#before he ultimately discards this particular feeling and tries to rise to power once more

[valentinoappreciator]

im having SUCH complex and complicated thoughts and feelings about valentino. unfortunately all that comes out of my mouth is the same old shit about how much i want him to rail me. i hate this

[unluckyadept]

Character Journal Entry: Felix

{July 16th, 2021T}

[Felix did not return to his letter drafts right away when his shift ended the next day. Instead, he sat alone, holding onto his iconic mask.

He wanted to express his thoughts, but one thing had become clear over time: he truly had to provide the context, or else it just wouldn’t make sense. His streak of Mars in particular.

He was no longer all that concerned about being fiery. He had plenty of enemies who were out to kill him, people who wanted to inflict great suffering in every imaginable way; he truly didn’t have the patience anymore to grovel. He would never be in complete agreement with his close friends—but that was just the way of the world. 

He looked up with unseeing eyes, his mind caught in the weight of the past and the gravity of the present.

It was like he had mentioned in one of his previous drafts: this was the true end. He could feel it. He could feel it in his very soul; Lalivero was safe in the eye of the storm, but the only way through these troubles was through the squalls that besieged them. There was no turning back.

Either they would break free from the violent tempest, unhindered as they made for shore in a clear sunrise…

…or they would be dashed upon the rocks and drown.]

+=+=+=+

"{Keep your spirits up, lad. Too much for you to do to be dwelling in darkness.}"

+=+=+=+

[He closed his eyes and surrendered a silent sigh.]

({What was it that Sir Glenn said? Something about not… not resenting the lamentation at wishing to reclaim what was lost.})

[He rubbed a hand against his face, still dwelling in a deep mental cloud.

One of the things that had always bothered him in the past was his lasting sense of pain, and the weight that suffering had chained to his heart. He had worried that the way it haunted him would drive others away; they would surely find deep discomfort if he were more vocal about what was on his mind during these times. After all… he hadn’t known anyone else who would broach such topics to him, let alone on a frequent basis.

But he still hurt. Oh, he still hurt. These wounds ran deep… and when they ached, the scars were filled with blinding fire.

Such matters had been weighing more heavily in his heart for over a year and a half now. For the pain was no longer of the decades past, but of the living present.

And the reminder of this was enough to make it harder to breathe again, from stress alone—

It was a silent cry of a suffering soul as his heart protested the crushing, suffocating clutches of sorrowful despair.

His grip on the mask tightened, and he curled the hand pressed against his face into a clenched fist.

His adoptive grandfather would not want him to be held back like this, let alone falter in his faith in his convictions.]

+=+=+=+=+

“{There is good in everything that happens. Sometimes you have to spend a little bit more time looking for it, and sometimes it doesn’t reveal itself immediately. But there’s always good in everything that happens.}”

+=+=+=+=+

[He could feel tears building at the memory of the man’s reassuring confidence.]

+=+=+=+=+

“{It may not reveal itself immediately, and even in the most dire circumstances, if you just wait, if you just remain open to things, the good in it will reveal itself.}”

+=+=+=+=+

[He tried to shake it off, but the tears remained poised as he remembered snatches of what the great Ranger had taught him.]

+=+=+=+=+

“{If disaster is coming our way, we don’t just sit there and endure it. We come up with ways to avoid it, to beat it back, to overcome it, but we don’t just sit there and accept it.}”

+=+=+=+=+

[He gritted his teeth against the sense of loss, still (futilely, and he knew it) fighting back tears.]

+=+=+=+=+

“{But I don’t believe our darkest days are ahead of us. I never have. [You] have been asking, ‘You’ve always told us you’d tell us when it’s time to panic. Is it time?’ It’s never time to panic, [Earth-son].}”

+=+=+=+=+

[He let the mask fall into his lap so he could press both hands against his face, instinctively holding his breath as a result of the crushing void of loss.]

+=+=+=+=+

“{It’s never, ever gonna be time to give up on our [people]. It will never be time to give up on the [dedication to build dreams].}”

+=+=+=+=+

[It was all he could do to seek comfort in the words again in this dark time.]

+=+=+=+=+

“{It will never be time to give up on yourself.}”

+=+=+=+=+

[For all the thrill of victory at having lasted this long in open war against the Tolbi regime—and particularly the importance of having disrupted the flow of supplies from their capital city to the troops in Northern Gondowan—

It was still all so overwhelming.]

[After the pretense was discarded last autumn, their enemy seizing the opportunity to use cowardly tactics in an attempt to overwhelm them at lightning speed—

After he was taken prisoner and not one of them would even consider speaking to him as a fellow human being…

…eventually, in the “end”, he had fallen into despair.

They had done everything they possibly could to prevent it… and it had been cruelly subverted by hateful Pride. He had sought to treat even his tormentors with respect—and he had, as best he could!—and to appeal to basic human decency, for the chance to learn what mattered to them… and they wouldn’t even deign to speak any more beyond their brutal contempt of blinding Pride.

If all his power had not been enough—if they had brought their full strength against the enemy and only barely survived—there, in those moments as he lay dying, and in those days after he was brought back… he couldn’t help but wonder, at first.

He had asked himself: with all that in mind, could he really trust that they would be able to overcome such deep-rooted tyranny?]

+=+=+=+=+

“{Trust me.}”

+=+=+=+=+

[It had taken a very long time for him to begin to recover.

And just as he was starting to do so…

…he received the news that he would hear such words of encouragement… no more.

Not again within this world would he be able to turn to the man who had been like a second father to him—the one person who had never doubted his ability to thrive and succeed, despite his background, despite his temperament… despite everything that would have otherwise long since overwhelmed his will to keep struggling and clawing his way through the darkness.

There had been long periods of time where the only things that kept him from succumbing to insane levels of agony—the only reasons he had stayed his hand, even as he looked into the abyss with a desire to embrace it—the only reasons he had even bothered to continue were: the obligations of duty to toil until relieved from his role in this life… and that man’s unshaken certainty that he was capable enough to overcome the noose of shadows and walk in the sunlight of hard-earned dreams.

And now…]

({I just want to hear your voice again, one more time! Even… even though I know what you would say.})

[He understood, now, why Mikhail had never asked him to use the Tomegathericon to allow him to speak to his late wife. He had once thought that strange, in the back of his mind—it had stood out, at least. Clearly, the man suffered deeply from her loss, and yearned for her presence. Why should he then willfully avoid any means of contacting her? And why had she not visited, the way other spirits had?

Now he knew. He understood.

As much as this hurt, he knew that his Proxan grandfather had been ferried across the river into the sea of Light—and he did not now have the heart to even ask to recall him back into these days of sorrow.

He’d been close enough to such an experience himself to properly appreciate it—after such an exhausting journey, it was a relief to be free of such burdens of responsibility.

Such burdens were for the living to carry.

For him to carry.

For him to Live.]

({We stand upon a spearhead of fire. The first to fall shall be engulfed in crushing irons, such as to prevent them from rising up again for generations. We are so close to breaking the stranglehold they have on the region once and for all…! If only we can outlast their corrosive and hateful Hubris.})

[He pulled his hands away from his face, curling one closed and placing his other hand over it, his eyes closed in weariness and focus.]

({So it is that the task falls to us, as your generation takes the road to dawn. You have raised us upright in virtue to take on this load, and lead the charge against the darkness that we might yet have self-controlled destinies for ourselves and our children.})

[The tears had dried, now, and he opened his eyes, staring off into nothing.

They had been victorious, but word had reached him of the forces rallying for another massive charge. He needed to entrust some of the others to take command of the area, to keep up the pressure on their enemy so that they would not be able to slip through again unnoticed.

They had won another battle, but the war was far from over. At this rate, it would be over a year before anything definitive happened—unless things escalated AGAIN, wildly out of control.

Felix sighed, taking hold of his mask once more.]

({If they have their way, then I know what shall happen. We’ve seen this song and dance before—we know how the story ends.})

[Such things had happened to the people of Garoh, after all.]

[He remembered Maha telling him about such matters.

And he had been warned by others, too—

They would punish him for refusing to submit, if they found him. And they would make much more of an effort to ensure he would not escape their ultimate answer to his “offensive” existence.]

({This is why I have to succeed, Grandfather. Oh, Iris, I beg of you to petition our grievances! The immortal soul is too fierce to be contained in a mortal body, and yet this is the only Life we have ever known. We must defend the right to achieve our destiny, no matter how atrociously the darkness assaults us; we can never obtain paradise in such a divided world, but we are called to pursue our inner fire that we may be at peace with what we have earned.})

[…He was too tired to think much more.

Perhaps it would be best if he just went home for the night—out in the Wilderness—to get some proper sleep.]

[cottonwoolsocks]

Nobody Knows You Now (When You're Dying In LA)

AO3 | Masterlist

title from ‘Dying in LA’ by Panic! At The Disco

Summary: He had to prove he was worth their time. He had to prove he was worth something. He had to pay for the love that they gave, atone for their adoration, because if he stopped providing, they would stop giving, and he would be left alone and worthless and unnecessary and he wouldn’t, couldn't, can’t have that.

He had to prove he was worthy.

Word Count: 1644 Genre: angst, canonverse Characters: Roman, others mentioned Relationships: none

Warnings: slight/ambiguous u!Patton and other Sides (excepting Roman)

If I need to tag anything else, let me know!

———

An actor’s most cherished talent is their ability to reinvent themselves, donning any number of masks to hide their true face and instead portray that of another.

Roman was…exceptionally practiced at this particular skill.

From the moment he had first laid foot in the home of the Light Sides, he had been built up, celebrated; honoured as brave, courageous, noble. He stood tall and mighty, aware of his importance, aware of how much they loved him and how utterly indispensable he was—not only to Thomas, but to the other Sides, as well. He was strong, valuable, fearless, and enjoyed living up to these expectations, always meeting or exceeding them and never slowing down, because why should he? He was bold. He was powerful. He was unbreakable.

He was the Good Creativity. He was important. He had work to do, and challenges to face.

Innovation poured from his pen in great torrents, song after video after sketch, building Thomas up, building the others up, encouraging them all to meet and exceed their potential, to always take the extra step, make the extra leap forward to greatness and significance.

Roman became a symbol for more than just Creativity.

Courage. Success. Confidence. All things he now represented, titles to nurture and crowns to bear proudly. He was not ashamed of his achievements. And he was excited, ever so excited for each new day, each new challenge to face, each new obstacle to overcome.

He was the Good Creativity. He was a standard that had to be upheld.

See, the trouble with such an unwavering incline in achievements and innovation is that eventually it must slow down. Humans are, after all, not like machines or characters in a play, and need to take time to breathe, rest, reset. Creativity is not a limitless tap—but it does recharge, with time.

Roman found this incredibly frustrating.

Success, he argued, was not something you could simply wait to acquire. Success required a devoted, steadfast stream of accomplishments, effort, determination—because the moment you let up, the second you break character, those around you will dig their heels into your shoulders in order to elevate themselves. Success is a matter of how far and how fast you are willing to climb, and what you are willing to do to reach it.

Dreams unfold upon the ashes of dreams.

Roman’s work was never done. Script after script. Song after song. He churned out creations, works to display, musings to share with the world. Always improved. Each better than the last. Always refining, never slowing, because if he hesitated for even a second then those in his dust would catch up to him and he would be left behind, not good enough, never good enough.

He had to prove he was better.

What the others thought of his brother was no secret. His brother was Dark, his brother was evil, his brother was not wanted. They had no use or desire for him.

And what made Roman any different?

Your goodness, Patton would say. You create nice things. Remus creates horrible things.

But where, Roman couldn’t help but wonder, was the line? What separated ‘good’ from ‘evil’, ‘light’ from ‘dark’? Surely it was but a matter of preference, of opinion, of what the individual had learned throughout their life to be accepted or admonished?

That was, ultimately, the reason the Split had occurred in the first place.

Creativity had been torn into two entities, Roman and Remus, Remus and Roman, ‘good’ and ‘evil’. 

And evil was not wanted. That much was clear, had been made clear from the very moment Roman had first grappled his way into existence. Evil lost friends. Evil lost acceptance. Evil meant nobody would listen to you, because you only caused hurt, pain, fear. ‘Evil’ was every villain of every show he had ever seen, always the losing side, never the happy ending.

And Roman was not evil. He made sure of that, tried so hard to make sure of that.

After all, could someone truly evil create such beautiful things, such exquisite artwork? And Roman was a prince! Princes were not evil, practically by default—this, of course, the reasoning behind why he had selected this moniker for himself in the first place, and fought so hard to make sure it wasn’t forgotten.

But he was running out of steam.

The quality of his creations was starting to diminish: not as popular, not as pretty, not as original. But he persevered. He had to keep going, because if he stopped, if they didn’t have a use for him anymore, if they saw through the cracks in his mask despite how he tried so hard to conceal them, then they would throw him away like they had done his brother. Like they had done Remus.

Roman did not want to be alone.

He had to prove he was worth their time. He had to prove he was worth something. He had to pay for the love that they gave, atone for their adoration, because if he stopped providing, they would stop giving, and he would be left alone and worthless and unnecessary and he wouldn’t, couldn't, can’t have that.

He had to prove he was worthy.

Minutes turned to hours turned to days spent locked behind his door, heaps of discarded scripts tossed offhandedly into empty space, neatly at first, then merely cast in the general direction of the trash as he clawed urgently for the next idea, the next project, the next success, because this would be the one, this one would prove it to them, this would show he was worth keeping around, indisputably, that he wasn’t evil, that he wasn’t his brother.

The papers piled up, Roman’s notebook overflowing with discarded ideas, and yet Thomas’s remained blank.

Once, Patton found him, head in his hands past four in the morning, torn up pages obscuring his desk and floor and half-full coffee mugs littering worksurfaces. He had been led gently to bed, and the next day Roman did not miss the sympathetic glances the others thought he couldn’t see. He didn’t miss the demeaningly cautious tone to Patton’s voice, Virgil’s uncharacteristic lack of teasing insults, the way Logan didn’t correct him, even when he purposefully misused the word ‘inchoate’ just to get a rise from him.

He had failed them. He was supposed to be strong. He was supposed to be confident, proud, indomitable. Most of all, he was supposed to be creative.

That was his symbol, his mark, his purpose. It had to be upheld. He could not allow it to slip between his fingers, fall and shatter, scatter into a million tiny, irredeemable pieces, each too small to be of any consequence or concern.

He couldn’t allow them to see him stumble, because in a moment he would be gone, cast out, forgotten. Not worthy, not ‘good’, not enough.

He had to be stronger, he had to be unyielding, he had to act the part—and act he would. Acting was one of the few talents he actually possessed, one of the few uses he had, and he would damn well make the most of it.

An emotional mask, to an actor, is elementary. Change your face, portray another, hide your true thoughts and emotions and instead channel those of someone else, someone without the meagre concerns of your own life.

Roman donned his mask—someone proud, someone self-assured, someone powerful and determined and Good.

He would not let the mask break. He would patch the cracks before they showed, with wit and charm, magnificence and splendour. Because if they couldn’t see him beneath the extravagance, if they were unable to peer too hard into the shining brilliance lest they damage their eyes, they’d never even know the cracks were there.

He would be brave. He would be proud. Most of all, he would be ‘Good’.

He was not like his brother. He was not horrible. He was worthy, he was wanted, he was loved, and cherished, and appreciated. He was. Of course he was. 

He had to make it. He had to be good enough. Because if he wasn’t, if he couldn’t do the only thing he’d ever been good at, what use was he to them? What worth did he have?

Without his mask, what else was left?

The mask had become so rudimentary, so ingrained in his flesh that he wasn’t sure he even existed beyond it any more. He had been acting the part for so long, he wasn’t sure he could stop. He wasn’t sure he wanted to.

‘Roman’ had become nothing more than a character he portrayed, his greatest and most elaborate creation. And he had been playing this ‘Roman’ for so long, this bold and brave and extravagant prince, he wasn’t sure he remembered who he had been before.

Had he been anyone before?

Or was this all he was? A shell? A vessel through which a character was to be portrayed?

Maybe he was never supposed to change, to question. Maybe he was supposed to just keep creating, keep acting, continue playing the part of this bold, brave prince.

That was his function, after all. His purpose. And as long as he existed in some shape or form, he must continue to uphold it, no matter how much he may wish otherwise. 

As long as he kept creating, as long as he paid for his place, upheld his standard, he couldn’t be forgotten. Couldn’t be overlooked.

These challenges strengthened him, fleshed out his character for a bigger and better and bolder performance. This pain led to amelioration. And if he kept pushing away the negative feelings, no matter how insistently they tried to tear him down, he would be able to soldier forward.

He is an actor, after all. And the show must go on.