#bonelesstextpost

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hey I did a thing

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[fin.]

Headcanons:

Ji gave Jiequan a nickname because prior to meeting Ji, Jiequan's name had never been called fondly. He flinched every time Ji called for him. They tried a few nicknames, but ultimately settled on "Xiao Quan" because Jiequan was terribly small for his age... (And perhaps also because Ji hoped he would not grow up too quickly - not like those other youths they once knew, who pursued power to a terrible end.)

Jiequan only started referring to himself in the third person after he met Ji. He never had the chance to be a proper child before that. He outgrew the habit as he got older, of course, but he was excellent at playing up his cuteness as a child.

Jiequan has a brief period where he thinks Lear is really cool. That's why he has a ponytail as a teenager.

...In some ways, Jiequan only grew up to be what he was because he encountered Ji. He wanted to be loved, desperately, and forged himself in imitation of those heroes that Ji seemed strangely fond of in the histories they recounted. If anything, perhaps the problem was that his imitation was too good. He became a larger than life character, an act, a collection of someone else's ideas- and lost the sincerity which made him so endearing as a child. Yet at the same time, this turned him into someone Ji could no longer accept: a cruel, sadistic, and self-centered man who willfully inflicted pain onto others for his own ends.

But Jiequan could no longer turn back. He came to harbour a strange mix of bitter resentment and desperate longing for Ji's affection. If guoshi didn't approve of his actions, then guoshi had to be wrong, because Jiequan- Jiequan was doing everything right. This is what he wanted, right? This is what they asked for. He listened to Ji's prophecies and counsel as guoshi because he could not let go, and yet dismissed their words as merely the anxieties of an old Solarian.

When he met Yi, the first thing that struck Jiequan was how deeply unlikeable this tiny runt was. Sharp-tongued, standoffish, and disinterested in anything that didn't appeal to him, Yi was the type of person who made enemies as easily as breathing. And yet... He was outstanding. His martial prowess and scientific skill, for one matter, and for the other... the fact that Yi was undeniably loved. They weren't so different really, Jiequan and Yi- and yet, Jiequan was alone while Yi had friends and family who cared for him.

So came the second thing that struck Jiequan about Yi: he wanted him, and he wanted to break him. What would it be like, he wondered, to have someone finally hold Jiequan and only Jiequan in their eyes? Even if the emotion was motivated by pure hatred- what would it be like to occupy the whole of someone's mind? To be seen as himself, instead of a ghost from the past? If he took Yi apart, perhaps Jiequan could finally figure out what allowed Yi to cross the invisible wall between himself and others that Jiequan could not. At the very least, he would break the wall between himself and Yi - by any means necessary.

Jiequan wondered, in the end, what should he have done to keep holding on to the warm hand that saved him in the ruins of his childhood? What could he have done? He wanted too much, maybe- more than he could achieve as a weak, coddled child. Maybe his sin was that he could not stay a child forever. (That does not mean he ever really grew up.)

(Ji always saw him as that small, bright Xiao Quan who asked him for fairytales with sparkling eyes. That child simply wandered too far into his fantasies for Ji to find him before the end- not unlike another man Ji once knew, no-- but they cared for the two differently. He never did quite manage to make Xiao Quan see that.)

Bonus:

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(part 2 here)

The narrative that Jietong was a tyrant and only a tyrant must have been pretty pervasive throughout Penglai, right? After all, that's the narrative that Yi recounts. So then, for Jiequan to have idolized his ancestor so much...

It could have been a simple, desparate fantasy for control from a weak, bullied child. But to desire so much as the revival of the Jie Kingdom? Where did Jiequan find his narrative of history? He seemed rather alone in his memories...

Headcanon that Ji told Jiequan stories of Jietong with such fondness that the young boy who idolized his guoshi wanted to give them a whole kingdom. That Ji only found Jiequan later in life— that upon their first encounter at the shattered statue of Jietong, Jiequan cried bitterly and hated the ancestor who could not protect him, regardless of whatever else his legacy held. That Ji who appeared before him like a hero became an object of admiration and the revival of Jiequan's belief in the Jie Kingdom. After all, heroes are forged in agony. Here was a solarian who saved him, and yet carried centuries of untold sorrow upon his thin shoulders. But when Jiequan made his childish declarations that he'd revive the kingdom of his ancestors, Ji would smile just so and pat his head ever so fondly; melancholic in his joy and seeming to look far, far away. It was almost as if they were seeing someone else from a long, long time ago.

That was fine, too. As long as someone stayed by his side. As long as he had some greater purpose to aspire for, some dream to achieve... Jiequan would never be that weak, lonely child again.

And maybe someday, someone would talk about him with as much fondness as Ji talked about his ancestor. Wouldn't that be nice?

[bonelessicecream]

ivantill in EEAOO au

This is not a love story. But the love is there, and it’s important, and it's the bones and heart and soul of what happens next.

—-

Ivan’s been having dreams. Flickers of another world, another life - where everything is shifted two steps to the left, where the flowers tell no stories, where the sky is blue; really, truly blue, and it goes on forever and ever and ever. Worlds where Hyuna is his ‘senior’, or Sua is his ‘sister’, or Luka - Luka - is his ‘friend’. Worlds where he and Mizi have matching ‘best friend’ bracelets, where Till smiles at him, where the only reason he sings for a camera is because he wants to.

He doesn’t have the words for all he sees, but it’s so real he can almost feel it, he swears, can almost walk into those other lives and live in a skin that is and is not his own. He’d leave today if he could, he’d leave the collared existence of his world behind in a heartbeat, except-

Except Till would be left behind.

And he can’t, for him, for Ivan- for Ivan, there is no world without Till. And he knows, he knows that there are other Tills in those other worlds, but they aren’t his Till, even if they look at him, or hold his hand, or press their lips together- they aren’t the Till that he knows, that he whispered to flowers with, that he fought with as a child, that he writes songs to now-

The point is. The point is, Ivan would not leave Till, even if he could leave this world for another. Not now, not ever, not in any world. He tries not to think too hard about whether Till would leave him. He knows the answer, he thinks. That doesn’t mean he needs to hear it.

Till’s been having dreams too.

He dreams of strangely fuzzy trees with what must be hundreds of thousands of green blades on their branches, green so vivid and perfect that it looks fake. He dreams of Mizi, bright and warm as ever, of that strange girl- Sua, he thinks- who was always by her side, of Luka and a tall girl with warm brown skin and bright, sharp eyes. He likes the sound of her music, tries to remember it for when he wakes up- he would’ve liked to sing with her, if he had the chance. If she was real.

And among tens of thousands of dreams, with the same people in different worlds, in lifetimes where he takes to the stage and in lifetimes where he never so much as looks as a camera- Among all these lives, it is Ivan who catches his eye. He begins to wait for Ivan to show up in these lifetimes, for a familiar flash of black out of the corner of his eye, for a presence by his side that he knows as well as his own.

Till is taken aback by how much of a relief it is when he sees Ivan, as if his soul knows something he doesn’t. There you are, it says. I missed you.

Just once, Till slips into the other world instead of watching it from afar. It is one of the worlds most like and unlike his own, where he sees his own life acted out upon a stage only to return to an entirely different existence when the cameras stop rolling. There are no aliens here, but there is Ivan, and Mizi, and the usual cast, and this wonderfully bitter drink called “coffee.”

He watches, first, as their other selves act out the imminent contest between himself and Ivan.

He watches Ivan stop singing, and come to him.

He watches as Ivan fills his vision, presses his mouth to Till’s like he’d asked to back in Anakt, watches as the guards take aim-

When Ivan hits the ground, Till lunges.

His knees ache from where he fell to the cold stage floor, and the pouring rain feels like ice stabbing into his skin, but none of it comes close to the suffocating pressure in his chest. He scrambles towards Ivan, desperate, clutches him to his chest like he remembers someone doing for him years and years ago, as close to his heart as he can.

He should say something, he should, but Till can’t hear anything over the static in his head. Dread blooms between his ribs, pools cool and cloying in his lungs. He must be drowning, in this moment, this stage. Ivan is so cold, and so still, and the red on his lips is just the same as the color of the flowers he saw when they both lived in the Garden.

It sounds like death, he thinks, this terrible silence.

“Sunbae? Till-sunbae!”

Then warmth, and Ivan is looking at him again, and the world is lit with bright white lights, and he remembers that this moment, the future it presents, this waking nightmare- it is only a story, in this world.

Someone wraps a blanket around him, and he’s ushered into a small, comfortable room as the other members of the stage call for a break. Ivan comes in soon after, blood wiped clean from his face and a towel draped around his neck. He plops down next to Till on the sofa, warm and heavy and alive.

“You scared me back there, sunbae! You hugged me all of a sudden, and you weren’t responding, and your hands were all cold… It wasn’t in the script, but I thought it was a nice touch! The director looked a little worried and called for lights early though, so I guess we’ll have to do the- the kiss scene again-”

“Ivan.” He jolts to attention. Till pauses as he forms the next question, words still feeling strange in this body. It’s stronger than his own, he thinks, but familiar. The calluses from holding a pencil and playing a guitar are still the same.

He looks up to find Ivan staring at him with worried eyes. The rambling earlier… it was so different from how his own Ivan talked, but it must have been his way of comforting Till. The realization makes something warm and uncomfortable settle in his stomach.

“Ivan, if the- the scene was real, do you think you- I mean, do you think the character you’re playing…” Till swallows. “What do you think was going through his mind, at that moment? Dying… Dying like that.”

Ivan blinks, taken aback. Till’s about to ask him to forget the question altogether, but then he sees Ivan furrow his brows, taking his usual position for deep thought. After some long, silent seconds, Ivan begins to speak.

“I think… he must’ve been a little heartbroken. I mean, he’s such a sad character isn’t he? Loving someone who doesn’t love you back is such- I mean, it must be a lonely experience.”

Till flinches at that. Ivan’s honesty is bright, terribly so- like a night sky filled with meteors. It’s almost too much to bear.

“So you’d… would you regret it, you think? It’s a pretty bad tradeoff, isn’t it?”

Ivan smiles, and Till thinks it’d hurt less if Ivan would’ve just punched him instead. There’s a deep, old sorrow in him, an ocean of it. He wonders how long Ivan has been drowning, in this life and his.

“I didn’t say that.”

Ivan places his hand over Till’s, squeezing gently. He studies their hands for a moment, considering his next words.

“If there was such a thing as another life… I’d still choose to be with you, singing and writing songs together. Even if it means trading my life for yours, sunbae, I can’t… I can’t imagine there’d be a world where I’d regret meeting you.”

He smiles again, and it feels like something is exploding in Till’s chest. The stars, he thinks. Ivan must’ve plucked the stars from the sky and put them into his words.

“I…”

Before he can reply, Till is overcome by a wave of nausea. The world falls away, and Till falls with it.

When he comes to, he’s on a stage that he’s seen before, dressed in an outfit he’s already worn. Ivan stands beside him in a flawless white tuxedo, hand gently clasped around the steel microphone. The manufactured rain falls on and on in a percussive chorus as the first notes of their song begins to play.

Somehow, Till knows this is his own world, and his own body.

He knows what’ll happen next.

As if he’d let him. Till sings softly, as he did in the other world, but this time- this time, there’s a steady determination in his eyes.

When Ivan’s voice stops, two microphones fall to the ground.

Ivan looks at him, pupils wide with surprise as Till turns towards him. The scoreboard freezes for them both, paused at 80 to 80. With slow, careful steps, Till makes his way across ten meters and ten thousand lives to his Ivan.

And it feels right.

Of all the Ivans he’s seen, of all the Tills he’s been, it’s this world- this world, where they’re both damned to an early grave, where one must die for the other to live, where they’re not lovers or classmates or even coworkers- it’s their world that Till chooses.

This world didn’t give them the words for what they have, but he’s felt them all the same. He knows it. Love, or family, or friendship- all of those and none of them apply. Even if they’d be happier in another world, even if they’d have more time together-

It’s this Ivan that needs him the most.

Till hugs Ivan as tightly as he can. He feels thousands of other lifetimes tugging at them both, feels other worlds call to him- but right now, he holds the most important thing in all the worlds in his arms. And with cold, trembling hands, Ivan hugs him back.

As they fall to the ground together, the red blooms across them both. In one world, Ivan and Till close their eyes.

In thousands of others, they wake up.

[bonelessicecream]

Tagged by @crazymistahj. Thanks for the tag :D I too do not have editing skills, but if you want, make a 3X9 of your fav comfort characters. Please keep in mind that I have the memory of a goldfish so these may not be the most accurate response... I. I had to google "popular manga series" after #1 to give my brain a jumpstart...

1. Kim Dokja: Worst coping mechanisms known to man, actively walls himself into a hell of his own creation, absolutely unreliable narrator. The furthest and closest one can get to being Just a Guy.

2. Riza Hawkeye: Has seen the horrors of war, will risk life and limb for a better future. Clever, strong, and loyal. Will pull you back from the brink of no return.

3. Diluc Ragnvindr: Born into a comfortable life, lost what matters most. Lost himself, probably. Doesn't know how to talk to his ex-best friend except through bickering, but will come with claymore blazing to save him. There is friendship between them that is old but new, so beloved that each treats it like it will shatter if spoken into existence.

4. Himeno: Probably an unusual choice. I think she would have been happy in a different world. Loved and loved and loved and lost. (And lost).

5. Liu Qingge: Chronic second male lead syndrome. Will fight losing battles for the sake of people he cares about. As with most characters who aren't SQQ, the story is a tragedy from his perspective.

6. Portgas D. Ace: Good brother. Can't spell.

7. Frieren: Doesn't understand humans. Tries anyways, and gets better at it. Not particularly skilled at expressing her emotions, but has undying trust in and clearly cares for her companions. Very powerful but also silly at times, which I appreciate.

8. Koro-sensei: funny yellow octopus haha but also a person who was saved amidst desperate loneliness and chose to spend the brief remainder of his life helping people trapped in that same despair. An excellent teacher.

9. Julius Monrey: Debated between choosing him or Ace, but I think Julius is a little more doomed by the narrative. Grumpy but for good reason. The only person who cares about life in a world where death is as common as stepping outside. Probably very tired.

My first textpost... what flood will this unleash? We'll find out!

Tagging: I don't know anyone yet, but hopefully one day I'll have people to tag ^^

[bonelessicecream]

As a bonus, you can think about Jiequan losing himself in his quest for power and glory. Master of both transmutation and martial arts- the figure of the forlorn child he once was is nowhere to be seen. Consolidating power gives way to maintaining power, which at last gives way to expanding power.

And Ji witnesses this.

(It's because of their stories, Ji thinks to himself. As damning as a prophecy. Perhaps they should never speak again.)

Ji's fond tales soon turn into careful counsel, which in time becomes barely concealed pleading. As Jiequan morphs into a cruel and unrecognizable figure, as he puppets legions of Red Tiger Soldiers in a sickening imitation of an empire, as he decides to torture and fight Yi— desperately, fruitlessly, Ji asks him to turn back.

Jiequan hears his pleas but thinks nothing of it. Guoshi is too cautious, haunted by a bygone era; Jiequan will overcome this. He looks in the mirror and sees a king in the making. A sprawling empire, his to claim.

Ji looks at Jiequan and sees a child.

A small, lonely child that fed himself on too many dreams to face the inevitability of death, of collapse... of the ashes from which life at last springs anew. They have seen this story play out too many times. They know that Jiequan will neither listen nor retreat. Not until he is wholly destroyed.

And once again, Ji feels how terribly powerless he is. They thought he accepted the uncaring nature of the Tao, the relentless forward march of time— the inevitable template of fate. And yet, they think, what he should curse above all else is his own bleeding heart. He can't save Jiequan. They know that well enough by now. And yet, they cannot simply stand by.

He goes to Jiequan, again and again. Each time chips away at a little more of his hope. Each time they leave finding the crack in their heart has grown wider still.

"Jiequan, this will not end well. You will unmake yourself. The hexagrams have foreseen it."

"Jiequan, isn't this enough? Will you not live your life rather than spend the whole of it fighting?"

"Jiequan— No, Xiao Quan— please. If you ever cared for me or the stories I told you... If this title of guoshi should have any meaning now, after all these years... won't you stop? I beg of you. Won't you come listen to another story?"

But Jiequan had grown too old for fairytales.

At least this time, Ji would die by the same blade as his charge. This, too, was preordained. As they card their fingers through the soft grass that springs from the remains of Jiequan’s body, Ji finds himself muttering out loud. An old habit, from years upon years spent in isolation.

"Ah, Xiao Quan... if I meet you again in the afterlife, I'll have to give you a good scolding then."

The narrative that Jietong was a tyrant and only a tyrant must have been pretty pervasive throughout Penglai, right? After all, that's the narrative that Yi recounts. So then, for Jiequan to have idolized his ancestor so much...

It could have been a simple, desparate fantasy for control from a weak, bullied child. But to desire so much as the revival of the Jie Kingdom? Where did Jiequan find his narrative of history? He seemed rather alone in his memories...

Headcanon that Ji told Jiequan stories of Jietong with such fondness that the young boy who idolized his guoshi wanted to give them a whole kingdom. That Ji only found Jiequan later in life— that upon their first encounter at the shattered statue of Jietong, Jiequan cried bitterly and hated the ancestor who could not protect him, regardless of whatever else his legacy held. That Ji who appeared before him like a hero became an object of admiration and the revival of Jiequan's belief in the Jie Kingdom. After all, heroes are forged in agony. Here was a solarian who saved him, and yet carried centuries of untold sorrow upon his thin shoulders. But when Jiequan made his childish declarations that he'd revive the kingdom of his ancestors, Ji would smile just so and pat his head ever so fondly; melancholic in his joy and seeming to look far, far away. It was almost as if they were seeing someone else from a long, long time ago.

That was fine, too. As long as someone stayed by his side. As long as he had some greater purpose to aspire for, some dream to achieve... Jiequan would never be that weak, lonely child again.

And maybe someday, someone would talk about him with as much fondness as Ji talked about his ancestor. Wouldn't that be nice?