#and knew that by placing him in that arena; he'd get himself killed. arena full of Jedi. Jango always would have tried to fight them and

[notthestarwar]

@dukeoftheblackstar and heres another snippet from the same fic which i think gives a kinda sympathetic view to mace. i've taken this straight from my drafts so i'll leave the old tags there. now i'm gonna reblog some pro mace posts lol but i wont tag you in those cause i think i've probably tagged you in enough at this point lol

This snippet is from 'When is a monster not a monster? Oh, when you love it'

It's from Chapter 7, ghost Mace is explaining to past Jaster what he knows of Jango's life, in the future. Here, he's describing the moment he killed Jango and his feelings in the aftermath.

In the midst of the battle, a man started shooting at me. We fought, it was a brutal thing, I was barely keeping up in spite of the Force. I did not know who he was or why he was shooting for me but I did know that if I ceded any space at all, he would take it and I would be dead.

In the end, I came out on top. I can't say I was intending for it, I was just trying to make contact in any place I could, but I caught him with my saber between his helmet and chest plate. He died, after I decapitated him and it wasn't until after the fact that I discovered that he was the one I had been searching for all those years before.

As a young Knight I set out to bring Jango Fett home, to right a wrong, but I was unable to find him. I had thought of him, often. The wrong I had not been able to right for my people. The man I could not save. And then, I stepped on to a dusty planet that I hardly knew, for reasons I hardly understood and I killed a man.

Jaster swallows. When Mace looks at him, honestly paints his face and regret curls at the edges.

"Quite without knowing it, I had killed the one I hadn't been able to save, years after the fact."

His son.

"I hadn't saved him but he survived all the same. He didn't need me to save him, he'd saved himself. I'd thought him dead but he lived to walk up to me all those years later. He survived that slave ship so that he might die at my hand years later."

The fact that he's sorry for it doesn't really cushion the blow. This is the man that killed his son. He is dead because of Jango but in a far off future, Jango is dead because of him.

How did he die? This Jedi? He had time to discover Jango's identity after the battle so he must have survived it. Did he later die of wounds Jango gave him? Jaster thinks not. None of this has been easy, none of this is simple. There remains a weight in the air, the burden of the remainder of Jango's story. An oddity considering it should end here.

He looks back to Windu, watching his face.

"I did not mean to kill your son Jaster. I meant to save him, but I was quite unable. The idea of him haunted me as steadily as any ghost and then, I killed him. I didn't know who he was when I struck and I did not know when he fell that he had already killed me, long before that day. It would be three years before my heart would stop but I was dead from the day Jango Fett landed on Kamino."

"I did not intend it, but I did it all the same. I am sorry that I killed him and I have to live with that regret even now, in death. I remain here knowing that I killed the man I was intending to save, the man who I had never forgotten failing."

Jaster is a warrior. He knows what a fight to the death is like. He has known the ferocity that an adult Jango would hold long before he knew that in a later time, the galaxy would know his son as 'The Jedi killer'. What a title. Jaster had not wanted this life, the one that from Mace's perspective has already passed, for his son. He wanted something kinder, easier, for him. It hadn't happened. Jaster had been unable to give that to him.

Mace didn't have any choice but to kill him but, all the same, as a father it is Jaster's right to hate him, just a little, for taking his sons life.

Jango deserved better than the galaxy that had delivered him to this Jedi on that day. He deserved better than the life that had shaped him in to the man that would attack this Jedi and lose. He deserved, parents that wouldn't die before he had finished growing, a second chance that worked out differently. He deserved everything and anything Jaster could give him and maybe, even that could not be enough. Could never be enough.

Mace looked at him. "Everyone in that hall is there because Jango is responsible for their death. I am not sure if the same can be said for me. Jango is responsible for my death but is that the reason I linger?"

The Jedi looks far away. "He haunted me far before he ever died and now I haunt him far before he ever killed me. He lined up the pieces of my death long before I met him in that arena. And I killed him long before he killed me. Time is not linear for the dead, but in the case of Jango and I it is even less so. The story of our haunting is a circular thing and in truth, I can not really say who of us is haunting who

He meets Jaster's eyes. "We are here to discuss why we haunt Jango. But it would be remiss of me to not tell you that your son has haunted me every single day since I left on a mission to retrieve him, to try and offer reparations for what my peoples neglect brought down on him, and came home empty handed."

"We thought him dead, but I did not forget him. From that day, I've carried the weight of what we did to him. I have often thought of him over the years. You hold no blame here, but we just might."

I love this bit. To me it's very clear that Jango's death was largely Jango's fault. In this fic, Mace finds himself on Galidraan with little understanding of why he's there, just trying to act in the moment to defend himself and other Jedi. Jango starts shooting at him, clearly shooting to kill. Mace knows that he's in danger, he knows that if he dies (because Jango intends for one of them to die. He will not stop until one of them is dead.) Jango will go on to kill more Jedi until one of them gets the upper hand, and so Mace acts in a way that is very understandable and defends his life with all he has. He's reacting rather than planning any of this, Jango is not giving him a chance to think about any of it, so when Jango is about to get the upper hand, Mace takes the only move available to him, and goes for his neck.

It's understandable, he had no choice, and yet, because of who Mace is, I think he'd find it very difficult to come to terms with having killed someone in that way. It's horribly violent (lightsaber deaths always seem to be??? Decapitation isn't quite bisection but it's not great. However, I think such a thing would be even harder for Mace to confront than it was for Obi Wan.) and I think Mace would struggle to accept that he really didn't have any choice, and anyone would have done the same.

And then!!! This Mace, is a Mace that has been metaphorically haunted by Jango ever since he 'failed to save him'. To know that Jango was out there to find all along and Mace just didn't manage it? That Jango didn't need Mace to escape, but that he suffered for longer thanks to his own rescue being left to him. That in that suffering, he became the kind of man, that would be in the arena, forcing Mace to kill him. That had Mace done anything about this constant reminder (was that a sign? From the force?) of Jango for all these years, he could have helped Jango. He might have stopped him doing what he did with the clones. He might have helped him process what had happened, so that Jango didn't end up on a suicide mission, determined to throw himself head first in to fights he can barely win, only so he can try and repent for not dying with the rest of them, the first time or the second.

Mace was a master Jedi, if anyone could help someone work through trauma, it was him. (His struggle to process it all himself is 100% not a sign of his ability. You can understand how to healthily process emotions to the n th degree, but it won't stop you being human and falling to human difficulties. He is the best person to help anyone else through this stuff, but when it comes to himself, he's too close. That's why Jedi help each other work through stuff.) But Mace wasn't there, because he didn't think Jango was out there. In spite of this constant lingering reminder at every step, he didn't look. And so Jango carried on, hating that he survived, living only to carry out this corrupted form of justice, until he finally met the end that he thought he should have met years before.

Mace couldn't help him, and then, he ended up doing the worst thing possible for him. He gave him this violent death, that in Jango's grief and pain, he was sure he deserved. I just think the more Mace learnt about Jango, after finding out he's just killed the man he thought had died thanks to his failure all those years before, going on to see the depths of what happened to Jango, what it made him, the more responsible he'd feel. If he'd only found him. What he went through on the ship. What the clones went through. All those years hating himself for surviving. Boba, who Jango wanted in spite of his self hated, who he loved so fiercely but could NOT do right by.

I think Mace would look at each part of it and a part of him would be like 'none of this had to happen. If you'd done your job, you could have saved him from that ship, from becoming this. You would have spared him from himself, but also the clones, Boba, everyone else he hurt.' I do think he would have known that this wasn't rational, and would have worked through it, been working through it, as he lived on and more and more things crept out of the woodwork to remind Mace of his one failure. Each revelation about jango is something else Mace might have prevented.

And then, Mace's death at palpatines hand. He speaks to the other ghosts and suddenly he sees. He sees the big picture. What Jango did to him, did to his people.

Mace has it completely right when he looks at this haunting as a circular thing. Who is haunting who? Time isn't linear for ghosts. He was haunting Jango from the start, but also, Mace didn't start haunting Jango till he'd already killed him. Mace not being able to forget that mission early in his career, the boy he hadn't been able to save. Was that bog standard guilt? His brain kicking up dust? Or was it the force warning him that Jango was out there, that he should look. Was it neither? As a force sensitive could Mace feel his future self, pulled back in time by his connection to Jango? Was the feeling of Jango haunting him, actually his own ghost, obsessed with the man he was tied to, the one responsible for his death.

He and Jango orbit each other before either of them are dead in a way the other ghosts don't. But it being uncertain who's haunting who? That's true of all the ghosts. Jango haunts them just as much they do him. They are ghosts because they can't let go of him and he can't let go of what he did to them.

[theoldtherebeforehq]

✗ CONFIDENTIAL TRIBUTE FACILITY SIGN UP SHEET records the attendance of VENEER STERLING, the 21st HUNGER GAMES VICTOR from DISTRICT ONE. The applicable authorities may note, that the TWENTY-FOUR year old MALE (HE/HIM) is SMART, BRAVE, AND CREATIVE, but has also been known to be COLD, TRICKSTER, AND MANIPULATIVE. Similarities in appearance can be seen with NIJIRO MURAKAMI. According to previous reports, they’re often associated with ENDLESS GOLD ITEMS FILLED IN A SINGLE ROOM AND THE DARKEST PART OF THE NIGHT BEFORE THE SUN COMES UP.

BIO

tw: death , injury , ptsd

Childhood/Early Years

Eldest child who helped his mother raise his younger siblings while their father was away at the Capitol doing business with his brother. Helped with everything from diaper changes and spoon feeding baby food. Due to this, he can't help but currently feel resentment towards his parents and siblings.

Was born just over a year after the Dark Days had ended so he doesn't remember anything about it besides the stories his parents had told.

Deciding he wanted more in life than just being the family nanny, Veneer started after school classes at the Career Academy. Soon after realizing he was actually good at this stuff he joined the Academy full time. Often he'd be there from sunrise to nightfall.

Having good scores and a great track record at the Academy caused Veneer to gain an even bigger ego that he already had. With basically being told he was the best, Veneer never feared the Hunger Games or the threat of being reaped, even though that isn't much worry in District One.

At the age of nineteen, the Trainers informed Veneer he was ready and that the 21st Hunger Game would be the year for him to Volunteer. Veneer was over the moon and ready to show the world what he was made of.

Time at the Facility was easy for Veneer. But mostly because he just stuck to himself. He avoided the other tributes even though most tried to make an alliance with him. Most of his days were spent in his bedroom behind a locked door. It was better this way.

When it was time to present his talent to all of Panem Veneer did nothing. He was there to prove himself in the arena. Preforming like a monkey at the circus was the last thing he was going to do. Though some people thought this choice may have hurt him, other's were rooting for the mysterious boy from One.

21st Hunger Games

Veneer's arena took place in the old Capitol Jail. The place had been abandoned for years but it still had working watch towers with spotlights and keys for the jail cells.

The first day in the arena went swimmingly for Veneer. He had killed the girl from Eight and boy from Nine. He gained a sword from the center and even a set of keys for the cells.

On the second day, there were thirteen tributes left. Veneer killed the boys from Twelve and Seven and girl from Ten.

Having too much fun, Veneer walked around the arena freely with zero caution. Everyone here was weaker than him anyway, what was there to worry about?

On the morning of Day Three, Veneer was jumped by the remaining Career Tributes. Deciding it'd be more fun to mess with him than to just kill him, they stole his sword and keys to the jail cell from his body and locked him in.

They left him in there for the rest of day Three and all through the night without any food or water.

Veneer spent most his time pacing the cage back and forth left with his own thoughts. He was embarrassed, exhausted and had no idea how he'd get out of this predicament. He didn't want to die.

At the end of Night Four, the male tribute from District Two ran into the jail in a panic. He had lost his entire alliance due to some "arena monsters".

Promising a truce, Veneer convinced the tribute to let him out and that he'd help with these so called monsters and help with the remaining tributes. Hesitant, the tribute let Veneer out.

At this point, Veneer was weak but knew he could gain control of this situation. Immediately, the boy tackled the tribute and fought with him to get his sword back. In the tussle, Veneer lost three of his fingers as he grabbed the blade of the sword.

Once he got the handle in his good hand, he killed off the boy from Two and finally made his way out of the cells.

Carefully and quiet, Veneer snuck around the arena looking for the remaining tributes. To his surprise, only one was left standing. It didn't take long for Veneer to kill them and was crowned Victor of the Twenty-First Hunger Games.

After his Victory

Immediately after making it home, Veneer moved out of his family home and into the victory house the Capitol provided for him.

After winning, Veneer is struggling with every day life more than he had expected. Four years later, the nightmares still haven't left. Small, closed-in rooms cause him to panic. Though, he tries to hide this and would never let anyone know.

Veneer works at the Facility as a mentor for One though most of the time, his tributes dislike him and think he's unhelpful. Which is probably true. He spends most of the time quiet and when he does speak, he's a jerk.

While home from the Capitol he works at the Academy as a trainer.

[another-melomanie-blorbo]

Yuichi Usagi- A Shady Past- Chapter 2

WARNINGS- this fic contains weapons, blood, fighting, and angst. if this isnt your cup of tea then just scroll past ^^

SUMMARY- you learn more of Yuichi's past and about the person he needed to call.

INFO- this fic was written by me and my bestie @d0nnie3000. Her OC is in this and so is one of mine. anyways hope you like this. hopefully ill be able to update more regular since school is getting out soon I'm just having my finals so yall know how busy those days can be.

___________________________

Seven year old Usagi didn't know where he was. It was a dark room with two beds and a cold chill. his mother held onto him closely, as if she let go she'd never seee him again. Two tall yokai in black suits had come to their farm and taken them captive, bringing them to a place above the Hidden City, definitely far from Nedo Edo. The guards had shoved him an his parents in this room.

--------------

Months had passed, it was the same old routine, the guards would come in and take his parents away for hours on end, they always come back with more injuries then when they had left. Usagi hated seeing his mom and dad like this, he thought to himself that one day he'd save them like his grandfather, Miyomoto Usagi, would've. He missed his own comfy bed, he missed momma's soup he'd get when he was sick, and dad's stories before bed. Today would change everything.

Today the guards came like usual but this time they spoke, "Time to pay up, rabbits."

Usagi's father answered, "You've taken everything. We've nothing left to give."

"Is that so?"

Before any of them could respond they took the rabbit yokai out of there cell and walked them down the hall. other captives watched as they walked. Usagi heard one whisper, "It's a child..." but he couldn't point out where it came from. As they continued walking the guard led them to a open arena, one of the guards took Usagi's parents to two poles, holding them up by their ears with ropes. The guard walked back next to Usagi and the Guard holding him.

The guard pulled out his gun and cocked it. Usagi's eyes shot open wide... he knew what was about to happen, he started struggling against the guards grip. not that it would do much, he was a kid, not very strong against a full grown yokai.

The guard with a gun smirked, " I've been needing target practice, guess this is my lucky day~"

"No, please! Please don't do it, please!" Usagi's pleas were ignored.

The guard aimed and before any words could be said the gun went off. His mother screamed out seeing her husbands body go limp.

She looked at Usagi, " My child, do not fear! We will always be with-" and then the gun went off a second time.

Usagi fell to his knees crying, "Momma... Papa..."

After Usagi's parents were killed the guards took him back to his now emptier cell. He would be their for weeks. The guards began to notice the young boy wouldn't eat or drink. They reported the information to their boss.

"Well make him eat! We need him alive!" The mafia boss yelled

"Sir, with all due respect, why? He's just another yokai kid." The guard questioned.

"He's worth more than he appears to be, therefore what is he worth to me if he's dead!? GO!"

"Yes,sir."

They left the boss' office and from then on Usagi was forced to eat and drink.

One day Usagi heard noise coming from outside his cell. It sounded like panting and groans with fighting noises thrown in there too.

" GRAB HER!" "SHE"S GONNA GET TO THE BOY!"

Before Usagi could react his cell door was slammed open, his AUntie stood in the door way holding a small kitten yokai in her arms, katana in the other hand. He ran to her and hugged her tightly, "Auntie..."

"I know, dear, i know. We're gonna get out save, just get on my back okay?" his AUntie helped him onto her back and began her escape.

"Come on? Did you bet slower in that little time, boys?" Auntie teased the guards who where way behind her.

Before Usagi knew it he felt the cool night air on his fur. He held a strong grip on his Auntie, not ready to let go anytime soon.

"Oh, child... You're save now."

-------------------

Usagi was finishing bandaging Leo's right arm as the story ended. Sagi's eyes tearing up at the memories, Mikey had already been crying. Raph held a gaze of both terror and shock, Donnie's full of concern and pain. Genesis stood in the room, her brown hair falling in front of her face and the orange streak covering one her both shame filled eyes.

Before an awkward silence fell on them Usagi spoke again,"I didn't want to tell you because I didn't want you all invloved in this."

Leo looked at Sagi, "You're our friend, my best friend, we protect or own. Plus, have you met us? We don't exactly do 'stay out of trouble'." Sagi gave him a weak smile in return.

"I can't believe- why would they do that!?" Mikey clung to Raph's arm, still in tears.

Sky, a ornate box turtle and Mikey's twin, entered the room with meds in her hands, mostly ibuprofen.

The half yokai, Genesis spoke, moving her hair out of he face, "Because... Because my father doesn't show mercy... very little at that..."

The room went silent and everybody stared at Genesis, shocked by her words.

Sky was the first to speak, her anger hardly being contained, "Y-You're father..?"

"That's also why I didn't want to tell you..." Sagi's ears twitched at Sky's anger.

Genesis stood silent for a few moments but finally getting the courage to speak, "Yes, my father. I was trained to be ruthless, to show no mercy and that human and yokai life alike had no meaning, no worth. He taught me deception. But all that changed when I met you guys."

Sky felt the rage in her boil and try to break free, "So what are you a f***ing spy?!"

"What? No, of course not!"

"And just why should we trust you?"

"I'm not working with my father anymore, I'm not on their side!"

"Thanks to your father, Leo almost died!"

"I know and I'm sorry! I tried to keep you away but you guys just wouldn't listen!"

"Maybe you should've told us sooner?! Who knows, maybe we could've helped!"

"Helped? My father would've killed you in cold blood!" Genesis pointed her finger at Sky, slowly getting in her face.

"Guys, calmed down." Donnie tried to get between the two, only resulting in morefighting.

"You saying I'm weak?" Sky was defensive and in her fighting stance.

"Maybe I am? Maybe it's because you are, you wouldn't survive a day in my dads tra- HNG-" Sky punched her in the stomach, tired of Genesis ridiculing her.

"Hows that for weak?" Sky came back around kicking her in the jaw.

Genesis looked up at the turtle, rage burned in her eyes, she stood her self up and as Sky went for another kick at the girls head a brown wing came out and blocked the kick. Sky's leg was thrown down and she was shoved to the ground. She hit the floor with a thud, wincing at the pain.

Genesis looked down at her then at Usagi, "It was a mistake, Sagi..."

"What do you-"

"I should've never made friends."

Genesis stormed out of the sewers, leaving them in shock and heartbreak.

Donatello walked over to his sister and helped her up, "Sky are you serious!?"

"Quite so, why?"

Leo shot back at her, "I know you're mad but we need her if we're gonna stop her father!"

Sky rolled her sapphire eyes, "Do we?"

"Sky." Leo looked at his sister annoyed.

"She's in the mafia, Leo!"

"I know this, Sky."

"Aren't you mad?!"

"Well obviously!"

"Then how are you so calm about it?!"

"Because it's not her fault!"

Leo took a deep breath, looking at Sky with sad eyes, "It's not her fault, it's her father's. She didn't know better..."

Sky grabbed her arm and looked to the ground, "You're right... Crap..."

------------

Genesis was on the roof of a building near the turtles street, trying to calm the burning fire in her, "Who the f*** does she think she is?! I could send an entire-" she cut herself of mid sentence, "No, no, I'm not my father."

Genesis was raised to kill without hesitation, without mercy. Someone got in her way? Dead. Someone didn't pay? Dead. Someone made her angry? Dead. She had changed though, right? She wasn't a ruthless killer, right? It wasn't her fault Leo got captured, it wasn't her fault he got hurt, it wasn't her fault they got involved. Now, it wasn't her problem either, she was done with the turtles, done with Usagi, done with Sky, done with friends, done with Ra- she wince at the thought. She loved Raph but after that would he love her?

"Doesn't matter... not anymore.."

She spread her wings looking to the city. She was going to finish this, once and for all. She jumped off the building, letting the air loft her wings, soaring through New York.

"I'm coming, dad."

---------------------

[strawbabysimp]

Adult Trio Soulmate Strings AU HCs

Chrollo

No one had told him what the string meant, what was on the other side waiting for him. Children in Meteor City knew how to fight and how to live and how to kill. Not how to love. Or maybe they did and the world simply told them they shouldn't. That they weren't deserving of it. As he got older Chrollo eventually sought out the meaning of this mysterious red string, finding his answer in one of the books he managed to get his hands on in that wretched and beloved place. A soulmate.

There was a person out there just for him, but more importantly, there was a destiny. A plan for him. He knew he had to find them, to secure this irrefutable connection to another. The leader had planned to meet them when he got out of Meteor City, it was part of the reason he formed the Troupe. Though, as the years went on and life took its toll on him, as it did anyone, the desire to find this person faded. By the time The Spiders had managed to become a notorious group, it was a dream within a dream. A soulmate? How tragically philosophical.

That's not to say he wasn't curious, but he lost that drive, running on autopilot as he searched for a passion without the motivation to even want one. Sometimes he did find himself especially enraptured by the red string secured around his finger though, toying with it during meetings or tying small knots that soon came undone while laying in bed.

Guilt wasn't something he felt often, taking lives and valuables without a second thought was a regular occurrence, but with you? He felt utterly in the wrong. To deny you of something even he found beautiful simply because he "didn't care?" That's when he felt like a monster. He found comfort in the title though, embracing the fact of what he was. He was selfish and greedy and somehow still found a way to prevent himself from gaining the one thing that could save him.

One day he had been twisting the string between his fingers, a mannerism that even the others around him had picked up on when there was a tug back. It became a regular occurrence, the two of you pulling on the string lightly back and forth. You tried to beg him through the string to come to find you, pulling him in your direction, but he never did come. You knew it was impossible to tell, but it seemed he had gotten even farther away.

The only connection you'd ever have with him was through those small motions and you'd go on to love someone else. Maybe not in the way you would have loved him, but there's not much to do when you're destined to love someone who was forced to learn how not to.

Hisoka

"I don't have one" he'd respond calmly. This was his and his alone, so what if people thought he was a freak? He wouldn't allow someone to interfere with this in even the most minuscule way. A person who relied on him and only him to fulfill the grandest idea of love? Nothing could hold more power than the blood-soaked string tied around his ring finger.

Heaven's Arena was a well-known spot, a tourist attraction of sorts, so you simply had to stop by when you happened to be near. As you made your way to the stands and gazed on at the stage you found him already looking at you, giving you a quick smirk as your gaze fell to his hand with a shocked expression. At the end of his "performance" he typically met with fans but this time he naturally went straight to you, a single blood-stained rose held out in a tender gesture. You didn't question how he had managed to obtain the flower, too busy processing the fact that this bizarre man was your soulmate.

Every moment with you is too much for him to endure. It's an adrenalin rush that he's become addicted to but whenever he looks at you he gets this urge to tear everything you are apart and cover himself in the pieces he could never think to reach from the outside. Being close to you is never close enough and the only way to satisfy this feeling of need would be to destroy you. He can't bear to do that but it's so tempting.

At rare times something in him seemed to break, going off on tangents about the cruelty of his thoughts and how he longed to turn you into yet another victim of his murderous desires. He had planned to take over your life, wishing to bask in the high your undying love was sure to give him. A man becoming weak through the pursuit of power is a pitiful sight even for one not tied to them by fate. "My love will never complete you. I take and I take and I offer up only the worst parts of myself because that's all I have to offer. That's the tragedy of loving me, my dear. I will not apologize because I do not feel bad, however, I will not allow myself to hurt such a lovely thing."

You always come back to each other, the string acting as a sort of magnet between you two. Eventually, you both come to accept the situation for what it is; deadly but far too tempting to not risk everything for. He was the most beautiful thing you'd ever laid eyes on and if the image of him was the last thing you ever saw you'd consider it a privilege.

Surprisingly enough, the magician never does end up taking your life, finding the unfamiliar task of restraining himself a new sort of challenge to prove his strength. Holding you close to him, pressing your body against his as he watches your auras merge, was a common occurrence. When his bloodlust rose and your fear spiked just a fraction he would plant a gentle kiss on your cheek before pulling away with some excuse, you both knew he did this to protect you but he'd never admit that.

Illumi

Soulmates were a weakness in the eyes of the Zoldycks, hypocritical to say the least as Silva and Kikyo were tied by fate, but that was typical. Despite the harsh words his parents had told him, his curiosity would eventually get the better of him and he would seek you out. Traveling in the direction the string took him without fail. It was an easy task when you had money and power. Locating you was not the issue, deciding what to do with you once found was. Simply approaching you wouldn't do.

He watched you for a long time, disappearing into a crowd or dark corner whenever you felt eyes on you. One day you found yourself doing trivial tasks, walking the streets on your way to pick up a snack, or do some light shopping when an unfamiliar feeling hit you. It wasn't unpleasant so much as it was surprising. You even describe it as lovely.

Despite his best efforts to keep himself hidden from your view, Illumi had never been trained to hide love. Pain, fear, anger, sadness, all these were painstakingly buried deep within him to the point that even he didn't know how to release them. But what he felt when looking at you grew greater with each small action and he didn't notice it slipping through until it was too late.

The second your eyes met he was a goner. It was like a drug to the emotionally-deprived man and while he knew it wouldn't do any good to engage you, the selfishness that was ripped out of him from a young age came flooding back full force. Both of you remained shocked as you approached one another but the small smile you gave him was enough to make him think that maybe this was the one time surrendering himself to feelings was okay.

Marrying you was a plan he wants to put into action as soon as possible, using the piece of paper as a form of protection. "Never kill a family member" read the Zoldyck rules that were engraved into the assassin's mind. This would be one of many forms of rebellion you had influenced Illumi in making, and while it wasn't necessarily against the rules, it was certainly not something he thought his parents would approve of.

When you're hanging out he remains a bit stiff, not sure of how to act around someone casually. You begin to feel off-put by the awkward composure of your soulmate though he picks up on it easily, his ability to read people far more advanced than the average person. Illumi allows a small bit of his aura to shine through the veil to reassure you of his contentment, and while he won't acknowledge it, you're grateful for his efforts. It's during one of these dates, hidden away in a hotel relaxing beside one another, that the usually warm and comforting aura changes. His arm comes to hold you just a bit tighter and the love he allowed to encompass you shut off. This had happened times before but your attempts at reassurance through small touches did no help to soothe the Zoldyck.

Later that night his hand would rest gently against your cheek as the light in your eyes dies, your face is wet with tears but a forgiving smile still rests kindly on your face. You're already gone. He can feel it. Despite this he holds you against him late into the night, only letting go when he can no longer bear to see you in such a state. His eyes stay downcast as he refuses to look up at the state the sky is in, not wanting to face the fact that the wetness of his cheeks could be from anything other than the weather. He sends one message before putting his phone away with shaking hands. Yet another job is done.

[phenomenal1500]

What If We Had The Choice? | Resident Evil Village

Summary: What would have happened if Ethan had sided with Heisenberg? Unfortunately, Capcom didn't give us the chance to make a choice, so for the enthusiasts.... this would have happened if we had had been given the choice.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Ethan stepped foot inside the dark, dusty factory with a bad premonition. He kept his gun in front of him at all costs as he carefully pushed the first rusty door he encountered open and when he noticed the coast was clear, he also made his way through the badly lit hallway that had appeared from behind the heavy door. He was so close in having his daughter back that he couldn't back down... not now. Another nasty hallway followed and finally, when he took a turn to his right, he spotted an huge curtain hanging ahead of him in a square room. It seemed to hide the wall and table behind it and Ethan struggled with the thought off shoving it to the right to peak behind it or to just leave it be. With his curiosity taking over he pulled the curtain from the beam to which it was attached to and small photos appeared.

Some of them were old pictures of the lords, scratched through with a red marker, while others were pictures of the incidents that had happened around the village since Ethan had arrived there. The pictures reflected in Ethan's eyes and one stood out to him. "Mia?"

"Truth hurts, don't it?" Ethan turned with a quick motion, spotting the man Ethan had met earlier who now stepped out of the shadows directly behind him. The dark and round glasses covered the man's eyes as well as his fedora hat that slightly slanted over his left eye and the long tattered coat fluttered behind him as he took a puff of his Cuban cigar. Ash fell from his cigar as thick white smoke floated around the man's almost completely covered face. "Let me guess." The forth and strongest Lord continued after puffing his cigar once more. "You're thinking take me out like the others, and then you get to go and safe Rose, right?"

"I'm healing my daughter." Ethan bit back.

"Look, y-...you've got this all wrong-..." Lord Heisenberg signed with his hands up in the air to strengthen his words, but he then was cut off by an horrible loud sound coming from under them. "Dammit, I'm talking here!" The man whined, pinching his noise before storming his way towards the hatch to pull it open with ease. "Shut your fucking hole!"

Ethan had no idea what to except or where this conversation was going, certainly not with someone different than the other mutated humans he had met. Alcina Dimitrescu had already some hatred towards men like him, perhaps even all men in general, and was conspiring with Miranda so of course she wanted him dead from the beginning. Donna Beneviento seemed more reasonable and neutral about the situation, but was still crazy as fuck and was also still under Miranda's control. Same goes for Salvatore Moreau, except for the fact he wasn't just following and conspiring with Miranda. He saw Mother Miranda as his real mother and he was so desperate to prove his worth to the other house lords and Mother Miranda that he unfortunately also wasn't able to negotiate with.

However, Lord Heisenberg was someone different. He came across Ethan as more controlled than the other Lords despite being a bit of a direct man. "Sorry about that." The man apologised as he straightened his back. Ethan, still confused whether he had to have patient and listen to the man or take action while it was still possible, stood in the room watching the man in doubt while he snatched a chair from beside a cupboard to place it by the hatch.

"Take a seat." Heisenberg ordered and Ethan stayed in his place, not obeying his competitor. "Listen, Ethan. You're being played."

"What are you talking about? You think this is a game?" Ethan hissed through his teeth meanwhile the lord put out his Cuban cigar, pressing the burning side onto the small table. Ethan had expected some sort of answer from the mutant, but to his surprise Heisenberg aggressively tossed a knife towards the wall covered in pictures and pushed Ethan into the unsteady metal chair instead... the chair almost staggering over the edge of the big hole by all the force falling down onto it.

"I said sit!!" Heisenberg backed off a bit afterwards and continued his story. "Lady super-sized bitch..." The knife stabbed the wall as it made its way to the picture of Lady Dimitrescu. "Ugly-ass psycho doll...." The knife again marked the wall, now resting in the photo of Donna Beneviento and Angie Beneviento. "And that moronic freak." The knife made one last change in direction, the picture of Salvatore Moreau. "Don't you get it? It's a test, to see if you're strong enough... to be part of Miranda's family."

"I don't want to be part of Miranda's family."

"Neither did I! But here we are." Heisenberg raised his voice and Ethan took in a deep breath. "And I'm next in line, right? Kill me, move up the chain! Well, fuck that!!" The knife carved the wall as it was forced through the image of Mother Miranda, messing it up.

"I don't give a damn about your personal issues! I just want to fix my daughter!" The lord laughed in response.

"So do I! Do you have any idea how powerful that kid is? Even Miranda is scared of her..." For a second time there was a very loud engine sound hearable and the man deeply sighed in frustration. "Last time, you freak, I swear to god!"

Afterwards making his way to Ethan, Lord Heisenberg gave away his green and grey eyes by removing his glasses and held his chin up, the hat moving a bit upwards to reveal his full face. Scars were located all across his face and he smirked.

"You and me, Ethan! Together we go save Rose, and then we can use her to grind Miranda to paste." Heisenberg closed his fist with strength, acting like he was squeezing a bug to death. Ethan stood before a tough decision; Fight Lord Heisenberg and then hope he could safe his daughter from Mother Miranda all alone... or collude against Mother Miranda with the help of Heisenberg and save his daughter that way. He knew it was wrong to work together with someone who was once his enemy and was willing to use his daughter as a weapon, but it gave him more certainty to actually succeed and get his little girl back. Ethan stood up from his chair and swallowed before nodding.

"When do we start?"

~~~

Heisenberg had taken Ethan to his lab to explain what he'd been up to all along and both men now faced each other while sitting down onto different obsolete metal sofas. "Most of this was already put in working before I decided to show up here to save Rose?"

"This is my fucking lifework. Years I have been creating these soldats to deal with Miranda once and for all. It's time for her to die." The man passionately spoke up and pointed at the soldats hanging from a conveyor belt that ran through the factory. "So, Ethan Winters, what do you say?"

"The plan sounds good to me."

"Well then, lets get to work. See you on the other side... Ethan."

Ethan knew exactly what to do because Heisenberg had explained in detail what the plan was. Ethan was going to disturb the ceremony that was taking place so that the lord could launch a surprise attack on Miranda with his invented army. Although, before it could work, Ethan first had to stop by the Duke to restock his ammunition and healing juice. Fast traveling over the stone bridge towards the elevator in the altar, he returned to the Duke.

"Ah... Ethan Winters. I feel like this will be the last time we meet again... It was quite some news to hear you joined Lord Heisenberg's side." The duke folded his hands together, somewhere deep down noticeable that he was delighted to see his loyal customer and good friend back alive.

"Yeah, well, I didn't have much of a choice, did I?"

"You had a choice, but knew that this settlement would be most effective. Now, I suppose you have to act quickly so feel free to peruse." Buying ammunition and healing juice with the last money Ethan had, the friends said their last goodbyes and carried on their separated ways. This would be it. This would be the moment where Ethan would finally get his daughter Rose back. Shoving himself through the filthy black strands know as mold, he saw the blond woman in her black and gold robe shouting for Eva, her dead daughter she lost to the Spanish flu, to be reborn. The moment Ethan wanted to fire his first shot with his M1851 Wolfsbane Magnum, there was a sharp sound audible and then loud rock music followed.

"What the-....?" Ethan cursed under his breath, not knowing what the fuck was happening, but the distractive music seemed to caught Miranda off guard and the chamber of mold crumbled down around them. It looked like Miranda had lost her focus. The distraction gave Ethan a better shot and Miranda jerked her head towards him, glaring deathly at him as he pulled the trigger. The bullet didn't do much to her, but the arena was now free from the mold and it was possible for Heisenberg to step into the destroyed area, which he did. He was still secretly jamming to the loud rock music that was playing on his speakers back in the factory and Ethan wondered what the actual limit of the volume was because it was so terribly loud, even from where they were now.

"Heisenberg! I should have known you were planning an rebellion against me. Unfortunately for the both of you, the ceremony will be complete once dawn breaks and I will become her true mother!" Miranda shouted dramatically and opened her arms widely, letting her six wings stretch out before her mutation took place. Heisenberg just scoffed and threw his Cuban cigar to the ground, stepping on it.

"I'm not letting you get away." Ethan yelled, shooting a few more times at the orange eye that was visible in the upper center of her face. It probably was her weakness. In the meantime that Ethan was busy shooting at the six winged dead looking woman, Heisenberg simply just leaned on his hammer. His head was banging to the music while he watched the scene for a moment, but that was until he forced himself to participate into the battle as well. Putting his thumb and index finger close to his mouth, he whistled as noisy as possible and immediately an army of Lycans and soldats joined him. Miranda was amazed at what was happening before her eyes, but managed to kill several soldats at once with the mold spearing them. Heisenberg groaned in frustration, understanding that his life creations perhaps weren't fully prepared for these kind of attacks coming from her.

Heisenberg sighed and closed his green, grey eyes. It was time... time for him to mutate and face Miranda together with Ethan. He had to defeat her. That was what he wished for all these years after all. Heisenberg listened to the guitar solo in the background as his mind started to control and use the metal scrap from his broken soldats to continue his mutation. Ethan couldn't be distracted by the creature Heisenberg had become and so he kept his attention strictly on Miranda, ready to hit her again. Sadly, he was out of luck. His M1851 Wolfsbane Magnum ran out of ammo and while Ethan tried to block her next attack, Heisenberg seized the opportunity to knock her to the ground before she had the change to launch herself at Ethan.

Heisenberg accelerated his actions and grabbed Miranda tightly before pressing her against one of the broken stone walls. With his other metal arm he activated his saw and wounded her body, but soon found out she could regenerate herself. Her spider legs turned into wings, bigger than before, and she hurled the flames she had summoned when Heisenberg wasn't paying attention. He was blinded and was pushed back by the blow. The lord quickly realized that his mutation was quite easy for Miranda to defeat because of the length and width of his mechanistic form and he turned back to his human form. This way he could use the metal scrap for a shield and dodge all her attacks faster.

"Ethan! Bring your ass over here!" The man growled, seeing that Ethan was laying somewhere on the floor, being completely useless, and Ethan raised to his feet... stumbling a bit, but not giving up.

"I don't have any fucking bullets left!"

"Well good luck keeping her focused on you then!" His gravelly voice yelled over the rock music for only Ethan to hear and he shook his head in confusion, though, he had no time to understand it because Miranda immediately jumped right in front of him. The lord had time to create a stairs of the floating metal with activating his abilities and he ran to the top, hoping Miranda hadn't seen this shit coming or else they both were certainly doomed. Ethan, meanwhile, was fighting off the woman and it was the perfect timing for Heisenberg to put his second plan in working. Heisenberg dropped himself from the stairs, his hammer above his head and aiming at the weakness of Mother Miranda. Hitting her, her back was blown into the floor and she screamed in agony. The combo of the shots of the M1851 Wolfsbane Magnum and the terribly heavy hammer had managed to defeat her.

"My daughter.... My Eva!" She held her arms high and went numb, her body falling apart and turning into ash.

"After an eternity.... that bitch is finally gone." Heisenberg laughed enthusiastically and turned around to face Ethan only to see him crumbling down with Rose in his arms.

"I think we finished each other...."

[ohgodmyeyes]

Patience

Heavily implied Ferus x Anakin; 6.5k words; T-rated; hurt/comfort. (I really like this one.)

Summary: Anakin's guilt over Darra's death killed his marriage before it even began, and now it's killing him, too.

How many more times can he call on Ferus to clean up his messes for him before Ferus decides he's had enough?

...

"No, Anakin— I can't. I can't do it this time; I'm sorry."

"Ferus, please— sh-she's going to be here with them at noon, a-and—"

"I've already missed three of the last five practices because of this! If they think they can't even trust me to show up to the arena, they'll—"

"I know! I know, okay? But I can't do it by myself, and I don't have anyone else to call."

"Anakin, I told you last time that I can't keep—"

"I won't bother you again! Not after this! Christ, Ferus, please! You know she'll—"

"Fine! Fine, I'll be there in twenty minutes. But you have to promise me this time that you'll—"

"I will! I will; whatever you want! Just— just... hurry, okay? Please?"

"I'm already on my way, Anakin— I'll see you soon."

"O-okay. I'll be waiting."

"I know."

Anakin's phone hit the dusty carpet at his feet, landing with a muted thump. Face-up with its lockscreen lit, he couldn't help but wonder if the device didn't actually intend to mock him with the big, blatant 9:37 am situated prominently in the centre of the display.

He wanted to stand up from the sofa... but no matter how much we willed himself to try, he just couldn't seem to straighten out his legs.

Ferus was going to be furious with him if he couldn't even manage to answer the door when he arrived, and he knew it.

His eyes travelled across the surface of the coffee table in front of him; it was crowded, but his cigarettes and lighter— both bright-blue— stood out clearly, even in the dim light (Anakin nearly always kept his blinds shut). He took a smoke, stuck it in his mouth, and lit it; after that, he reached back over to the table, and picked up something else: A small photograph; wallet-sized, and unframed. One of those ones everybody's parents used to buy from their school every year, and line up on top of the refrigerator or television or fireplace.

This one was of a girl— a happy-looking, mousey-haired, teenage girl.

Anakin bit his lip and turned it over onto its face, because now that he wasn't quite so drunk as he'd been last night, he couldn't bring himself to look at it.

The rest of the table around the picture was littered with loose cigarette butts and miniature bottles of vodka; here and there, a beer can stood tall as if to break up the monotony of the landscape. All of the containers were empty, and all of the butts were burned right down to their melted filters: Anakin hadn't had a good night last night.

The back of the photo wasn't much better than the front, but it was easier not to look at Darra's hand-printed name than it was to try not to look at her face.

I'm sorry— I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.

That's all he ever said to her anymore, whether he was drunk or not; still, he took out that damn picture and laid it out on the table every time he so much as thought of her. Anakin owed Darra that, didn't he?

She'd still be alive, after all, if he hadn't tried to drive her home that night— hammered drunk, and pumped full of adrenaline. He'd only tried it because he was the one who'd dragged her to the stupid graduation party in the first place; he was the one with the car, and the licence. When she'd asked him to get her out of there, desperation writ clear on her face, what else was he supposed to have done?

Anything. Anything else.

He'd ended up wrapping his little red car around a tree that night; Darra had broken her neck flying through the windshield and out onto the pavement, but Anakin had walked away virtually unscathed.

It was almost funny to him that, even all these years later, he still liked to drink.

"Okay," he said out loud, although even he wasn't sure why. Likely, it was intended to be self-motivational; however, Anakin remained just as immobilized after he finished saying it than he had been before.

All he could smell was smoke; smoke, and maybe some old food, although he couldn't begin to guess where he might have left something like that (unless, of course, the kitchen had grown so bad that the stench was wafting in from there). He was clothed, but his clothes were filthy; it was Saturday now, and he'd had them on since about Thursday morning.

...How the hell was it already Saturday, anyway?

Counting like a toddler on a set of shaky, calloused fingers, Anakin tried as he choked back his smoke to recount the past few days in his head. He'd started drinking Thursday evening after work, because he knew he wasn't going to have to go back until Monday; he had known to expect his kids on Saturday, but something had obviously gone wrong, and now—

Now, his living room was littered with garbage and bottles and misplaced items of just about every description, the air in his house was blue with smoke, and he was sure he looked precisely as terrible as he felt.

All that, and his kids were due to be here in less time than it would have taken Ferus to attend his hockey practice, if only he'd made it out the door that morning before Anakin had made his phone buzz.

At least, he thought, Ferus was used to him making his phone buzz.

"Okay," he repeated to himself, after a few more grateful lungfuls of smoke... and this time, he seemed to have a bit more luck with his legs: Stubbing out his cigarette (he even managed to do it in the ashtray), he grunted as he pulled himself to his feet, and reluctantly surveyed the mess in front of him.

Shit.

No— no 'shit'. Ferus is coming, remember?

Even Ferus said he can't keep doing this. Next time—

"Shut up." Anakin was no stranger to arguing with himself. "There won't be a 'next time', alright?" He didn't know if he really believed that or not; all he wanted was for his brain to pipe down.

He kicked at a half-crumpled beer can near his foot on the floor, and when its tinny rattle was all he could hear, he supposed it meant his talking back had worked.

Knock knock.

"Ferus."

Maybe he would be impressed instead of disappointed, Anakin thought— here he was, after all; up on his own two feet. That was better than last time, wasn't it?

...When the hell had Anakin Skywalker become a person who hoped against hope that someone would be 'impressed' with him for getting up and walking ten feet across a room to answer a goddamn door?

"Hey," he started in a near-mechanical fashion, desperate to ignore his own intrusive thoughts. "I really can't thank you enough for—"

"Not this time, Anakin."

Shit. "I— I didn't mean to—"

Ferus breezed right past, before Anakin could get another word in— as soon as there was enough room between himself and the open front door to do so. The first thing he did was wrinkle his nose in response to the rank odour of old smoke and stale food lingering in the air; the second thing he did was survey the space. His face was stony, and his shoulders were squared; to Anakin, he looked almost confrontational.

"At least it's not as bad as it was last time," he observed, even though he knew very well that wasn't saying very much.

Anakin didn't answer to that— what was there to say?

Immediately, Ferus started opening windows: Between the smoke and the acrid stench of whatever was rotting away in the kitchen, he felt he didn't have much of a choice.

"I've told you before," he said as he finished his walk around the perimeter of the room, "that if you're having a hard time, you need to tell her— be honest with her! I know you aren't together anymore, but—"

"If I could tell her about things like this," interrupted Anakin, motioning about at the mess, "then we would still be together. She doesn't understand; all she does is get angry. If she sees the house— sees me— this way, she'll take me right back to court. I... I might not see my kids for months." She hadn't always been so stringent, but over the years, Padmé's patience with Anakin and his struggles had worn thin. She wanted to go to work, raise her children, and see her friends— not babysit her sad, drunk husband.

Now that he was approaching thirty years of age, in fact, no one wanted to do that for Anakin anymore. Few ever did, except for Ferus, and even he'd grown increasingly distant since the start of the most recent spiral: It had all started almost a year ago, with Anakin quitting the hockey team; as far as Ferus could tell, there was still no end to it in sight.

He'd been there for Anakin as much as he could over the years: Sometimes that had been a lot and sometimes it had only been a little, but no matter what, it only ever got harder. Anakin made it that way, whether he meant to or not— like a heavy stone, inexplicably destined to be rolled uphill.

"If you're afraid of not being allowed to see your kids, Anakin..." Ferus trailed off; he sounded just exasperated enough that he knew he didn't need to finish. He didn't want to finish.

"I know," said Anakin, because he did— he did know. Swallowing hard in an effort to forgo the last sticky, useless vestiges of his own ego, he admitted, "I was going to a group, but..."

"But what?" Ferus demanded. Anakin had been in and out of about a dozen 'groups'.

"But... there were too many people. Every time I went to say something, I froze up— and— well, it—"

Ferus interrupted with a heavy sigh. "Whatever, Anakin," he said, with deliberate dismissiveness. "It doesn't matter. You called me here today to clean up for you, right?"

Anakin bit down on his lip. "Y-yeah— but it's not just—"

"Then I'll get cleaning." He walked off in the direction of the kitchen, then. Even though Anakin had only lived in it since his divorce, Ferus was quite familiar with the layout of his home: Again, this wasn't the first time he'd been called to fix things after one of his binges.

Ferus soon discovered (predictably) that the countertop needed as much work as the living room seemed to, if not more; several days worth of barely-picked-at food was stagnating in dishes all over every surface. The stove was near-invisible, and the sink might as well not have existed just then for how much there was stacked up inside of it.

There was a garbage can in the corner, but Ferus could hardly hazard a guess at the last time the bag inside had been changed.

Goddamnit, Anakin.

Ferus tightly clenched his own jaw as he bent to retrieve a big, plastic garbage bag from the cupboard beneath that tragically-overloaded sink; the one he hated that he was likely about to have to clean. He didn't like to be frustrated; not with Anakin, or anyone else— very likely (and somewhat juxtapositionally), his own inherent distaste for those types of feelings were what let him tolerate things like this as well as he did.

There was, however, only so much a person could take— even when that person happened to be Ferus Olin.

Anyway, cleaning Anakin's sink for him time after time didn't seem to be helping him very much. Briefly, Ferus wondered if he shouldn't just leave right then— if it might actually end up being better for Anakin (and everyone else) if his ex-wife were allowed to see for herself just how terribly he seemed to fall to pieces every few weeks.

...That thought, though, left his mind almost as quickly as it had invaded it. Even in the midst of his own irritation, Ferus couldn't bring himself to imagine the pain it would cause Anakin to have his children turned around on a dime, and marched back out to their mother's car on a day they were supposed to have visited.

Garbage bag in hand, he walked back out into the living room. Seeing Anakin standing there was, somehow, jarring; to view him head-to-toe was to be forced to acknowledge just how much of a toll nearly a decade's worth of guilt and grief had taken on him.

He was more pale (ashen, really) than Ferus could ever remember him being; skinnier, too; with dull, greasy hair far longer than anyone who knew Anakin would ever have presumed him to be comfortable with. His face was drawn, and his eyes were red— he didn't look well. It was then that Ferus came to understand that a large part of why he'd been so distant lately was (to his own deep and immediate regret) that Anakin had, quite simply, grown increasingly difficult to lay eyes on at as time had marched on.

It wasn't because he was ugly— no matter what Anakin did to himself, he could never have been ugly— but rather, because he didn't seem 'right'. He didn't seem like Anakin. At the very least, he wasn't who Ferus had come to know him to be, and witnessing his decline was, above all else, painful.

Even right now— from several feet away— Ferus was quite sure he could smell the days of grime that had built up on his body as he'd sat and drank, sprawled out on his gross, old couch.

"You should go upstairs and have a shower," he said, almost certainly more tersely than he actually intended. "I'll start taking care of things down here." That was, after all, how it had worked every other time he'd been called for this.

Anakin nodded, exactly as aware as Ferus of just how badly he needed to scrub himself down. After a brief moment of silent hesitation, he turned on his heel and walked off in the direction of the narrow staircase at the far end of the room. As he did, Ferus watched him; again, it hurt to do: From this angle, Anakin looked too old; almost gaunt beneath his clothes, with lines on his face and even a few subtle streaks of grey in his hair.

...In another way, though, he looked altogether too young: Like he hadn't aged (or, for that matter, grown) since the day he'd killed Darra.

He didn't 'kill' Darra.

He didn't mean to kill her.

By the time Anakin was trudging his way up the stairs (maybe for the first time that week), Ferus was glad not to be facing him.

He knew he shouldn't blame Anakin for what happened that night; he knew nobody else should, either— but it was, to an extent, unavoidable. He did it anyway (although he certainly wasn't the only one), and Anakin was all too aware of it. Her death had driven a silent wedge between them, and their relationship had never quite recovered. Ferus often theorized that it was a large part of why Anakin had run so readily into Padmé's arms after high school.

That endeavour, however well-intended, had always been destined to fail. Anakin had been broken beyond measure by then; too broken, anyway, for a single person to be able to pick up all of the pieces. Ferus had, in essence, left Padmé to do that all alone— was it really any wonder it hadn't worked out for them?

It hadn't all been Ferus' fault, of course, and he did know that, even if he didn't always feel it. Anakin had, frankly, been too young to get married— too young to have babies, and certainly too young to get divorced. Although fatherhood obviously brought him great joy (if it didn't, he would never have embarrassed himself by phoning anyone about this at all), it also took more from him than Ferus sometimes suspected he had to give.

He waited until he heard the shower upstairs begin to squeal before he started loading trash from the table into the bag. He couldn't help but shake his head as he did; the sheer volume of cigarette butts and liquor containers was, to him, patently morbid. Was Anakin trying to die?

He didn't have a right to that, Ferus thought bitterly. Not when he still had his kids; not when he still had people (or, one person, at least) who would come to him when he called. Darra never even got a chance to have anything like that.

Doesn't that mean anything to him?!

In his frustration, Ferus found himself being a bit less careful with what he was grabbing from the table— handfuls of trash went into the bag all at once; bottles and cigarette wrappers and loose bits of all manner of crap. As the dirty, semi-lacquered surface started to become visible again, he almost didn't notice when he happened to pick up something that wasn't garbage.

It was a good thing he did notice— because not only would Anakin never have forgiven Ferus for throwing out one of the only remaining photos of Darra in his possession, it was quite likely that Ferus wouldn't have forgiven himself, either.

"I don't know why you do this to yourself, Anakin," he muttered anyway, setting down the trash bag. He didn't actually look at the photo as he walked it over to a shelf at the edge of the room, and put it up out of harm's way: Why the hell would he have looked at it?

Looking at Darra wasn't going to bring her back.

The shower upstairs was still running; by now, Ferus could smell Anakin's soap as its scent wafted down the stairs. Graciously, it seemed to be helping displace some of the stale smoke that had built up in the living room—encouraging it out the newly-opened windows, and replacing it with something more palatable.

Anakin had been using the same soap for years; the familiarity of it was enough to dissolve Ferus' irritation (for now, at least) while he went back to work on the coffee table. Anyway, if he'd truly been upset with Anakin for this, would he really have shown up to help?

...Maybe.

He supposed that since he was already here, it didn't particularly matter anymore what he'd been feeling when he'd made the decision to show up.

Ferus would rather have been shooting pucks at Tru right now— he and Anakin had once done that together, alongside Ben and a number of other assorted alumni of their local high school; however, Anakin hadn't played hockey for a long time, now. Anyway, Tru hadn't spoken to him in any meaningful capacity since the accident with Darra; likewise, Anakin hadn't been close with Ben for years.

When she died, they had all died— all in their own ways.

Maybe Anakin's death was simply the ugliest. Maybe that was why it stood out.

The shower had stopped by then, and Ferus had moved onto the floor. He knew he couldn't vacuum the carpet until he'd at least picked up a few of the bigger chunks of clothing and garbage scattered about it. He managed to make a bit of progress before he heard Anakin's footsteps; segueing first into the hallway above him, and then starting heavily back down the stairs.

"Why aren't you dressed?" he asked, when Anakin appeared at the threshold of the living room with a towel wrapped around his waist.

"I don't have any clean clothes," he answered simply. He didn't even seem embarrassed to admit it, which somehow made it all the more sad.

Ferus sighed— sighed, and tried not to react to the sight of Anakin clad in a saggy, threadbare strip of terrycloth (it felt like a long time since he'd seen him in just a towel).

"My hockey bag is in my car," he said. "I have clean sweatpants, and a clean shirt in there, too— if you want, you can borrow them."

"I, um— that wouldn't... bother you?" Now Anakin did look ashamed, if only a little bit.

"Of course it wouldn't. We used to share clothes all the time, didn't we?"

Anakin nodded. The two had, in fact, once made quite a habit out of exchanging t-shirts and hoodies. "You, um— you don't mind going to get them, then...?"

"I'll be right back," said Ferus, setting the trash bag down in front of Anakin. "Try to pick up a couple of things while I'm gone, alright?"

"...Alright."

As Ferus walked out to his car, he couldn't help but wonder if the clothes he had in his bag would even fit Anakin properly. For someone who sat around drinking on most of his days off, he was disconcertingly thin; he supposed it must be a consequence of all that prepared-but-uneaten food he'd detected rotting away in the kitchen. He and Anakin had once shared dinners together— lots of them. Before he'd gotten married; sometimes even after that too, if Padmé was busy and her husband was lonely.

Ferus hadn't had dinner with Anakin for almost as long as he'd gone without seeing him in a towel.

Maybe it was something he ought to try again sometime.

"Here," he said, thrusting a soft, mostly-black bundle into Anakin's arms once he'd closed up his car, and made his way back into the house. "Go and put these on— you'll have to tie the pants up tight."

"Thanks," said Anakin. "I'll wash them and give them back; I—"

"Don't worry about it right now, okay? Just go and get dressed. I'll vacuum, and start gathering up laundry; once you've put yourself together, you can help with the kitchen." Ferus started to go back to the mess on the living room floor (there was even a small, dried-up puddle of what looked like vomit near the couch; that would require a bit of extra attention), but paused for a moment before fully turning his back.

"What?" asked Anakin. Of course he had noticed.

"...Nothing," replied Ferus. Anything else he had to say right now would have been inherently distracting; Anakin didn't need that. Anakin needed to get dressed.

"...O-okay," he conceded. "Okay, I... uh, I'll be right back, then." He wanted more than anything to prod Ferus (it had been a long time since the two had spoken meaningfully), but even he knew the time wasn't right— in less than two hours, he had to be a father.

He could always talk to Ferus later on... couldn't he?

It was too late to ask, because Ferus was already back at work filling up that garbage bag.

Anakin, in retreating back upstairs momentarily, found that Ferus' supposition had been correct: The pants were, indeed, too big; pulling the drawstring tight only seemed to do so much to rectify the issue. It made him feel insecure, but insecurity was just another luxury he didn't have time for today. After combing his hair through with his fingers, he tugged the shirt over his head— unable to keep from noticing that it bore the bright, cheerful emblem of the team they both used to play for.

The team whose practice Ferus is missing right now to help your sorry, drunk ass.

"Shut up. Not now."

Okay— but it's true.

The shirt was about as baggy as the pants, but that was alright. Ferus had always been a litter taller than Anakin, and Anakin had always liked clothes he could hide in. Back in high school— before what had happened to Darra; before he'd ever met Padmé— Ferus' hooded sweatshirts had been some of his favourite things to wear.

He probably still had one or two of them laying around, he thought... but his closet was as much a mess as the lower half of his house; he knew he wouldn't have had time to find one of them, even if he'd tried.

Another day, maybe.

Anakin's next descent into the living room was, to his dismay, marked by a brief-but-intense flash of abject terror: It expanded like fresh ice in his gut as he raced against his own angry body to get to the coffee table, whose spotlessly-clean surface was the source of his disconcert.

Ferus had left the room— presumably to go off and get the vacuum cleaner.

Unsure as to whether he was about to vomit or fall down, Anakin gripped the back of the couch.

"She's fine."

"I— I didn't—"

"I put her up on your bookshelf," said Ferus calmly, approaching Anakin where he stood by the sofa, vacuum in hand. "But... you know you should really get a frame for her, right?" If he'd been annoyed with Anakin for dwelling on the photo before, he wasn't anymore.

Anakin didn't look up from the surface of the coffee table. He didn't know why he was surprised that Ferus seemed to understand what he'd been doing— probably, it was because they hadn't talked about it in so damn long.

That made it even more difficult for him to confess to him, "If I put her in a frame, I... I won't be able to see her name anymore."

"...What?"

"Her name— on the back. She wrote it there for me; if I put it in a frame, I won't be able to flip it over and see it whenever I want."

Ferus was only barely successful in fighting his urge to sigh (later on, he'd be glad he had managed). "Why do you want to 'see' it, Anakin?" he asked. Ferus' voice was, inherently, more sharp than it was soft; he'd never been a gentle speaker, necessarily, but he tried hard to be one right now for his friend's sake. He didn't want his exasperation to show— not the full extent of it. "Why do you want to see Darra?"

"I miss her," said Anakin flatly. He sounded just the way he had when he'd answered the door; as though his words were a pre-programmed response to just the kind of question Ferus was posing him.

"You can't beat yourself up over her forever," Ferus pointed out. "You can't keep beating yourself in the head with this, and expecting—"

"Everyone else does."

"That isn't true! You—"

"Yes it is!" Anakin shouted, even though shouting hurt his head. "Tru and Ben both blame me; so do Darra's friends— and her mom and dad, not to mention everyone else we went to school with!" Anakin finally did look up at Ferus, then. "No one treats me normally anymore," he said, "and they haven't for years."

"You barely treat yourself normally anymore, Anakin!" There was that exasperation he'd been trying so hard to tamp down. "No one knows what to do with you; all we can do anymore is stand by and watch you get worse! You don't let us do anything else!"

"Th-this— this is why I stopped going to hockey," croaked Anakin, surprising even himself with the way his voice caught in his throat. He meant to say more, but he couldn't; his chest had already tightened, and his eyes were rapidly filling up with tears.

Ferus regretted saying anything about the picture at all beyond revealing that it was safe; alas, it seemed too late to remedy that. What was he supposed to say now? Anakin hadn't been able to solve this for ten years; Ferus certainly wasn't about to fix it in the span of a few minutes on a single, panicked, hung-over morning.

If he had that particular superpower, he'd have used it a long time ago.

"I— I'm sorry, Anakin," he tried. "I didn't mean—"

He stopped speaking when he realized that it didn't matter what he 'meant'. Anakin couldn't hear him anymore, because Anakin had started to cry.

When was the last time Ferus had seen Anakin cry?

The tears didn't come quietly; rather, Anakin's sobs made him shudder and heave, grateful he was still gripping the back of the sofa with his hand. When he started to double over anyway, he quickly resigned himself to hitting the floor— nothing he hadn't done before; nothing, even, that Ferus hadn't previously witnessed him do.

The confusion that overtook him when his knees failed to impact the carpeted hardwood was almost enough to shock him out of his fit.

Almost.

"Wh-what— what a-are... y-you—"

"Shh."

"F-Ferus, I— I don't—"

"Quiet," Ferus whispered, unafraid of bearing Anakin's entire weight against his chest. If anything, it was too easy to hold him up. "Just be quiet, alright? I'm sorry I said anything— I'm sorry I ever brought it up."

He felt Anakin shake his head ruefully against his breastbone.

"No," he shouted! muffled, into Ferus' shirt. "No, you— you're right; right about everything, a-and I— I—"

Anakin couldn't seem to finish a sentence; Ferus, for his part, dug his fingers into his old friend's back as a wave of conflicting emotions crashed into him: Relief, first, because this was as honest as the two had been with one another in an exceptionally long time; fear, too, because he didn't know where the hell to go from this point. His phone buzzed from inside his pocket— an alarm, he knew, telling him that hockey practice was starting. It made him jump anyway.

"Anakin," he said, taking an inordinately deep breath in an attempt to maintain his own composure. "Anakin, it's eleven o'clock— your kids are going to be—"

"I know! And if I— i-i-if I c-can't even c-clean up for them, th-then—"

"You can clean up for them, though! I've seen you do it; I've helped you do it!" Carefully, Ferus moved to peel Anakin's head away from his chest. He wanted to look at his face, no matter how difficult it was. Something told him he was going to be seeing a lot more of it, in the weeks and months to follow.

Anakin shook his head again, looking up at Ferus through his own wet hair and tears. "No," he protested. "Not this time! I... I just can't— you're right; it's too bad this time, I need—"

"You need to let me help you, Anakin! Not just help you clean; not just help you hide things from Padmé! You'll let me in long enough to do this," he emphasized, daring to take a hand from Anakin to motion at the room around them, "but you always throw me out before I have a chance to even try to figure out what else you need!" He could feel tears of his own, now; they were gathering at the very edges of his eyes, making him angry at himself. "You do that, and then you get mad at me for not understanding!"

"Ferus—"

"How can I understand?!"

"F— Ferus—"

"How can I?!"

Anakin didn't have an answer for Ferus— not then. How was he supposed to help him understand? After so many years of awkward silence and walking on eggshells, how was he supposed to know how to do anything else?

"I... I don't know. I don't know, Ferus— I'm sorry."

Ferus didn't know either... but once again, it had been years and years since he'd felt so close to finding out. He wanted to sit Anakin down and get him talking; in a very big way, this was the perfect time to do it.

...In a much, much bigger way, though, it truly wasn't— and that was because Anakin had more than just himself to worry about these days.

Ferus had been steeling himself against one thing or another for most of his life: He did it against his own long-repressed empathy and affection just then, telling Anakin with an utterly feigned air of authority, "That's fine— that's fine; you don't have to know right now."

Whether he truly understood his choice or not, Ferus had already decided that he wasn't going to leave today just because Anakin's house was clean. That meant they had plenty of time to figure it out together... as long as Anakin would talk to him later.

He hoped Anakin would talk to him later.

"B-but—"

"No," said Ferus. "No buts. Your kitchen is a mess, there's puke to scrape out of your rug, and your kids are on their way— the only thing you need to know right now is how you want them to see their dad when they get here. Do you understand?"

Anakin's stomach clenched, and he found himself having to repress one final, heaving sob before he could will himself to separate entirely from Ferus... who had, by now, been buttressing him for a rather extended period of time.

He did it, though— he did it, and once he was standing under his own power again, he bit down on his lip and nodded.

"I do," he said. "I... I do."

"Good— then go into the kitchen, and start throwing things out while I take care of your carpet. If we don't stop until we're finished, we might just be able to make this place look okay in time for Luke and Leia."

Hearing his kids' names spoken out loud seemed to be the last little spark Anakin needed to ignite his motivation: He came unstuck from the floor, then... that newly-bare coffee table in front of the couch finally having become a source of relief rather than fear.

Darra is as safe as she's ever going to be, his brain reminded him, far more gently than it had told him anything else that day. Leave her, just for now— Ferus is right.

It seemed he really was... because once Anakin started scraping old food into the trash, loading up his dishwasher, and soaking his pots, he felt significantly more capable than he had when he'd woken up. Not better, necessarily... but certainly more apt, if nothing else.

He'd desperately needed the boost of confidence.

"I still don't know how I'm going to be 'on' for them," he confessed, when the two finally met in the living room to survey the house at the tail-end of their mutual cleaning endeavour. Ferus had just ascended from the basement, having loaded some laundry into the washer; Anakin had just put the finishing touches on the kitchen.

"What do you mean 'on'? They're your kids." Driven purely by old instinct, he took Anakin's hand in his; held it tight. It felt as natural as anything.

Anakin didn't pull away, because why would he have? Ferus hadn't held his hand in years; so many that he'd barely realized how much he'd missed it. He also couldn't help but laugh: Ferus didn't understand, because he didn't have children of his own. "That's exactly it," he said. "They are my kids. They're six years old; they're going to want to talk, play, and have fun... and because I was an idiot all week, I still feel too much like shit to be what they need me to be."

Ferus thought.

"...We could take them to a movie together," he offered tentatively. That fake authority he'd been injecting into his voice back before Anakin had begun to come around was all but gone, right along with his own initial desire to leave.

If anything, he was now far more frightened of being sent away than he was at the notion of staying behind to help.

"You can sit in the dark for a little while," he went on, when Anakin didn't answer him right away. "And drink some water, too. I'll do the driving, and the kids will think it's all for fun; by the time we get back here, you'll feel a lot better." With his eyes instead of his mouth, Ferus added to that, If you're as tired as you look, you can even rest your head on my shoulder for a while and try to fall asleep— just like you always used to. Few things had felt better to Ferus, back when he'd still been nineteen.

Anakin was a bit slow sometimes, but he wasn't stupid: He more than understood. Although he smiled, Ferus' offer was nearly enough to start him crying again; the only thing that stopped it was a noise— one that seemed sudden, but really wasn't.

He turned his head, because he could hear the gravel in the driveway crunching beneath the tires of what he already knew to be his ex-wife's little green sedan. (It did not escape him that the sound would never have wafted through the front window so clearly, had Ferus not had the prescience to open it when he'd arrived.)

"...Ferus," he said, voice catching in his throat yet again as somebody outside opened and shut one of the car's doors. "I... I think a movie is a good idea, but I— I... I'm also still sorry for—"

"Don't be." Ferus squeezed Anakin's hand one last time, then released it in favour of motioning towards the front door, as if to usher him in its direction. "You don't have time for 'sorry' right now, remember?"

Anakin nodded. "...Still," he said, grasping the knob, "I know I need to make this up to you, and I will— I promise."

Briefly, Ferus paused to think. "...If you really want to make it up to me," he proposed with an admittedly sly smile, "then you can do it by coming to the game on Wednesday. How does that sound?" He felt especially satisfied with himself, because he knew Anakin didn't have time to argue with him. Besides— during their initial phone conversation, he had promised to do 'anything' in return for Ferus' help.

"I— Ferus, you know I haven't been to the arena in—"

Just then, there was a knock at the door: It was quick and enthusiastic, almost certainly belonging to either Luke or Leia (but probably Luke).

Anakin half-sighed, and— feeling for all intents and purposes as though he didn't have any other options available to him— reluctantly agreed to Ferus' condition. "...Fine," he said, "I'll come by, but I really don't think—"

It didn't matter what Anakin thought, though, because he'd already begun to open the door... and as soon as the gap was wide enough for Luke and Leia to slide in past one another, they did: Calling out greetings to both their dad and to their newly-grinning 'uncle' Ferus beside him— whose presence, of course, they didn't think twice about as they bounded into the freshly-tidied living room, immediately taking it upon themselves to make it their own.

They had no idea what it (or their dad) had looked like mere hours before... and now, thanks to Ferus, they wouldn't have to. All Luke and Leia needed to know about their dad today was that he loved them, and (hockey or no hockey) Ferus was going to make sure that his love for them was all they got to see this weekend.

Anything else he and Anakin needed to worry about, they could worry about it later on— together, the way they always should have.