#did I make things easier on myself by drawing this with a dying brush pen?

[hsw3k]

Accurately Draw Leigh Whannell's Jawline Challenge (difficulty level: impossible).

[gold-from-straw]

Divergence - ch10

I've been planning to add the second half of this chapter for a long time (only just managed it now, hence the late upload lol! it's still officially Friday where I am!) But a conversation with @interplanetarygirl really helped to get me into Francis' mindset for the realisation he has (similar to Charles' realisation about his own past a couple of chapters ago) so THANK YOU!! 

Read from the beginning on Ao3 if you like!

“Good!” said Erik. “Twenty more.”

Francis slumped, breathless, and Erik tugged him up sharply by the eyelets on his boxing gloves. “You need stamina,” Erik said. His voice was sharp and hard, but Francis could feel the steady hum of affection underneath that made Francis feel safe, the way he never had even with the honeyed words of Father’s friends and colleagues.

He was also devastatingly attractive for an older man. Francis set his teeth and threw punch after punch at the bag until it swayed and jerked.

“Well done,” Erik said, when he’d counted down from twenty. He beckoned and started unlacing Francis’ gloves. “Flex your hands. Fine. Looks good. Go and have a shower and tell me if they start hurting or anything - you want to get stronger, not damage yourself. Tomorrow we’ll do some more on reactions and sparring.”

The sense of satisfaction and pride from Erik that Francis was basking in suddenly flared into something almost overwhelming, bone-deep and infinite, when Erik looked past Francis to the doorway. There was nothing more than a faint smile to betray the love pouring off him.

“Charles,” said Erik. “Finally decided to take me up on my offer of training, have you?”

Charles smiled. “Only if you’re prepared to be beaten at your own game.”

Erik laughed and threw Francis’ gloves at Charles and walked towards him. Francis was all but forgotten as Erik started to lace Charles up.

Charles had much better shields than Erik, of course. But even so, as Erik brushed his thumbs over Charles’ wrist, Francis caught the blast of emotion from Charles, a flash of intense love, a connection that bound the two men together.

Francis turned away, half envious, half embarrassed. He wondered, for the first time, about the Erik Lehnsherr back in his own universe, whether it was possibly for someone to love him as much as this Erik and Charles loved each other.

He was lost in thought on the walk back, so almost didn’t notice Arthur. “Hi, Francis,” he said quietly.

Francis jumped and blinked at his younger self, sitting like a pixie on a stone window seat. “Hi,” he said cautiously. “Are you OK?”

Arthur nodded, his chin still pressed against his knees.

Francis licked his lips. He had no idea how to deal with children, but he could feel the vague, cautious tendrils leaking out from the little boy. “Did Charles block your telepathy off?” he asked.

Arthur nodded. “He’s been teaching me how to build my shields myself, but I’m not good enough to do it on my own yet.” He looked down, twisting his lips.

“Well, that’s OK,” Francis said quickly. He had a sudden vivid memory of sitting outside his father’s room for hours, kicking his heels and singing quietly, hoping for even the smallest scrap of attention. “Hey… I’ve got to have a shower, but do you want to do some drawing afterwards, or something?”

“Really?” said Arthur, hope sparkling through his emotions.

“Sure,” Francis smiled. “Come on, you can wait in my room until I’m ready.”

Arthur scrambled down from his perch and practically skipped along beside Francis. He smiled down at him, amused and suddenly quite aware that he was feeling the same warmth he got when Raven asked him a question, or followed him, or flopped onto the seat next to him and snuggled up.

Raven, he thought, the warmth fading. What would she be doing right now? What would she do without him there?

Not that Raven couldn’t take care of herself – she’d been doing so for years before he met her, but she shouldn’t have to! That was the point! Francis loved looking after her… if he was honest with himself, it gave him purpose, and now…

He glanced down at Arthur, who smiled up at him, open and hopeful and still trusting. That trust hadn’t quite been beaten out of him yet.

But it wouldn’t be this time, would it? He was surrounded by people who actually cared about him, and who wanted to look after him.

He closed the bathroom door behind him, leaving Arthur in his room, and poked at the fading bruises on his ribs. All these people… they wanted to look after Francis, too, he could tell even without reading their minds. But it didn’t feel right when he imagined himself coddled and cared for and protected – that was his job. He was the protector. He was the one who took the punches and worked out how to hide Raven’s mutation and what lies to tell to people who asked too many questions or pushed himself to get the data his father had wanted.

He wasn’t a kid any more, after all, not like Arthur.

But then… he wasn’t an adult either, not like Charles.

He showered quickly, trying not to think of Raven and the life he’d left behind. Did he want to go back there, getting punched every time he moved wrong, every time he said something annoying? Of course not! But… wasn’t it the right thing to do?

He didn’t have the answer by the time he came out of the steaming bathroom, drying his hair roughly on a towel. Arthur was sitting on the very edge of his bed, completely still and formal, and Francis stopped, his throat suddenly aching. He remembered doing the same in his mother’s room, hoping that maybe this time he’d be good enough and neat enough and perfect and well-behaved enough to gain her affection – even just her attention.

He pushed it away, folded it up in a box like those he’d glimpsed from time to time in Erik’s mind. Put it aside and didn’t let himself think too hard as he walked over to Arthur and ruffled his hair. “What do you want to draw first, then?”

Arthur’s face split into a brilliant smile. “I’ve been thinking about that! I want to draw everyone. I want to draw you and me and Charles first, and then Erik and Moira and Alex. And Sean and me together making tacos! And Raven and Hank and then maybe I’ll draw another picture of Alex shooting those lights out of his chest and you fighting with Erik.”

He sucked in a breath suddenly, as if he’d forgotten that was a thing a person has to do in between sentences, and Francis laughed. “Well, we’d better get busy then, hadn’t we? I’m afraid I don’t have any colours, but there’s plenty of paper in a drawer over here, and pens and pencils too. Why don’t you get started while I get dressed?”

Arthur nodded and slipped off the bed, finding his supplies and kneeling on the chair to get a good view of his paper as he bent over it and started to draw big circle heads. Francis took his pieces of paper over to the window seat and crossed his legs, propping the paper on a textbook he’d found gathering dust under the bed.

“Francis,” said Arthur, still looking at his drawing. “Do you remember being me?”

Francis put his doodle to one side and leaned back. “Yes, I suppose. Some parts of it more than others, of course, but yes.”

“So I’m really going to turn into you?”

Francis considered this for a moment. “Partly? But remember you’re in a different world now. You’ll grow up differently – our timelines have diverged, I suppose.”

Arthur bit his lip and hesitated, then put his pen down. He still didn’t look at Francis. “Can you tell me…”

Francis waited a moment, but Arthur seemed to be struggling for words. “What’s on your mind?” he asked. “Would you like me to look?”

He slumped slightly and nodded. “Yes please.”

Francis lifted his fingertips to his temple and slipped into Arthur’s thoughts much easier than any other mind he’d ever been into. It was still like flowing downstream, like two water droplets merging, though now he had to move a little more deliberately, take a certain path, since Charles had built walls around him to block out noise.

He saw himself in Arthur’s mind, his eye swollen shut like it had been the day they both arrived, and arranged around him in every direction was every fear Arthur had about it, ever possible way he thought Francis had misbehaved to earn the punch.

“You want to avoid being hurt,” Francis said, and swallowed hard.

Arthur nodded and bit his lip. “Please?”

He laughed dryly. “I’m not very good at it, as you can tell.” Arthur’s face dropped, and Francis frowned, hurrying to reassure him. “But I’m sure you’ll be fine here – none of them seem the type to hit a child.”

“Yes, but I’ll be grown up soon, and then if I do something wrong they might hit me too. What did you do to get hit?”

Francis thought back and tried to stop himself flinching from the memories. “This time… I can’t quite… oh yes! I’d worn a hole in one of my shoes, that was it.”

Arthur cocked his head. “Don’t you have much money anymore?”

“No, it’s not like that, it’s… well, Kurt Marko – he’s the man who married Mother after Father died – he’s…” A bastard. “He doesn’t like spending money on me. He says I waste it.” He snorted to himself. He knew very well what Marko thought good use of the money would be. He also knew how frustrated he was that Francis’ mother wasn’t hurrying up and dying of liver failure from all the drinking. Francis stared out of the window, his mood darkening.

“So… I shouldn’t ask for things, and then I’ll be safe?”

Francis frowned and turned back to Arthur, swinging his feet down off the seat and leaning forward. “No, that’s not…”

He had a thought in that moment, a mental image of Kurt grabbing Arthur and throwing him into the wall. Only it wasn’t just a thought, it was a memory. Francis had only been eight, still grieving his father, still hoping that this new man in his life would care for him in some way, and Kurt had picked him up by his arm and thrown him. He couldn't even remember why.

Francis saw that happening to Arthur.

“Listen,” he said, holding Arthur’s gaze very seriously. “Anyone who hits you is wrong and bad. They don’t do it for any good reason, there’s nothing you can do or change about yourself that will keep you safe because it’s not your fault, you hear? It’s them. It’s anyone who wants to hurt you.”

“But…”

“You’ve got to let Charles take care of you. And Erik, and Sean and… probably everyone in this house, I think. But you have to hold onto that, Arthur. Anyone who hurts you is doing something very bad.”

Arthur nodded his head, uncertainty clear in his mind and his body language. Francis sighed and walked over to him, holding out his arms for a hug. Arthur snuggled in, his head just up to Francis’ ribs.

He’d been that small once. He’d wondered what he’d done wrong, and it had never been him at all.

For the first time, Francis considered going back to his own universe angry.

Tagging everyone who interacted with the last chapter! (also the permanent tag list of @insertmeaningfulusername, @mathmusicreading and @kungpao-giffy!) @vivavelle, @gerec, @kernezelda, @xcziel, @thechaoticwave, @paramecie, @goneadrift, @hufflehappenings, @kyotoagnes, @these-maginot-lines, @lyricfulloflight, @librodice, @unspokenhatred, @fullmetalcarer, @fxngsfogxarty (I’m sorry I didn’t reply to your message!! Thank you so much!!), @bugy-boo, @tteabea, @mnemo-ink, @deathzpells, @azulso, @dorianpink, @rainbow-door, @ketchavies-thoorrrr666, @kaeden4, @mykarush, @auri-moon, @thepaintingsafake, @ikeracity, @youurelovely, @pahisluuseri, @iwillshipyouman, @pumpkinspicedshane, @i-have-drowned-in-books

[novel-aworldapart]

The Painter

My name is Nathaniel, last name of unimportance, or at least now it feels that way. My wife Abigail, or as I like to call her – Abby, was very sick, she was ill for quite some time, and the clock was ticking faster than we could have imagined. She had stage four ovarian cancer, and the doctor gave her three years to live, well, she only made it through the first...

Abby always experienced very severe pains and cramps but refused to see a doctor for such a long time. The straw that broke the camel’s back was some time last year in October that led through November.

Abby sat upright at her desk, scribbling away feverishly with her eyebrows knitted so tightly together I thought they might tie around another. It didn't take her long to lose her fire and put her red pen down with an exasperated sigh, "I hate kids…"

I, of course, chuckled, "Is that why you wanted to be a teacher?"

She whipped back so ferociously in her chair that the legs creaked angrily. "Haha," she said sarcastically then let her shoulders slump. "I just don't know what to do for these guys anymore, I stand there for about an hour every day, and it feels like they're staring through me, y'know?"

I nodded, teaching is her dream, but the reality of it is a little more crushing than she bargained for – or maybe it's just the kids that she's teaching this semester? Of course, if I offer up that it's the kids and not her, she'll bat away the idea, even though she just said they're not paying attention. She gets so defensive over these kids.

It doesn't take me long to pull her out of her stupor, she's soon in my arms and giggling like a mad-man, or mad-woman would be the better way to put it. She starts laughing so hard that the next words that spill from her lips have a thick Irish draw, ah, I love it when she reverts.

The smile I have is big and "dopey" as she has described it to me a thousand and one times, honestly, it is, but she loves it. Find yourself someone who loves that about you.

"Nate," she kind of whines with her arms crossed over her chest as I cradle her tightly against my own.

The smile wipes off my face, and I become stone-cold serious, every muscle in my face so tight that I might pop a blood vessel. Of course, I am doing this just to make her laugh again, but now, I really might pop a blood vessel!

She puts a hand on my cheek, and I let the tough guy act drop immediately, allowing myself to cave into the small and slightly calloused hand.

"I love you," she leans in to kiss, not my lips, but my forehead so gently that I want to cry. I try to go in for a kiss, but her hand covers my mouth swiftly. "Patience, I have to grade the rest of these papers."

"Abby, it's Friday, you literally have all weekend!" I am saying this because I want to steal her away from her frustrations, even if it's just temporary.

She pulls away and heads back to her desk with a sway in her hips that I have trouble resisting. I knew as soon as she was back in her chair that I would have to entertain her later, she's all work and no play at the moment.

"I'm going to go finish that painting downstairs then," I tell her, leaving the room but not before I return the gentle kiss to her forehead that almost makes her pull me back.

I am somewhat of a painter, I use all sorts of mediums, but my absolute favorite is traditional oils. I've dabbled in the digital realm. Yet there is something about the smell of the paints and the scrape of my hand against the canvas that brings me back. Sure, I'd save much more money by going digital, but I guess in a way, I'm a snob who enjoys the experience of bringing my brush down against a thick paper and hearing that slightly gritty sound as the bristles spread.

The only thing this piece is missing is some highlights in the facial features to bring in the liveliness that I wake up to everyday. I could do a white for a highlight and blend it in or go for a mixture of white and something lighter than the base. I opt for white, not because it is easier, but because it will blend just about the same since the paint is still very fresh.

My hand moves, not with a swiftness, but a deft accuracy, as this is something that I have seen a thousand times – how could I miss any divine detail?

I just about finished when I hear Abby gasp slightly, I turn my head over my shoulder to see her shocked expression.

"I thought we said-"

 "I never agreed," I smiled as I wiped my paint-smeared hands on a nearby towel.

She never wanted me to paint her, but it is something that I have always wanted to do, and now I have. It was my desire to capture her essence as it stands now, and I have to say, this may be the most beautiful portrait I have ever done. Actually, it's the only, but still, I don't think anything I do from this point on could compare.

"It's beautiful." She stepped forward with her green eyes wide and mouth slightly parted.

"Just like you." I'll do anything to get a cheesy compliment in.

She stood in front of the painting, and it was like looking into a mirror.

"I-I don't know what to say, Nate, it's- "she stopped and turned to me with tears in her eyes, "it's the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me!" And with that, she wrapped her arms around my neck and pulled me in for a hug so tight that it felt like a blood vessel might pop again, but that's okay, this hug feels like everything I need right now.

In all of my time in knowing Abigail, I have never known her to cry, at least not like this. She cries when she gets hurt sometimes, but I've never seen – what are these? Happy tears?

"I'm glad you like it," I said with a smile that's caught by her lips. It doesn't take long for me to drown in her touch. A familiar warmth spreads through me, and I find it hard to control myself.

Her lips find my neck, I can say that grading papers is definitely on hold for the rest of the night, and she trails up from my collarbones then whispers in my ear, "take me upstairs."

I, being the gentleman that I am, pick her up and hurry to our bedroom. I lay her on the bed, start undressing, and then doing the same to her – but she stops me before I can take her slacks off. "Stop rushing!" She whined as she crossed her arms over her chest with a pout that made me want to kiss her all over.

"Sorry!" I say with a bit of embarrassment, I have a habit of doing that, "I'll take it slow."

 "Promise?" She asks me, her arms lowering.

I carefully get on top of her and place a kiss against her forehead like I did earlier, "I promise." With my hand, I brushed some hair out from her eyes and took in every ounce of beauty that I could.

I'll bring things up to speed because remembering that with such intense detail makes my heart crumble.

We got pregnant!

She forgot to take her pill that morning, explained to me that she was trying to avoid having sex because she remembered when she was grading papers that she forgot the pill, but when she saw the painting… Like she said before, it was the nicest thing anyone has ever done for her, and she just wanted to be close to me.

When she told me she was pregnant, which was a week after that night we shared, she told me like she was scared, because she was. She thought that I wouldn't want to have a kid because of our prior discussions, but it's not that I didn't want one, we just weren't financially ready for one yet, but I was too excited to even worry about that. I told her that we would make it work and that I would love to be a dad, because, well, I wanted to be one.

Frankly, I would have been the best damn dad ever.

It wasn't long before we found out that the pregnancy was ectopic. If you don't know what that means, I'll explain it. Basically, our potential child was growing outside of her uterus, which was causing some complications. I finally convinced her to go to a doctor, not just for herself, but the baby, because she was bleeding so irregularly and becoming sickly. We found out with that visit that she was ectopic and had cancer… and that she wasn't going to live long. The pregnancy had to be terminated because it was threatening her life and the cancer… well, it wouldn't be a hospitable environment for a child. 

For a while, I thought that my Abby might take her own life, but instead, she succumbed to severe cancer – refusing any treatment at the hospital. She was crying when she died. I found her. When I came in to give her some soup and hot tea, she wasn't moving… I had approached and saw the stains of tears on her cheeks, her eyes puffy and red from lack of sleep and profound sorrow.

My Abby, she had left this world so sad and bitter…

My Abby, what I would do to have you again…

And now I sit in front of this portrait of her. I caught her essence. Her smile is bright with her green eyes filled with light; her skin pale but warm at the same time. This is how I want to remember her. But… but I find that I can only see the negative. I compare the two. This Abby to the dying one, and I know, I know that sounds so horrible. But I can't help but compare the two, I love both, I always will, but I miss this one the most. I'd give anything to have her in health or in sickness, but I know she wasn't happy at the end. She needed to go so she wouldn’t suffer, but I wasn't ready to let her go, and I'm still not.

My eyes found my feet, I wonder if this is close to how she felt before she passed, so absolutely defeated.

Then I felt something, something so incredibly hard to describe, but I guess you could say it was a presence of some sort. I don't know why I feel it so suddenly, but it's here. I find myself staring at the painting again, it was different looking somehow, but I couldn't put my finger on it. It didn't take long for me to be standing in front of it, inspecting it.

There was a voice, it was quiet, but I could just faintly hear it enough to recognize it was trying to say something. I leaned my head against the painted portrait of my dead wife and could have sworn there was a heartbeat.

"Abigail?" I asked frantically, my hands on either side of the portrait on stretched canvas

I know, I know that there is no way that it could be her, that it could be anything. Maybe I'm just losing it, but if I could hear that voice of hers just one more time, maybe things would feel alright again.

But what was said next, in her voice, was something I didn't expect to hear. The voice was so cold and icy, but I know it was her, I know my wife's voice, "It's all your fault..."

I froze, the hair on the back of my neck standing as if in salute. "Abby…" I whispered in doubt. There was a silence that actually brought me relief for once, but it was brief.

"It's your fault I'm dead!" She yelled, and in all of my years of knowing her, she has never once yelled unless she stubbed her toe on the end table.

And all I could think was that this couldn't be my wife. This had to be a demon, it had to be something else. She would never yell at me. She would never go out of her way to make me feel bad. She was supportive, she was caring, she was loving, hell she supported me being an artist of all things! I don't want to think if there is an afterlife of any kind, that she would grow to hate me or blame me.

The canvas began to heat, and before I knew it, my hands were burning, I pushed myself back and accidentally tumbled into one of the shelves where old work was left to dry and knocked it to the ground.

I looked up at the portrait of my dead wife baffled, but I knew what had just happened was real. You want to know why? Because my hands are still blistered from the burns.

[pechtothevoid]

I make bad decisions lmao

I don't do just text talking and stuff, but idk, i wanted to vent a little. For the turtle fusions fanart (that right now are the only thing in my tumblr) i use a pen like brush for the lineart (i use paint tool sai 2 btw). I have used it sometimes in the past, to make sketch like stuff. And i thought "Hey, i haven't use this brush in a while!" AND NOW, I USED IT FOR ALL THE LINEART. AND MY FINGERS HURTS WHEN I DO LINEART. AND I WANT THEM ALL TO BE A SET, SO I DON'T WANT TO CHANGE IT But i just sketched Lonny with my LOVELY 'CRAYON' BRUSH (it isn't actually crayon, is a weird acrylic brush i made in the default crayon brush so the name just stuck) AND IT'S JUST TO MUCH EASIER. WHY I DID THIS TO MYSELF?! I WANT TO USE MY GO-TO BRUSH. MY FAV. BUT THEY WON'T LOOK LIKE A SET ANYMORE!!!! and i'm dying why i try to do something different, i'm already drawing buff turtles. That's enough "new" ANYWAY CHAU

[mystarsforanempire]

excerpt from BTJ that i kinda wanna put on here bc it’s loki in therapy (haha couldn’ta come sooner amirite) and talking abt how he sees his relationships w hogun, volstagg and fandral respectively

“I’ve always kept diaries,” Loki says. He sighs, dragging his palm over the blanket beneath him: it is made of cream-coloured wool, with a soft brown pattern dyed into it. “Since I can remember, I kept diaries of everything I felt, everything that happened to me. In my library, I have thousands of them – I tend to fill five or six a year. It was the only way to get things out. In Asgard—” Loki trails off, and then he stares down at his hands. “One does not discuss one’s innermost feelings. One ought merely be merry, and go about one’s life with drinking and song.”

“Nobody can be merry all the time,” Sven says quietly.

“No,” Loki agrees.

“Did you have many friends, on Asgard?” Loki hesitates. “I am not here to judge you. Anything you tell me will be held in confidence – think of me like a tool, a mechanism that will allow you to look at your life through a healthier lens.”

“You wish me to dehumanize you?”

“If it makes this easier.” Loki bites at his lower lip, dragging his fingers over his palms.

“Then— No. Growing up, I was alongside Thor. We were as close as brothers could be, utterly inseparable. But he was older than me, by some years: when he met the cusp of his adolescence, he was allowed permissions I was not. To travel more freely, to run alongside the Warriors Three, and Sif, his good friends. I was very solitary, as a child, when I was not in Thor’s presence. Later, of course, I would travel within their band.” Loki closes his eyes, and he imagines himself in the golden halls of Asgard’s palace, walking with silent step over the stone floors, quite alone. He would spend his waking hours in the library, or in his bedroom, and elsewise he would walk the gardens, putting his seiðr into breeding flowers or coaxing new fruits to life from the boughs of old trees. “And, and I became friendly with the keeper of Asgard’s orchards. Iðunn.” He hears the quiet scratch of Sven’s pen on a piece of paper. Writing down her name.

“That friendship did not last, I take it.”

“No,” Loki whispers. “I betrayed her. After that, we spoke not.”

“I see,” Sven says. “Tell me about these Warriors Three, then. Friends of Thor, you said?”

“Yes. The eldest, Volstagg. Volstagg the Lion, he calls himself, but most call him Volstagg the Fat, or Volstagg the Voluminous. He is very tall, with a thick beard of braided auburn hair, and he is large indeed… He is much older than Thor, with old age at his heels – in his youth, I am told, he was a most formidable warrior, but that is much changed, now. He has many children, and he’s a most devoted father.”

“You sound like you respect him.”

“I do,” Loki murmurs. “He’s an old coot, and he over-embellishes his own strengths, often telling stories that are more lie than truth, but… He is very kind, at his core, and very gentle. When I was as yet in my youth, he was sometimes reluctant to allow me to travel with them, if the journey was to be fraught with danger. That— Obviously, as I grew older, he saw me less as a child. And then Hogun. Hogun the Grim, he is called – he is of Vanaheim. When Asgard conquered Vanaheim, Hogun challenged Thor to a battle, one-on-one, and Thor beat him, but Hogun was undeterred. He wished to follow the fight, he said, and he agreed to be Thor’s shieldmate, that the two of them might fight together. He speaks very little, and we used to play chess, at times. He has an incredible mind – for all that he does not say, a thousand thoughts go on within his stony head. He believes in actions more than words.”

“You admire him?”

“Yes, I think so. It’s difficult not to.”

“And what did Hogun and Volstagg think of you?” Loki sighs, softly.

“Hogun despised me. He would be polite, outwardly, for I was the quietest of the six of us, and subsequently I was the easiest with which for him to stand beside for long periods, but— He was always first to distrust me, first to blame me for some trouble. He hated my way with words, my predilection for deception and strategy. And magic, magic he hated most of all.” The way Hogun had once looked at him, as if Loki was the most disgusting thing to crawl from the banks of the lakes of Asgard… “And Volstagg cared not for me either. Often he would call me a coward, or make fun of my feminine features, my lacking beard. There were a few years, where… I had married, and I had two sons, and in that time, he mocked me less. We bonded, some, over each being parents, where the rest of the band were childless, but when my sons were killed, he drew back. He wasn’t unkind about it, of course, but I think he knew that speaking on his children would upset me. Even with his sympathy for me, Volstagg never liked me.”

Doesn’t it sound pathetic, to lay things out like this? To tell this stranger, odd connection or not, all about how Loki’s compatriots despised him? Thought him weak, and womanly? He looks to Sven, but Sven is an expressionless as ever as he asks, “And the third of the Warriors Three?” Loki hesitates.

“Fandral,” he says. “The Dashing.”

“Dashing?” Sven repeats. “A ladies’ man, is he?” Loki nods his head. “And what do you think of him?”

“He is foppish: a dandy. Chivalrous, in his own mind. He cares more for the cut of his jerkin than he does for aught else. He has blond hair, flaxen, and a curling moustache… Bright blue eyes, soft skin. He is the smallest of the Warriors Three, built like me, but with narrower hips – and he’s barely a year or two older than I, closer in age to me even than Thor and Sif. He holds a rapier, and he dresses himself ever in soft greens.” Loki cannot help the contempt in his tone, and he watches, detached, as his fists clench in his lap.

“Sounds like there’s quite a bit of bad blood between you.”

“He could be very cruel, when he wanted to be,” Loki mutters. “Asgard held me in contempt because I was— Ergi. Feminine, womanly. I used magic and short blades; I grew no beard; I wove, and sang, and gardened. But Fandral could grow no more a beard than I could, and instead kept his obscene tufts of yellow hair. He sang often, and danced, and wrote poetry. And yet he was not reviled in the least – even as a cuckold and a heavy drinker, people would merely laugh and brush off his fun as harmless mischief, whereas I would be roundly despised. He was charming; I was a deceiver. He was handsome; I was pallid, or pretty in the way of a corpse.”

“And what did Fandral think of you?”

“He thought of me as a toy, a curiosity. Often, he would—” Loki begins to conjure strings between his hands, braiding them into tight, complicated knots, just to keep his hands busy. “He would play with me.”

“Play?” Sven repeats. “What do you mean?”

“I tended to keep myself away from the other warriors, because I knew they did not truly want me there. They accepted my presence only because of my fraternal connection to their leader: I knew my place. So I would take to the sides of parties, read, make quiet conversation… And he would watch me. I would feel his gaze on me, and he would come up, make some semblance of conversation. He would make his stare… Intense. Or he would smile, as if readying himself to seduce me. And he would draw closer, so close, until we were almost touching. Say things that were laced with innuendo.”

“And how would you respond?”

“I would remain steadfast, at first. Refuse his attempts to fluster me. But he—” Loki feels the shame within him heavy in his chest, feels it hot within him, and he grips the strings between his hands so tightly that a knot frays and comes apart. “He knew that I found him handsome – everyone found him handsome – and sought to use that to his advantage.” Sven slowly nods his head, his lips pressed loosely together. “In the end, I would flee, from whatever party it was. Mostly he would let me go, but sometimes he would follow me, speak loving poetry in my ear until I burned him, or cast him off with magic.”

“And – forgive me if I’ve missed something – how did you know this was done with your pain in mind?” Loki blinks, staring down at the knotted string between his hands.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, it seems like this fellow, Fandral… You’re saying he flirted with you; that you found him handsome. What makes you think he did this out of some desire to hurt you, as opposed to a desire for you?” Loki is suddenly very aware of the weight of his own tongue in his dry mouth, pressed against the back of his teeth. He thinks of Fandral’s easy smiles, the way he would playfully shove Loki in the side after a battle, thinks of Fandral’s fingers cupping his cheek as he pins Loki against a corridor wall.

(“You don’t think I’d tell Thor, do you?” he had asked, lowly. His lips had been so pink, and his breath so warm against Loki’s own, and Loki had felt like dropping to his knees and letting Fandral take whatever he wished. “I won’t. It’s a tumble in the sheets, my prince – what, pray, are you so frightened of?”

“Thor is your prince. Not I.”

“Loki—”)

“I was his good friend’s younger brother,” Loki murmurs. “I was to him as forbidden fruit. As we each grew older, he ceased his teasing, for I was more confident in refusing his attentions, not falling prey to his japes, and once I was a widower, I’m sure I was less attractive to him. But even then, he would never allow for my solitude. He would constantly draw me into conversations when our band was riding out, forcing me into the spotlight. He would mockingly praise my attributes, or play as my defender when the others spurned me.”

“You mean, he would strive to include you in conversations,” Sven says, not unkindly, “and that he would stand against his friends when they were cruel to you?” Loki feels a sickness make itself known in his stomach, and he stares down at the wood-panelled floor of Sven’s cabin. “Is it so unlikely this young man was just trying to be kind to you? That he genuinely enjoyed, and desired your company?”

Of course it is, Loki wants to say, There wasn’t a soul on Asgard that didn’t despise me, barring Thor and Mother.

“I don’t know,” he says instead.

“Let’s take a walk,” Sven suggests quietly, and he stands to get his coat.

[intheshadowofsignificance]

Could you write a fanfiction about Joey and Pegasus? I know it seems strange but I feel like with Joey's affection-starved childhood and Pegasus's flamboyant emotionalism I feel like it would be an amazing fic.

Let me first say that this is under a cut because it got heavier than expected, please be warned that there are allusions and undertones or depression and suicidal thoughts.

Thank you for the request.

It’s a mess; it’s never been anything but. There’sgarbage waiting to be taken out and cups of leftover broth leaving stains onthe counter top.  His digital alarm clockgoes black and he scribbles a few words in the dark.

IfI don’t wake up tomorrow, there’ll be no one to open the restaurant.

When they said those were the best years of hislife, he should have listened. But that had always been his problem, readingintent where it didn’t exist, misinterpreting people.

“What are you doing in there?” Even the sharp rap ofthe owner’s hand on the oven hood sears through him like disgust, stealing thebreath from his chest. What if the next cry is, ‘get out?’ The flightlessfeeling in his stomach is a sentient being. Whatthen? What now? What am I doing here?

He spends the next six hours trying to discern sweatfrom steam, touching meat with trained fingers to check how well cooked it is,stirring sauces too thick from sitting while the waitress chats with the nexttable over.

He’s been raising his father’s temper from the timehe was ten years old, and it’s learned its own language by now.

“They oughta send you Christmas cards.” He jokes,letting the abysmal stream of insults melt his tongue in the fight for freedom.

“I know, I think they might be lonely or somethingbut we’re too busy for me to talk anymore.” She takes two warm plates thatscalded his fingertips eight minutes ago, when they were actually ready, andhustles off.

Half her name leaves his mouth before the ownertells him to run the remaining three himself.

“Can’t leave the eggs, boss.”

“Then be quick about it.”

The look of skepticism on their faceswhen he rushes their plates over, smiling, sloppy tongued and accented, isalmost comforting. No one is used to a cook delivering food. But the old manputs his coffee down too severely, creamy liquid against white rims,spattering. He worries his father’s anger is written on his face. He worrieshe’s erupted without saying a word.

“Where’s that lovely young lady who served usearlier?” He demands, and the accompanying look steals any relief that mighthave come from the question. The man isn’t merely glancing around for her; he’sscrutinizing the back, fingers drumming too casually on the table, like he’sentitled to more than her service.

“Otha’ tables, anything I can get ya?”

“My waitress.”

When he leaves, Joey runs her tables as well as thekitchen.

“I’d’a let that guy have it.” He says, “Take ten onme.”

She shrugs, too used to it. “He’s all talk.”

He knows her nonchalance like the back of his hand.Easier to brush it off than admit she needs the money he tips. And he does tip,well.

At the end of the day he’s never been happier, ormore ashamed, to hang up his apron instead of her uniform.

-x-

It’s dark when he arrives home, phone glowing dimlyto guide his way to the sink. Hot water and cup ramen will do for tonight.

Helping Serenity cover the cost of her school books– tuition is so much more expensive than the place he attended – is worth goingwithout.

Just nine days this time.

With some caution he can get away with charging hisphone at work, or the library on the days he goes in late.

Yugi hasn’t returned his voicemail yet. Wrestlinghalf the night with the guttural cry of youalways were good at feeling sorry for yourself, yields an epiphany. Yugi isvisiting Tea in New York. There’s a time different.

It’s just the time difference.

All of his paper is crumpled and most of it is torn,but on the scraps, in the dark, he writes himself a note.

IfI don’t wake up tomorrow, I’ll never get his phone call.

Tristan isn’t free on his day off, but he has a buspass that’ll take him pretty much anywhere. He gets on and off withoutlistening to the announcements.

He’s no less lost than he was in the dim, twohundred square feet waiting for him to lay his head down, but it’s something.

Window shopping with empty pockets and 30% batteryis a gamble, but he’s always liked to press his luck. It’s gotten easier sinceforgetting his father’s address and his mother’s disbelief at graduation.Disappearing is just as effective as causing a scene, but fuck if it doesn’ttake more patience than a saint.

It’s just a small, family-owned shop with aguestbook, but he pats himself down searching for a pen to leave his mark.

Like it’ll help.

Like putting his name somewhere in the city willroot him to it, make him belong there more than he belongs in the world ofaimless young adults.

“You’re in luck,” A familiar voice drifts softlybehind him, its owner browsing paper fans, “I’ve got a spare.”

The world halts, squaring their gazes when Pegasuslooks up beyond the rim of his hat, “What’re you doing in a place like this?”Joey asks.

“I find it rather quaint, don’t you?”

“Maybe.”

The edge of a question cups the word as it leaveshis mouth, and Pegasus sets the pen on the open page of the guestbook ratherthan push further.

“What, you got boundaries now?”

“Better late than never,” his voice is a song,always a song, and Joey hates that for some reason he wants to chase themelody. “I’m dying to know how you’ve been; it’s been quite some time.”

Joey scoffs, scribbling his name and turning the penover in his fingers, smooth, gliding through the crevices like it belongsbetween them.

“Hasn’t been that long.”

“Plenty of time for things to change.” Pegasusreplies, the words leading but not argumentative, his footsteps careful andnever too quick. When Joey follows, he’s almost relieved. Staying too long inone place draws stares and he’s never been able to stand them.

“Tea’s in your neck of the woods now, dancin’ orsomethin’ like that.”

“Isn’t that Yugi-boy’s girlfriend? My, my, that mustbe hard for him.”

“Well, they ain’t official but they might as wellbe. He’s been over there since Thursday, be back sometime next week.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t go, it seems a shame tosplit the three of you up. Why, you were inseparable back then.”

The thumb brushing his nose is harsher than itprobably should be, “That’s no different.” Or at least he tells himself itisn’t, but sixteen and twenty are worlds apart. Jobs and school have gotten inthe way, new towns, new people, new schedules.

“There are some things no amount of time anddistance can tarnish.” Pegasus agreed, “Remarkable, the way the world works.”

Or cruel, he catches Joey thinking the same instantit passes his mind.

“Still makin’ cards?” He shouldn’t be talking toPegasus about that, he hasn’t dueled in months and they’re not friends. Howpathetic is it to be so lonely that this is what he stoops to? His own wordshaunt him. They oughta send you Christmascards.

“Here and there,” Pegasus replies, “There’s a teamof creators working wonders at I2 now; I research their concepts and learn thestories from them.”

“Sounds nice.” Joey said as he anchored his thumbsin his pockets.

“It is, but enough about me. You seemed more shockednot to have a pen than for us to run into each other after all this time.”

Joey shrugged, “Think you’re exaggeratin’ a little.Lots a’ people keep pens on ‘em. I was just checkin.’”

“Are you a writer?”

Joey practically snorted, “Yeah, I’m the type.”

“But you do write.”

“Only to myself.”

“You’re as good an audience as any. I used to writemyself letters on napkins and sugar packets so I’m not exactly a model exampleof preparedness. Why did you stop?”

Joey froze. “What?”

“Why did you stop writing to yourself?”

Because my sister is going to university next yearand I have almost all the money saved she needs for a deposit.

Because Yugi is visiting Tea on what could be ahoneymoon if they’d ever get over their embarrassment and get married.

They would, one day.

Because Tristan was accepted into the police academyand, pretty soon, he’d cave and tell his dad he’d rather go in Osaka where hewasn’t under his thumb, or fold and stay in the old man’s shadow for the restof his life.

Because he was tired of living with the lights off.

He was tired.

“Just got busy.”

Pegasus puts a hand on his shoulder, “I think youshould start again.” He says, and offers the pen from the shop.

Joey can’t pull the rest of their words from theblur of emotion that hangs over him.

At night, he rides on a crowded bus of empty faces tothe faded door of his apartment.  

Takes the sleeping pills off the new notebook he’dpledged to use once he’d downed them.

In the dark, outside the lines, he writes a sentence.

IfI don’t wake up tomorrow, I will never return this pen.

He would rather be a coward then a thief, headmits, and dumps the pills down the drain to face another mostly-wastedday.