#both its past and its present.

[andoutofharm]

hozier performing butchered tongue at the choctaw theater in oklahoma (dedicated to the Choctaw people, 10/13/23)

(see this article for why this is such a significant dedication and performance of this song)

[bullagit]

due to personal reasons i am now firmly on team “i hope aziraphale does change heaven for the better actually (going on the assumption that his return is as straightforward as it seemed etc” 

like if the alternative is just this ohhh he’s so NAIVE and SOFT and so WRONG and he’ll have to LEARN A TOUGH LESSON etc etc nonsense then yeah 1000% go for it babe knock it out of the park

i hope choosing hope and kindness pays dividends. i hope the soft traits that made other characters continually disparage and underestimate him and his intelligence turn out to be his greatest assets bc i kinda don’t give a shit about a “toughen up it’s the only way everyone else knows better” life lesson for this character

(which like honestly a lot of the rhetoric is dismissive of the fact that persistent goodness in the face of an existence of disparagement takes great strength and that at the end of the day aziraphale has always been able to stand up in his own way)

[rexecutioner]

Sorry ive been so inactive recently, I have a life that I needed to get back to for a bit! I am returning with a new hyperfixation (i am seven years late)

I drew me and my friend’s favorite characters in a silly artstyle!! We are going through the game together and we are almost done with Chapter Four (i am so scared) (ignore how tiny Rantaro’s head is) (i rant in the tags beware)

[flowercrowngods]

🤍🌷 @stevesbipanic and @the-winged-doe asked to see ugly unpolished unrefined words, soo—

cw & tags: past major character death, grief, attempted time-travel fix-it(s), eddie&robin besties || potential wip

Eddie takes a long drag of his cigarette, the biting hot smoke hitting the back of his throat and clawing its way into his lungs, going as deep as he allows and leaving a permanent mark that brings neither relief nor calmness tonight. His fingers shake where they’re pressed to his lips, but the rest of him is unmoving where he sits on the front porch of their new trailer. 

It’s quiet out here. It’s always quiet in Hawkins these days, the city a fucking ghosttown. 

And he knows it’s not because of the one they lost. He knows it’s not because of him. But still the emptiness is stark and the silence oppressivem more so than it ever has been. 

Everyone still looks for him, months later. Dustin still begins to speak, cutting himself off mid-sentence, and Robin still stands with enough space to either side, like she expects him to just show up and invade her space like the home he made for himself in there. 

And somewhere among all that is Eddie. With his very own history. Or, non-history, as it turns out. But history and non-history leave wounds alike, and the memories feel just as real. A small mercy, at the end of the day, for them to feel real when they’re all he has left anymore. 

He takes another drag, not quite exhaling before he obliterates the cigarette and fishes for a new one before the butt even hits the ground. 

Fumbling with the lighter in his pocket, he only gets as far as placing the butt between his lips before a hand snakes into his field of vision to snag it from his mouth. 

“Hey,” he complains halfheartedly but makes no attempt at getting it back, watching instead as Robin comes up to sit beside him, grimacing at the stink of tobacco that must be heavy around him. 

“You’re disgusting,” she says with no real heat behind her words.

Eddie shrugs, because yeah, sure. He’s been called worse things. Robin’s called him worse things. This is her being nice. Her complaininig about his incessant smoking is nothing new. What is new is what she does next, placing the cigarette between her own lips and reaching for the light he’s been holding in a loose grip since she arrived. 

She starts coughing immediately, pulling a face at the disgusting feeling of smoke in her lungs and tobacco on her tongue. But she keeps going. Eddie can only watch in surprise and mild horror. 

“These things’ll kill you,” he says then in an echo of her usual sentiment, aware that he sounds as bewildered as he feels. 

“Well,” Robin says, aiming for casual, but quickly interrupted by a wheeze and a cough that’s almost adorable. “Let them try.” 

Eddie huffs, a pale little smile lingering on his lips as he leans back against the stairs behind him, resting his weight on his forearm to watch her. There is something captivating about her. Eddie always wonders what it is, wants to study her forever. 

Maybe it’s only the lingering traces of Everything Steve Harrington that clings to her every breath, her every move, her every fucking cell, with how much he was a part of her and she of him. Maybe it’s their shared grief that has made Eddie fall a bit in love with her and with the way the moonlight catches in her hair and in the smoke wafting from her cigarette. 

But somehow he refuses to believe that all he loves about her is merely the memory of Steve. 

Robin, in turn, is kind enough to let him stare. Kind enough to let him find out what it is between them. If this friendship is more than a misguided projection of grief and mourning and trauma; more than co-dependence and the obsessive will to keep this one person in your life. This one person who understands. 

After a while of Robin just holding the cigarette between her fingers, becuase no matter how strong her will to self destruct, she never quite got it right with the smoking, Eddie snatches it back before it goes to waste completely. As if pulled in by a string attached to his hollowed out chest, Robin leans back and into him in one smooth motion. It’s too calculated, though, and Eddie can feel how much she sags once she doesn’t have to hold herself up anymore. 

He’ll hold her. It’s fine. She gets to rest if she wants to. God knows she needs it. 

The night is warm for mid-September, but still Robin shakes against him. Eddie holds her closer. 

Silence settles over them, and it’s not an easy one. Silence is never easy anymore, especially with them. He feels so deeply hollow that even the silence echoes in there, creating an ever-present, uncomfortable thrumming of apprehension and anxiety within him. A certain sense of doom, one that can’t quite decide if it’s only an echo itself. 

“I wanna stop time,” Robin says at last, the cigarette long dead between Eddie’s fingers, but he somehow can’t bring himself to flick it away. “I don’t want tomorrow.” 

I don’t ever want a new day. I don’t ever want another tomorrow. I just want Steve. 

They ring in his head still, another echo that only hollows him out further every time it reaches him — Robin, overcome with hysterical grief, screaming and crying, curled up on that hospital floor, her cries quieting down and making Eddie wish she would be loud again, because the quiet was what killed him. The quiet, the whispered words, the declarations that tomorrow could go fuck itself if it came without Steve made him wish, irrationally, desperately, that their roles were reversed. That he could have died and Steve could have lived, and Robin would never have to wish tomorrow never came. 

He’s not entirely sure if she remembers the words, too. If she even said them in this world. 

So he takes a deep breath, breathes away memories and non-histories, feels the heavy weight of his guitar pick hanging around his neck, resting on the scarred flesh of his chest, and tries not to think of the one string left on his acoustic guitar. Tries not to think of his one last attempt. One last try. 

“I know,” he tells her. “Me neither.” 

He peers over her head, lifting his left wrist to check his watch. Ten minutes until midnight. Ten minutes until Steve’s birthday. 

“It’s not tomorrow yet,” he tries lamely, and Robin huffs — the sound wet and bitter and hopeless, making Eddie’s eyes sting. 

“It’s always fucking tomorrow,” she rasps, her voice flat and wavering, and Eddie knows her well enough to know she’s about to cry. And she knows him well enough to do it. 

“I know,” he says again, and reaches for his necklace through his shirt. One more attempt. One more try. One more chance. His eyes burn. 

She turns to him after taking a moment to compose herself, peering up at him through her lashes. 

“Tell me again?” 

His heart falls, the tense apprehension vanishing from the air, bur quickly replaced by something a lot more heavy. Something that looks and smells and feels like grief. 

They both know he’ll do anything she asks. He can’t really bear saying not to her. And not about this, anyway — she’s the only one who knows. 

She’s the one who should have had the chance. 

“Which part?” he asks, holding a new cigarette out for her to light it. She does, and the both follow the flame of the lighter Robin always keeps in her pocket these days. 

She leans forward and takes a drag. Eddie lets her. 

“All of them.“

Eddie sighs, pain welling up inside him, and he closes his eyes against the night sky. “Robbie,” he pleads, but he doesn’t finish his plea. He’ll do it. He’ll do anything she asks. 

But before he starts recounting the tales of how he almost saved Steve Harrington, he finds himself saying something he never thought he’d tell her. 

“There’s one more.” The words hang in the air, and Robin doesn’t react. Has no idea what’s coming; what he’s about to tell her. The guitar pick is heavy on the necklace around his throat. “There’s one more try. One more chance. I’m… I have one more—“ 

He can’t even finish the sentence. Can’t bring himself to say it, lest it all be jinxed forever. He doesn’t want to hope. Wants to carry this weight for all eternity and never think about all those times he failed to save someone he was never meant to save at all. People like Eddie, they’re not made to save anyone. Hell, they can’t even save themselves. 

Steve was supposed to be the one doing the saving. 

And he did. God, he fucking did. But he was never supposed to— 

Cold fingers wrap around his own as Robin fits their hands together. 

“I hate you a little bit for telling me.” 

Eddie nods, trying to focus on the cold hand and the nicotine in his lungs, trying not to let panic and grief and guilt and the heavy weight of one more chance win. “I know.” 

“Hey, Eddie?” Robin says after a while, the silence stretching on, and it’s almost midnight now. “Can you— Would you do something for me?” 

He turns his head, flicking the butt of his cigarette out into the darkness beyond them. “What’s that?” 

“Don’t— Don’t try to, to save him. Don’t— Just… Just maybe, could you celebrate his birthday with him? Make sure he knows he’s… God, make sure he knows he’s loved? Last year, no one really made time on his birthday and we just moved it backwards but God, could you— It’s almost midnight, and—“ 

“Robbie,” Eddie interrupts her, his voice hoarse and wavering, his eyes burning with tears as he tugs her close and holds her to his chest. “You should go. Don’t you wanna…” 

But she’s shaking her head against him with a vehemence that can hardly be misunderstood. 

“No,” she cries, and it’s more of a sob than anything. “I think if I ever saw him again, I’d… I don’t know what I’d do. Burn the whole fucking world to the ground for him or some shit, I can’t— I’d probably just cry all the time and that wouldn’t be helpful, really.” There’s a weak, wet laugh that bubbles out of both of them, and Eddie’s wiping at Robin’s face, drying the tears and making way for new ones to fall. 

“I’d light a fire for you,” Eddie says, the same weak smile on his lips that Robin meets him with now. “Nineteen fucking fires, you hear me?” 

She laughs again, then buries her face in his neck in a way that never quite fit. In a way that Eddie always knew was supposed to be someone else’s neck. 

But he’s not here anymore. And Eddie can’t get him back. No matter how much he aches for it, no matter how much he learned over and over and over again how easy it is to love Steve Harrington and how hard, how fucking impossible it is to lose him. Over and over and over again. 

And to live without him. This one fucking time they all get. It’s not fair. 

And now Robin is asking him to go back one more time and make sure that Steve knows— That he knows. 

Somehow the thought of that feels nobler than any attempt to save him, to bring him back; to rewrite history from a lonely boy’s perspective and hope that no one else is reading along. 

It feels right, too. Fundamentally and suddenly, and with such an intensity that Eddie knows the decision has been made the second he started telling her. 

Still he hesitates. Robin’s sobs have calmed down, and Eddie’s hand finds its way into her hair. 

“Do you really mean it?” 

She nods.

He nods, too, but slower. Like he’s trying to sway himself. Which way, he doesn’t know. 

“Make him happy.” 

“Okay,” he decides after a while, feeling hollow and desperate, but feeling purpose burning underneath his skin again. “One last time.” 

He unwinds his arms from around her and heads inside to grab his acoustic guitar. The last remaining string, badly untuned because he never dared to touch it, stares back at him in both mockery and invitation. A dare. A chance. A promise. 

Outside, Robin is waiting for him, looking anxious. Eddie wants to hug her. He doesn’t, only tightens his grip around the guitar’s neck. 

“Listen, Eddie, if this is goodbye or something—“ 

“It’s a birthday party, Robsie,” he interrupts her, aiming for light, aiming for brave. “I’m coming back right here.” 

“I know,” she rushes to say, taking a step toward him and wringing her hands. It’s endearing. It’s genuine. Eddie really is a little in love with her. “But, y’know, you don’t mess with time, and I don’t know what all you already changed before and I don’t wanna know but… If this is goodbye, if something happens, I just wanna tell you that I’m gonna miss you. And that I think you’re really cool. And that Steve’s— he’s really missing out, okay. Okay?” 

Eddie breathes, taking in her words and letting them soak into his body, his every last fibre. 

“Okay,” he smiles. “Thank you. You’re… I’m kind of in love with you, Robin Buckley. So there had better be no change in the universe, ‘cause that would really suck.” 

They smile at each other, Eddie with his guitar and Robin with her lighter, and somehow this feels like a deja-vu. The antithesis to a moment forever burned into his memory.

Make him pay. 

Make him happy. 

Eddie tugs on his necklace and plays the string before he can think about it too hard; before he can decide otherwise. 

Distantly, he hears the church bells announcing midnight as the world around him fades. 

🤍 permanent tag list gang: @skiddit @inklessletter @aringofsalt @hellion-child @cryptic-cryptid @hotluncheddie @gutterflower77 @auroraplume @steddieonbigboy @n0-1-important @stevesjockstrap @puppy-steve @izzy2210 @itsall-taken @mangoinacan13 @madigoround @pukner @i-amthepizzaman @swimmingbirdrunningrock @hammity-hammer @stevesbipanic @bitchysunflower @estrellami-1 @goodolefashionedloverboi @awkwardgravity1 @devondespresso @bookworm0690 (lmk if you want on or off, for this story or permanently)

[mettywiththenotes]

Ngl Mic's reaction is giving me Nana vibes. The whole grief of their situations being brought up and wanting so desperately for it to end already, to choose the easy way out just so it stops hurting

Nana going from crying because Izuku wanted to save Tomura and feeling grateful to then shouting at Izuku to kill him already. Mic going from "if you aren't Shirakumo fade away but if you are come back to us" to then grabbing Kurogiri by his clothes ready to punch him and yelling about how he shouldn't have given him the benefit of the doubt

I think it's also shown in the way Mic lists things that dehumanise Kurogiri too. "He's not crying, it's just the rain" "he has no tear ducts, he's a noumu" It's so clear he wants this to be over already

Same thing happened with Nana and Tomura. The vestiges too. They kept saying how he is destruction incarnate, how it's too late for him, how he's a "thing" "not human", just like Tomura said himself

Mic and Nana just let themselves think that way because it's the easy way out. They put a lid on their feelings, and in the final war arc it's like the lids got ripped off and it's all coming out now

That's why I think Aizawa and Izuku sort of parallel here. They wonder about their supposed enemies. "Why didn't he get rid of us? Why didn't he kill us when he could have?" Aizawa asks, physically reaching out to Kurogiri. "I have to ask why he can't let go of that sad lonely past of his!" Izuku says, also attempting to reach out to Tomura in his own way

"That's where their origins lie" Aizawa says as he thinks back to those school days. And Izuku was in Tomura's mind, literally at the center of his "origin"

Even though it's painful for Nana, Tomura and Mic, Aizawa and Izuku press on anyway because they can't help but wonder whether things can change. If things don't have to be this way

[puhpandas]

I think the reason beckory works well is that tony has a habit of getting self righteous and in his own head about things but Gregory isnt afraid to tell him off or call him out about things. the point of tony in ggy is that nobody ever told him that how hes treating other people isnt good, so that's why he got so bad. but tony would be close to Gregory and have every rational reason in the world to listen to Gregory so when he would say something like "you're treating ellis badly and that's not what a good friend does, you need to do better" hed actually listen and take it into account and improve himself

[canarydarity]

and not to post more snippets of random au's in my google docs but

this is from a fun project i call "moon big but waht if jimmy was there"

[dead-salmon]

this is me ranting about season's of blossom/hamin's flower, so TW SUICIDE, but anyways i don't know what's worse:

->hamin sacrificing his freedom so that jaemin could live freely, yet that freedom making jaemin feel like he's suffocating years down the line

-> somang's speech on how it's because of everyone that hamin killed himself, yet how it's none of their faults, especially not hamin's own

-> them using the phrase "disappeared from this world" to describe his suicide, not outright saying he killed himself

-> the theme of radiance. hamin feeling like somang was the radiant one and he was drenched in darkness, thus trying to distance himself from her. yet somang describing the summer with hamin her most radiant time, only because of his presence in her life, because he shined the brightest to her

-> jaemin who loved the rain because good things always happen to him then just for hamin to kill himself on a day where it rained non-stop. hamin who hated the rain but learnt to love it compared to jaemin who loved it but now dislikes it

-> hamin's suicide indirectly preventing gaeul's and dongchae's attempts. somang being unknowingly destined to lose a loved one either way

-> jaemin's parents not knowing how to handle hamin's suicide, his mother depending on him to be happy and his father being distant and too lax on everything. driving him further into his own abyss. hamin having sacrificed his happiness and acting too grown up for his age to protect jaemin from their parents strictness. jaemin ending up doing the same for his mother, faking a smile and comforting her about the pain of hamin's suicide

-> hamin not having heard the latter part of jaemin telling seonhui that while he resents hamin a little, he still loves hamin most of all. hamin having died thinking jaemin hates him, somang's last words to him calling him a coward

-> jaemin being lowkey passively suicidal and even trying a form of self-harm to understand hamin and deal with the pain of losing hamin

-> the fact that we start hamin's story already knowing how it ends

[icewindandboringhorror]

examining a seemingly normal image only to slowly realize the clear signs of AI generated art.... i know what you are... you cannot hide your true nature from me... go back where you came from... out of my sight with haste, wretched and vile husk

[ducktracy]

what a fantastic transition

[b00m-b0mb]

What would I call SK/Joe/Samurai...

Punch Kick Slice?

(But is that too close to PKT?)

[darewolfcreates]

Arson and Dare are ready for the final fest.

I miss camping and I've never gone to a festival.

[ohtendril]

two of you. always in sync

[thedreamerstoryteller]

[fantastic-mr-corvid]

i wanna die with you, wendy, on the streets tonight, in an everlasting kiss

Celia/Elena, and the moments around the moment that changed their whole lives. for ockiss<3 even if it takes over a thousand words to get there

In the aftermath of conflict, Celia and her friends, feeling down and hollow, collect their 'reward' for coming out on top- a meeting with Capo Polpo.

But that's for their new leader to worry about, Celia's thoughts are all wrapped up in Elena, as they escort their leader to the meeting, and afterwards the Capos strange gift leads to her getting her selfish wish and kissing Elena, but only because she doesn't know if they will survive the mysterious blow dealt to both of them.

Their friends Tesoro and Conficcare find both of them wrapped in a bloody embrace, just streets from their home, and as Celia wakes, she is reminded of the love and joy her life holds, despite the hollowness she feels.

posted on ao3 as well as its just over 2k words. warning for minor character death, graphic depictions of violence, and a near death experience.

-

Their refuge of peace was fraught with anxiety, exhaustion in every line of the bodies lying on various surfaces. 

Part of the anxiety was undeniably the fact that Sovrano was intruding on their space, laying claim to what had always been their place- but he was good at that, taking over what was theirs with an unspoken promise of violence.

Victory had never felt so bitter-sweet, aching bodies and eyes staring into the recent past, even the satisfaction of winning was hollow. 

Yet Sovrano was waiting for something, anticipating action- despite the bandages and stitches, and there had been so much blood, and someone else had managed to knife him, in that last desperate attempt, but missed killing him by a few centimetres.

Celia didn't know if she was glad it missed or not. She was already the de facto leader of their little sub-group, and despite the leers, she would be the one to step up when Sovrano was taken out of the game- Hell she had stepped up as he was taken care of in that clinic.

Mama, look at your darling daughter now, so bloody and violent, a leader of men. Do you weep, up in heaven, your spirit looking down at she who once was your darling child, hands now soaked in blood? 

By all rights, Elena should be the next in line, but this scholarship- well, she's been slowly retreating from them, preferring to study and linger in what passed for a studio in school, than hang out in parks and bars and wherever they chose to linger at night, drifting through the stone jungle they called home.

A dial tone interrupted her thoughts, distracting her from the dawning fear and hollow heart that were now so common when she thought about Elena, and their future.

Sovrano jumped to get it, fear in his eyes, trying to collect himself as he hobbled to the landline.

“Signor?”

Blue, green, brown and finally her own unsettling gold eyes all stared at him and the receiver he held to his ear. The lingering headache ringing in her head mangled the words he replied, as her mind slogged to try and think who it could be, who he would speak to with that level of respect.

Still, despite her struggle, his last words caused a burst of clarity to cut through the lingering pain. But in turn, that space was soon filled by fear.

“It would be my honour to meet with Capo Polpo”

The click of plastic on plastic felt like a gunshot echoing through the room, the roar inside Celia's head sounding eerily reminiscent of engines.

“Muro, Spina. You're with me, given how you both came out the best off.”

Everyone can hear the aborted statement about people hesitating to hit a woman, or some lewd joke about tits distracting the Capo. Sovrano may see himself as a man's man, but even he has to alter his language now the dust has settled and those ‘bitches’ are what got them standing above the rest.

The wall and the thorn. Celia was growing to fit her new name, and Elena was always sharp, but these past few weeks made her edge razor thin, and even deadlier. The masculine noun felt right on her, although it felt strange to be the wall, instead of being told she was stubbornly smashing her head against one. Elena loved telling her that, or mocking her name by calling her Cecità, blind. 

Elena has already got up, donning her leather jacket and checking the placement of her knives, all in the time Celia was musing on names. She stood up to do the same, patting down her trench coat and checking the internal sheaths were all easy to access. Both their new jackets having been recently repurposed and retrofitted to be walking armories, after their beloved previous ones took hit after hit until they were nothing but strips of leather and cloth. She mourned their well loved clothes, the new ones still being broken in and altered to suit them both.

Confident she wouldn't slice open her coat- or herself- unsheathing a knife, she ventured for the stairs, towards her steel toe capped boots, and the mysterious meeting with the capo.

-

The concrete walls of the gilded cage the Capo holds court from are cool to lean on, the two armed youths having not even entertained the possibility of being taken through, even with all the bribes that line the guards pockets. Celia doesn't mind, hating the unnecessarily complicated mind games of the older made men, preferring the clarity of necessity that colours the fights and battles of the street gangs. 

She doesn't mind letting the cold seep into her through her coat, Elena right next to her and gazing out at the city skyline, doesn't mind it at all.

And if her eyes linger on the person beside her, on the folds of leather, on the hands still splattered with paint, on her eyes and face and lips, then that's her secret. Elena too distracted to notice her lingering gaze, hands twitching like she wants to reach for a paint brush, as her eyes stare into the distance, mind whirring with composition and colour. 

She's an artist to the bone, got creation on her soul, and one day, Celia prays, Elena will have the time and money to put to canvas every painting she ever dreamed of making, even the ones she's daydreaming of now, when it's just half formed thoughts to distract herself while waiting.

-

Sovrano walked out- and they fell in behind him- cupping a lighter of all things. They walked in silence, meandering back towards their home streets, his face screwed up in concentration, having said nothing other than that he cannot let the lighter go out, and there are good things in store for them.

Almost home, they turned into a plaza, but Sovranos hands were getting lazy, and the wind whistling through an alleyway took them off guard, and as the flickering light died out, fear and panic rose on his face, as he looked around then scrambled to re-light it.

Celia shook her head at the strange ritual, turning away from checking in on him due to his sudden movements, when the smack of flesh on stone altered her to his fall-

Blood, again, bright red soaking flagstones instead of grass, but this time, there is no coming back for their leader. 

Bullet? But the blood- like a stab, not gunshot. No weapon in sight, no perpetrator- sniper?

Cold, a prick at her back, just between her shoulder blades, then white hot pain, her brain screaming, and all she can think about is Elena. Elena who has a chance at a future, who has a chance to get her and her family off of these bloodsoaked streets, and before she knows it, her muscles move, instinct propelling her, knocking Elena to the ground, hand cradling the back of her neck to lessen the fall, arm clutching hers, too tight, but the pain, bright and unyielding, blinds her.

Her nose hits something soft, a cheek and her lips are about to- and if shes at the angle she thinks shes at- our mother in heaven let her be selfish just this once- and both their lips are dry and cracked- and let her have this, let this be her last moments, kissing the person she loves as she cradles her, lying on blood splattered flagstones, warm underneath them both from the hot sun.

Let her be selfish again, and open her eyes, let her memorise Elena's face, again, let it be what she sees-

The warmth under them both is wet and the hole through her extends to her love, and she feels her body slipping out from under her, panic overrides the pain as she sees the hole placed just between Elena's collar bones- and no she didn't- no- not her. Something in her throat building up, a scream, but all that comes out is blood, as flickering darkness descends, and her body gives out from under her, and for a split second she swears she can see herself, blood streaming down her back, both their lips stained, just like the stone below, wrapped in a pathetic embrace.

-

She wakes up like that, sprawled on the stone, blood turned brown and flaking at the touch. Something brushes against her shoulder blades, A freckled hand reaches towards her, and there's a split second where she hunches over Elena further, before she connects the hand to Tesoro, and relaxes, turning her face towards him, eyes blinking in the dim evening light.

Another hand, slimmer and presumably the source of the touch that woke her, cups her head, and Tesoro pushes on her shoulder, rolls her over onto her back, leaving Elena unprotected. 

Cool fingers massage her temples, and coax her eyes into focusing on the blue ones staring into hers, above them, brows knitted in concentration. One hand reaches towards the cool skin on her chest, where the frayed and torn edges of the hole in her shirt brush against her skin, outlining the exposed flesh. A gasp she later realises is her own sounds out as fingertips brush against scar tissue, where only hours ago, there was a gaping wound.

Clumsy movements drag her arm towards Conficcares, pulling on it it like a petulant child, the pushing it towards Elena, trying to convey what her throat won't let her, to help Elena over her, help the one of them with a future, the one who shouldn't be lying wounded on these bloodsoaked streets. the one who has a chance to escape.

Tesoro breaks the silence, from where he is leaning over Elena, with confused murmuring to Conficcare, “It's the same, these scars are fresh, but-” he shakes his head in frustration- “they didn't have these when the went out-” his head turns to Conficcare, eyes weighing on him, silently asking the groups medic if these were past wounds, hidden from the rest of them.

He shakes his head solemnly in answer, “There should be no way for them to have healed in a few hours.”

Celia tries to open her mouth, but no words come out, the poor things getting stuck on the raw edges of her throat. She just gapes like an air-drowning fish, before squeezing her eyes shut at the effort.

Pity shines in green and blue eyes, and behind the shield of her eyelids, it weighs heavy on her chest. The silence weighs heavier, she can almost hear the exchange between the two, concern and questions flying over her head. She can almost hear Tesoro constructing the perfect comforting words, weaving them together, reassurances and certainty and love and-

-and Conficcare beats him to the bullet and breaks the silence.

“You really must be out of it, if you're aren't threatening comical acts of violence upon me for feeling up your chest,” 

It sounds forced, even to her, and Tesoro sighs, ready to reprimand their ill-tongued friend, when finally her throat lets something out, and her eyes open in shock as giggles bubble out of her mouth. 

Conficcare grins at her, and Tesoros head is in his hands as he gives into laughter too-

A voice next to her bites out, “Idiota” any malice blunted by the fondness that underlies every syllable.

And Celia turn her head towards her sun and grins too, wide and full of love, giggles turning to cackles, Tesoros shoulders shaking alongside his head, as he lowers his arms and reveals his own grin, and finally Elena cracks to, rolling her eyes as the twitch at the corner of her mouth turns into a smile, lovingly frustrated, but then her eyes glint maliciously and she opens her mouth again-

“Please, you kiss worse when you are trying to be romantic than Celia over here did when she was actively bleeding out.”

The smug look is wiped off Conficcares face as he processes what Elena just said, and Celia is certain what blood remains in her is all in her cheeks and she burns with embarrassment.

Conficcare finds his words quickly, turning his kicked dog eyes onto Tesoro and pleading “I'm a good kisser- aren't I, Tesoro?”

Tesoro joins her and Elena on the floor as he gasps for breath, Conficcare pouting at him, at them all, as if to protest against the mockery he was suffering.

Celia is warm now, laughter and love filling her back up, anchoring her again to this world, fondness for life soaking back into her bones. She loves these idiotas, every fucking one of them.

“Love you too, idiota, but watch who your calling stupid, my stubborn Muro”

Ignore that, Celia is crawling under the nearest rock and dying. 

…She's still grinning though.

And not even the pressing weight of consequences, not the cooling corpse of someone she's known since she was eleven, nor the mysteries of how exactly they were hurt and healed can douse the warmth in her heart.

[lavenderyulu]

Steven’s out-of-context bluntness vs Alain’s 2 hours of sleep (and lack of comprehension skills he usually has with Steven)

oh right and timeskip