puzzled the Princess even more -- it couldn't be...?

Mercedes and Dorothea were also slightly surprised -- they had only arrived at the end of the previous day's training, so they had only caught Sully and Echidna there. It had been when they were invited to this morning's training.

A soft pat on their backs startled the two students. "You three are new here, right?" A pointy-eared woman with silver, long and wavy hair smiled brightly.

Still affected by their, well, stimulating surroundings, the two young women nodded as they tried and failed to take their eyes off of Sully's arms while she gesticulated.

Snorting, Corrin rested her head between Mercedes' and Dorothea's shoulders. "Sully has that effect on girls like us, doesn't she?" She winked to the distant Edelgard, who was still rooted on her spot. "Wait until you see the others. It's a sight to behold."

"Others?" The two finally snapped out of it to look at the foreign princess.

Noticing that there was something important going on, Edelgard rushed over to her classmates' location, only to catch the end of Corrin's speech.

"Why, Sully's Training Regimen for Women, of course. Only the strongest ones manage to keep up with her, but the rest never stopped coming." Corrin's smile was bright, though she raised a questioning eyebrow. "You know why, right?" She pointed her chin to the now sparring women, the sight somehow making even their droplets of sweat shine in the sunlight -- entrancing all young women to a hypnotizing point.

"Edie, you're drooling." Dorothea teased, though laughed loudly when Edelgard actually tried to clean drool from her chin.

"Dorothea, that is not funny at- all..." Edelgard's speech lost its wind midway as something caught her attention inside the entrance behind Mercedes.

The other three sharply turned their heads to the upcoming women: Camilla, Laegjarn, Cherche, Eyvel, Minerva, Nailah and Titania, all of them wearing similar outfits to Sully and Echidna, which meant that there was the possibility of many more muscles- er… Well.

"Goddess preserve me." Mercedes sighed softly, squeezing her hug on Dorothea's arm.

The songstress gulped loudly. "Yeah, girl, you know it."

Giggling behind them, Corrin placed herself between Edelgard and Dorothea. “Even though it’s a bit rude to say this… It feels like this was the reason we were summoned, don’t you think?”

The three of them did not hesitate in their reply.

“Definitely.”

#edelgard fire emblem #mercedes fire emblem #dorothea fire emblem #sully fire emblem #feh #fire emblem heroes #fe3h #fe13 #my writings #yuki's commissions

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tenglows · 5 years ago

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Hai 🥰 #42 + 47 + neighbor au! Ten with fluff? 💞

[ 42: you know i love it when you call me that ] + [ 47: can you dry my hair? it looks better when you do it ]

the prompts

you were woken up by continuous knocks on your door. you groaned and cursed, throwing all the heavy blankets that were previously on top of you to the floor.

a jittery neighbor!ten came into your apartment, hairdryer in hand and legs who couldn’t stay still.

“can you dry my hair? it looks better when you do it” he looked at you with pleading eyes, and he looked so frail he almost didn’t look like himself at all.

you caught a glimpse of the clock, it marked 7:15 am and you smiled sleepily at the boy. all the irritation of being interrupted in your sleep faded away when you remembered what was happening. ten had been recruited by this amazing dance company, and they were interviewing him today. he had lost sleep and free time preparing extra hard for it, the nervousness of losing this one-time opportunity sending him over the edge.

“come here, sit” you took the hairdryer from his hands and guided him to your couch. “do you want some iced tea? to cool down the nerves?”

he nodded and gulped, proceeding to fidget with his fingers. after you handed him the glass, you started to comb his wet hair a bit. he smelled of fresh shampoo and it made you drowsy. you wanted nothing more than get back to bed and snuggle with him; he smelled like fresh mornings inside clean blankets.

you then turned on the drier, him closing his eyes when feeling it blow. you saw him take deep breaths as he counted and you let out a small laugh. he had found out how much he liked you drying his hair one night he got back from practising non stop and was too tired to even shower, so you ran a bath for him, picked out his clothes, and helped him with his hair so he wouldn't catch a cold.

after that, when he styled his own hair it just didn't feel or look the same. he was convinced his hair felt softer and healthier when you dried it, and kept asking you to do it. specially when he was craving some extra attention and pampering.

“i'm sorry for waking you” he spoke over the noise, still with his eyes shut.

“oh no don't apologize, really. i was planning on waking up early to see you before the interview anyway”

“i couldn't sleep anymore. i'm not sure i even slept at all, so i just got up and started to get ready”

“baby, you are the one of the most talented and graceful dancers out there. don't doubt yourself or if your practising has been enough. they told you how impressed they were by you before the recruiting, right? so now that won't change, and with all the practice you have on you that will even point it out more for them”

ten whined again and let his head fall on your chest. you were almost done, but took some extra time to stroke his hair a little bit more.

“you always know what to say, thank you” he murmured when you turned off the device. you wrapped your arms around him and kissed his head.

“i'm always here for you, tennie. and i'm so proud of you”

“you know i love it when you call me that”

“mhm, i know” you whispered back and left a small kiss on his lips. “and i love you. i'll drive you to the interview?”

#ten au #ten scenarios #ten #nct au #wayv au #ten fluff #ten imagines

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makayla-angelic · 4 years ago

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2020 End Of The Year Natural Hair Report/New Regimen For 2021?

2020 has finally come to an end, and I couldn’t be more happier! I can’t predict what 2021 will be like, but I can only hope the outcomes and opportunities will be better than what it was for 2020. Even though this year has seemed like a “hell” year, there is some good that came with it. If you woke up every morning in the year of 2020, then it’s a good day in my book. One of the things that happened for me in 2020 is that my hair became a lot thicker and appeared more healthier, and I reached my goal of bra-strap length. As some of you may know, my short term hair length goal is waist length, and my long term hair length goal is thigh length.

I’d say I got a good amount of growth this year, but it wasn’t perfect or phenomenal. After all, they say hair grows on *average* about six inches per year, give or take one or two inches based on diet, climate, and overall hair growth rate. Nothing will physically make your hair grow out of your scalp, but you can boost the speed of which your hair grows out by taking supplements, mixing a few drops of essential oils such as peppermint and tea tree oil into another oil and giving yourself a scalp massage with that, eating foods that are rich in sulfur and biotin such as eggs, and drinking plenty of water. Okay, I slacked off on the water part, but I’ve tried to change my diet for 2020, and it was hard.

So, was my length retention where it should have been for 2020? In my opinion and how I view my hair, no. I could have done a better job, but it wasn’t horrible. I didn’t have any setbacks, except for a slight loosening of my hair texture due to repeated flat ironings. So, how will I handle my hair in 2021?

My plan/new regimen for 2021 is simple. I’m going to leave my hair alone, keep it stretched, keep it clean, and making sure I’m putting the right things in my body to maintain healthy hair growth. For 2021, I’m challenging myself to bun mostly. Wash n go’s and twist outs looked beautiful, but they got old after a while. Bunning is great because it protects the ends from the outside elements and prevents them from getting dry and breaking off from rubbing on your clothes. I’m going to continue to blow dry my hair on low heat to keep it stretched and aid in the reduction of single strand knots to aid in length retention, also to avoid as much tension as possible when bunning.

In between wash days, while wearing my bun, I’m only going to finger comb through it, and brushing back with a soft bristle brush. I’m going to moisturize my hair at least once a week with water and a little bit of oil. I’m going to give my myself a scalp massage every night after I take my bun down, (at least try to) and then every other night massage Virgin Hair Fertilizer into my scalp for a hair growth boost.

For diet, I will try to drink more water, herbal teas, juices, and eat more foods rich in vitamins such as bell peppers, spinach, apples, oranges, tuna fish, salmon, carrots. Eggs as well, but not too much. I will take my Women’s 1 A Day vitamin along with my Nature’s Bounty Biotin supplement and Iron pill to balance my anemia. In between my long periods of bunning, I’m only going to flat iron four times a year, once every season, for length checks. Spring, summer, fall, winter. I don’t want heat damage!

I may or may not completely cut out trimming this year to see how long I can go and how long my hair actually grows in a year but it’s still something I’m deciding. I will also get off my lazy butt and exercise as well, but not too hard.

And last but not least, I have decided to completely move away from commercial products, and use products that are all natural and organic as possible. Things such as black soap/castile soap to shampoo, DIY deep conditioners, (currently using 22nd Century Natural Woman’s Deep Conditioner), rice water protein treatments, and aloe vera juice as a leave in. I feel like in order for hair to fully thrive, you should put something on your hair and scalp as close to nature as possible.

Here’s to getting to healthy waist length hair in 2021!

#hair #natural hair #regimen #new years #waist length hair

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eldritchsurveys · 5 years ago

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636.

Have you ever done a craft that you found on Pinterest? >> No, I don’t use Pinterest. Do you get scrapbooking layout ideas from anywhere? >> No, because I don’t scrapbook. What do you do to wipe off the dust from ordinary life? >> What? Are you content with mystery, or do you wish you knew everything? >> Mystery is one of the things that makes life interesting, for me. My curiosity and imagination needs mystery to chew on, to turn over and over in my mind. If it was just fed all the answers, it’d be bored and so would I. What do you do when someone irritates you on Facebook? >> No one irritates me on facebook. But if they did, I’d either unfollow or unfriend them.

Are you judgmental? >> I don’t encourage judgemental behaviour in myself.

Do you think your hair looks better natural or dyed? >> I think it looks healthier when natural, and that’s the most important thing. I can always wear wigs for funky colours.

Do your parents disrespect you? >> --- Have you found that love covers over a multitude of sins? >> No. It enables one to treat another’s shortcomings with grace and compassion, which is important. But if something is truly rotten, love’s not going to do shit for it. What was the last Grand Opening you went to? >> --- Do you have anything coming up tomorrow? >> All I want to do tomorrow is play video games and be comfortable in my bed. What’s one thing that makes your stomach hurt? >> Anxiety. Ever had a living nightmare? >> Er, maybe? Do you have a lot of haters? >> Not to my knowledge. I don’t think I register on most people’s radars to begin with.

Do you think successful people always come with a pack of haters? >> I mean, probably. Envy is a hell of a drug. Do you have supernatural abilities? >> Who knows what kind of abilities I have. Even I don’t know. Do you kick yourself when you make mistakes? Do you say, “I wish I would have” a lot? >> Yeah, although I’ve been trying to cut down on the self-flagellation. Are you doing the most you can with your life? >> Sure, by my standards. Do you let people walk on you? >> No. Are you ok? >> Sure. Do you have a friend you miss right now? >> No. Do you ever write snail mail to your friends? >> No. Do you make your life look better than it is on Facebook? >> I don’t post on facebook. Do you feel God’s presence regularly? >> No. For the record, I’m not attuned to that sort of presence, so I have no idea how I’d even look for it. Do you experience chronic pain? >> No. Do you believe God loves you and is rooting for you? Wtf is with all these Christian surveys lately. Are people not aware that the vast majority of the world is not Christian? <-- They’re probably from joybucket. Christian questions aside, she makes decent surveys and there’s always a shortage of those, so. Anyway, my comprehension of a capital-g God is a more panentheistic kind, so any anthropomorphic features it’d possess are because its nature is being expressed through humanity just as much as through everything else. Have you ever dreamt that you were falling? >> Probably, but more often I just have that weird falling sensation just as I’m dropping off to sleep. It hasn’t happened much lately, but it used to happen constantly. What would your dream career be? >> --- Are you a daydreamer? >> Not so much. Do you daydream so much that you wonder if there’s anyone who doesn’t? >> --- Do you ever just sit and daydream for awhile? >> No. I’m not really sure how daydreaming works. If I’m staring into space it’s because I’ve zoned out or because I’m ruminating on some conversation I had and dissecting my every misstep or something stupid like that. Is the snow falling where you are right now? >> Not where I currently am, no. But where I live, it probably is snowing. I’ll find out when I get off the plane tonight. What is your favorite part of nature? >> What isn’t my favourite part of nature. Do you wish you could be a world traveler? >> You know... not particularly. Not to say that I don’t love seeing new places, and not to say that I don’t want to go to other countries, because I do. But it’s just not so much a priority to me anymore. I’m just as happy watching Anthony Bourdain do it. (Also, sensory defensiveness and related problems has really begun to impede on my enjoyment of travel.) Do you wish you could live in another city for a year? >> I mean, sure. I just can’t imagine what situation would lead to that. What city would you like to visit? >> Oh, you know. Any one will do. What has been your favorite city that you’ve visited? >> New Orleans. If you had kids, would you take them to Disney World? >> I wouldn’t take kids to Disney World, I’d take myself. I’ve never gone and I’m curious about it. Have you ever stood in line to get a Disney character’s autograph? >> No. Do you own a birthday crown? >> No. How long does it usually take your hair to dry? Do you dry it naturally or blow-dry it? >> My hair is very short so it takes like 10 minutes. Do you straighten your hair? >> No. Do you sleep with a teddy bear? >> I sleep with two teddy bears and an assortment of other animals. Would you consider yourself a free spirit? >> I don’t really know what that means. Do you need to clean out your closet? >> --- Do you watch YouTube videos regularly? >> Sure. What’s your favorite coffee shop? >> --- Is your Pinterest page cluttered? >> --- Do you want to start a collection? >> No. Are you a role model? Would you consider yourself a good example? >> No. Are you a leader or a follower? >> I’m just... a person, man. My roles change depending on the situation. Who’s your favorite person? >> --- Who have been your favorite American Idol contestants? >> --- Did you used to name your Barbies? >> I don’t remember if they had names. What unnatural hair color looks best on you? >> I prefer silver on me. Is your life boring? >> It can be, but I like it the way it is. Do you usually feel better around people or alone? >> Alone is usually my default comfort zone. Is there a broken relationship in your life that you want to fix? >> No. Do you ever think about Heaven? >> Occasionally, because it seems like such an... unlikely kind of afterlife. Are you ready for Heaven yet? >> lmao did you just ask me if I’m ready to die Are you afraid of where you’re going to go? >> I really hope I can get that mushroom suit for my corpse. Do you have a tree outside your window? >> No. Do you feel better now than you did last night? >> Well, which part of last night? When I was at the after-party, I felt great. When I got back to the motel, I was super tired from all the drinking and socialising, so I felt a little crappy. I feel fine now. Is your sleep schedule messed up? >> Kind of, because I just spent two nights in a different time zone and away from my own bed. But it’s nothing a few nights back home won’t fix. Does your body have any problems with it? >> *shrug* Are you doing ok spiritually? >> Relatively. Have you taken any huge risks lately? >> Well, I guess coming down here was a bit of a risk financially, but it worked out. Silence or songs? >> Depends on what I’m in the mood for. Tea or coffee? >> Tea. Books or movies? >> Both. Do you ever watch your favorite movies from when you were a kid? >> Sure. ^If you were going to do that, what would you watch? >> The Prince of Egypt, definitely. The Pagemaster is a lot of fun to rewatch, too. Also, Labyrinth, of course. Do you ignore rude people or do you call them out? >> I usually ignore them. It’s less effort. Do you have trouble staying organized? >> No. What has been your most favorite adventure? >> I don’t really know. What has been your greatest mistake? >> *shrug* Are you happy with your life right now? >> Sure. Do you take anything to make your feel better? >> CBD oil kind of functions that way for me, in a not-very-dramatic way. Are your parents still together? >> They never were. What color socks do you have on? >> Grey with a Halloween design on them. Are you under a blanket right now? >> No. Are you hopeful? >> About what....?

#surveys #survey #random survey

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artificialqueens · 5 years ago

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Overpowered Part 2(Branjie)- athena2

Chapter 2 is here and the angst train is getting rolling. I want to thank all of you for the amazing feedback on the first chapter. Your comments really made my happy and I appreciate each one of them. It would be great if you could leave some for this chapter too! ***This chapter does have mentions of anxiety, mild violence, and mentions of self-destructive behavior. Please be cautious.***

“Hold up! What the hell you mean I was dead?”

“Vanessa,” Silk warns.

“Don’t ‘Vanessa’ me! You want to just have a meeting after Professor fucking Trelawney here told me I’m gonna die!?”

She slams her fist on the table and faintly registers Brooke jumping at the noise–she makes a note to apologize later–and turns to Yvie. “What. Did. You. See?” She forces out through clenched teeth.

Yvie pales. “I saw a clock tower by a cemetery.”

“That fucking fits,” Vanessa snarls, her nose almost touching Yvie’s.

“The clock was cracked. It was stuck at 11:03. There was snow on the ground. Your hair was up–that’s why I didn’t realize it was you at first. Brooke’s face was bleeding and she was holding you. That’s all I saw.”

“How’d you know I was dead?”

“I can’t explain it, but I know. It’s a feeling I get.”

“You can’t see more?” Vanessa demands.

“It doesn’t work like that,” Yvie retreats with a sigh. “I get them randomly, I can’t control it. Usually I don’t even know what I’m seeing.”

Her hands curl into fists, heat pulsing in her fingertips.

“Can we avoid it?” Silk cuts in. “Or is it inevitable?”

“Well, they always happen, but sometimes not how I expect. Like, one time I saw a guy bleeding, but he was attacking someone. He was the bad guy. They’re not always what they seem. Maybe we can save you, or-”

“Me being dead seems like me being dead!”

“If you’re done yelling, you might want to take care of your girlfriend,” Scarlet interrupts coolly.

She suddenly notices the unmistakable sound of someone throwing up. Brooke is hunched over the garbage while A’Keria rubs her back. She straightens up and walks out, whole body shaking.

Shit.

“I-I’m sorry,” she says to Yvie, rubbing her eyes. “Gimme a minute.”

She sprints into the hall and is greeted by a hole in the wall flecked with red. Brooke’s head is in her hands, the knuckles on her right hand already light purple and bleeding.

“Brooke,” she whispers. Brooke looks up and Vanessa’s heart breaks at her red eyes and the tears spilling down her cheeks. Her breaths are quick and shallow.

“Baby,” she breathes, wiping Brooke’s tears with her thumb.

“I don’t want you to die!” Brooke sobs, sounding like a wounded animal.

“Hey, shh, it’s okay. Breathe, Brooke.” She puts on her brave voice, not sure who it’s for. “You heard Yvie. There might be a way around this. I ain’t going down without a fight. It’ll take more than that to get rid of me. I’m like a damn cockroach.”

Brooke smiles weakly but the tears are still flowing, and Vanessa holds her and pets her hair. Her own tears well up but don’t fall.

She whispers that it’s okay as Brooke’s trembling eases and her ragged breathing steadies.

If only she believed it. —

They get Brooke’s hand bandaged and Vanessa almost wishes she could wrap herself in a bandage, like a cocoon, and never come out.

“Do you need anything?” Brooke asks once they’re home. Vanessa truly can’t figure out what she needs.

“I’m going for a walk,” she says.

Brooke nods wearily. Vanessa hears a choked scream and something shattering after she leaves.

The sky is gray. She can feel the rain coming but keeps walking, leaves crunching as she stomps down the sidewalk, feet carrying her to her mother’s grave. Not that there had been anything to bury after the fire.

There’d be snow on the ground. The snow was usually gone around March. Did she really have less than six months? Did she really survive the fire, survive everything the past few years, to be denied seeing spring flowers poke through the ground?

No. Her throat is tight and she refuses to think about it. She’s cheated death once. She can do it again.

Thunder cracks like the sky has split in two. Raindrops pound against the earth, everything awash in gray.

Pouring rain while she cries in a cemetery. What a fucking cliché. Within seconds she’s soaked, but she doesn’t move. She stands there until her clothes are heavy and dripping and she can’t tell if the wetness on her face is from tears or raindrops.

She has no idea how much time passes, rain chilling her bones, teeth chattering, when suddenly a too-big coat is draped around her shoulders. She looks up and sees Brooke, T-shirt clinging to her shivering skin, hair drenched. Her eyes are redder than before and Vanessa figures she must have cried the entire time she was gone. Vanessa can just discern Bertha parked behind her.

“You drove here? Brooke, you’re afraid to drive.”

“I had to come get you.”

Vanessa slams her face against Brooke’s chest and cries as the rain beats down, her life one cliché after another. Brooke’s arms are so strong and secure it feels like Yvie’s vision isn’t a possibility. Like nothing could ever hurt her.

Brooke drives her home, white-knuckled grip on the wheel, worry shining in her eyes. Vanessa won’t let go of Brooke’s coat; not as she shuffles past tiny beads of broken glass from whatever Brooke smashed on the floor, not as Brooke puts her into warm pajamas and tucks her into bed. The lavender scent fills her as she drifts off. —

Two days later Vanessa wakes up thinking Yvie’s vision might be better than her stuffy head and burning nose.

Brooke rolls over and coughs harshly. “Ness, I think something’s wrong with me,” she says fearfully.

Vanessa feels a tiny stab of guilt, but at least there’s someone to be sick and miserable with her.

“We’re sick, Brooke,” she rasps, throat desert-dry. “That’s the last time I dramatically cry in the rain.”

She hears a key clicking in the lock, muffled cursing as something clatters against the door.

“Do you think someone’s coming to kill us?” Brooke sneezes twice and fumbles for tissues on the nightstand.

“If they are I might let them,” Vanessa groans, burying her face in the pillow to smother her pounding headache.

“Your savior has arrived,” A’Keria chirps in the doorway, bags hanging off her arm. “I knew you two were getting sick.”

A’Keria unloads a pharmacy’s worth of tissues, orange juice, and pills. She gives them cold medicine and steaming bowls of chicken soup. Brooke seems shocked to have someone taking care of her when she’s sick, and Vanessa tries not to think about that, not sure her body can hold any more anger toward the lab.

They huddle in bed and watch Schitt’s Creek, and Brooke falls asleep with her head on Vanessa’s shoulder, and aside from feeling like shit, it’s kind of nice.

Vanessa hopes the nice days aren’t numbered. —

Despite the ticking clock above her head, the next few weeks just…pass by. Like nothing is wrong. It’s mostly because Vanessa won’t acknowledge it. She has plenty of practice burying problems. (They have until it snows. It’s fine. She’s fine).

She’s never backed down from a fight. She liked the thrill, the energy. The problem is, there’s nothing to fight. There’s no villain, no secret lab. She can’t fight her way out, and that might be the scariest part.

She patches things up with Yvie and Scarlet. (If you blow this I will kick you to the curb, Silk had threatened). Luckily they weren’t upset after the meeting, and, inspired by A’Keria’s 5-star “Bitch can bake” review of Brooke’s cooking, they’re part of the Sunday brunch crew.

And Brooke. She sees Nina constantly. She apologizes over and over for the glasses she broke that first day, throws herself into training with Scarlet and Yvie. She nods off during their mostly-uneaten dinner twice in one week.

Vanessa’s not doing much better, despite the lies she tells. It’s like she’s fracturing into different Vanessas, slowly losing the real one. Practical Vanessa does research with Silk and Yvie, reviewing the vision, brainstorming plans. Avoidant Vanessa wants to hole up in bed and never leave. Normal Vanessa doesn’t quite work, as she finds herself desperately clinging to each kiss, each laugh, even each Trader Joe’s run, wondering if it’s the last.

And the Vanessa that’s slowly overpowering the others. Reckless Vanessa, the Vanessa that has decided she’s basically immortal until the snow flies, that destroys speed limits without her seatbelt and takes on dangerous criminals without backup or ear comm. The Vanessa that is daring Yvie’s vision to be wrong by acting in ways she knows full well can get her killed.

She should talk to Nina, talk to someone. But she can’t. She can’t watch Nina’s overly-kind face say her feelings are valid and it’s expected for her to act out but she should cope in a healthier way. (Her coping methods could be worse. She hasn’t even touched her liquor cabinet, though she gazed longingly yesterday). Besides, right now, she can pretend it’s not real. It’s just an image that’s months away. But if she talks about it, it’s a real problem. A problem she has to admit she is helpless against.

“We can talk about it if you want,” Brooke offers one night.

She refuses. —-

“I’m going on patrol,” Vanjie states firmly.

“But Scarlet and Yvie are out-“

“I’m going.”

“I’ll come with you-“

“No. You should stay. Get some sleep, you look exhausted. Don’t wait up or anything.”

Cold winds hits her face. She uses her police scanner and sticks to the streets, and for 4 hours she is in total control, each punch, kick, and smack letting her fight the fact that she can’t fight what’s coming.

She gets home at 3am and finds Brooke half-asleep on the couch, baking show on TV and mug of hot chocolate on the coffee table long since turned cold.

She can’t help but feel that a crack is forming between them.

And she’s holding the chisel. —

“I’ve been thinking…”

“Yeah?” Vanessa cuts her chicken so it looks like she’s eaten.

“I might ask Nina about the anxiety meds.”

“That’s a big step for you,” she says gently.

“Yeah. It’s just…I feel…I feel like I’m always waiting for something bad to happen. And I’m so tired but my brain can’t quiet down, and the flashbacks and panic attacks are getting worse and I just…it’s a lot,” she finishes quietly, head down, and Vanessa sees how deep the bags under her eyes are.

Guilt floods her. She’s noticed Brooke’s body tight like a coiled spring lately, but she’s been too wrapped up in everything to see it was getting that bad, that Brooke was suffering so much. “I’m sorry, baby. I should have known you haven’t been doing so well.”

“Don’t apologize. You have to focus on yourself too.”

“Still,” Vanessa insists. “So, meds, huh? You know there’s no shame in asking for help,” she says, sensing Brooke’s apprehension.

“I know. But I…I’m still kinda scared to take them. The lab never–it was bad to take anything besides what they gave me, and I’m afraid the meds will make me feel like theirs did…”

Sometimes Vanessa doesn’t think she can hate the lab more than she does. Then she hears this and wishes she could have personally ended everyone that worked there. “Brooke, you’re not bad for taking them, okay? The meds won’t be like the lab’s. They’ll make you feel better.”

“Okay.”

She still hasn’t brought the prescription home. —

They have their first group patrol, Scarlet in a deep red suit with gold piping and a gold double-S and Yvie in bright green with a purple eyeball, all of them with reinforced ear comms to protect against Scarlet’s screams. They follow Silk’s call to a street cracked down the center, pavement warped and crumbled like a giant stomped on the road.

“It’s like an earthquake,” Vanjie mutters.

“Does anyone hear crying?” Scarlet asks.

Vanjie hears faint wailing down the street, where a black car is upside down. “Shit, there’s a kid.”

The parents are unconscious and Vanjie doesn’t want to risk moving them. The girl is maybe four, screaming her little lungs out.

“Third Eye-”

“Yvie!”

“Whatever, call an ambulance,” Vanjie commands. “Frost, Scarlet, hold the car steady.”

She rips the door off and chucks it on the sidewalk. The girl’s cries pierce her ears. “I’m gonna help you,” she whispers as she undoes the car seat buckle and catches the girl.

“You’re alright.” Vanjie sets her down. She reaches for the emergency candy in her belt and hands her a chocolate bar, which she munches happily.

“She’s bleeding,” Frost notes, pointing to a cut on her forehead.

“Paramedics are coming. A doctor can check her,” Yvie tells them.

The girl squirms in fear. Vanjie scrapes her brain for any remnants of her brief and unsuccessful babysitting career as a 16-year-old. She’s prepared to comfort her like she comforts Brooke, minus the kisses, when the girl cries for her mommy and Vanjie freezes. How can she compare to a mom? What if she makes things worse?

Another small voice, one she ignores, rings in her head: I want my mom too.

Frost drops down on one knee. “Doctors can be scary, huh?” She asks softly.

The girl nods passionately.

“I get scared of them too.”

“But you’re a superhero!” She exclaims in surprise, tears slowing.

“I know. Even superheroes get scared. But you know what? Whenever I go to the doctor, my friend Vanjie stays with me, and it’s not so scary. And I-I’ll stay with you now, and it won’t be scary. Okay?”

The girl nods as the ambulance pulls up. Frost stands beside the stretcher while the EMT’s bandage her forehead, tells her she’s so brave, and Vanjie melts at the exchange. She finds herself dreaming of a future for them–a future with a cozy little house and the animals at their feet, without secret labs and death visions looming over their heads.

“I think this was someone with powers. There’s no damage anywhere else,” Silk reasons in her ear, cutting through the fantasy. “There’s a break-in at a warehouse two blocks over. Could be the same person.”

“Ready?” Yvie asks.

“Ready,” Vanjie answers, and they take off, meeting an old industrial warehouse, windows boarded up, paint peeling and grimy.

“It looks abandoned,” Frost observes. “Why would someone break in?”

“Guess we’ll find out.” Vanjie leads them through the rusty door.

The inside is clearly not abandoned. There’s shiny lab tables covered with vials and chemicals, armchairs against one wall, and a fridge in the corner.

They’ve barely entered when the door slams shut. Vanjie pulls with all her strength, but it doesn’t budge.

Her fire, Frost’s ice, and Scarlet’s sonic-screams all bounce off harmlessly. They try to reach Silk and receive crackling static.

“We’re stuck,” Yvie states plainly.

“No shit, Sherlock!” Vanjie snaps. “Funny you couldn’t see us getting stuck but you got no trouble seeing me die!”

“For the thousandth time, it doesn’t work like that!”

“How long before Silk realizes something’s up and comes to get us?” Vanjie shifts gears.

“Time is a construct.”

“Fuck off, Yvie!” Vanjie and Scarlet bark together.

“This was a trap,” Yvie replies calmly.

“Again, no shit.”

“No, think about it. Comms blocked? The walls being fire and ice and Scarlet-proof? They wanted us specifically.”

“Who, though?” Vanjie softens. “And why us?”

There’s light tapping on her shoulder. She spins around to see Frost, sweat beading on her forehead. “Windows,” she says quietly.

“Windows!” She exclaims in realization. “Alright,” Vanjie waves the others over. “The windows are boarded up. We can break through, we just need a way up.”

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” a voice says suddenly.

Two men appear out of the shadows, one in bright yellow, one in muddy brown.

“Who the hell are you?” Vanjie demands. “You got some ugly-ass costumes. You look like a damn banana.”

“Call me Shockwave,” the man in yellow says.

“Quake,” replies the man in brown.

“Am I supposed to know you and your cheesy as hell names?” If she distracts them long enough, the others can escape.

“You don’t, but she does,” Quake jabs at Frost.

Vanjie does not like where this is going.

Frost’s head snaps up. “Wh-what do you mean?”

“Well, maybe I misspoke. Precious little Frost wasn’t allowed to see us.”

“I’m surprised you’re still functioning,” Shockwave taunts. “I thought your brain would be mush by now. That’s what happened to the one before you. The General put her out of her misery. But I think we’ll have some fun with you,” he sneers. He rushes at Frost, whipping out a knife and holding it against her throat as she quivers.

“If you hurt her…if you even touch her, I swear to God I’ll kill you,” Vanjie feels the heat rising, hands erupting into flame.

“Anybody moves, your girlfriend gets it,” Shockwave threatens. The flames die out.

“I-I don’t-” Frost starts.

“You don’t know us, but we know you,” Quake says. “We made the drugs that made you. We spent years on them. Then the General stole our ideas and used them on you and his other pets. We never got any credit. It all went to you. And you didn’t even deserve it.”

It hits Vanjie like a truck. Two scientists that made drugs at the lab. Two missing employees from last month. But it can’t be. They’re dead, Silk had proof–

“But guess what?” Shockwave tosses the knife away and shoves Frost to the ground. “You’re not the only one with powers now.”

Circuits of lightning buzz around his hands. He forms the crackling tendrils into a ball and aims it at Frost, who hasn’t moved. She has that blank, far-away look in her eyes that still scares Vanjie no matter how many times she sees it. She’s trapped in her mind, and Vanjie can’t get her out.

She won’t even know it’s coming.

Shockwave rears his arm back and she launches a fireball. It distracts him enough for Yvie to lunge at him and Scarlet to go after Quake, the noises faint and distant as Vanjie rushes toward Frost.

There is no recognition or awareness in the green eyes. All she can do is wait for Frost—Brooke, really—to come back to her. She moves Frost into her lap and takes her hand, ice-cold and clammy, forcing down the fear as the seconds tick by and the fight rages on.

Frost bolts up, head whipping around wildly.

“You’re okay,” Vanjie soothes quickly. “I’m here.” She helps Frost control her breathing. She squeezes her hand tighter, feels her pulse slow.

“They escaped through the back and we lost them,” Scarlet mutters, appearing from a corner of the warehouse. Her lip is bleeding but she’s fussing over Yvie, who looks unharmed and swats her worried hands away.

Their concerned gazes burn into her, and she shifts to cover Frost better. They don’t know what happened to her and Vanjie plans to keep it that way.

The door flies open with a clang. Silk stands in the doorway, bolt-cutters in hand.

“Get in the car,” she barks.

Vanjie helps Frost into the car, allowing herself a sigh of relief once they’re speeding away. But she knows the relief won’t last.

A storm is coming. —

It’s a quiet night. They’ve hardly said two words since Silk’s call that Shockwave and Quake match the descriptions of the two supposedly dead employees, and Brooke’s voice is hoarse when it tickles Vanessa’s ear.

“Vanessa?”

“Yeah?”

“I think I’m ready to read my file.”

#rpdr fanfiction #brooke lynn hytes #vanessa vanjie mateo #yvie oddly #scarlet envy #branjie #hurt/comfort #angst #lesbian au #superhero au #overpowered #athena2 #tw violence #tw unhealthy coping #concrit welcome #submission

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araminia16 · 6 years ago

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Illness or Not? (Part 2-First Trimester) Rated T (Not an Illness After All)

“Wait, Rayla. Let me get that.” Callum hurried over to her and lifted the box in his stick-like arms. He struggled a little to put it up on the shelf and Rayla sighed softly in annoyance. She had been with child all of two weeks now and Callum as well as the rest of the male population seemed to think she couldn’t lift but a wee pinky lest she crumble like a castle made of sand. The first few days she thought it was adorable and sweet he wanted to make sure she didn’t overexert herself. Her energy level hadn’t improved with the past two weeks either though the nausea came and went at odd times.

He turned to her and his eyes widened as she took on a green tinge. He had darted across the bedroom to the lavatory as Rayla hurried before she began to heave up the contents of her breakfast. Callum took her pale hair in hand and held it back from her face as he rubbed her back in circles. The motion soothed her as the heaves subsided. He hated to see her sick but knew from what the healers had told them it should pass in a few weeks. “Water?”

“Yes.” She panted out and he handed her the glass next to him for just this situation. It never hurt to be over prepared. Rayla took a few swallows from her seat on the floor and sighed. “This little beast is already going to be punished before it’s even born.”

“It’s not the baby’s fault.”

“No. It’s yours.” She grumbled and stood as he let her hair fall back. “You and your--.” She gestured to his groin. “I wouldn’t be in this mess without that.”

“Excuse me. It takes two to make a child and you didn't’ complain when it happened. In fact I think I heard the words ‘Callum please. I need you.’ So don’t give me that.” He realized he had probably said the wrong thing when her eyes narrowed.

He didn’t wait for her to land her blow to the side of his head. “What did you just say then? I think I misheard you.”

“Sorry, Rayla. I didn't’ mean it. It’s just I’m--.” He dodged a projectile thrown his way as he darted across the room.

“Ya didn’t mean it? Well how about you carry this wee creatures inside ya then? Have it upset your stomach and breasts and make ya feel so tired you can barely keep yer eyes open? I could sit there and spout about how it takes two.” She lobbed pillows and clothes at him mostly until they both were winded. Then after a beat tears began to pour down her cheeks and she wailed. “I’m sorry I didn’t mean to try to hurt ya.”

He approached then more comfortable with her tears than her rage. He managed to sit onto the bed and pull her into his shoulder as her body heaved with sobs. “Shhh. It’s okay. I shouldn’t have said that. You didn’t do anything wrong.” He rubbed her back as she wet his clothes and sniffled.

The mood swings were something they were both now used to. Her rage, then sadness, then happiness and nausea were interchangeable at the drop of a hat. Callum could usually navigate them decently well and keep her happy but there were times where he couldn’t.

“I’m hungry but the potions aren’t working to keep me from being ill. I can’t eat and I just want ta sleep but I can’t. I need ta train and keep up watch for Ezran.”

That had been a topic of discussion since her pregnancy had been revealed. Her work as a member of the Crownguard. More than qualified when she came to live in Katolis Ezran had fervently agreed to her appointment and she had more than proved her worth in the past few years to him. She wanted to continue to train and serve and Callum had some concerns about both those things.

“Will you want to guard him up to when it’s born?” He asked quietly.

“Well no, of course no’.” She mumbled into his shoulder, “Just fer now. I’m not even showing and it’s barely bigger than a seed from what they told us. The healer said I could do everything I did before.”

“I know but maybe you should think about taking a few days to rest.”

She didn’t reply and he looked down to find her eyes closed and in a light doze on his shoulder.

Callum bent down to kiss her head, “I love you.”

She mumbled something back to him as he shifted her around and laid back onto the bed with her head still cradled atop his shoulder. At least she slept now.

But as they thought the nausea had improved one day a week later they were proved wrong as every little change in motion, scent or just a stray wind had her at the lavatory. Callum sat at her side and offered her sips of fizzed water with crackers. A remedy for nausea one of the older ladies had given him. Rayla tried to take in the water she lost with each upheaval to her digestion as best as she had been able and they thought they could beat it. The tonics didn’t work and each day she weakened.

Bedridden now at a solid week of nothing but vomit Callum carried Rayla to the physician and once the healer laid eyes on her he rushed over and barked orders to his assistants. Callum couldn’t hear them for the way Rayla’s chest seemed to rise and fall too fast and the thready way her heart beat in her wrist as he pulled it up to his mouth.

“What’s wrong?” Rayla croaked out to the healer. “Is the bairn well?”

Callum cared about the baby. Of course he did but the baby was nothing compared to her. Whatever this was would kill her if it kept up. “Let’s worry about you right now.”

“You seem to have one of the worse case of morning sickness I have seen yet.”

“What does that mean?” Callum didn’t mean to sound harsh but he couldn’t help it.

“It happens sometimes to mothers. No one is quite sure why. Something their bodies make too much of is the theory. Most recover with time.” The unspoken end to his sentence set Callum’s heart to ice.

“How do we fix it?”

“How long has she been this way?” The physician pinched up her skin and watched as it tented and fell back into place slowly. He took stock of her eyes, then of her mouth where she bared her teeth at him. “

“A week. I thought we were keeping ahead of it.”

“Apparently not. She should have been brought here on the third day. Has she been eating?”

Callum already felt as if he had failed as a husband and now a father in name only. “No. Of course not. She keeps throwing everything up. Water. Crackers. She’s dry and hungry and nothing comes up but bile anymore.” He half yelled as his fists clenched and the air around them sped up.

The healer put his hands up in placation as Rayla extended a weak hand to Callum to reassure him and he tried to relax.

“There are things we can do. Try hydration, a topical mixture, to attempt to contact Elven healers aside from the one who treated you before.” He trailed off and looked uncomfortable then cleared his throat. “Or the most drastic would be to induce a delivery and your symptoms would resolve after the--.”

“No.” Rayla struggled to sit up and put a protective hand over her belly. “No. I will not do that to my child.”

“You heard her. Now fix her.”

“Surely you could find some way to heal her as a mage, Prince Callum?”

“Healing has never been my strength.” Callum stroked her wrist with his thumb.

“Very well.” The healer nodded. Lycas. That was the healers name Callum remembered now.

“Thank you, Lycas.” He nodded and looked back at Rayla who offered him a smile of reassurance.

Luckily, after he spoke via ravens with the healers from the other kingdoms he crafted a hollow needle and tube connected to a bag of water with components within which should calm her nausea. Callum wasn’t sure what it all was about by Lycas seemed confident it should work.

The first day yielded little in result and Rayla continued to vomit up whatever in her stomach she attempted to eat though the assistants had to keep her arm straight as she moved.

The second day was better. She was able to drink and eat a little. The third even better and the by the fourth she had devoured breakfast, lunch and dinner and wanted more food. Ravenous had been the word of the day while Callum brought her every little morsel of food he could. Ezran came to visit a while on the second day and they joked and played cards. It was a favorite pastime between the two of them he hadn’t had much to do with. It had always been better with the three of them.

Rayla smiled at Callum. Her husband and all the love she felt for him doubled, tripled every day and she leaned over a kissed him when he seemed distracted. “What are ya thinking about then?” Her eyes were bright and her skin a healthier sheen.

“Too much.” He offered with a smile and kissed her back. “You almost died. And I can’t help but think it was my fault.”

“No. Not yours.”

“I thought about it.” He confessed softly. “To sacrifice it to save you. I thought maybe elves and humans were never supposed to have children and this was a sign.” He looked down at his hands in shame.

“I know. I was so miserable I even thought about it for a moment. A heartbeat. There’s always another way and we found it again. We are really good at it. Just look at us. An elf and human. With a bairn that could have pinkoes and horns or even a tail for all I know.”

“A tail?” He arched an eyebrow at her.

“Well. Maybe not a tail.” She laughed.

Footsteps and a throat being cleared brought their dual attention to Lycas with a smile on his face. “I am going to release you. But if you should feel even the slightest bit like you did before I want you to come here right away. Don’t wait. Until then you must rest and recuperate. I have given strict orders to the King about your well being and he knows about your bedrest.”

Callum grinned triumphantly, “See. Rest.”

She punched him in the shoulder, “Fine. Get this thing out of my arm. I want to go back to my own bed to ‘rest’.” She spat the word out as if it were a dirty thing.

“I love you.” He whispered in her ear as Lycas left after he pulled the hollow tube from her arm and covered it with a bandage.

“You too, my dumb human. Let’s go.”

XxOxX

As requested here’s a part two. I will do four parts. Each covers a trimester and then birth with some newborn stuff. I’m not sure if this lived up to the hype but I just followed my muse. There will be another chapter in a few days so just keep an eye out. :) Second trimester comes a lot more fluff. It’s more fun without all the fatigue and nausea. Trust me.

#the dragon prince #fanfiction #rated t #rayllum #rayla x callum #callum #rayla #pregnancy #hyperemesis gravidarum #medical talk #fluff #angst #talk of ending pregnancy #ezran #tdp #Illness prompt #Illness or Not?

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nancypullen · 6 years ago

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Quiet Sunday Night

It’s Sunday evening here in middle Tennessee and I’m about to float away. We’ve had so much rain this winter that I’m pretty sure I’m living on an island now. It rained buckets last week. The mister flew in about 8 o’clock Friday night (in the rain) and left again on Saturday morning (it was fixin’ to rain again) and it hasn’t let up since. I’d go get groceries but I don’t have a boat. Every forecast looks like this -

No end in sight. So I’m doing what any sensible woman would do - I’m going to meet girlfriends for lunch tomorrow and then spend the afternoon ruining my hair.

As usual, when left to my own devices I want to make a big change...either the house or my hair, something is getting a treatment. I’ve complained about my hair about a million times on this blog. There’s too much of it, it has a mind of its own, and I have way too much silver for a summer chicken (well, I can’t honestly call myself a spring chicken). I also use heat, both blow drying AND a straightening iron to tame it. I’ve been using Madison Reed hair color to keep it brown, and that stuff is the bombdiggity. My hair has never been healthier, but it’s so darn much work. I want to lighten it up so the gray/white isn’t as noticeable and try to work with the curl and wave instead of against it. I honestly don’t know how to do it, but you know I’ll give it a whirl. I want to go from this (I had to search for the most recent pic, long story) dark and straightened,

to something more like this.

I had to try to blur her face out because she was really young and beautiful and I needed to try to imagine my face inside that hair. I’m afraid that I may end up with something more like this.

But when has that ever stopped me? I snapped this picture after picking up supplies to document the scene of the crime. Can they be held liable for over serving me?

I know that I could go to a salon and pay $150 bucks for them to “start the process” which would entail going back again and again for highlights that would eventually get me where I want to be. Actually I used to have a girl that could do it in one session, but she moved. Or maybe she went into the hair stylist version of the witness protection program to avoid me and my hair. Here’s a very unflattering photo that I sent to my sister after one visit that left me a bit too blonde and too short. But it’s proof that it can be done in a day.

That was a few years ago, my jowls are even more pronounced now. Isn’t it a shame to look back at a photo that once made you cringe and now wish you had just the two chins and minor crows feet? It’s a good lesson. Love what you’ve got today because it’s all in a fight with gravity and no one wins that battle. Ugh. Anyway - I’m ready for a big change. Whether it’s wise or not, we’ll see. I’m very fortunate that even if I end up looking like that middle photo my sweet husband will swear I’m the cutest thing he’s ever seen. It helps that his eyesight isn’t great. It also helps that he doesn’t want me to poison his food. Did I mention that even though he was smack dab in the middle of an exhausting week in New York, he sent flowers on Valentine’s Day? Seriously, the poor guy was working ten and twelve hour days to get a hospital up and running. Outside of work things weren’t much better. One night he got back to his hotel and fell into bed - only to feel a big wet spot from a leak in the ceiling. He had to gather up all of his stuff and move to a new room late at night. Then his rental car got a flat. It was one thing after another - and still he sent these.

He remembered how much I loved the fragrance of the fields of hyacinth in the Netherlands so he sent a bundle of field fresh hyacinth from Bouqs. Our house smells fresh and sweet and like SPRING. Smells like love to me. Hope that you’re heading into this fresh, new week with optimism and hope. I sure am, even the non-stop rain can’t dampen my spirits. Maybe it’s the promise of changing seasons, maybe it’s the promise of a fresh look. Either way, having something to look forward to keeps a heart light. Sending out loads of love and wishes for a happy week! XOXO

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almighty-letu · 7 years ago

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My little test subject: Chapter 12

Chapter 1, chapter 2, chapter 3, chapter 4, chapter 5, chapter 6, chapter 7, chapter 8, chapter 9, chapter 10, and chapter 11

Angsty Tomtord fic with slight Paultryk on the side.

Warning! This fic contains: Foul language, scenes of torture, use of medical tools, drug use, self-harm, suicidal tendencies, violence, self-neglect, blood, and a little bit of stockholm syndrome and force feeding. Viewer discretion is advised.

Done with his exercises for the day, Tom finished his shower and put on a new change of clothes. He was happy to see his old hoodie back, neatly folded over the sink, clean and fixed; good as new. It's been ages since he'd last seen it, when he was forced to take it off in favor for his new uniform, and Tom thought Tord had gone back on his word after their fight and threw the flimsy thing away.

It seems he was proven wrong about him.

After questioning, Paul explained to him that Tord wanted to have him accustomed to the uniform since that's what he will be wearing for most of the time during his permanent stay in the base. But because of his good behaviour during the Red leader's absence, Paul and Pat decided to give him his hoodie back. They figured Tom would want it, since it's the last thing he had to remember his past.

As he put it on, Tom couldn't be more thankful for the kind actions of the two soldiers. He was, quite frankly, tried of wearing the same boring uniform every day. The numbers that were engraved on the tag above his heart always made him feel like a prisoner, or someone inferior to everyone else around him.

Nevertheless, as Tom dressed himself he realized with a start that his hoodie felt somewhat tight on his form. Did they shrink it by accident? The two soldiers, although very nice and polite once he got to know them, weren't always the sharpest tool in the shed. Tom wouldn't be surprised if they did make some sort of mistake when washing it.

However, Tom quickly figured that, it wasn't the hoodie who had shrunk. He's the one who grew into it.

The last time he wore his old hoodie, Tom had been severely malnourished. His clothes hanged loosely around his frame, and hadn't been washed in a while.

Since then, Tom has been kept in a pretty strict diet, done various forms of exercise throughout his stay, and his form is in a much healthier state. Now his hoodie is clinging to his shape quite nicely, and Tom couldn't help but wrap his arms around himself; wistfully recalling his good old days.

"Tom, are you nearly done?"

A knock on the bathroom door, followed by Pat's voice, snapped him out of his brief moment of nostalgia.

"Yeah, hang on!"

Passing a towel through his hair to give it one last dry, Tom quickly adjusted to give off his usual spiky appearance, and walks out.

"Was I in there for too long?" He blurts out, nearly bumping straight into Patrick as he exits the bathroom.

"It's fine." The Polish soldier states, leading them out of the gym and into the hallways. "We're still within our schedule. After all, you must've been pretty tired after the bout of exercises you just did, so I wasn't going to rush you out of your shower." He continued. "Paul told me you did very well on your performance today. He was impressed."

Tom perked up a little. "Really?"

As his condition improved, so did the difficulty of Tom's exercises. At first, he started out with only simple stretches and some warm up rounds; nothing too hazardous for him at the time. But now that he is faring better, Paul would have him run laps around the gym, do pull ups, lift weight, and all kinds of workout tactics that took a lot out of Tom, and by the end he would be completely spent.

Tom wasn't entirely sure why he was expected to do all of this. Sure, to be in perfect condition for the experiments that he dreads so much, that's the main reason why he did these in the first place. But now that his condition is better, how come the exercises are a lot more intense? Tom's best guess is that they don't want to underestimate his improvement and want to keep him as best fit for the experiments as possible. But even that line of reasoning has flaws. His initial exercises were fine enough on their own, especially with the diet he's been kept on.

So why put so much emphasis on physical activities?

Tom tried straight up asking Paul, but the usually carefree soldier avoided his question and just dumped a bunch more exercises for him to do instead.

That certainly did its job in putting Tom off. He sure won't make the same mistake twice and ask him that again. Tom isn't keen on exerting himself more than necessary.

He decided to try his luck out with Pat. It can't possibly end worse than it did with Paul, and it is worth a shot.

"Oh yes!" Patrick nodded, continuing their conversation. "Although he admits you run out of breath quite easily, and you still struggle with some of the exercises, he told me that you have a lot of endurance and what you lack for in stamina, you make up for it in speed. Not bad if I say so myself." He went on. "With a few more weeks of practice, I am sure you'll be more at ease."

"Yeah, that's kind of what I wanted to ask about." Tom broke in, choosing his words so he won't set the Polish soldier off in the wrong way like he did with Paul earlier. "Why am I required to go through all of this? I get that's for my condition and all, but I feel this is all much too complicated just to keep me in shape."

Pat's demeanor changed, and his expression darkened slightly. Tom watched him wearily, waiting for a response and somewhat unsettled for the sudden mood reversal.

Patrick sighs. "I wish I could tell you, honestly I do." He shook his head. "But Red Leader would not share with us the reasoning behind this decision." Glancing back at Tom, he continued. "We send him updates regarding the improvement of your condition while he is away; his orders, you know? When we agreed that you were suitable enough to try out more complicated activities, Red Leader issued an order for us to do so until his return."

Tom frowned. "Seriously?" He asks incredulously. "Doesn't that seem kind of shady to you? Keeping secrets and sh#t?"

"Well, he is our leader." Pat points out with a matter-of-fact tone. "Although I agree that we should've been consulted before making a decision regarding this project, or whatever it is he has in store for you, as his loyal soldiers we must trust the judgement of our leader. He isn't stupid, after all. A bit rash at times, and reckless; certainly! But he knows what he's doing most of time."

"I wouldn't trust Tord so much if I wer-"

Tom's words died out as he broke off into a coughing fit. Pat stops and glances at him in concern.

"Thomas? Are you alright?" He approached the Brit. "I hope you're not getting sick again, or that'll be terrible." He placed the palm of his hand over his forehead, checking for his temperature.

Tom brushed him away. "I'm fine- it's just a sore throat."

Pat stared at him and then nodded his head in acknowledgement. "I'll make you some tea when we reach my study. That should fix it."

Tom glanced up at him with disappointment. "Tea?" He echoes. "You mean, no more of that juice I like?"

"Just for today." Pat suppressed a chuckle of amusement as he observes Tom pout, reminding him of a child who's been denied having ice cream before dinner.

Before long, they had reached the familiar oak wooden door. Patrick twisted the knob and stepped aside, letting Tom enter the cozy study first before following him in.

They made some small talk as Pat prepared their tea, mostly chatting about their drinking preferences, which progressively escalated into other topics; mostly morning routines and breakfast.

"No way!" Tom laughed, leaning against the kitchen counter. "Are you serious?"

"Trust me, sometimes I wished I was making this stuff up, but I'm not." Standing next to him, Pat shot him a glance while rummaging through the cupboard for teacups. "I swear, when those two are off-duty they behave like a pair of toddlers." He continues. "Thankfully their antics often fall more in the cute category rather than obnoxious. However, I admit it's difficulty at times to take their ranks seriously when I know what they're really like behind the curtains."

Chuckling, Tom swept a hand through his semi-dry locks. It's so odd to think just how much he's gotten used to the presence of the two soldiers, his environment, and day-to-day basis in general. It all felt natural to him now.

Tom theorized things would be a lot more different if Tord hadn't left, but he isn't going to contemplate what it could've been and instead he'll just enjoy what he got. Tom hopes things stay this way for a while longer, with Tord as far away as possible.

When all was set and done, Patrick handed him his tea and they returned to the study. Tom settled down on his usual leather seat, careful not to spill any of his beverage on himself or the expensive looking carpet. Across from him, Pat sits down on his own seat and pulls out his tablet and the delicately, thin glasses that he keeps in his breast pocket.

"So Tom, how are you feeling today?" He began.

The eyeless test subject sipped on the blue teacup; filled to the brim with steaming hot tea laced with honey, gently blowing on it so he would not accidentally burn his own tongue.

"I'm fine, I guess…" Tom muttered between the tiny sips he took from his tea.

"What about your withdrawal? Have you been feeling nauseous lately, or any other symptoms?" Patrick prompted, sitting back in his recliner chair with his reading glasses on, and typing on his tablet.

"A little. I haven't puked in a long while, so there's that." Tom shrugged, placing the tea down over the glass table that separated him and the Red Army General.

"How would you describe the overall experience?"

"Would not recommend." Tom jokes with a slight chuckle. He then paused. All traces of humor gone from his features, as his expression grew somber. "It was terrible." He answered quietly. "For the most part, it felt like someone was scraping my bones constantly or something." He murmured under his breath, his gaze drifting downward. "Or like, I don't know… spiders crawling through my veins, that have been simultaneously set on fire." He stopped, reframing himself from getting too carried away and spill unneeded information on his condition.

The worst sensation by far, is when that same fire goes out and leaves Tom with an empty, freezing feeling. It's what he'd imagine dying must be like. And just when he thought he'd gotten used to the cold, the fire ignites once more, and the process starts all over again. Going in and out of death repeatedly.

Living and dying…

"Don't get too ahead of yourself now…~"

A dark haze suddenly surrounded his mind and tainted his vision. Breathing out a tired sigh, Tom mustered all of his self-will to not flinch or react in any way at the unexpected, intrusive thought.

No. Not a thought…

But a voice.

The voice.

He was wondering when it would show its ugly presence back into his messed-up life. It would've been a matter of time anyway. Since he no longer has access to alcohol or anything sharp on standby, of course the voice would show up again sooner or later. Tom just wished he had more time to brace himself for this occasion.

Not now.

A cold, and yet amused chuckle echoed throughout his head, sending shivers down Tom's spine.

The voice is just that. A voice. It has no form, shape or appearance. However, it still feels very physical. Tom has gotten so used to its antics that he could detect its presence whenever it starts to act up, mostly because the atmosphere around him immediately gets tense until the voice quiets down again. It always gave Tom the impression that it was lingering somewhere behind him, hovering just a bit over his shoulder to whisper nasty remarks and sweet nothings into his mind; like a thought, drifting in the back of his head. And it sounds very reminiscent to the hiss of a snake, with poison dripping from each word it utters to burn, and brand onto his skin. The volume constantly fluctuates as well. A mere hushed whisper and a loud, booming shout at the same time. Not to mention that every word spoken by it felt like a different sensation running through him each time; ranging from the feeling of cold hands with sharp nails roaming along his body, to various methods of injury being inflicted on him. The amount of pain he would receive usually depending on what exactly the voice says.

It is a painful process that usually takes a lot out of him, especially back in the first few incidents. Now days, Tom barely reacts, if at all, when being administered with this mental torture. On the outside, he may be calm and collected. But on the inside, Tom felt he was cast in a dark room, strapped to a chair and relentlessly tortured. It's been a while since the last time he went through with this, sure, but a few months of its absence in his life is nothing compared to the years he had to endure with it in the first place.

And Tom has tried to get rid of it, in non-harmful tactics that is, before going to more extreme measures.

He knows it is not real.

There is no one behind him.

Nothing impaling or stabbing through him.

And there's definitely no intrusive, probing hands roaming over his body.

It's all just a figment of his head. Nothing more than a trick, crafted by his broken mind to play a sick joke on him. Of course he told himself those things!

But the comments the voice makes just get to him, growing increasingly more excruciating than the last.

After a while though, Tom just had to face the fact that the voice, whatever it really is, just isn't going away by mere use of logic, reason, or even wishful thinking.

Back to reality, Tom watched Patrick type something down in his tablet through half-lidded eyes, doing his best to ignore the mocking presence currently looming over him.

It's a shame that; whatever trace of good humor he had acquired during his previous talk with Pat, or even his earlier run of exercises, as tiring as they may be, with Paul, has been completely ruined by the voice's arrival.

"That was kind of a… morbid way to put it. But somewhat poetic as well." Pat commented, slightly baffled. "Are you a fan of poetry by any chance?"

"Me? Nah! Not really my thing." Tom shook his head. "But musician on the other hand-" He snapped his fingers. "That is more my area of expertise." He leaned back on his chair, deep in thought. "Back when I was in early high school, I used to write some tunes on my notebooks during class; mostly out of boredom. Then I would later play them with Susan."

Patrick continued to type as he talked. "Susan?" he inquired, raising an eyebrow and shooting him a curious glance. "Your girlfriend by any chance?"

A small laugh escaped the Brit. "My bass guitar." He corrected.

"My apologies." Pat bowed his head in understanding, typing another bullet point. "So you play the bass. And those tunes you mentioned, do you still play them?"

"On occasion." Tom replied with a shrug. "Susan is unfortunately kind of old, and has definitely seen better days. But I still love the old babe."

"How ironic! ~" The voice exclaims with a taunting tone. "You claim to love it, and yet you still let it get all broken up and mangled; not even bothering to properly repair it afterward. ~" It hissed harshly into his ear. "Is that any way to treat the ones you value? Use them however you want and then leave them broken? Like how you did with your friends…~"

Clenching his jaw so tight he was sure his teeth would shatter, Tom inwardly flinched at the remark.

Shut up!

"Did I touch a sore spot? ~" The voice continued to mock. A cold, phantom and yet tangible hand trailed upwards cross Tom's back. "Ops~"

His fingers curled inward until his knuckles turned white from the pressure.

"So you like music." Patrick commented, adjusting the glasses on his face and completely oblivious to Tom's discomfort. "When do you think this interest first developed?"

Tom wracked his brain for memories. "I think I might've been six-ish?" He replied, not too sure of himself. "My dad took me to see a music festival that was happening near town. Everything was so colorful, bright and loud back then it ended up making an impression on me." He recalled fondly, too busy remembering the details of his past to mind the lingering voice at the moment. "Ever since then, I wanted to get a guitar of my own really badly. But my parents weren't the best ones off financially, and dad dying worsened things…"

"His death is on you. It should not have happened. ~"The voice butted in to comment absentmindedly. Spectral limbs roamed along Tom's back and arms, tracing over his scars with pointy-sharp nails. Tom suppressed a shiver from rippling down his spine. "That was your fault. If you hadn't insisted on going fishing that day, your father would still be alive. It's your fault he is dead! ~" The intrusive hands did not halt their actions when Tom held back from crying out at the sudden, excruciating sensation of getting impaled through the chest.

"It wasn't until years later I finally managed to save up enough money to buy Susan." Tom went on, nearly choking in the process but managing to hold himself together despite the burning pain he felt in response to the voice's harsh remark. "And I practiced with her ever since."

"Interesting." Finishing his last bullet point, Pat clasped his hands together. "Now Tom, I would like to go a little off topic for a moment. If you wouldn't mind, I think discussing this next issue could be beneficial for you."

Tom raised one of his eyebrows quizzically. "Okay?" He grew even more weary when more phantom limbs joined the first pair and massaged his arms. Tom tried his damn hardest not to shiver, but the hairs on the back of his neck and along his arms stood up uncomfortably. If the voice had a shape, Tom suspects it would be grinning insanely right about now.

Patrick sighed. Here goes nothing.

"Let's talk about your friendships."

Tom's reaction to the request was immediate. At once, Pat noticed Tom's feet tap anxiously against the carpeted floor. The Brit had folded his arms; a sign of defensiveness, and his black sockets looked at anywhere but him. Patrick noted down these reactions, filing them under a separate bullet point.

"Thomas?"

"Is that really necessary? I mean, what benefit will that give you in your experiments? Absolutely nothing in the end, let's be real here." Tom began to argue, feeling the presence lurking up behind him grip his shoulders tightly with a different set of hands. "Not to mention that I don't wanna talk about it." He mumbled that last part quietly.

Pat had expected this would happen. "Tom."

"And while we're at it, what is the point of this mental evaluation business?" The Brit continued, going on a rant. "I highly doubt you gave the previous test subjects that kind of treatment, so what makes me so special? And I am positively certain that, whatever my state of mind is, it won't affect anything in the experiments so it just seems like a gigantic waste of time and effort on your part." He argued defensively, attempting to evade the brought-up subject.

"I am simply heeding Red Leader's orders." Patrick responds calmly, looking at Tom with patient eyes. "I know how hard all of this is for you." He gestured to his surroundings.

Duh! Tom narrowed his eyes. You don't even know the half of it! He felt the tight pressure build on his shoulders as the presence continuously towered over him.

"But I need your collaboration here, for your own wellbeing."

The voice barked out a cruel laugh. "Wellbeing? That's just a cute way of saying that they need you to be their obedient little subject for the sake of their world domination plans. ~" As it spoke, Tom felt it grip the back of his scalp tightly, and pull, creating an awful pressure in his head. Tom did not have much time to dwell on it, when he sensed another phantom hand snake around his neck and repeatedly tap the side of his throat with sharp nails. "After all, why would anyone in their right mind care for whatever happens to you, unless it benefited them? ~"

Tom took a deep breath, trying to keep himself calm and ignore all the uncomfortable sensations running through him right now. "I just- I really don't wanna talk about this."

"Is this about Tord?" Pat's question cut through him. "If that's the case, you can leave him out-"

"No! It's not about him!" Tom protested, and then paused. "Well, it kind of is. But that's not the point I'm trying to make here!"

Leaning forward in his seat, Patrick stared at him from across the coffee table. "Then what is?" His honeyed green eyes blinked sympathetically.

Glancing away and still fidgeting in his seat, Tom breathed out an exasperated sigh. "Just- just everything!" He cried. "I miss them a lot, Pat. I miss them so much, and it hurts to even think about them, let alone talk!" Tom blurted out, using every ounce of strength within himself to maintain calm. "How can you possibly expect me to just forget everything that happened so far, and just talk about them as if there's nothing wrong?" From behind, he practically could feel the entity smirk. "Aww, are you about to cry? ~" It mocked him. Something pointy and sharp wandered over his shoulder blades. "You're so weak, and pathetic! Can't even handle your own problems properly! ~" It continued to hiss into Tom's head. "But I admit; It is highly amusing to watch you struggle. ~"

Patrick blinked perplexed. He'd already guessed the Brit's feelings on the subject, but to hear them being confirmed out loud by Tom himself was an improvement. It was clear that Tom has grown to trust him, and Paul as well. Of course, it's not all sunshine and lollipops for the three of them; Tom tends to argue with them once in a while, but Pat and Paul have spent far too much time with their leader to be troubled by Tom's stubbornness. Still, the last thing Patrick wants to do right now is break this carefully built trust.

Pat's gaze softened, sensing his discomfort. "Keeping these feelings to yourself won't do you any good either." He murmured, choosing his words carefully to gently coax the eyeless man to follow his line of thinking. "I am by no means demanding you to outright tell me everything. It is only natural to keep things to yourself in an environment such as this, and in your situation. I understand, believe me I do. Take your time, and go at your own pace." Pat reassured him. "Speak what you can, even if it's the tiniest detail or seems to be insignificant to you. Trust me, by the end you might feel a little more relieved."

"I- I can't."

"You won't know for certain unless you give a try." Pat added.

Before Tom could fully process his words, he felt the pressure on his scalp be released, and the spectral limb move downward to grab a firm grip of the back of his neck, while the other hand that had been poking the side of his throat went unusually still. Tom knows all too well at this point that this is a warning sign to watch for what he is about to say next.

Breathing in a shaky sigh, Tom composed himself. I-I can do this. He echoed, already beginning to feel upset at the mere idea of what he is about to reflect on.

Tom hasn't spoken one word about his friends since his first day in the facility. But perhaps Pat's words hold some truth to them? Maybe he can relieve a little bit of the burden haunting him by calling out to fonder memories? I can do this! He thought decisively."W-we met in kindergarten."

"Uhum?"

"I think it might've been one of my first days." Tom recalled. "I was really nervous and excited, but mostly terrified."

"Any reason in particular?" Pat questions, not looking up from his tablet.

The Brit shrugged. "I was a tad bit shy in my younger years. I wanted to make friends really badly, but I had no idea how to do it." He replied. "I didn't go out a whole lot before starting school, or had much contact with the outside world; so to be suddenly thrown in a strange environment with lots of other kids was overwhelming at the start."

"I see." Pat murmurs with a tiny nod. He was surprised by the Brit's statement. He would've never suspect Tom of ever being shy. "Please continue."

Tom sighed, flexing his fingers to relieve his hold on the chair's arms. Images flashed in his brain, reminding him of two very important people he was forced to leave behind. Pain stabbed Tom's heart; for once, not induced by the voice, but homesickness. It hurt nonetheless, far more than any blade could possibly inflict on him.

"We were in the classroom, just messing around doing kid stuff…"

(Flashback!)

Inside a colorful classroom, various children played together. Shrills of excitement filled place as the young toddlers participated in different activities. Some played tag, others played with dolls and toys, and a few other kids were quietly scribbling on a blank sheet of paper with crayons.

Among the group of quiet kids, a boy with spiky hair and black, empty eyes, furiously scrawled on a piece of paper he grabbed from the teacher's desk. His brows are furrowed and his tongue is subconsciously poking out of his mouth in deep concentration.

He pauses to admire his work, nodding in silent approval at his progress before resuming. "Something is missing…" He observed with a pensive hum, looking at the crude drawing of him and his family, smiling together as they skipped around in a meadow. "Of course! It needs more colors!"

He stretched out his hand towards the red plastic crate, stocked full of various art supplies, next to him and randomly grabbed any crayon he could reach. Adding it to his drawing he quickly switched to a different one, swapping colors repeatedly throughout the whole process.

Blowing away the tiny specks of crayon that lingered on the paper, the child picked up his drawing. "That's better!" He exclaims. "Now I just need one more color…" He reached for the crate again, expecting his fingers to wrap around the familiar, small object of his choosing.

Imagine his surprise when his hand met something warm and clammy instead.

The child jumped in his seat in surprise at the unexpected contact. He whipped his head, his gaze landing on a boy, looking as equally as startled as he is, standing next to him by the crate of art supplies.

"Sorry!" He blurts out, tearing his hand away from the other kid with a small tinge of crimson coating his cheeks in embarrassment.

The other boy looks down at his hand, curious more than anything. His gaze swerves back to meet with the child's eyeless ones. "It's ok." He answers softly.

The kid in question is a tall boy with brown hair, brown eyes, round facial structure, and fair white complexion. He's wearing a short-sleeved, bright green shirt, with a dark shirt underneath with longer sleeves poking out, beige shorts, and green shoes.

They stared shyly back at each other.

The boy in green rocked on his feet. "Can I take a few things please?" He asks, fumbling with his hands and briefly motioning toward the crate.

"Sure!" The eyeless child nodded toward the crate. "Just- please don't take any of the crayons. I'm using them, ok?"

"I won't." The brown-haired boy nodded, and started to rummage through the art supplies. With that out of the way, the spiky-haired boy turned away and resumed with his drawing; watching the other boy leave through the corner of his vision. He thought that was the end of it, and he would just go back to his not-so-quiet solitude.

But that was not the last he'd seen of him.

Throughout the whole course of the day, the boy clad in green kept returning to take something else out of the crate; looking increasingly more chipper each time he did. The eyeless child at first simply tried ignoring him, but his curiosity increased, and every time he dropped by, he would find himself peaking at the other boy. Strangely enough, he noticed overtime that the brunet was getting messier with each visit. Colourful smudges stained the boy's hands and clothes.

It was when he returned again, this time with a purple stain on the bottom-left of his cheek, that the eyeless child decided to quell his curiosity.

He pretended to be drawing, busying himself as he watched the brunet sideways. The boy was rummaging through the crate again and picked out two jars of paint, before hurriedly leaving the room; occasionally shooting worried glances at the teacher, who was too busy settling a quarrel between two crying girls to really notice him sneaking out.

The eyeless child seized the chance and followed suit. He stored his drawing away in his bag before heading out of the room.

He stepped out of the classroom and found himself in a dim corridor, just in time to see a pair of green shoes disappear around the corner and into the boys' restroom. He hurriedly toddled after, both eager and curious to see what the brunet was up to. Of course, he could just be doing what any other sane person does when going to the restroom. But if that's the case, why was he bringing a bottle of paint with him? Something fishy was going on…

The eyeless toddler grew even more confused when he heard laughter and voices coming from the other side of the restroom door.

Opting not to beat around the bush any longer, the unusual looking toddler pushed the door open.

Truth be told, he wasn't sure what he was expecting to find in there. Was the brunet pulling some sort of prank with the jars of paint, and was anticipatively waiting for some poor fool to wander into the stalls? Just when the eyeless child seriously began to consider in turning back, he froze on the spot; stumbling into the scene before him.

Colourful splatters of paint tainted the white tiled walls, even the floor and mirrors. The giggles are louder now as he stepped farther into the room, until he came across the brunet at the end of the bathroom hall, accompanied by an accomplice. A boy with pale skin, round blue eyes, and bright, well-groomed ginger hair, wearing a baggy purple hoodie, jeans, and purple sneakers sat next to the brunet; looking just as messy as him with stains all over his clothes.

Jars of paint littered by their knees where they sat. The spiky-haired boy watched wide eyed as the brunet dipped his hand into one of the bottles, scooping a handful of blue paint before splattering the white walls.

"See this?" The boy in green pressed his against the wall and smeared the paint all over it. "I'm making the sea!"

The ginger boy clapped excitedly, bouncing on his knees as he watched the display. "Oh! I know! I'm going to draw a huuuge mountain over here!" He proclaims, folding back the sleeves of his hoodie to dip his hand into the jar of black paint. "And with a beautiful forest at the bottom too! Lots of trees and pretty flowers-"

"And animals too! Don't forget about the animals!" The brunet piped in, wiping the paint off his hand on his own shirt.

"Of course n- oh!" The ginger boy stiffens mid-dip into the green jar, his eyes fixed on the peculiar child just standing there, mouth agape in awe as he watched them.

The brunet noticed his companion's reaction and halts. "What?" He turns around, following his line of sight. He perked up in surprise when he saw who it was, and smiled. "Oh hey, you're the kid with the crayons!"

With a tiny, barely audible gasp the eyeless boy steps back and adverts his gaze, fumbling with the straps of his overalls.

"Hello!" The ginger boy waves at him, bursting with glee in an over-exaggerated manner.

The child with spiky hair shyly waves back. "H-hi." He slowly lifts his head back up. "What- what are you doing?" He stutters quietly, almost hesitant to get the question out.

"We're painting!" The brunet replies, gesturing to the smudged wall behind them.

"In the bathroom?" The eyeless boy cocks his head to one side. "The teacher has lots of paper on her desk. If you want I could go and get a few for you-"

"No thanks, we're ok with the wall. There's plenty of space to draw this way!" The child in green responds dismissively. "Hey! Do you wanna paint with us?"

"M-me?!"

"Yes you!" The brunet laughed. "Come on, there's lots of colours to go around and a bunch of space to use."

"And it's real fun too!" The ginger kid added with a wide grin.

Shuffling his feet, the peculiar looking child silently contemplated. These two boys seem very nice and friendly so far, and he'd never been invited to participate in any of the activities by the other kids. He didn't show it much but he was legitimately excited to join them. And the white wall behind them does look very tantalizing to paint on.

"Ok!" He smiles, all previous signs of shyness gone, and he skips over to join the others.

Together, they began to paint the bathroom walls, turning everything from top to bottom into a ginormous mess. An explosion of colours blended into a deformed rainbow of sorts. The three young boys giggled and laughed along with their fun, occasionally showing off their artwork to one another. Various bottles of paint were left open, some even tipped over and scattered all over the floor.

The eyeless child scooped up a load of red paint into his hand, and using just one of his fingers, drew a long line into the white tiles; doing countless swirls, loops, dips, going up and down, left and right, and all over the place.

"Woah!" The brunet watched in awe, kneeling next to him with a dumbfounded expression. "What is it?"

The eyeless boy stepped back with a grin. "A rollercoaster!" He states proudly. "I'm making a theme park!"

"Cool!"

"Hey guys, check out my drawing!" The ginger child calls out to them, gesturing towards his somewhat crummy drawing of a castle.

"Neato!" The bright, eyeless child commented.

"Is there a princess that lives there?" The boy dressed in green prompted.

"Nope! But there is a very beautiful prince!" The ginger goes on, puffing his chest and striking a pose. He raised his chin with a grin. "A wonderful, charming, and very handsome prince-" As he ranted proudly, he lifted one of his hands up to his hair to run it through his striking ginger locks, forgetting that his hands were stained with fresh paint.

"Wait!"

"No don't-!"

The boys tried to stop him, but it was too late. The grimy hand swept through the ginger's hair, tainting it in paint.

"-Who was loved by his, uh, what are they called again? Subjets? No, that's not quite right. Hm." As he continued to contemplate his words, he just kept fumbling with his own hair, creating an even bigger mess. The brunet boy bit his lips, trying to hold in a giggle. The eyeless child stifled a gasp and watched the mess unfold with a gaping mouth. The ginger snapped his fingers, recognition flashing in his blue eyes. "That's right, peasants! He was dearly loved by his peasants!" He paused, taking notice of his friends' reaction. "What?"

"Uhh-"

The ginger rubbed his head in confusion, staring at his companions until reality finally hit him. His eyes widened with shock at the realization, and he stiffened. Slowly he brought his hand down, his hand trembling, looking almost like a scene from a horror movie as he looked back at his paint-tainted hand with despair.

The brunet and the eyeless boy exchanged a worried glance.

"Are you ok-?"

In a fraction of a second, the ginger child rushed past them, heading toward the nearest mirror. He froze once his eyes landed on the dark, smudgy mess that were once luscious orange locks and he shrieked in horror.

"My hair! My beautiful hair! What have I done to you?!" He cried out, grasping the sink with desperation. "Oh no what am I going to do?! My mom is going to kill me!" He gasps, dropping to his knees. "What if I have to cut all of my hair off?!" And with that, the waterworks let loose and he started to cry. "I don't wanna be bald!"

The two boys stood there and watched the ginger sob to his knees, looking concerned but unsure of what to do in this situation.

The eyeless boy rubbed one of his own shoulders, shuffling on his feet. "Should I get the teacher?" He offered.

The brunet's brown eyes brightened and a smile etched onto his face. "No. Stay here with him, I'll be right back!" With no further explanation on whatever it is he's got planned, he bolted out of the bathroom, the door swinging close behind him.

Left alone with the sobbing child, the eyeless boy nervously approached him. He shakily places a hand on the ginger's shoulder and started to pat him in a soothing motion. "It's ok. Everything is going to be ok, don't you worry." Rather than calming him, his words had the opposite effect and the boy clad in purple sobbed more. The eyeless boy stared at him in dismay. "C'mon don't be like that. Your hair isn't even that bad. If anything, I even think it looks cool on you."

Sniffling, the ginger kid risked a glance at him. "Do yo- do you really mean that?"

"Well yeah, of course I d- ARGH!" His words died out when the ginger suddenly enveloped him in a tight hug, his face buried into his chest as he continued to cry. The peculiar looking child wasn't used to hugs, let alone coming from people he hardly knows. Still, he tried his best to console the sad kid dressed in purple. He slowly wrapped his arms around him and patted him on the back. "There there."

The bathroom door swung open as the brunet returned, smiling widely from ear to ear. The eyeless child's expression turned from relief at the sight of him, to confusion when he noticed what he was wielding in his hands.

"What are those for?" He asked quizzically, nodding toward the set of tools the brunet brought with him. A mop. A plunger. And a broom.

Rather than answering him, the brunet threw the items onto the floor, keeping the plunger while he twirled it in his hand. The eyeless boy's furrowed further in confusion. Just what is this guy up to? Even the ginger halted his crying to peek at the scene.

The brunet shot them both a wink, and cleared his throat. "Hear ye hear ye, tragic has befallen the beloved prince!" He announces loudly, as if he were revealing news to a big crowd. "The handsome prince has been cursed by an, uh-"

"An evil witch!" The eyeless boy exclaims, catching onto the brunet's antics and going along with his act. The ginger looked at him with teary blue eyes. "An evil, and very ugly witch!" He went on. "Who was jealous of the handsome prince's beauty."

While he spoke, the boy dressed in green scooped up a bit of red paint and started to doodle on one of the mirrors. "That's right! And now it is up to us-" He backed away, showcasing his exaggerated drawing of a witch. He gestured toward the boy with spiky hair. "-the knights, to defeat the evil witch and break the prince's curse!"

Jumping into action, the unusual looking child pulled away from the still visibly upset ginger kid, and grabbed a hold of the broom. "You'll pay for what you did you mean, old thing!" He vows, aiming the broom at the mirror.

"I'll- I'll fight too." Sniffling, the ginger cracked a small smile and rose to his feet, clearing away the remaining tears clouding his vision. He grabbed the mop.

"Attack!"

With a battle cry, the boy dressed in green charged. Plunger in hand, he stabbed the rubber head onto the mirror, directly onto the witch's face. "Take that!" He laughed victoriously. He tried to pull the plunger out but found it firmly stuck onto the reflective surface. "Oh no, the evil witch set up a trap! And I fell for it!" He cried out, gripping onto the plunger and trying to pull away.

It released with a loud 'pop' sound, making the brunet stagger back in surprise with the force of the pull. In doing so, his feet slipped over the paint drenched floor and he fell onto his back, staining himself in various colours of paint, mixed together.

"I've been hit!" The brunet boy cried out. "Avenge me, friends!" With his last words, he closed his eyes and played dead, sticking his tongue out for dramatic effect.

"No!" The ginger wailed in distress, seeing the body of his fallen companion. He whipped around to face the witch in the mirror. "You may destroy my good looks, but no one hurts my friend and gets away with it!"

Using all his strength, he swung the mop toward the mirror, hoping to strike a hit on the mirror witch. However, it missed its mark a few centimeters too short and hit the sink instead, knocking the tap off and causing water to erupt. The ginger yelled in alarm when the water splashed him square in the face, the strong torrent forcing him to back away.

"My face!" He gagged through a mouthful of water.

"I'll save you!" The eyeless child shouts, running up to the mirror which now contained the deformed drawing of the witch; smudged due to previous attacks. Wielding the broom, he swung it down hard with all of his strength, smashing the mirror with the blunt end of his weapon. The glass shattered into various fragments, distorting the reflection.

The child grinned. "I did it! I got the witch!" He cheered victoriously.

"My hair!" Whirling around he saw the ginger, completely soaking wet, standing before the untouched area of the mirror with relief and admiration in his blue eyes. "My beautiful hair is back! Look!" Running his fingers through his wet hair repeatedly, he appreciated the vibrant soggy orange locks, now spotlessly clean from any evidence of paint. "Woah, I forgot how beautiful I looked." He grinned and cupped his own cheeks, peering into his reflection.

The brunet staggered to his feet, his clothes entirely smudged in paint. "We did it! We broke the curse!" His green eyes gleamed with triumph. "And we restored the prince's beauty!"

"Hurray!"

They cheered simultaneously, celebrating their success.

But it was short lived.

"Uh guys? What are we gonna do about all of this?" The ginger points out hesitantly, gesturing towards the ruined bathroom.

There is paint splattered all over the walls and floor, water gushing out of a broken sink, a shattered mirror, and their own dishevelled appearances.

"Oh." The trio stared at the results of their mess with wide-eyed blank faces.

The eyeless boy turned toward the two. "That was a lot a fun though!"

"Yeah."

Almost before they were done speaking, the sound of low giggles could be heard. The boy with spiky hair whirled around in confusion, only to realize that the brunet was shaking next to him with suppressed laughter, which he tried very hard to keep down. But his chuckles increased to light-hearted chortling that filled the room. The ginger and the eyeless children shared mutual expressions of bewilderment. But the brunet's laughter was just so contagious and enjoyable that, in the end, they couldn't help but laugh along with him. And looking back at the mess they created, it was kind of hard to stop it.

Their laughter abruptly came to an end when a shrill of absolute horror rang throughout the room.

"What have the three of you done?!"

Immediately the three boys snapped their gazes toward the bathroom door, where the teacher stood, completely dismayed at the scene. "The bathroom is in ruins! Just what do you think you're doing?!"

The three of them looked at one another with smiling faces.

"Painting!"

"Fighting off an evil witch!"

"Washing my hair!"

The boys got into a whole lot of trouble.

They were taken to the principal's office immediately after the scandal, where they were forced to wait after class for their parents to come and pick them up.

The eyeless boy fumbled with the straps of his overalls anxiously. How will his parents react to the mess he made? Will they get mad at him? They aren't the type of parents who get angry very easily. In fact, he doesn't even remember the last time he'd seen them angry. At most he fears they will be more disappointed in him more than anything for getting into trouble so soon after getting into Kindergarten.

He sat between his accomplices, the brunet to his right and the ginger to his left. The brunet was unusually quiet, staring at the ground and whistling a soft tune, but not looking particularly upset. The ginger was looking upbeat, fidgeting in his seat and rocking his legs back and forth with a grin. He looked so untroubled despite their situation, even though his mother is already inside at this very moment talking to the principle.

"So, is this a normal situation for you two?" The eyeless child spoke up, attempting to make a small talk to relieve himself from the tension.

The boys dressed in purple and green reply. "Yup!"

"But it's not just the two of us." The brunet continued. "We have another friend who participates on our games as well. He was supposed to be here for the bathroom painting, but he got sick and couldn't come. I think you would've liked him! He's pretty quiet, but lots of fun once you get to know him!"

"He talks a little funny though." The ginger added.

"But you are pretty fun to play with too!" The brunet commented, throwing a brief glare toward the ginger before turning back to the eyeless boy. "I don't think I've seen you around before. Are you new?"

"Ye-yeah." He stammered shyly, fumbling with his own hands.

The ginger emitted a loud gasp, his hands rising up to his own face cupping his cheeks with wide eyes. "Does this mean you got no friends?" He asks with shock on his face. Before the eyeless boy could answer him, he was enveloped in a hug and had his face shoved against the ginger's chest. The arms wrapped around him tightly and he suffocated rather quickly. "Oh you sweet poor thing!"

"I-I can't breathe!" The eyeless boy choked, trying to pull away from the ginger.

"Matt, let him go. You're squashing him!" The brunet scolds.

"Oops! Sorry!" The ginger quickly lets him go, throwing him an apologetic look.

Right at that moment, the door to the principal's office swung open. A tall woman with dark ginger hair, wearing a purple dress and high-heels strolled out with her hands on her hips. "Unbelievable! Never have i heard such audacity!" She rants angrily. "My sweet little angel would never do such a thing! Isn't that right, Matthew?"

On cue, the ginger boy threw a cheeky little grin, and made the cutest face conceivable to mankind. His mother instantly fell for his act of innocence, and she grabbed his hand with a smile. "See? I knew you were a good boy."

The eyeless boy watched perplexed. No wonder the ginger wasn't afraid of getting a scolding, he got his parents wrapped around his finger!

"Now, let's head home sweetheart." The woman cooed. "It's getting late, and I'll prepare your favourite meal for dinner."

"Hurray!" The ginger cheers with glee. As he walked away with his mother, he glanced back over his shoulder and waved at his friends. "Bye guys!"

"Bye!"

"Goodbye Matt!"

"Matt?" The eyeless boy cocks his head, echoing the name.

Just then it suddenly dawned on the brunet that they forgot to introduce themselves to each other, despite their amazing adventure today.

"Yeah! His name is Matt. And I'm Edd!" The boy dressed in green, Edd, finally introduced himself. "What's your name?"

"It's Thomas."

"Thomas, I'm calling you Tom for short. Is that ok?" The peculiar looking toddler nods with a grin. "We had great fun today, didn't we?"

"Yeah, but the principal does seem awfully mad at us for what we did." Tom murmured, hugging himself.

"You'll get used to it. He is always a grump." Edd reassured him dismissing any worries. "Wait until our next big adventure!"

Tom blinked at him, genuinely taken back by his last comment. "O-our bi- our next big adventure?" He stuttered confusedly, as if the words had gotten stuck in his throat and he choked to get them out. "As in, you guys… and me?"

Edd laughed. Not a mocking type of laughter, but more like a light-hearted chuckle. "Of course!" He nudged Tom. "You are one of us now!" He suddenly turned serious, and grabbed a hold of Tom's face; squeezing his cheeks. "And don't think about getting out of it. There's no turning back now. Ok?"

"Ok?"

"Good!" Edd brightened up again, as if nothing happened.

Right at that moment a couple walks out of the principal's office, and without a word the woman beckons Edd to come along.

"I gotta go now." Edd jumps from his seat, grabs his bag and hurries off after his parents. He glanced back at Thomas over his shoulder and continuously waved him goodbye. "Bye Tom!"

"Goodbye!" Tom waves back.

"I'll see you Monday!"

"See yah!"

Watching his new-found friend leave from a distance, Tom breathed out a sigh and slumped against his chair. Despite being nervous for landing on the principal's office so soon after he just started kindergarten, and how his parents might react, Tom couldn't help but feel content.

He found friends! Sure they are a little weird, but they're also so energetic, cheerful and creative.

He can't wait to see them again! Who knows what kind of trouble they'll get themselves in next time?

A comfortable silence fell over the study as Tom finished telling his story. He kept his distant gaze fixed intently at the ground. A sad little smile on his face as he slowly fumbled with his own hands, trying absentmindedly to distract himself from the overflowing emotions coursing through him, however pointless it may seem.

On the outside, Tom appeared to be calm and collected, doing his best not to shed any tears as he recalled on the fond memories of his childhood. However, on the inside is a different matter altogether.

Tom felt shackled, his movements restrained as the sensation of various cold, spectral hands holding on to him in a tight grip, and keeping him down. What once used to be at least five hands grabbing him at first, now seems like hundreds. It felt hard to breathe. Tom could never tell if this was consequence of the overwhelming emotions he'd repressed for so long consuming him as he acknowledged them out loud, or the many hands constricting him all at once. As if all of that wasn't enough, there are blades littered all over his backside. Plunged deep and sticking out of his body like a set of spikes; courtesy of the voice's many words of wisdom. Each new wound added to the collection whenever the voice would make a nasty remark or impute a hurtful comment in the situation.

Tom is in a lot of pain. Emotional, but painful nonetheless. As much as he is writhing and crying out in pain on the inside, Tom could never show it on the outside. Tom doesn't want to appear weak in front of others, especially his captors; no matter how friendly they may be. But most importantly, it was mainly about Edd and Matt.

I don't want to worry them. Is always his reasoning. They have other stuff to worry about, they don't deserve another burden to take care of. Tom has had a lot of training in the past, controlling his facial expressions and behaviour to never let show any obvious signs of discomfort or pain. No one should know.

Across from him, Patrick quietly typed on his tablet. Tom tried to read his facial expression through half-lidded eyes, but couldn't decipher what exactly the soldier was thinking at the moment.

"I see." Pat murmured quietly. His tone of voice is soft, while his eyes held a glint of humour in them; possibly entertained by the story he just witnessed. "The three of you definitely sound like a handful!"

"Yeah, we sure were." Tom spoke softly under his breath as grief stabbed his heart. Memories flooded Tom so powerfully that he could hardly breathe, and guilt seared his body.

Taking off his glasses, Pat put the tablet down on his lap. "How do you feel now that you let some emotional baggage out of your chest?"

Well, ain't that the million dollar question of the day. Although doubtful at the start, Tom did feel relief once he started talking about Edd and Matt, how they met, and the impact that it had on his life. However, the whole experience and meaning behind the moment was completely tarnished by the voice relentlessly torturing him. Sure it felt good to talk about what's on his mind aloud, but to keep remembering the awful things he's done in the process made it difficult to balance an exact emotion.

"Good." Was what Tom went with, nodding his head slightly with his lips pursed in a thin line.

Patrick's eyebrows furrowed in suspicion, staring back at Tom through narrowed eyes. "Is everything alright? You seem pretty quiet." He observed.

Tom suppressed a shiver as anxiety spiked through him. "I'm okay." He replied as casually as possible, ignoring the pain he felt rippling on his side. "Just uh- It's just hard, you know, to get so much out of my chest like this. Especially after everything that's happened."

For a moment he believed he managed to fool him. Patrick's expression softened and he regarded him with sympathy. However, before Tom was even given the chance to sigh in relief, Pat spoke up again.

"I can see you are bothered by something. Clearly in discomfort. You know you got nothing to worry about in here. I won't tell anything of this to Red Leader, not even to Paul."

Tom blinked in bewilderment. "What do you mean? I already said I'm fine. It's just the topic that's a little hard to get through, that's all-"

"Tom."

He flinched at the sound of his name. Afraid where this conversation could potentially lead up to, Tom stared at the ground and shuffled his feet around in apprehension, unable to meet Pat's gaze which he could feel borrowing into him.

"Is something going on with you, that you're not telling?"

Tom took a deep breath at that, attempting his best to keep his composure calm at the face of near-revelation. He numbly shook his head with a tiny shrug.

"You know if there's anything wrong you can tell me, right? Or Paul if you are more comfortable with." Patrick's words were so soothing, Tom couldn't help but to flicker his gaze back up to look at him. He was startled with the amount of patience and understanding he found staring back at him from honeyed, kind green eyes. "Despite what you may believe, we do really care about you. So if you are having problems with anything at all, we will do our best to help you- within reason, of course."

A flush of warmth washed over Tom at his words, genuinely touched by the offer. Something flourished inside of him. A small speck of light ignited; bright and warm, that relaxed Tom's tensed muscles and soothed his soul. Hope.

It seems so easy- so within reach. To finally confide in someone of all his problems, his fears, what he's been enduring on his own this whole time, and just how there is something seriously wrong with him. Tom longed so much for the chance to finally admit his problems, but dreaded all the same. How would they take it?

Patrick seems like a trustworthy guy, he hasn't done anything truly harmful to Tom since his arrival. Not once has Pat ever lost his temper when dealing with him, he's a good listener, and seems to know exactly what to do in most situations. He'll understand him, surely? Pat already appears to be so insistent in helping, maybe he can find a solution to Tom's problem.

He won't have to keep quiet about this anymore. He can be free of this burden!

With hope soaring in his chest, Tom felt a burst of determination to speak.

"You don't honestly believe he cares about you, do you? ~"

At once, Tom stiffens and his muscles tensed with apprehension. His words died instantly in his mouth. He'd forgotten that the voice was still active. The phantom arms that still encircled him tightened their possessive grip, while three others slithered upwards; two of them constricting around his throat until it became impossible to breathe, while the other one latched over his mouth, as if to stop him from speaking.

"Have you forgotten who this man is? What his motives are? And more importantly, who he works for? ~" The voice reasoned harshly, as if scolding a petulant child. "He doesn't care about you. This little therapy-play the two of you put up is nothing more than his job. Don't you think he would rather be anywhere else other than stuck here with you, hearing you moaning about everything? He probably has better things to do with his time. If it weren't for Tord ordering him so, he wouldn't waste his time with you. ~"

Tom trashed wildly under the constraining hold on him trying to bury him alive, desperately tugging on the limbs wrapped around his neck to free himself. You're wrong! He objected futilely. Why would he bother hanging out with me then? Commie wouldn't have ordered that!

The voice tutted with mock sympathy. "You poor fool, that's only to gain your trust. ~"

Tom stopped struggling.

"If you trust them, you'll be more willing to abide to their commands. They are using you. ~"

Chilling cold claws gripped his insides and twisted them hard. Tom doubled over and clutched himself in pain with a startling cry. Amidst his suffering, Tom tried to cast a glance at Patrick through the thick, darkened haze that surrounded his vision. He seems so innocent… Could it be he's been playing him all along?

Tom doesn't wanna believe it, but he can't deny the possibility sounds plausible.

"Besides, if this man truly does care for you, why would you freely dump all your problems onto him like that? Hasn't it occurred to you that he already has his own problems to deal with? ~" The voice pointed out casually. "The world doesn't revolve around you. People have issues they got to deal with on their own, and it's not fair for him, or anyone else for that matter, for you to throw your baggage at them! ~" A spear stabbed through Tom's back, poking out of his chest. The scream that ripped out of his throat was drowned by the spectral limbs clamping his mouth shut. The agonizing sensation of fire, static, and ice shot through him all at once and left him nearly breathless against the tightness still wrapped around his throat.

"Are you selfish enough you would willingly cause another person to suffer for your problems? ~"

Back in reality, Tom stared at Patrick with hidden dismay while in an inner conflict with himself. The determination he once had was annihilated by the voice, along with the spark of hope that it brought. It would be so easy to blurt out something- anything in regards to his situation. But Tom couldn't get the words he needed out his mouth, try as he might. The invisible hand lodged over his mouth refused to let him speak up, and the other two around his throat just tightened even more until Tom was out of oxygen.

Breathing out a tired sigh, Tom accepted defeat. "There's nothing wrong." He replied solemnly, his gaze cast downwards. "It's been a long day, that's all."

Tom felt a cruel hand comb through his hair with sharp nails. "Good boy! ~" The voice praised him with a mocking purr.

The dark haze in his vision cleared away, returning to normal. The various limbs wrapped around his body, holding Tom down, released him. Tom's shoulders sagged, relieved that the voice finally quieted down and that the horrible experience was over.

For now, anyway.

"Then I guess we can conclude our session for today." Patrick put away his glasses and placed the tablet down. He stood up from his seat, and made his way toward Tom. "I have to return to my duties now. Will you be fine heading back to your quarters on your own?"

"I'll be okay." Tom nodded numbly.

Patrick followed him out the study. "I'll have Paul bring your dinner later. Do you want anything in particular?"

Tom shrugged. "Not really. So as long there isn't any meat included."

"Fish or chicken, I know."

The two briskly parted ways; their interaction vastly different from what it once was earlier. Tom made the long walk back to his quarters in silence, practically dragging himself along with sluggish movements and a bleak expression on his face. His head is pounding, and he felt drained of energy. I'm so tired…

The immense, empty corridors of the lab level seemed to stretch on forever; when really, all it takes is a few turns to reach his destination. And yet, Tom struggled along his journey with some difficulty. The voice consumes a lot of energy out of him in order to manifest itself. Although neither it or any of the phantom limbs are around to bother him right now, the mental wounds left behind are still fresh and stinging.

Tom almost felt like a warrior, and not in the glorious or courageous type. He felt as if he just went to fight in a huge war, but instead of slaying his enemies he was the punching bag- a distraction to advert all the fire toward himself and getting most of the damage out of it. Now here he is, dragging himself pitifully back home, littered from top to bottom with wounds, and he is bleeding all over the place; leaving behind a trail of blood wherever he went.

The walk back to his quarters was painfully long and slow. The door slid open with a hiss, and Tom dragged himself in before immediately falling over his bed with a tired sigh.

"What are you waiting for? ~"

Just as Tom was getting ready to take a nap, the haunting question announced the voice's return. The dark haze back to taint his vision. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up at the chilling sensation of something breathing down at him. He isn't surprised that the voice was so quick to return after manifesting mere minutes ago. Being gone for so long, it's to be expected that it would become sporadic.

Tom slowly sat up, blinking tiredly.

I'm waiting for the right time.

Tom sensed the voice shift agitatedly around him.

"And when will that be? ~" The voice challenged. "You should've ended your existence long ago. I can see through your memories; you had plenty of opportunities to off yourself. And yet you didn't. I wonder why… ~"

It's not as easy as you say it is. Tom argued defensively. I can't just go crazy and kill myself like that. If I get caught in the act, or use a not very effective method to do so I won't have another chance. Tord and his soldiers will do whatever it takes to keep me alive for the sake of their plans.

An uncomfortable stinging sensation rose from his cheeks, and Tom could imagine the voice ripping into the flesh of his face with sharp nails.

"You're hoping that they fix you, aren't you? ~" The voice howled in an animalistic fashion, barking with laughter. Tom did not cower at the harsh noise in his head, but he remained stoically still. "You're such a coward you can't even own up to your own troubles! It's so like you to leave your problems for someone else to solve. Even when they are blatantly not doing it for your sake, but for their own benefit! I don't think you realize just how truly damaged you are. ~" It went on, the nails trailing down Tom's face to pierce his shoulders. Tom flinched with a hiss, wishing he could swat the cruel hands off his person. "It seems I missed a lot more than I thought while I was away. But what an interesting development do I find here? Our former red accomplice is still alive! Guess you can take that one out of your consciousness. Not that it matters much in the great scheme of things; you still killed plenty other innocent people. ~"

Tom bristled at the comment. Commie is far from innocent!

"And you who are you to judge? As far as I'm concerned, your number of confirmed kills is much higher than Tord's. You are dangerous, and that's all there is to it! ~" The voice hissed scornfully. "What makes you so especial you should live above all those you killed? They had hopes, dreams, ambitions- lives worth living. You are absolutely worthless! Nothing more than a burden. It's not fair on them that they should be robbed of their lives in such a brutal manner while you are still living. You are practically mocking them with your continuous existence, you know? ~" Tom's heart sank at the harsh words spoken to him. He sat in silence while listening to the voice's angry rants, not making much of an effort to defend himself; feeling much like a child receiving a scolding.

"But now we got a situation in our hands. Tord intends to use you in order to conquer the world. Unless you want to be responsible for more deaths, I suggest we stop him from achieving his goal. ~"

And what do you want me to do? I can't stop the commie from doing what he wants. Tom reasoned with blatant contempt. If I keep on defying him and refuse to collaborate, he'll turn his eye back on Edd and Matt! I can't let that happen either!

There was a moment of silence that followed, so quiet even his heartbeat became inaudible, and stretched on for a while. Breaking the wary silence, the voice murmured. "You know what you have to do. ~"

Slumping back with a sigh, Tom did not respond. He didn't need to. He knows what the voice is talking about. How couldn't he? For countless months, it's the only thing running in his mind! And yet, the idea filled him up with dread whenever it popped into his head. His throat clogged, and the lump bobbed uncomfortably as he tried to swallow it down. His mouth felt dry; tongue like sand paper. Tom slowly convinced himself that it's the right thing to do, and a sense of peace would be instilled in him.

That's how it works.

"You have to die. ~"

Tom choked back the tears that rapidly welled up in his eyes. His mind betrayed him yet again, flashing images of happier times in his life against his better judgement. Memories of his friends were the first thoughts he conjured up, and Tom felt the overwhelming sadness that came with it. They already believe I'm dead. Dying for real won't change anything. He told himself, completely dense to the truth of his own feelings. Then his mind flashed to the two soldiers he befriended through the course of his stay. He recalled playing video games, cooking, and laughing with them. Was that all just for show? Did it mean absolutely nothing to them? As painful as it was to admit it, Tom could see the soldiers pull something like that on him. They work for commie for crying out loud! Did he really expect anything good to come from people associated with him?

And to think Tom once believed that out of all of them, Matt was the easiest to fool. Evidently not.

Emotions running rampant, Tom hunched over and curled himself into a tight ball. He hugged his knees to his chest, trying to hide his face and pretend he wasn't sad, or about to cry. The familiar set of feelings he'd gotten so used to, courses right through him again like jab of electricity.

"Fear. Regret. Helplessness. Despair. ~" The voice surrounded Tom with a resonating echo, giving a name and face to each emotion as it fed off of him. "This is what you spread. If Edd and Matt had never befriended you, they would've never felt any of these emotions so strongly. ~" It continued, casting a bleak shadow over him. The voice paused in contemplation. "Perhaps, Tord wouldn't have changed either, and the three of them could've been happy together. But you took that away from them when you decided to stick around. ~"

Tom listened to the voice with anguish, feeling like he just got kicked repeatedly in the gut. He took deep rhythmic breaths to stop himself from having a major breakdown; his head pounding, and his energy draining fast. Tom slowly untangled himself from his position, and fell back on the bed. He could barely muster up enough strength to grab the Dreamcatcher from his bed stand. It was only thanks to his fear of the dreadful nightmares that awaited him otherwise, that granted him sufficient strength to make the extra effort.

Grabbing the device and putting it into place inside his ear, Tom curled up on his side and waited for his energy to deplete entirely. Even the simple act of thinking has become too much of a struggle. His breathing slowed down, body shutting down, and the haze in his eyes turned foggy with tiredness. Tom released a faint sigh, and progressively drifted off.

His eyes closing, the voice had one last comment to make before he fell asleep.

"Wherever you go, you always bring misfortune with you. ~"

(Meanwhile…)

Despite the beautiful, sunny weather and clear skies that had blessed the town, a chilly breeze blew through the trees, rattling the branches and sending a few more dead leaves to whirl through the air. Dusk light filled the sky, and one spot on the horizon was flushed with pink and gold, showing where the sun was setting.

Watching the pretty scenery, Edd let out a soft sigh; shoulders sagging. He sat on a bench by himself a few feet away from a large pond, with a packet of seeds in his lap to which he uses to occasionally feed the ducks that swam around in the area. He'd been sitting in that exact location practically the whole day, doing nothing but lollygagging, just waiting for time to go by. At this point, he feels like he's become one of those crazy bird ladies with how long he's been sitting there; and rubbing his sore backside, Edd is pretty sure is ass just turned square shape.

Edd's shivers increased as hefelt pricking cold sensation sinking through his skin, and he snuggled deeper into his jacket. He rubbed his hands together against the freezing wind, and let out a breath to warm them further. With night fast approaching, the temperature will be dropping considerably. It's going to be a real hassle to sit out in the cold for much longer.

Stretching his limbs, Edd gathered his belongings and slowly rose to his feet. He threw away the last remnants of seeds into the pond, where the ducks happily gobbled it all down. Edd shoved his hands in his pockets with a tired sigh, and then looked around the park. There weren't many people out and about at this hour. A few couples with their kids, and some old folks strolling around, most likely ready to leave the park as well.

Choosing a random direction, Edd started to walk away, head down and hands in his pockets as the grass crunched beneath his shoes. He pulled out his phone to see four missed calls from Matt, and a few text messages, all of which say relatively the same thing: Where are you? When will you be back home? And the most frequent one, are you okay? Edd rolled his eyes and stuffed his phone away. He knew Matt was only trying to help, but sometimes he wished his ginger friend would realize he needed some time alone to clear things up; and being alone wasn't necessarily a bad thing. Ever since Edd was forced to accept the truth about Tom's passing, Matt has been constantly fussing over him. It was grating on his nerves to say the least.

He checked the time, and was somewhat relieved to learn it was only 6 PM. Edd knows he should be heading home straight away; but he isn't quite ready to go back to his apartment yet. He'd been sitting outside in that bench the entire day, trying to avoid his involvement in whatever fate is to be bestowed to Tom's vacant apartment and the rest of his belongings. Edd couldn't bear to witness the end, the true end, of Tom's existence. To stand by and watch whatever traces of Tom were left behind to be wiped away.

He managed to salvage Susan, at the very least. No way would Edd allow Tom's most prized possession to be taken away.

In any case, sooner or later Edd would need to return home. He was bored of sitting outside anyways. He even brought a notepad along with him to draw and pass the time, but Edd had no luck when it came to inspiration. All he could do was mindlessly doodle random things; which oddly enough, resulted in various drawings of pineapples and bowling balls.

Strolling out of the park and heading onto the street, Edd turned right and continued to walk, opting to take the long way home. He knew by now where this path would take him, but he doesn't intend on stopping by Winchester Park this time. Edd had promised he would move on from his grief, and it wouldn't do him good if he kept visiting the grave site every chance he got, so he started to lessen his visits to a minimum.

Edd walked, and kept on walking for a while. The places he walked past all seem like a blurry mess in his vision. Unfocused and unimportant. Edd barely paid his surroundings any mind, keeping his head low and his gaze fixated on the ground in front of him. However, once in a while Edd would break out of his trance-like state whenever he passed by something that stirred fond memories from within him.

A camera for sale that's on display in the window of a shop across the street caught Edd's eye. Instantly he remembered the time when Tom spent all of their savings into purchasing a video camera for them to create a film of their own. The film may not have been all that great in the end, and the camera proved to be more trouble than it's worth, resulting in them returning it; but they had so much fun with the project that it hardly mattered. Edd sighed wistfully. There won't be any more of that now.

As he walked, Edd continued to head down memory lane, both literally and figuratively; unaware that the path he walked was far more familiar then he first realized.

Months may have passed since Tom's passing, but the tightness in Edd's chest hadn't eased. Along with the good, fond memories of the times they spent together on crazy adventures, Edd often recalled the last time he saw Tom. Strong waves of guilt and sorrow would always take hold of him then. Edd couldn't forget how he had failed to save Tom. I feel as if nothing good will ever happen again. He lamented. His heart was so heavy he could barely carry it. Had I known that was the last time I would ever see him, I would've never tried pressuring him into talking. I should've trusted him to confide in us when he was ready.

Deep in thought, Edd had hardly noticed his surroundings have changed as he kept walking through town. Now he realized that he had left the busier side of town behind him and was trekking past a roll of houses in a quaint suburban area with a grass field stretching beyond.

Edd stopped in his tracks at the sight of the familiar neighbourhood. He didn't mean to end up here, but his feet had other plans in mind it seems. Edd's heart started to race. Just a little farther he could glimpse the scorch marks and charred remains of a house that is no longer standing.

Edd contemplated turning back the way he came. It wasn't too late to change his mind and race straight home, make some popcorn, and sit on the couch with Ringo to watch a film or something for the rest of the evening. He avoided coming to this place since the day they left it, and the memory that came from it was still too painful to recall.

However, even with that line of reasoning, his feet were still in motion; albeit at a slow pace. Something was luring him closer to the charred ruins. Morbid curiosity, perhaps?

Edd drew closer to the wreckage. Despite having been a whole year since the robot incident happen, he could pick up traces of the terrible smell of burning lingering in the air. Edd flinched, needing to pause for a moment with his eyes tight shut, as all the memories of that dreadful day came rushing back. He could hear Eduardo's anguished cries as he held onto Jon's body, and almost see Tom's scared face through the smoke as he shot him with a missile.

Forcing himself into motion again, Edd could see that most of the debris from the explosion had been cleared away, probably by the authorities. All that remained were a stretch of earth where the grass had burned away, broken bits and pieces of debris, and a crater where the house used to be.

Even though Tom was buried at Winchester Park, Edd felt closer to him here, the place where they shared so many fun moments together.

Unfortunately, it also carried the terrible reminder of his betrayal; though Edd tried not to think about him right now. Heck, to be completely honest he wasn't even sure if he is even alive. For all Edd knows, he could've perished in the robot crash after Tom shot him down, so Edd really has no idea what became of him. But it's not like he was ever curious enough to find out the answer anyway, even after Matt suggested they should check out the crash site. Edd preferred to keep his fate a mystery.

Edd raised his face to the sky and closed his eyes. It was as though he were drowning; it was hard to breathe. Something that felt as heavy as a stone sat in his chest, where his heart had once been.

I'll still mourn Tom, and I'll never forget him, but my life must go on.

Edd opened his eyes, and looked again at the leftover wreckage of their old home. "Stay safe." He murmured. "Wherever you are now."

As Edd turned away to leave this place, and go back home, a rumbling sound reached his ears. Edd froze, trying to identify the noise and the source of it. It sounded like a low pitched groan. Edd turned around, attempting to pinpoint where it was coming from when a slight movement among the wreckage caught his eye.

"Huh?" Curiosity pricking him, Edd kept his gaze fixated on the spot.

The pieces of debris and charred stone shifted aside, only to reveal a strange man lying among the ruins. Edd gasped in surprise. "What the-?" The question died away on his tongue, and he hurried over to help the stranger. He shuffled and side-stepped through the torn up wood pieces littering the place, watching his step as he reached the man.

"Oh my gosh, are you okay?" Edd inquired worriedly, tugging one the stranger's arms to help him to his feet.

The strange man coughed, and a small cloud of dust and ash manifested around them as the shifting debris settled. "Y-yeah, I'm fine." The man looked up at him. "Thanks for helping."

Adjusting him to his feet, Edd gave him a good look. He didn't look like your average homeless man taking shelter. The stranger is a lithe man, with dishevelled blond hair, a stubble, chiselled jawline, and the greenest shade of eyes Edd's ever seen. The man in question is wearing a long, dark grey overcoat, jeans, grey fingerless gloves, and black shoes.

The stranger yawned, throwing his arms out in a long stretch. "Man, what time is it?" He asks, blinking blearily. His voice is slurred, and laced with what sounds like an Irish accent. He paused, looking at his surroundings. "Wait- Where am I again?"

Edd stared at the man in dismay. "Are you drunk?"

The man turned to face him. "Maybe." He drawled out.

Edd fixed him with a look of suspicion and placed his hands on his waist. "Right. Do you at least remember what happened before blacking out?" He asks, already used to being in this situation. Edd failed to not reminisce helping Tom out of the same predicament, and a pang of hurt stung his chest at the memory.

The stranger shook his head. "Last thing I remember was leaving the bar." He scratched the back of his head. "I thought for sure this was the way back-" He broke off into a coughing fit.

Taking pity on the disorientated and clearly hung-over man, Edd placed a hand on his shoulder to steady him. "Here- I'll help you." He proceeded to sling one of the man's arms around the back of his neck and over his shoulders. He adjusted the man's weight, letting him lean against himself. "Alright, do you remember where you live?"

"I'm staying in a quaint, little hotel. Uh, Harrybrook I think it's called?" He replied sluggishly, his eyebrows furrowed as he wracked his fuzzy brain for details.

"Ah, I know where it is." Edd nudged him forward. "Come on; I'll take you there."

"Thank you."

Together, they left the semi-peaceful neighbourhood behind and made their way back to the busy streets. It was silent between the two of them. Edd threw occasional glances at the man leaning so heavily on him. The familiar action of supporting a half-drunk person with his own body as they walked through the bleak streets had Tom flashing in his mind. Edd recalled fetching his eyeless friend from bars after drinking too much with fondness. He remembered the countless times he had to practically drag Tom home and scold him for his reckless drinking. A sad smile formed on his face at the memory. At the time he'd always been irritated and worried. But now, helping this stranger, as weird as it is, made Edd realize just how much he missed doing this.

"So, you're staying in a hotel uh?" Edd began, unable to stay silent for a moment longer. "I take it you're not from here then?"

The man chuckled. "You got me."

"What are you here for anyway? This town isn't exactly known for its tourism." Edd prompted curiously, a glimmer of humour in his eyes. When was the last time he joked so freely?

"I'm here for business, actually." The stranger replied. "Things are looking up pretty great for my life."

"By getting completely plastered and passing out in a pile of ashes?"

The man paused for a moment, fixing him with a steady gaze. "Are you criticizing my life's choices right now?" His voice was deadpanned, but clearly not offended.

Edd shrugged with a cheeky grin. "Well what else am I meant to say to someone who is supposedly "working"?"

Now it was the stranger's turn to shrug. "Fair enough." He admitted. "But beer is too good to quit. Business or no business."

Edd chuckled, but then his expression turned sombre. "You should really be more careful of how much you drink; especially if you are in a place you are not completely familiarized with." He murmured. "This town is far more than dangerous than it may seem. You never know what can happen to you out here if you aren't in the right state of mind." Tom's death flashed in his head, and Edd had to stop himself from physically flinching.

The stranger scoffed. "Oh c'mon, how bad can this place possibly be? It's not even that big of a city-"

"Just take my word for it." Edd cut him off. He took a deep breath and sighed; exhaustion from the past few days taking a toll on him. "You could be killed when you least expect it."

The stranger eyed him with a mixture of weariness and curiosity. He looked as if he wanted to say more, but one look at Edd told him there wasn't much room for arguing, so he simply settled with: "If you say so." And left it at that. They returned back to silence for a brief while before the stranger laughed unexpectedly. Edd stared at him perplexed. "You know; you went so far to help me, some random drunk stranger, get back to his hotel room and yet we haven't even introduced ourselves!"

Edd realized with a start that the stranger had a point. "Guess you're right." He adjusted the stranger leaning against him. "I'm Edd Gold."

I know. "Fitzroy." The man introduced with a cough. "Reagan Fitzroy."

The sun has long since disappeared from the sky by the time they arrived at the hotel's foyer, and the moon and stars took its place in the pitch black night up above them. Reagan recovered half-way to their destination and insisted on walking the rest of the way; arguing Edd helped him out way too much already. Still, Edd hovered close to him in case he needed assistance again.

They climbed the steps to the main entrance, and the blond man turned to face Edd, breathing out a relieved sigh. "Well, here we are at last." Reagan extended his hand out to shake Edd's. "Thank you so much for the help. I really appreciate it."

"Don't mention it." He grasped the blond's hand in his own, and was surprised by the firm grip he was met with.

"No, really- I am super grateful for your help." Reagan insisted, his tone of voice deadly serious. "If it hadn't been for you, I might still be buried under all that pile of rubble. Heck, who knows? I might've gotten even more lost, and even mugged!"

Edd shook his head, beginning to feel flustered at Reagan's intense gratitude towards him. "It's fine, just, be more careful in the future okay?" He pulled his hand back and turned away to leave. "See you around!" He threw a little wave.

"Wait, Edd!" Reagan called out, halting Edd in his tracks. The brunet faced him with a raised eyebrow and a quizzical expression. Reagan shuffled in his feet, as if hesitant to continue. "I was wondering . . ." He paused, ducking his head in embarrassment.

"What?" Edd asked.

"Well, I've been thinking about what you said. How wandering around at night can get you killed if you ain't careful." Reagan replied. "I don't know this town all that well, so that got me thinking- Could you possibly be my guide during my stay?"

Edd was so surprised by the blond's unexpected suggestion, he couldn't speak.

Reagan went on. "I admit I've had trouble finding my way around ever since i got here. I won't stay in town for very long, and I could even pay for your troubles. If you could, I'd be eternally grateful for your kindness."

It was strange, but Edd felt an odd connection to this newcomer. Reagan had been found lost and alone in the place where his home once was. The same location that once held so many joyous memories, but now serves as a painful reminder of what was lost in that one, fateful day. His betrayal had put a bigger dent on Edd's relationship with his friends than he cared to admit. Things were shaky between the trio after that day, and Tom's death only worsened the condition. Perhaps, if Edd had been a better friend, both Tom and Tord could still be here with him today.

A sudden compulsion to help pricked every hair on his skin. Somehow, Edd thought, it would be like second chance at helping Tom, and this time, he could succeed.

"Alright, I'll do it." Edd said decisively, giving a curt nod.

Reagan perked up with a bright smile. "You will?" When Edd confirmed with another nod, his eyes blazed with glee. "Oh thank you! Thank you! Thank you! You won't regret this, I promise! I will make this worth your while!"

Watching the ecstatic Irishman practically jump up and down in front of him, Edd had to stifle back the laugh of amusement that bubbled inside of him. Afterwards, they handed each other's contacts and went along their separate ways.

As Edd walked down the street and made his way back to his apartment, he reflected on the events that just took place. He felt good about his decision of helping Reagan. He felt better than he had in a long time. The short time he spent aiding Reagan made Edd realize just how reclusive he has become as of late. He doesn't remember the last time he genuinely laughed, or felt happy with anything. Sometimes he would smile or chuckle, but it has always been rather forced in an attempt to fool Matt into thinking he was fine. But what he felt back there was real.

Hanging out with someone other than Matt for a change might lead him toward the path of recovery. Edd felt a prickle of doubt and guilt nag at him at the idea. Matt is a good friend, and he is doing his best to console and support him; however, Edd can't deny that the ginger wasn't the best at subtlety. Matt tries to pretend things are alright when they really aren't, and when he senses Edd's overall mood, he tends to become overly "mother hen-ish". Most days Edd can handle, but other times, when he didn't feel particularly well with life, that kind of behaviour got under his skin.

Nearing his home, Edd braced himself for the earful he will undoubtedly hear from Matt; wondering where he'd been all this time, why he hadn't answered his text messages, and will probably try to lecture him in some way. But for once, Edd threw any worries he had out the window. His encounter with Reagan was invigorating in a way, and he wasn't about to let Matt dampen his mood. He shouldn't feel guilty about this! He is finally moving on!

After bidding goodbye to one another, Reagan remained on the steps of the foyer and watched Edd's retreating form fade in the distance. The friendly smile on his face slowly shifted into a sly grin. "So gullible." He chuckles under his breath.

It greatly amuses Reagan to no end how people can be so easily fooled by a pitiful individual in need; even if they are a complete stranger. No one would suspect a lost, semi-drunk outsider of having any ulterior motives. Admittedly, Reagan hadn't intended to make contact with his target this soon. It was by complete coincidence that he passed out in that wreckage after a night out drinking, but he wasn't about to look a gift horse in the mouth. Reagan would take the opportunity presented and make the most of it.

Second step of the mission is completed- First interaction has been made. Reagan thought with satisfaction, taking out a notepad from his pocket and making a tick on it. Now it's time for the third step- Fully integrate myself into target's life.

#tomtord #eddsworld #my little test subject #MLTS #angst

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sakurar0se · 5 years ago

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My Monthly Favorites - February 2020 Favorite Products & Briogeo Scalp Revival Product Reviews

by Rosy Day Blog

If you’ve read my previous favorites post for January 2020, then here I am doing another combo post. Once again I’ve decided to combine my monthly favorites post with some mini product reviews since the products I’m reviewing this month, also happen to be my February 2020 favorites. After doing a post a few months ago featuring a travel-sized version of a Briogeo product, they contacted me directly to see if I was interested in trying out their Scalp Revival line. I was already very interested in the brand, so naturally I jumped at the chance to try more from Briogeo.

Briogeo

You’ve probably seen Briogeo all over Instagram by now, but no they’re not just a fad or passing trend. In fact, one thing that I respect about Briogeo is that despite being in a market saturated in hair care (sometimes I feel like we’ve hit the peak) - Briogeo still manages to offer high-performance, naturally based hair care with actual visible results. Often times you do see a hair care brand being backed by some celebrity stylist, or sometimes even a celebrity themselves (an actress). Not trying to knock those off (I’m sure they’re all good and offer something for everyone in their own way), but Briogeo brings it back to the basics in a no-frills, just results kind of way. “Brio” is Italian for “vibrant and full of life” - also a nod towards their whimsical/artistic packaging. “Geo” is Latin for “of Earth and nature” - true to the brand’s potent, but natural recipes/formulas. While Briogeo has different lines within their brand, I will be specifically talking about their Scalp Revival line, which I definitely recommend if you have dry a and/or itchy scalp.

Disclosure:

I was not given anything in exchange for reviewing any of these products. I enjoy doing product reviews to share my own experiences with the product and hope someone finds it useful. I do not work for Briogeo. » View All Monthly Favorites

Clean & Silicone Free

Scalp Benefits:

*The following below was copied and pasted from a different post I've written a long time ago as my thoughts below are pretty much the same with regards to the Scalp Revival Line from Briogeo. Finding a good shampoo and conditioner that works for you is just like skincare. Some people might rave about some product, but what works for them may not necessarily work for you. I’ve always struggled off and on with a dry scalp. Often I would think my head looks ok before I leave the house (and I’ve just showered) and then mid-day when I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror I see flakes forming like I just shook some salt on my head. I first tried using your typical dandruff shampoos but those only seemed to work temporarily and didn’t really tackle my issue. I eventually developed an itchy scalp. Then I figured I’d try shampoos directed towards a dry, itchy scalp, but the problem still persisted. I felt like I needed the hair care equivalent of an exfoliating scrub and hydrating mask. If my story sounds similar to yours or you have a similar problem, you might want to consider going clean and silicone-free due to the benefits below.

Healthier hair - Silicones coat your hair shaft giving it synthetic shine and potentially damaging your hair in the long run.

Hair is more moisturized - Silicone is hard to remove and prevents moisture and essential oils from getting to your hair shaft.

Less itchy/irritated scalp (which can lead to hair shedding) - Ever wondered why your scalp is so itchy, even after you regularly shampoo? Check to see if it contains silicone in the ingredients. Itching/irritation in general doesn’t do anyone any good. Hair will require less washing - While I do enjoy shampooing and conditioning every time I shower (it makes me feel clean & refreshed from head to toe), I do understand if you’re not able to wash your hair all the time. With silicone-free products, you can get by not washing your hair as much and not worrying about having greasy hair the very next day.

More volume - Especially if your hair is typically fine/flat, ditching the silicone will keep your hair cleaner, possibly giving it a more lifted look/volume.

Healthier curls - If you have curly hair, silicone is especially bad for it as it can’t slide off your strands as easily as someone with straighter hair. You can potentially have even greater product build up than someone with straight hair using silicones.

Detox + Exfoliate

Briogeo Scalp Revival Charcoal + Coconut Oil Micro-Exfoliating Shampoo

Sometimes a good (moisturizing) shampoo isn’t enough and you do need a bit of physical exfoliation to slough off the surface dead skin cells you already have on your scalp. According to Briogeo, “This unique shampoo infuses Binchotan charcoal to draw impurities from the scalp and hair follicle to provide the foundation for optimal scalp health.” Peppermint and spearmint oils feel cooling on the scalp and helps reduce itchiness while tea tree oil helps soothe irritation and inflammation. Finally coconut oil adds a bit of moisture to help prevent future dryness and flakiness. This definitely feels nice to massage on your scalp and you don’t necessarily have to replace your existing shampoo with this (if you already have a favorite). You can just use this micro-exfoliating shampoo 1-2 times a week or as needed. Depending on how bad your scalp condition is, you will have to consistently use this a few times until you get your desired result. Then you can dial back the usage a bit for maintenance. The only downside is that since this is in a jar, I’m constantly dipping my wet fingers into this and I feel like a bit of water from my shower always goes in. I feel like the consistency is watery enough to be in some kind of pump bottle Final Rating = 4/5 (Good but I’m sure the ~$42 USD for 8 oz. might turn some people away). » Buy Product

Soothe + Hydrate

Briogeo Charcoal & Tea Tree Scalp Treatment

I’ve never thought about massaging any kind of leave-in treatment onto my scalp until I came across this product. Similar to the Micro-Exfoliating Shampoo, this also contains Binchotan charcoal (to draw impurities), peppermint & spearmint oils (cools & reduces itchiness), and tea tree oil (soothes irritation & inflammation). Instead of coconut oil, this treatment has witch hazel to help balance your scalp and prevent it from getting too oily. Now this doesn’t feel as cooling on my scalp as the shampoo, but whenever I put this on an irritated spot, I do get a bit of that tingling sensation (nothing bad). With consistent use, this definitely works because I’ve been putting this on an eczema-like patch on the back of my head, and it’s been healing faster than before I started using this treatment. Now the patch is almost completely dry and I just have a few leftover dry flakes. This has made the biggest difference on my dry patches, so if you could only afford one product from the Scalp Revival line, I would recommend this. It comes in a small dropper bottle too, so it’s very travel friendly. I like to use this treatment at night before I go to bed and then use the Micro-Exfoliating Shampoo the next morning. The only thing is that I kinda wished this was in a larger bottle or they offered a larger size. Sometimes I just really wanna slather this on, but since it’s so small I have to restrain myself a bit. Other than that, I love this! Final Rating = 4.75/5 (Small bottle but mighty!) » Buy Product

Refresh + Balance

Briogeo Charcoal + Biotin Dry Shampoo

I’ve only tried one other dry shampoo before, and it was the spray kind. Despite it having a brown tint to better blend into dark hair, it did not make my hair feel refreshed. Maybe because I tend to get a bit oily if I don’t shampoo everyday, but that dry shampoo weighed my hair down and didn’t give much life to it. This Briogeo dry shampoo is the complete opposite. Despite it feeling like you’re just squeezing baby powder all over your head, this actually does a nice job of refreshing your hair. Similar to the Scalp Treatment, this also contains Binchotan charcoal (to draw impurities), and witch hazel (to balance scalp). Clay, tapioca, and rice starches are also included to help absorb oil. And since it does combat the excess oil you might have, it also makes your hair have a bit more volume than before you used the dry shampoo. If I dare say, I looked almost as refreshed as if I had taken a shower and blow dried my hair (keyword: almost). Since the previous dry shampoo I used weighed me down (literally), this Briogeo one is my new standard for dry shampoos out there. I would definitely use this for traveling and lazy mornings. I think as long as you take the time to properly blend the dry shampoo into your hair, you shouldn’t have any issues with it (and I have black hair by the way). Final Rating = 4.5/5 (Unless you really dislike the thought of sprinkling white powder all over your head). » Buy Product

Massage Therapy

Briogeo Stimulating Therapy Massager

This in my opinion is the least necessary in the Scalp Revival line. It does not make it a bad product, just that if you don’t necessarily want to spend $16 USD on a scalp massager, you won’t be missing out on too much. However, if you can afford it/want it, you will find it useful. I like to use this in the shower to help spread the Micro-Exfoliating Shampoo, and I’ll sometimes use this on my scalp to help massage in the Scalp Treatment. Of course I can do all these things with my own hands, but I don’t always have nails to really scrub and massage things in. Let’s just say it’s both a luxury and a convenience - one that I definitely won’t complain about now that I have it. Can you buy a cheaper scalp massager? Of course, but I haven’t tried other scalp massagers so I wouldn’t be able to tell you, if you can find anything comparable or better than the quality of the Briogeo one. Definitely a neat beauty tool regardless, and one I’m happy to add to my beauty tools collection. Final Rating = 3/5 (Unless you already have a scalp massager that you love). » Buy Product

NATURAL + PERFORMANCED BASED HAIR CARE

In short, if you have tried everything including those cheap drugstore brands (Head & Shoulders I'm looking at you) and nothing has worked for your scalp problem (or possibly made it worse), then definitely look into the Briogeo Scalp Revival line. I was attracted to the brand in the first place because their Micro-Exfoliating Shampoo had good reviews on Sephora and they had a travel-sized version which I bought during one of Sephora's holiday sales. Of course Sephora reviews aren't always "accurate" in that you can still possibly hate a product despite it getting rave reviews. The small sized Briogeo Micro-Exfoliating Shampoo I tried that time was definitely worthy of praise. I'm thankful that Briogeo reached out to me to try more products after I posteda photo of the travel sized Micro-Exfoliating Shampoo on Instagram. I probably would have tried the other products anyway, but I'm constantly trying to budget so I'm not sure how soon I would have gotten the chance to, had Briogeo not sent me some products to try. Thank you Briogeo and I hope to try your Blossom & Bloom line in the future! If you have any questions about any of the products above, please let me know. Photo Credits: Briogeo

#skincare reviews

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thatgirlonstage · 7 years ago

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Summary: Lance wakes up in a hospital on Earth to discover he has been missing for four months, with no memory of Voltron or the Galra. Drawn inexplicably to the desert where they found him, he discovers a hut full of research and notes that may provide the key to his missing memories. With secrets and conspiracies surrounding him, and the Garrison potentially hiding far more than he could ever have imagined, Lance grows to trust the notes in the desert - but he may not believe the person who claims he wrote them.

Chapter Eight:

Lance dreamed nothing coherent, only shards of purple light and the distant sound of someone shouting his name. He awoke with heavy eyelids and limbs, his head complaining of a lack of rest. Groaning behind his teeth, he buried his face into the pillow. He reached up one hand to pull the silent headphones away from his ears, tossing them blindly onto the sofa.

“Thanks,” Cal’s voice said.

“Mmf,” Lance groaned. “Shouldn’t you be at school?”

“My professor’s wife went into labor last night, so class is cancelled.” Lance lifted his head and looked groggily over at Cal. He’d set Lance’s headphones down on the table and was leaning back on the couch, a textbook dropped open on his lap. A pencil spun slowly through his fingers. His hair was damp from a shower. He glanced over at Lance. “What are you up to today?” Lance dropped his head back to the pillow.

“Gotta go to the police station,” he said, his voice muffled. “They want to talk to me about Pidge for some reason.”

“Want me to come with you?” Cal asked. “It can’t be more boring than my problem sets.” Lance shrugged, his shoulders bunching up the sheets.

“If you want, sure.”

“How was lunch with Louisa yesterday?” Lance groaned, wrapping his arms around his head.

“I forgot,” he mumbled. “I had a really long conversation with– Dr. Ito, and then I was exhausted and just got on the train without thinking.” Cal grunted.

“Dr. Ito was helpful, though?” he asked. His face hidden in the pillow, Lance gnawed on his lip.

“He was… different, for sure,” he said. His mouth was sticky and dry. A night of disturbed sleep and early morning hunger and nausea set his head and stomach rocking like a sea-sick boat. The taste of a lie to his brother crested the wave, sitting unpalatable in his mouth. If he gave it voice, it would make him ill. “He… I learnt more at the Garrison than I have been with my therapist here,” he said, turning his head to free his face and speak clearly. Cal looked sideways at him. Their eyes held for a moment before Lance rolled away, pushing himself up to sitting. “I need a shower,” he said.

The cracked linoleum of Cal’s bathroom was comfortingly clean and cool under his bare feet. He stood still under the showerhead for a long few minutes, the heat sinking relaxation into his muscles. His neck was bent, the stream of water breaking against the back of his head, soaking his hair, running down his back and cheeks, dripping down to his nose. Slowly, his mind cleared and the churning of his stomach quieted to complaining mutters of hunger. He rubbed the soap bar across his body, the habitual movement soothing. Its blank scent sank into his skin, chasing away the stink of the underground hallway.

The room was damp with steam when he stepped out, the mirror fogged over. He tucked a towel around his waist, water still running down his chest and dripping off his hair. He grabbed his toothbrush and scrubbed his teeth, washing out the dry stickiness. He left the bathroom feeling significantly lighter and calmer, the ends of his hair sticking damply to the back of his neck. He opened the door to the smell of eggs cooking. Cal glanced over his shoulder from the stove and Lance gave him a slight smile.

“You looked like you might need something more than just toast to get you going,” Cal said. Lance’s smile grew to a grin.

“Cal, have I told you that you’re the best brother ever?”

“Don’t get used to it,” Cal scowled.

“I won’t,” he reassured him, still grinning, sliding into a seat at the table. “I know you usually burn everything.” Cal sent him a glare that Lance returned mockingly.

The eggs were slightly over-salted, but he compensated by shoveling them onto buttery toast. Cal opened up a news stream on his computer while they ate. Lance pricked up his ears with interest.

“I’ve been so caught up in my own memories – or, you know, lack thereof – I haven’t looked at the news at all,” he said, swallowing a mouthful of egg. “What happened while I was gone? Nothing apocalyptic, I hope? Anything blow up?”

“Only Sony’s attempt at a horror franchise,” Cal said. Scenes from an earthquake in Japan scrolled across the screen. His eyes flicked over to Lance. “Nothing exceptional,” he shrugged. “A senator in Ohio got caught up in a sex scandal. Germany had an election. A Malaysian scientist discovered some new underwater plant that might help treat MS. There was a ceasefire negotiated in Sudan – or wait, did that happen before you left?” Lance creased his forehead and shrugged. “To be honest I wasn’t paying too much attention to the news myself.” Lance paused, fork still in his mouth.

“You?” he asked. “You used to practice English by reading the New York Times out loud every morning while Louisa and I were still on Green Eggs and Ham.” Cal ran a finger down the edge of his keyboard, his gaze following it closely.

“When someone you care about is in trouble, the world gets awfully small,” he said finally. Abruptly, he stood, holding out a hand for Lance’s plate. “I’ll take that if you’re finished,” he said. Lance, still chewing his last bite of toast, slid the plate over to him silently. Cal wouldn’t quite meet his eyes. “Shall we get going?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Lance said, swallowing his discomfort. “Let’s.”

The sight of Calixto Sanchez sitting cross-legged and scowling in the station lobby sent a jolt of déjà vu through Hopkins. Both Lance and Hunk’s parents had arrived within twenty-four hours after their disappearance, heedless of the cost of last minute airline tickets, but Calixto, much closer, had gotten there first. With the Garrison still on lockdown when they called to report their three missing students, not even Louisa or any Garrison personnel had been able to come to the station until late the next morning. During that first midnight scramble, Calixto had been alone, standing in the station wide-eyed and pale and lost. He’d called Lance, over and over and over, the battery on his phone running down until it died. He’d thrown it to the ground, collapsing into a chair and burying his face into his hands, shivering with unshed tears.

Lance, his long limbs folded into the chair next to his brother, dispelled the image. He was picking his fingernails, having an on-and-off conversation with Calixto. Spotting Hopkins, he shot up straight.

“Hi, detective,” he said.

“Hello, Lance,” Hopkins said. ‘How are you doing?” Lanced pursed his lips, shrugging.

“Okay, I guess,” he said. “You said you wanted to talk about Pidge?” His voice was inquisitiveness edged with hesitancy.

“Let’s go somewhere quieter,” Hopkins said. Lance got to his feet, glancing quickly at Calixto.

“I’ll be out here,” he waved him off. “Unless you want me to come in with you?”

“No, no, I’ll be fine,” Lance said. “See you in a few.”

Hopkins took him back to the same room as last time, watching Lance out of the corner of his eye. He seemed healthier and more animated than when Hopkins had last seen him, although there was a sting of nervousness in the way his fingers fluttered along the hem of his shirt and in the quick smile he gave as they sat down. Hopkins opened a folder and slid a photo across to him without comment. Lance glanced at it and then tilted his head. Confusion danced in his eyes.

“Yeah, that sure is Pidge,” he said. “…Why?”

“Can you identify the people in these photos for me?” Hopkins asked. He laid out three more photos. One of them was a cadet profile picture practically indistinguishable from the first one he’d brought out. The next was a newspaper clipping of the Kerberos mission crew. The last was a photo of a girl in a short green dress, grinning broadly at the camera. Lance frowned, leaning over them. He pressed two fingers to the two cadet photos. “Both of these are Pidge, or at least I think they are,” he said. He pointed at the girl. ‘I’ve never met her, but she looks like the girl in a photo that Pidge had. Hunk was pretty sure she was his girlfriend – but looking at it a bit closer, they actually look pretty similar, so… Maybe she’s his sister?” Lance shrugged. “Pidge never actually told us anything about her.” He picked up the newspaper clipping. “And that’s the… That’s the Kerberos mission. Takashi Shirogane, Commander Samuel Holt, and…” He trailed off, squinting at the photo. “Why is Matt Holt Pidge’s twin brother?” he asked. Hopkins sighed, taking the photo back.

“Pidge is no one’s brother,” he said. He pinched the bridge of his nose. Everything he and Cho learned about the case seemed like a completely new thread of questioning, taking them down a completely different track than the last. There were no answers, only ever stranger questions. He held up the second cadet photo. “This is Matt Holt from his first year at the Garrison,” he said. He pointed to the girl. “That’s Katie Holt, Matt’s little sister.” He picked up the first cadet photo. “This,” he gestured, “this is Pidge Gunderson’s Garrison directory photo. Except, Pidge Gunderson isn’t a real person. Pidge Gunderson is really Katie Holt.” Lance’s jaw hit the floor.

“Pidge is WHAT?” he yelped. His entire body had shifted forward on the seat, a breath away from launching to his feet. Hopkins sat back. The reaction was genuine, or he should hand over his badge. He had had no idea. Lance gripped the edge of the sofa. “Wait… Pidge was a girl the entire time? But he…” Lance was spluttering. “How? The Garrison runs background checks. How did Pidge—?”

“She constructed an exceptionally detailed false identity,” Hopkins said. He and Cho still couldn’t fathom where a fifteen-year-old had found someone to fabricate documents that fooled the Garrison admissions. They refused to believe she could have done it herself. True, her mother had insisted Katie was a genius with computers – “I don’t mean she knows how to use Photoshop. I mean she was proficient in five different coding languages by the time she was six years old” – but parents were prone to exaggeration. “However,” Hopkins continued, “when we started investigating Gunderson’s parents, the discrepancies started turning up. It wasn’t hard to prove they never existed. Mrs. Holt identified Gunderson’s photo as Katie. The timelines of their disappearances match up. It’s definitely her.” He ran a hand across his face. Lance had picked up Katie’s photo and was staring at it, his eyes fixed on her face with disbelieving intensity.

“Why did he – she – disguise herself?” Lance asked.

“We don’t know for sure,” Hopkins said. Mrs. Holt had told them, her face cold and still, that she would never have let Katie anywhere near the Garrison after losing Sam and Matt. It still didn’t explain why Katie wanted to go to the Garrison in the first place, or why she’d gone to such extraordinary lengths to do so.

After they’d talked to Mrs. Holt, Hopkins and Cho had called the Garrison. That Captain Seitz woman had turned up again. Telling her that Pidge Gunderson was really Katie Holt had finally cracked her stony calmness. She’d practically run from the police station as soon as Cho had run out of questions. Neither he nor Cho could fathom what that was about, except perhaps concern for the security of the Garrison background check if a fifteen-year-old kid had gotten past it. Still, evidently the Garrison was just as surprised as everyone else. Whether this had anything at all to do with her disappearance, it was impossible to tell.

“Um…” Lance said. Hopkins looked at him sharply. He was shifting, his eyes flicking across the photos, lingering on the picture of Kerberos crew. He clearly wanted to say something, teeth pressing into his bottom lip.

“What?”

“Nothing,” he answered, stilling himself with evident effort. “It’s nothing.”

“Lance, if you know something—”

“I don’t know anything,” Lance spat. The venom in his voice took Hopkins aback. Before he could recover, Lance had stood up. “Did you just want to find out if I knew about Pidge? Or, I guess I mean, Katie?”

“And if you have any idea about why she would have—”

“I don’t know,” Lance said shortly. “No. I have no idea.” Hopkins felt his shoulders droop.

“Alright, well, if you think of anything—”

“I have your number.” Hopkins nodded, pinching the bridge of his nose again.

“I’ll walk you out, then,” he sighed. Lance didn’t look at him, just kept pace as they returned to the lobby. On the threshold, he paused, turning back.

“You didn’t… find Keith, did you?” he asked. There was a terrifying hint of desperation in his voice. Their eyes met, and an icy spike of adrenaline ran through Hopkins’s spine, making him feel more awake than he had in days. There was fear welling in those deep blue eyes, dangerously close to overflowing. Hopkins almost grabbed his shoulder, marched him back into the room, and forced him to sit down until he talked. But Lance looked like a spooked animal, the terror in his eyes raw and helpless in a way that made Hopkins realize afresh how much Lance was just a kid, just a very scared and lost kid. He couldn’t bring himself to tell Lance how long gone Keith seemed to be.

“We’ve had some trouble getting in touch with him,” he said, trying to sound soothing, as if there was nothing wrong. “I’ll let you know when we do, alright?”

Those blue eyes darkened, but before he could reply, Calixto said from behind him, “Who’s Keith?”

Lance yelped, jumping and spinning in a circle to see his brother had stood up and walked over to meet them. Hopkins was left with nothing but his back while Lance stuttered an answer.

“It’s— He’s— He was in my class at the Garrison, he’s the one who got kicked out,” he squeaked. “I didn’t— I didn’t hear you come up,” he said.

“Why are you asking the police about him?” Calixto asked, frowning at Hopkins. He stood awkwardly in the doorway, unsure whether he should leave yet or not.

“I… I may have sort of… I think I remembered seeing him,” Lance muttered, looking at his shoes. Calixto’s eyes went wide.

“Lance, you remembered something?” he said. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I did! To the police. And to Louisa, eventually.” Lance still wasn’t looking, but Hopkins saw the briefest expression of hurt flick across Calixto’s face.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked.

“Because I wasn’t even certain it was real!” Lance shouted. His hands balled into fists at his sides. “Everything I bring up, you want to analyze and talk to me about endlessly, but I don’t have any answers, okay? I don’t know what happened to me.” His nails pressed so hard into his palms Hopkins was a little surprised they didn’t break the skin. “I don’t know what happened! So I had this one little half memory – barely more than a dream – and I just, I couldn’t deal with you trying to work out what it meant to me, okay?” Calixto was frowning.

“Wait— Keith— Wasn’t he the one that Beatriz was teasing you about—?”

“SHUT UP!” Lance said. Under his brown skin, he had flushed red to his ears. “Why are you even bringing that up? That’s not the—” He glanced back and saw Hopkins and fury spasmed across his face. “I’ll call you if I know anything,” he said. “But I don’t, I don’t know anything about where my friends are – or apparently even who my friends are – so can you leave me alone now?”

“Thank you for your time, Lance,” Hopkins heard himself say, unable to grasp a more delicate way to exit the situation. As he turned to go back inside, he heard Lance turn back to Calixto and speak in a blast of sharp-edged Spanish. When he glanced through the window a minute later, after returning to his desk, he saw Lance storming out on his own.

The hot air of the desert whipping across his face finally brought the tears spilling out of his eyes. By the time he got to Kent’s hut, he stumbled inside with tear tracks streaking down the dust on his face and collapsed to sitting on the floor in front of the sofa, drawing his knees up to his chest and burying his face on them, rocking slightly, trying to alleviate the roiling feeling in his stomach. He shouldn’t have stormed out on Cal like that, or on Detective Hopkins for that matter, but he couldn’t look them in the eye with Lotor sitting smiling in his brain. He couldn’t quietly sit in Cal’s apartment eating eggs like nothing was wrong. He couldn’t talk to the police and act like he knew nothing – even if, in some ways, it was true that he felt like he knew less than ever.

Pidge was a girl. The revelation had dropped from nowhere and Lance, already tense, had almost fallen from his chair in shock. However, the second he caught his breath, that knowledge had slotted into place like a puzzle piece. Just as he had known, with a certainty he couldn’t explain, that Lotor and Captain Seitz were telling the truth about the crashing meteor being a ship, or Keith Kogane being with him… wherever he had gone, the fact that Pidge was a girl felt undeniably and disconcertingly true. His fingers pressed against his knees, fidgety and tense, as half-remembered moments and conversations flitted across his brain. He’d wanted to tell Detective Hopkins that Pidge had been reclusive and too smart for his – or rather, her – own good. He’d remembered that she turned into a spitfire at the merest mention of the Kerberos mission. He’d remembered that she would linger at the doorways into teachers’ offices and that sometimes she would vanish behind them and catch up later, panting, with no explanation for where she had gone. He’d wanted to say that everyone at the Garrison gave each other sideways looks when the Kerberos mission came up, but that Pidge more than anyone seemed to actively disbelieve the Garrison when they talked about what happened.

“Do you think she knew, Kent?” Lance asked the empty shack. “I mean, if the Kerberos mission was really, uh, xeno-diplomacy, then the rest of the Holt family has to have known, right? The Garrison would have told them. But then, shouldn’t she have known her father and brother were really safe? Or maybe…” He ran a finger along the side of the table, dragging a line through the dust. “Maybe she didn’t believe they were safe, or, or, maybe she was mad about Shiro? Maybe she was trying to expose the Garrison? Like… she was looking for evidence? God, I just don’t… I can’t deal with this by myself, Kent. I’m not like you. I can’t come live out in a desert by myself and be okay. Well, as okay as you are, Mr. I-don’t-understand-what-vegetables-are. I need to talk to people, to bounce ideas around. I need someone to reassure me that I’m not going crazy.” He rubbed his temples. “I wish I could just tell Cal and Louisa everything, but what if they don’t believe me? And I mean… I’ve definitely broken more than one law just being in this shack. I don’t want them to… to…” He dropped his head back to his knees, tears pricking at his eyes again. “I’m scared, Kent,” he whispered. “I’m scared.”

He stayed there for a long moment before shaking it off with a shudder and lifting his head. His eyes landed on the conspiracy board. The circled “ENERGY SOURCE” on the map beckoned him, pulled at him insistently. Almost without noticing his body moving, he got up and crossed the room. He glanced back at the window. It wasn’t even noon yet. He had hours and hours, and he couldn’t go back and face Cal until he’d at least tried to sort some of this out.

He’d brought some snacks out to the shack to sustain him during his hours of sorting through Kent’s notes. Putting food in Kent’s cupboards had felt like another level of intrusion into his house, but Lance was quickly getting over any concern about that. Moving almost dreamlike through the house, he gathered a bag of some snacks, two big water bottles, and took the map off of the conspiracy board. He switched his phone off, ignoring a missed call from Cal. He paused by the hoverbike, worrying his lip for a moment, before throwing caution to the winds and climbing on.

He had to look at the map to get pointed in the right direction at first. However, once he started going, he just moved without thinking about it, working on instinct just as he had to find Kent’s hut. There was a strange faint pull that seemed to brush at the very core of his being, leading him forwards. It was barely noticeable – if this was the extent of the strange energy that Kent had talked about pulling him to this place, he must really not have much to do with his time. Lance was pretty sure he’d felt the same amount of involuntary pull to the prospect of 1AM chocolate chip pancakes at a 24-hour IHOP. Still, there was something unsettling about the sensation that made his hands clench around the grip of the hoverbike. It was just slightly too intense to be his imagination.

There were countless caves marked out on the various maps in Kent’s hut. Lance didn’t know how he chose the one that he did. He only knew, in a way he didn’t want to think about, that it was the right one. Something ached inside his chest as he dismounted, leaving the hoverbike parked outside. The pull that had led him here seemed to cut loose and leave him floating and empty, searching for the other end of a connection that simply wasn’t there. Gritting his teeth against the strange and inexplicable hollowness, he walked slowly into the dim and blessedly cool cave. The rock was sandblasted and worn down, but even in the dim light the carvings stood out clearly. He ran a hand hesitantly over one of them, a strange symbol that he half-recognized from Kent’s notes. As his fingers brushed the carving, it glowed an almost imperceptible blue. Then Lance’s head split apart with pain.

A thousand fingernails screeched down a thousand chalk boards. A hundred bows raked across four hundred violin strings. There was a thin scream somewhere in the distance that Lance only realized was his own when he ran out of breath. Blue and black stars burst behind his eyes as he went to his knees, gravel and sand digging into his shins, his hands clutching his head. He couldn’t stop screaming, the sound pale and weak. He bent double over his thighs, elbows and forehead digging into the ground. His fingers curled in his hair as he trembled uncontrollably. He couldn’t stand, couldn’t move, could barely breathe around the screams tearing apart his body. His head seared and broke and split, demanding every ounce of attention. The only thing he knew was that he wanted it to stop, he needed it to stop. Then suddenly, there were arms, hot and strong, lifting Lance as if he weighed no more than a doll. He had no time to be afraid before his eyes rolled back in his head and he lost consciousness.

He came to stretched out on some kind of cot, his mouth dry and dusty. His eyelids stuck together. The echoes of the sharp, splitting pain still rung in his head. As he laboriously pulled his eyes halfway open, wary of the rush of sunlight, he noticed a heavy weight on his chest. Then a bone-chillingly familiar voice hissed, “Kova! Bad kitty! Get off of him!”

Lance bolted upright, dislodging a cat with dark blue fur. It leapt to the floor, hissing at him, and trotted across the room to jump onto the shoulder of an armored and hooded figure standing in the corner. Lance recoiled as he got a glimpse under the hood: the figure’s skin was blue and it had no eyes. Lotor, who had shooed the cat away, was standing at the foot of the cot, no less unsettling for being familiar. His eyes were fixed on Lance, who curled his legs under him, not sure whether he was about to bolt or throw a punch or both.

“Are you alright?” Lotor asked, his voice surprisingly gentle. Lance choked on a response. “Narti!” he said, turning to the eyeless figure. “Get a glass of water will you?” The figure turned and left through a door. Lotor turned back to Lance, a slight smile on his face, and for the first time, there seemed to be some warmth in his eyes as well. Lance, feeling his heart thudding in his chest at maintaining eye contact with Lotor, glanced quickly around the room.

For one heart-stopping moment he thought he was somehow in Kent’s shack, but it was only the similarity of a somewhat rustic wooden shack and the hot smell of the desert that triggered the association. This place appeared to be some kind of guard outpost, with a couple army-style cots against one wall, a sleek modern desk with a bank of computers and monitoring cameras opposite. Narti reappeared in the doorway, the cat rubbing along her legs, holding a glass of water.

“Here,” Lotor said, gesturing her forward. She held the glass out to Lance, who reached up and wrapped his fingers around it slowly, still undecided whether or not he ought to just flee.

“Thank… you,” he managed. He paused with the glass at his lips, wondering if he ought not to drink, but then again, if they’d wanted to hurt him, they could have just done it while he was unconscious. The dryness of his mouth decided for him. He took a swallow of water. It tasted normal. He glanced between Lotor and Narti. “Um… what happened?”

Narti gave a brief glance at Lotor and then slid out of the room. Lance started at the sight of spotted blue tail sweeping behind her before dragging his eyes back to Lotor, who had pulled the desk chair up beside the bed and was sitting in it. “We saw you,” Lotor said, gesturing at the computer monitors. “You collapsed, so we came to help.” Lance took another swallow of water. He looked at Lotor for a long beat, and Lotor returned his gaze. Lance felt a shudder travel up his body, but grit his teeth. Might as well do it now, he thought.

“What is this place?” he asked. Lotor pressed his fingers together in a steeple.

“Lance, I need to admit, yesterday, at the Garrison, I may not have been… entirely honest,” he said. Despite his heart feeling like it might break his ribs, Lance held his gaze.

“Okay,” he said.

“You see, the Garrison is quite… reticent. They’re very nervous about public perception and what kind of information gets out. Once I heard about you, I managed to convince them that you needed to be told of the basics, at least, but they were still reluctant to tell you much of anything.” He sighed. “What I didn’t explain yesterday is the sheer scale of the Altean war in time. When I said that the Alteans had not been able to pilot Voltron since the deaths of the last Paladins, what I failed to mention was that most of those deaths occurred around 10,000 years ago.” Lance’s fingers tightened against the glass. The number 10,000 echoed in his head with a ring of truth. “When they realized that they were losing their greatest weapon, they hid the various lions on primitive planets to stop any other race from getting their hands on one. We had, in fact, believed the Alteans to be all but beaten for good. The return of Voltron and the witch-queen has been… traumatic.” Lotor sighed deeply, leaning forward over his knees. “When Shiro returned to Earth, it seems that he somehow tracked down the Blue Lion, which had been hidden here by the Alteans after the death of its last Paladin. No doubt he recognized the feel of its quintessence. You and your friends evidently went with him. But then Allura arrived to recapture Shiro, and, well, you know how that part of the story goes.” Lance felt something warm brush against his elbow and flinched, glancing down to find Kova curled up on the edge of the bed and watching him with bright yellow eyes. He hesitantly extended a hand, and she nudged at it with her nose. He scratched carefully between her ears. “The Garrison had long suspected the carvings here to be alien in origin, but the Blue Lion shielded itself from any instruments they might have been able to use to detect it, until you, its new Paladin, arrived to unlock it. They are not… eager, for this particular oversight on their part to become public knowledge.”

“Why is there a guard post out here, if they didn’t know about the lion?” Lance asked, withdrawing his hand. Kova stalked down the bed. Lotor shrugged.

“It’s less of a guard post and more of a… study outpost. The cameras were only installed after you disappeared. No one was particularly expecting anyone to come back, but it wouldn’t pay to be surprised again.”

“What are you doing out here, then?” Lance asked. He realized the glass he was clutching was empty and lowered it.

“I was hoping studying the carvings myself might yield some information about the Alteans or the lions that could help us combat Voltron,” Lotor shrugged. “So far, I have sadly been unsuccessful, but it remains a pleasant change from the underground bunker in the Garrison, and is isolated enough that I don’t have to worry about running into humans – at least, not normal humans.” He smiled again, though his eyes remained cold. “You must have been drawn back here by the residual pull of your lion.” Lance looked down, fidgeting with the now empty glass.

“Do they normally, uh, do the carvings normally make people collapse with the worst migraine they’ve ever had?” he asked. Lotor shook his head.

“No. I believe that was a residual effect of the witch-queen’s mind control. As is, I believe, your fear of me.” Lance looked up sharply and now Lotor’s eyes did look amused. “Oh, don’t worry, I’m not offended. I’m sure she sunk some deep conditioning into you to fear my race.”

“How do I know you’re telling the truth?”

The instant the words were out of his mouth, Lance regretted them. He and Lotor both froze, staring at one another, Lance’s mouth still open around his last word. There was a flash of anger across Lotor’s face. Lance recoiled, hunching his shoulders, wondering how effectively he could use an empty water glass as a weapon. Kova, sitting on the end of the bed, swished her tail. Lotor schooled his features into stillness.

“I suppose I can’t prove it to you, not without taking you to space and showing you the destruction that the Alteans have wrought,” he said, an undercurrent of strain and anger stretching his voice. “Is it not enough that you have lost your memory, that you found this place and collapsed in pain? Is it not enough that your friends are missing, torn from their families without explanation? Would a benevolent force do that?” He shook his head, a strand of white hair falling of his eye. “They destroyed the Galra homeworld, Lance. An entire planet, simply gone, because they were afraid it was amassing too much powerful quintessence. Ten thousand years and the universe is still recovering from that. Have you seen the problems that refugees from wars in single countries cause across your Earth? Imagine that, multiplied to an entire planet. The Galra have been scattered, left homeless. We wander through the universe without roots, with nowhere to return to if we are scorned, and destined to never be anything but guests on another species’ world. I never got to see the planet that should have been my home. It was space dust centuries before my birth.”

“I’m… sorry,” Lance said. Lotor took a deep breath.

“No, I’m sorry, Lance. I shouldn’t have snapped like that. Of course you would be a bit… distrusting, with everything you’ve been through.” He pulled the chair slightly closer, sending Kova jumping off the bed and stalking around behind him. “I know I scare you, and that you’re trying to… come to terms with all of this. It can’t be easy. Still, I’m hoping that you will adjust to me, given time. I would like us to be friends, if that could ever be possible.” Lance bit the inside of his cheek, willing his heart to slow its frantic pounding.

“I’m pretty sure you did just save my life,” he said, giving Lotor a wry grin. “So I guess that means I owe you one.” Lotor flashed a real smile. Lance relaxed slightly against the wall behind him, swinging his legs out in front of him so he was sitting across the bed. “So… I should probably go, now, I guess?”

“If you want to,” Lotor said, standing up. “Although I’d be more than happy to talk without Captain Seitz peering icily over our shoulders.” A chuckle burst out of Lance before he could stop himself, and he jumped, stifling the sound. He stared at Lotor and nodded.

“Yeah, okay. I mean, are there more secrets the Garrison is keeping, or…?” Lotor waved a hand dismissively.

“The Garrison is keeping a plethora of secrets, most of which are ultimately inconsequential and certainly have nothing to do with either of us. I just meant— Well, I told you. I’d like to get to know you, Lance. I can’t help but be curious. Frankly, I’m enjoying the opportunity just to talk to any human other than some of the Garrison officers. You seem remarkably more… relaxed.”

“Yeah, well, military officers in general have sticks up their asses, I guess,” Lance said, grinning slightly. His eyes went wide and he waved a hand at the look of bemused distress on Lotor’s face. “That’s an expression! Sorry! It’s just a— it means that they’re over committed to rules and discipline.” Kova meowed from the corner and Lotor shot her a withering look. She stuck her tail in the air and stalked out of the room.

“Some factions of the Galra Empire are like that as well,” Lotor admitted, turning back to Lance. “My father’s high command is… Well, we’ve had our disagreements.” He gave Lance another smile, this one careless, sharp teeth gleaming.

“So your father is the Emperor?” Lance asked. A grimace flashed across Lotor’s face. He stood up and crossed to a bag sitting on the floor next to the desk.

“He is. Our relationship is… complicated. You asked me if I was set to inherit the Empire by right of birth, and, well.” He gave a short, sharp laugh. “Certainly not at the moment, no.” He reached into the bag and pulled out some kind of packet, which he tore open, and popped something that looked like a seed into his mouth. “Want one?” he offered, holding the packet out to Lance. Lance leaned back, eyeing it suspiciously.

“Uh… do you know for a fact that it’s not going to kill me? Or, like, turn me purple or anything?” Lotor laughed and shook his head, pulling back the packet.

“Fair point,” he said. “I don’t imagine corrufia seeds would do much to you, but I haven’t tested them, so perhaps better safe than sorry.” He considered Lance a moment, chewing on another seed. “What do humans like for snacks?” he asked. “I don’t generally join the Garrison officers for meals.” Lance shrugged.

“Human food is pretty diverse, man, you’d have to ask me to get a little more specific,” he said. Suddenly Lotor was closer than Lance had thought he was, looming over him a moment before dropping back into his chair.

“Well, what do you like?” he asked. Lance swallowed, fear sitting tight and jittery in his chest.

“Uh… I’m a fan of the sweet and salty, I guess, when it comes to snacking. Chocolate-covered almonds, stuff like that.” He realized he’d drawn his legs back up towards him and forced them to relax. Lotor watched him silently, tossing back another handful of seeds.

“The Garrison officers tell me that humans have no telepathic forms of communication. Is that true?” he asked suddenly. Lance blinked in surprise.

“Um… yeah. I mean, no, we don’t… telepathy is not a real thing. Not for humans, anyway,” he added hastily. Lotor finished the packet of seeds and crumpled it in his hand.

“Fascinating,” he murmured.

“Is that something common for aliens?” Lance asked. He was still holding his water glass from earlier, running his fingers absentmindedly around the rim.

“Oh no, not at all,” Lotor said, tossing the packet into a trash can. “Some species have it, but it is rare. But, if you managed to break the witch-queen’s mind control, I thought perhaps your species had some experience with mind-to-mind contact. It is truly impressive you managed to escape her thrall. You even hold your conditioned fear to my appearance in check. I was prepared for you to try and kill me on sight yesterday. You must be an extraordinary example of a human, Lance.” Lance shifted uncomfortably.

“I… I’m not… I’m nothing special,” he shrugged. “I mean, yeah, okay, I’d like to think I’m a decent pilot, and not just anyone can get into the Garrison, but still, Hunk and Pidge are both way smarter than I am, and so are Cal and Louisa.” Lotor tsked, distracting Lance for a moment wondering what sort of translation device Lotor was using and whether that sound meant the same thing to Galra.

“Don’t sell yourself short, Lance,” Lotor said. “I’m sure you were one of the best pilots in the whole Garrison.”

“I wasn’t,” Lance muttered, his eyes dropping as the vision of Keith danced in front of them.

“Would you like to let me judge for myself?” Lotor asked. Lance’s head jerked up.

“What?” he asked.

“Your piloting capabilities. Would you like to let me judge for myself? I mean, I heard tales of the expertise of the new Blue Paladin, but I have yet to confront the lions myself. I have a little ship outside from the Garrison that I used to fly down here. I would love the chance to see a Paladin of Voltron fly.”

“I…” Lance looked down at his hands, clenched tight around the glass. He should say no, he should say it was getting late and just leave, but… flying. He’d been missing flying ever since he woke up in that hospital bed. It haunted his dreams and made his fingers itch. His throat closed around the “No” that he should say. To be weightless, just for a few minutes, to be free and untethered by gravity once again, was a prospect he couldn’t bear to refuse. “A really, really quick ride,” he said, barely hearing his own words. “Just for like five minutes. Can’t hurt, right?”

“Wonderful,” Lotor smiled. He stood up and held out a hand. Lance stared at it for a long moment, struggling for the will to reach out and take it. Lotor had just started to withdraw it when his arm shot out and his hand snagged Lotor’s. The two of them looked at each other in surprise for a moment. Lance’s mouth went dry at the sensation of Lotor’s glove, soft and leathery and warm with body heat. Still, he let Lotor pull him to his feet and followed him outdoors.

The second Lance grasped the controls of the little island-hopper ship, he felt a profound sense of home. He belonged in this chair, behind these controls. Tension left his chest in a whoosh with his breath and he relaxed. Lotor was standing over him and watching as Lance flicked the switches to prepare for takeoff. Through the windshield, he could see Narti had come outside the shack and was standing by the door, Kova on her shoulder. He glanced over his shoulder at Lotor.

“Are you going to strap in, or—?”

“I’ll just watch from the ground,” Lotor told him, stepping out of the ship. “Enjoy.” Yet another bit of tension eased in his chest with Lotor out of the ship, and Lance let a grin spread across his face. Making a last check that everything was running as it should, he lifted into the air.

Every kid got to play with a simulator these days. Local arcades were dirt cheap, and even if their simulations were shaky and prone to crash, lines could run out into the street on a weekend. Lance had found his way to the simulator after looking into the sky and deciding that whatever it took to get to the stars, he’d learn to do it. But he hadn’t fallen in love with flying until the first time he’d done it for real.

He could still recall the pilot school ship in perfect detail – it was the smallest, slowest thing in the world. The switches were worn down by hundreds of oily fingers until their labels were almost illegible. The stick had been chipped, with one sharp edge that could catch on your ring finger if you weren’t careful. A hoverbike was probably a far more exhilarating experience, objectively speaking. But that first moment of liftoff from the ground, Lance had felt his entire soul lift into the air, and he wasn’t sure it had ever come back down. He belonged to the sky and the stars.

He hardly even noticed his own whooping as he ascended, flying tight circles above the caves. He could see his hoverbike where he had left it, a little distance away and around a cliff from the shack. He saw Lotor gazing up at him, and Narti standing stoically by the door. The grin he wore now could have cracked his cheeks. He decided, abruptly, to do something fancy, to really impress Lotor. He’d done it in the simulator, when Iverson wasn’t around to catch him – he was sure he could replicate it without trouble. He pulled into a loop-de-loop with a bit of an uncertain shudder and came out of it at an awkward angle, but he did it. Then, he did it again, slightly bigger, and it went off without a hitch. He shrieked with joy as gravity reversed, crowing triumph as he climbed into the brilliantly blue and open sky. By the time he finally descended, drifting slowly to the ground, he was sweaty and panting.

Lotor applauded when he climbed out and Lance felt himself blush, waving off the praise. “I was just goofing around. I haven’t gotten to fly – actually fly – in a long time.” Lotor shook his head, coming forward.

“That was fantastic, Lance,” he said warmly. “Truly.” Lance rolled his eyes.

“Keith did some pretty wild things whenever he got into the pilot’s chair,” he said, and immediately bit his lip.

“Well, he’ll have to show me what he can do after we rescue him and the others from Allura,” Lotor said. “Come on, you look like you could use another glass of water.”

Lance wasn’t sure how it happened, only that he and Lotor fell to talking, trading stories about Earth and other planets across the universe. As much as Lotor still sent spikes of nervousness through Lance, they began to abate the longer they talked, and he couldn’t deny he was dying of curiosity. An entire universe of planets out there that he could learn about was well worth a few reservations about the source of his information. Lotor proved a meticulous storyteller, painting pictures for Lance of planets with golden skies, forests made of metal trees, of fields of crystals as deadly as they were beautiful. Lance couldn’t imagine Earth being particularly interesting to him after all that, but he told stories about his family, about dreaming of the stars, and about the Garrison. It wasn’t until the grumbling of his stomach caught up with him that Lance glanced up and saw with a start that the sun had set.

“Oh, shit,” he said, leaping to his feet. “I have to go – that hoverbike should have enough battery stored but I really shouldn’t try riding it at night if I can help it – and I need to get to home to cook dinner – oh, God, Cal…” He bit his lip. “Cal is probably… Cal’s going to be so pissed. Maybe I should…” He patted his pockets. “Shit,” he swore again. “You didn’t drop my phone when you were carrying me out of the cave, did you?”

“Not that I noticed,” Lotor said mildly.

“Well, I don’t really want to go back in and have another episode like the last one,” Lance said. He shifted from foot to foot, feeling jittery. “God, I can’t believe I lost my phone and didn’t even notice – would it be possible for you to check for me?”

“I’ll go back and look tomorrow when the sun comes up,” Lotor said. “There’s no danger of rain and no person is going to come along and pick it up. If I find it, I��ll give it back to you on Thursday.”

“Okay,” Lance said. “Look, this was— Thanks again, for helping me out. And it was, uh, nice getting to know you. I’ll see you in a couple days.”

“Are you sure you’ll be alright on the hoverbike?” Lotor asked. Lance waved him off.

“Yeah, no, I’ll definitely be okay, we’re not that far from town. I just should really, really get back.” Lotor stood and inclined his head.

“It’s been a pleasure, Lance,” he said. “I look forward to seeing you again soon.” Lance gave him a brief nod before darting out the door.

As he eased open the door to Cal’s apartment, it looked dark, and for a moment he wondered if Cal had already gone to bed. But then he stepped inside and saw a single lamp by the sofa still lit. Cal had sprung to his feet at the door opening, and the moment he saw Lance, his face went dark with anger.

“Where. The hell. Were you,” he said, his voice flat with fury in a way that Lance had never heard before. Lance paused in the doorway, taken aback.

“Out,” he replied shortly, bending down to slip his shoes off.

“Out where?”

“Just out. In the town. Nowhere special,” Lance said. He heard Cal striding across the room and stood back up to find them standing nose to nose. Cal took a hand and brushed it sharply across Lance’s chest. A puff of dirt and sand came free.

“Out in the town, but covered in sand,” he said. He walked over to Lance’s laundry bag and upended it. The clothes dropped to the floor in a heap, followed by a small shower of sand. “There is sand on practically all of your clothes. It’s been in the shower. You’ve tracked it in here almost every day. Did you think I wouldn’t notice? At first I thought you were just going to that hoverbike place and riding along the edge of town, but I went looking for you today after the police station and they said they haven’t seen you in a month. So where the hell are you going?” Lance didn’t answer, staring Cal down. “Are you looking for Hunk and Pidge? Are you going back into that desert, Lance?” He stayed silent. “Answer me!”

“Why? It’s none of your damn business!” Lance shouted. “You’re my brother, not my babysitter. I’m almost eighteen years old, Cal, and I’m allowed to make my own decisions without you scrutinizing every single one of them.” He shoved him out of the way. “I’m tired, and I want to get food and sleep. Can’t you leave me alone for just one night?”

“No, apparently I can’t!” Cal said, throwing out an arm to block him. Lance stepped back, outrage growing on his face. “I called your therapist, and she says you’ve missed the last three sessions, and then emailed her yesterday to cancel all future appointments. You stood up Louisa for lunch yesterday. You remember something that happened but refuse to tell me about it. And now you just up and vanish for a day – apparently into the desert that almost killed you! Something’s wrong, Lance. Why can’t you just tell me what it is?” Lance felt cold all over, anger crystallizing in icy stillness, growing harder and harder with everything Cal said. He spoke slowly and deliberately, clinging onto composure.

“I’ve had something weird as all hell happen to me, and I am just trying to deal with that as best I can, okay?” Lance tried to lay a placating hand on Cal’s arm, but he flinched away. “But you’re being invasive. You don’t get to know where I am all the time!”

“You can’t go into that desert, Lance! That place is dangerous!”

“I can take care of myself!”

“But what if you can’t? Something could happen to you and I wouldn’t be able to help—”

“That still doesn’t make it your business!” Lance exploded. “Where do you get off telling me that I ought to, to provide you my itinerary or whatever, and—”

“I THOUGHT YOU WERE DEAD!” Lance jumped, falling back a step, staring wide-eyed at Cal. Cal’s shoulders heaved with breath. “Do you understand that, Lance? Do you have any idea what that was like? I had to struggle to remember what the last conversation we had was, when was the last time I had seen your face, because I needed to know, I needed to fix it in my mind forever. I attended your goddamn fucking funeral, Lance. I thought I’d never get to celebrate your graduation, or watch you become a pilot, or hear one of your stupid jokes again. I thought you’d died without ever getting to the stars. I thought you were gone. I thought you were fucking gone. I can’t… I can’t tell you what that felt like. I thought I would have to celebrate every single Christmas, every single birthday, without you. I just felt… empty. I felt so fucking hollow. And then… And then a miracle happened. You came back to life. And I am so, so fucking scared of losing you again, Lance, because I can’t. I can’t do that a second time.”

In his entire life, Lance had only seen Cal lose his composure so badly that he lost his English once before. Cal had been ten, Lance just barely turned six. Cal’s appendix had burst after a long day of what they had thought had just been a bad stomachache. The image of Cal writhing on the floor, clutching his abdomen, his English cracking and breaking and failing him until he let forth a stream of Spanish invective so filthy that, in any other circumstance, their grandmother might have resorted to washing his mouth out with soap, was burned onto Lance’s brain. He had never felt so helpless and so horrified. He and Louisa had sat in the hospital waiting room all night, falling asleep and jerking back awake against each other’s shoulders. The relief when the doctors came back to say he would be fine had run through Lance’s entire body, so that he had practically collapsed with it. Only Louisa’s ironclad grip on his arm had kept him upright.

Cal was staring at him. Lance mouthed silently for a moment, scrambling for a response.

“I didn’t… I’m not trying to scare you,” he said. “Cal, I didn’t realize—”

“Why can’t you just tell me what’s going on with you?”

“I want to!” Lance said. “But I can’t, because… you wouldn’t believe me even if I could.”

“Try me. Please, Lance. I want to help.” Cal’s eyes were so earnest Lance thought they might tear his heart out.

“Aliens,” he blurted out. “Honest to God, Cal, I know how that sounds, but just, please believe me. I disappeared because of aliens, and the Garrison knows about it, and they specifically told me not to tell you, but I can’t keep lying, God, Cal, I just can’t.” Cal had gone still. His expression was unreadable in the dim light. Lance’s stomach sank into his feet as the silence stretched on.

“I’m calling Mamá and Papá,” Cal said finally, quietly. “You need help, Lance. You need to go home.” Lance grabbed his hair, his fingers curling and pressing against his temples.

“I’m not crazy! Cal, I swear, I know it sounds insane but please. I need you to believe me. Going home is not the answer.”

“I’m trying to help you. Please, please just go home. If you really believe aliens… abducted you, or whatever, then you need serious help. It’s obviously not safe for you here, wandering off into the desert.”

“Fine. Fine!” Lance tasted bile on his tongue. “It was a poorly timed joke. Aliens aren’t real. You got me.”

“I’m still calling Mamá and Papá.”

“I won’t leave. You can’t make me.”

“Like hell I can’t.”

“I’ll go to the Garrison. They can give me my old dorm room back and I can continue my sessions with Dr. Ito.” Lance gave him a steely glare. “But I’m not going home. You can’t make me, and neither can Mamá and Papá.”

“Fine. If you want to go to the Garrison, fine. I guess between them and Louisa there should be enough people to keep an eye on you.” Cal’s voice was flat.

“Don’t call Mamá and Papá,” Lance said, working to keep the desperation out of his voice. More than ever, he couldn’t go back to Cuba. It would drive him insane.

“Fine,” Cal said. “But I’m calling Louisa.”

“Fine,” Lance answered, hunching his shoulders. He started to move away, towards his air mattress, his appetite for dinner vanished. He paused, turning back slightly. “Cal? I… really am sorry. I didn’t realize how… I didn’t think about how it would have felt to you, I just—” Cal reached into a pocket and hurled something at Lance’s head. He dodged it just in time, and it hit the bookcase behind him with a clack, falling to the floor. Lance bent down and picked it up. It was a pill bottle, and he squinted to read the label in the dark. Startled, he looked back up at Cal. “Prozac?” he asked. “But… since when…?”

“When do you think,” Cal said. He stalked back into his room, slamming the door in Lance’s face.

#voltron #klance #lotor #lancelot #memory fic #written in sand #my writing #gah please just take this

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