#edge of hope zine

[littledozerdraws]

my illu for the @edgeofhopezine I did earlier this year! you can still buy some leftover zines and merch in their shop

[saintaviator]

my comic I did for the @edgeofhopezine !!!!!! this was a super fun project to be a part of, and I’m really happy with how this turned out ^^!

[lisondraws]

The Handwriting of God.

My illustration for the @edgeofhopezine , what an honor to be part of such a beautiful 10 year anniversary tribute to this great movie!!!!!!!!!!! And I even got to draw my favorite character!

[missanthropicprinciple]

@edgeofhopezine Thanks!

[zeenovosdrawings]

Sneak peeks of my @edgeofhopezine contributions! 💛💛💛 (I’m not tweeting but these are also gonna be on Insta if anyone wants to share over there). I’m really pleased with how these came out and I hope you think they’re cool too!

[harveydont]

I am very pleased to share that I was part of the @edgeofhopezine charity zine as a guidebook artist!

Preorders are currently OPEN so please check it out in the link below!

[foolscapper]

The Pacific Rim charity zine @edgeofhopezine is available for preorder HERE at bigcartel! There are so many great goodies. I am featured in a few pages, so expect more previews through the month!

[edgeofhopezine]

🤖 Come see us at the San Francisco Zine Fest at Table 37!🦖

Hello everyone! We'll be at the San Francisco Zine Fest (location: City View at Metreon) on Sunday September 3rd from 11AM-5PM at Table 37.

We'll be selling the From the Edge of Hope main zine and guidebook there, so if you missed out on pre-orders and you're in the area, now's your chance to get yourself a copy! If you can't make it though, no worries- we'll most likely have leftover sales available after pre-orders ship :)

Just like with preorders, all proceeds we receive from this event will be donated to the Marine Conservation Institute. Also as a heads up masks will be required at this event!

See you there!

[finnimate]

ZINE PREVIEW COMIN IN HOT!!

@edgeofhopezine is now open for preorders!! There's been a lot of awesome work put into it so be sure to snag yourself a copy!!

Order here

[denialcity]

it's a beautiful day for some  

✨ 🌸HASHIIZU PROPAGANDA 🌸✨

remember the good olde days with those little print-at-home staple-bind zines? if you wanna experience the nostalgia in these trying times may I interest you in the hashiizu flower minizine I extorted from my amazingly talented friends: @beemosketches @silverutahraptor @craneace @writhingbeneathyou @good-grievance @maphel-n-doodles @codedredalert

This very cool and cute little minizine could be yours for the very affordable price of FREE / printing it at home.

🌺 get the digital version

🌺 get the A6 print version + 🌺 the sticker sheet

(Print instructions for zine: use A4 paper, recommended 90 gsm for laser/120 gsm for inkjet. Actual size, narrow margin, flip on long edge. After printing, cut pages in half and assemble. Staple the spine. Trim the edges.) (Print sticker sheet on sticker paper, actual size (1/4 of A4). Insert sticker sheet insert/ cut the stickers.)

We had a great time with this and hope you do too.

✨💮🌷 enjoy! send pictures! let us know how you liked it :) 🌷💮✨

[arctic-hands]

[Image Description: the above and following photos are of a very small printed out zine in black and white. The cover has the word "Missing" in big letters with a black background, and the words "current as of Dec 2, twenty twenty-four". At the bottom it says "a WhatsApp story". In the center are three photos in black and white, the top one showing a man and a woman, a second showing the same man and many children gathered around a table, and the bottom photo showing the family posing in the middle of a city street.]

[The first page of the zine, saying in handwritten lettering "She messaged me goodbye last Sunday." In the middle of the page is a screenshot from WhatsApp, showing the sender saying "I'm sorry, my friend, but if we don't communicate anymore, be sure that I will be killed, burned, hit by a missile that tore me apart, or die of hunger and cold." The next message, by the receiver, starts out "I'm so sorry this is" but cuts off. The second page shows a simplistically drawn "Breaking News" sign in white on black. The text says "Two days before, we were cheering the I.C.C. arrest warrants."

[Third page says the words "We, a world apart from each other, began to see an end to her nightmare." The picture is of a simple circle representing a globe, with a point labeled Me on the very left edge, and a point labeled Her very close to the right edge. The fourth page has a repeat of the Breaking News sign, this time black on white. The text says "Three days after, a ceasefire between Lebanon and Israel went into effect."]

[Fifth page shows drawings of crowded tents in various states of sheltering as it rains, forming water in front of the tents. The text says "But she's not in Lebanon." Sixth page has inverted white-on-black, with the text starting in a rain cloud and stopping in the middle of the rain. It says "I don't know where she is now. Laid out in the rain, maybe."]

[Seventh page has no picture, just the words "My therapist told me to have hope..." The eighth page shows a pen-scratched dark tunnel with a small circle of light towards the end. The text says "...but Hayam ran out of it. She told me if she survived the night, she would have a nervous breakdown."]

[Ninth image says "What could I do a world away?" The circle globe is filled in completely dark. Tenth page says "I couldn't even say anything meaningful back to her." The image is of another WhatsApp screenshot. The sender texts three messages: "Kids not stoped craying [sic]", "I am fineshed [sic]", and "I hope if I just die". The receiver says in response "I don't know what to say. But you've got to keep going a little bit longer".]

[Eleventh page is without image, saying "Did I have the right to say that?" Twelfth page shows two flags, one the year twenty twenty-four merging into twenty twenty-five, and the other a crudely drawn American flag. The text says "As of now, I don't know what her life is like for myself. As bad as it is, and as bad as it may get, I don't have her frame of reference."]

[Thirteenth page shows a notebook with a grid in it, made up squiggle words, and at the very end it says "Fuck everything". The text says "I haven't written in my diary since the election. So I'll write it down here. But even as I am a victim of what's to come, I'm still complicit in the now." The next page is blank, saying "What could I do but apologize?"]

[The back of the zine, showing a simple drawing of a boarded up door on a brick rowhouse with one boarded up window and one shattered window. On the door board it is written "If I must die, you must live to tell my story". Besides this is an arrow saying "Refaat Alareer, killed in Gaza twenty twenty-three", and another arrow that says "Actual graff in Baltimore". At the top it is written "Donate to help Hayam's family." And at the bottom is a typed-out link to a GoFundMe. End I.D]

Fundraiser verified by @nabulsi here, Hayam's story detailed here and here

@leieryx is doing art comissions in exchange for donations to the GFM here

I'll let you all know whenever I hear back from someone. In the mean time, please continue to help Hayam and her family.

(zine formatted and printed using the Electric Zine Maker program)

[doodle-zine]

Doodle Zine!

Hi! I'm Stars ( @ilovedthestars ) and I like making zines.

I would like to invite anyone who is interested to participate in a fun and low-stakes collaborative zine project! We can't quite get the scissors-glue-and-photocopier vibe of a classic zine on Tumblr, but I'm hoping to make something that's as close as we can get over the internet.

There's something so fun and personal about doodles. They mostly exist on paper, and are rarely shown off to other people, but they can be so unique and individual. I always loved swapping doodles in friends' notebooks and having a little something from them in the corner of my homework. That's a vibe I'd like to bring to my little corner of the internet.

So! If you're interested, I would love for you to draw some doodles, take a photo, and send them to me via this form! I will compile the submissions into both a digital zine and a printable version (5.5x4.25" pamphlet format), and share them here on Tumblr when they're finished.

(The form requires a gmail sign-in, but I will not be able to see the email you use. If you don't have a gmail account to use, you can DM me on tumblr or discord to submit)

There is no selection process--I will be including every submission that I feasibly can. I would like to emphasize that this is not an art zine, it's a doodle zine! Here are some examples of what I'm talking about when I say "doodles." The point is to have fun together, and I will not be holding you to any sort of artistic standard, so please don't hold yourself to one.

This form will be accepting submissions for at least two weeks (until July 16th).

I will leave the form open longer if submissions come in slowly. If I get too many submissions for one zine, I will simply make more zines and turn it into a series. If I am absolutely overwhelmed with submissions, we'll see how far I get through them, but I will work approximately in order of submission until I run out of energy. I have no solid timeline beyond that--this is a fun summer project for me, and I'm trying not to turn it into homework. But I'm very excited about making this happen!

The (loose) guidelines for submissions are listed in the form, as well as below the cut, for your convenience. Feel free to follow this tumblr for updates, or send in questions via the askbox. Happy doodling!

Guidelines:

Doodle anything, as messy, scribbly, abstract, or silly as you want! This zine is about little moments of connection, not about artistic quality. Treat your page like the margins of your notebook during a long lecture (or doodle in the margins of your notebook during a long lecture and submit it!)

Your page of doodles will be 4.25 inches wide by 5.5 inches tall, or 1/4 of a sheet of letter-sized paper. Either work at this size or be okay with me cropping to fit the dimensions!

Use whatever drawing tools you like, but know that light pencil might not show up well.

Lined paper is fine. So is paper with stuff printed or written on it that you have doodled over/around (as long as there are no identifying/sensitive details, like the name of a school or workplace).

Sign your page somewhere with whatever name or username you're comfortable with! Or indicate below that you chose to submit anonymously.

Take a photo! It doesn't have to be a great photo, but a decent photo will make it easier for me to edit. Try to have brightish light, no direct shadows on the paper, and a mostly straight-on angle. Leave the edges of the paper within the photo, no need to crop. I'll take care of the rest!

If there are any issues with your submission (like a photo I can't use) I will contact you and give you the chance to resubmit, so no worries.

Most importantly, have fun :)

[achromant]

AND HERE WE ARE! My project for the gw2 'zine!

Featuring Baruhn, reflecting on his life so far, the challenges, the small sparks of joy, the horrors, loss and gain.

For clarification's sake; I did in fact plan to depict every stage of Baruhn's life, but uuh. File was already too big.

Might do a series of short comics (graphic novels?) though, because i fking love storytelling.

Let's look at my idiotic level of detail a bit, eh?

[Long Text Ahead]

Baruhn's story begins in the Plains of Ashford. An unsuccessful attempt to stem the tide of Ascalonian Ghosts leads to the demise of many year-long allies. Dozens of brave soldiers gave their life for a mere week of peace until the ghosts reformed. They always do. Soldiers don't.

Shaken in his faith in the Legions, the first seeds of doubt arise.

Until finally he found someone to trust with his pain. In a tavern at the edge of the Black Citadel, he gets to know this odd fellow, who is continuosly follow by the faint smell of sulfur. Although Baruhn knew where that path led, the warmth radiating from the old veteran in front of him was not only a physical, but an emotional one.

With the Three Legions busy with their internal quarrels, fighting over an empty promise, Baruhn took the first steps down a previously thought to be dark path.

Surprisingly, die Flame Legion was welcoming, their fires offered light and guidance, the embers igniting the skies like stars. Surely this was better than the cold metal over the Black Citadel.

Baruhn took to learning first, handling the small flames with ease after years of throwing fireballs at ghostly shapes. Then, he figured out how to teach, and that is where the real magic comes from. Nurturing a flame, protecting it from harsh winds, adding a bit of kindling and coal here and there. He even taught the more elusive ways of magic that wield smoke and ash.

Baruhn knew about the war, the countless lifes lost on the other side of the fence. But those were humans, and here he was among family.

That is, until he met Molly.

After a small recon mission that was assured not to be much of a hurdle, Baruhn found himself alone in a forest. The small fires he conjured for light and warmth only drew in the nearby villagers. Those with pitchforks and torches, with crude swords and a thirst for blood. He couldn't really bring himself to hate them, this was war after all. But at what cost are these battles to be won?

Trying to escape the villagers was a futile attempt. He sank to the ground, his own hot blood dousing the little flames beneath his weary head.

For some reason - maybe hope, maybe resignation - he forced open his heavy eyes, only to discover his wounds cleaned and bandaged with fragile white cloth. A small human girl, of all things in this damned forest, tried to help. Even in his weakened state, even with just one hand, Baruhn could have easily grabbed her and cracked her skull. But the only thing he did was listen. He listened to the ramblings of the small human, going on and on about faries made of leaves and gnomes of stone. She called him "bear".

When the villagers came, they saw the girl at his side. That was all it took for them to turn on her. She was to be executed like that beast that now slowly stepped in front of her. For the first time, Baruhn spoke to the girl. "close your eyes."

Fire roared, not red, not orange. not a warm, welcoming fire. Not one that belongs in a hearth, that thrives in the arms of a family. This was so much worse. This was years of inner conflict, of doubt, of closing his eyes on the other side of the fence. For the first time in his life, this was the only thing that he wanted to do, protect the little insignificant human behind him. Fire roared, and it burned wood and it burned flesh.

Baruhn picked up the little girl, she held tight to his horns, nestled in his mane. He ran for hours, years of military training finally useful. The little girl, Molly, lost her mother years ago. She burned in the fires of a war she tried to escape. "And your father? What about your family?", he asked between deep breaths. Molly was quiet for a while, then whispered, her voice barely audible, "My father burned today."

They stayed together, for quite a while. He protected her, and she, with her head full of stories, and a book full of dreams, protected him.

Things came, things went. Baruhn rejoined the High Legions, acting as a spy for Ash, keeping an eye on Iron and Blood.

Baruhn ultimately took on his role as Novice, then Archivist, then Commander. He helped during the struggles against Scarlet. A small flame here and there, some shrouding smoke, a well timed lightning strike. It was other people that finally defeated Scarlet, but he was always in the background, with all the small things at just the right time.

Mordremoth came, but with him new allies.

It was but a small tangent in the grand scheme of things. Watching the fragile sapling while waging war on the jungle itself.

Their relation was something more than friendship, something else than love. They were there for each other when they needed to be. Be it only to keep a flame burning or to banish the voices to the back of the head again, they walked the same path for a long time.

Tarir, the Egg. Aurene. A new flame entrusted to him, his to nurture, his to raise. A gamble, again. What if that little flame would some day devour the world? But Baruhn did, what he could do best. Teach.

Darker times came. Caudecus and the White Mantle. The raid on the Mursaat's prison. Then facing the last Mursaat himself.

Balthazar came, and in his wake a new kind of fire. A war, similar to the ones Baruhn had seen before, but still different. A war without a cause, war for war's sake. War against nature, against the world, like a child lashing out when there were none to help them up. Maybe Balthazar's flames were not too different from his.

After the festering swamp that Joko was, came the mountain, Kralkatorrik. Death was not a hindrance anymore, not for the Commander and his dragon. The story went as the story goes.

When it came to face the frost, the whispers, Jormag. Everything fell apart. Jormag pried into the deepest, darkest corners of Baruhn's life, dragged every doubt, small as it may have been, into the light. In the ice, every truth was warped, encased in whispers, in lies. It suffocated any hope and planted even darker seeds than anyone thought possible.

It was the spirit of the Raven that aided Baruhn. Even the black feathers of its wings were shimmering like rainbows in the moonlight.

A small piece stayed with him, just a fragment. Nevermore.

After that, the stars themselves. Astralaria.

So many stories that make a life, so many pieces. Every encounter, every step along the way is another fragment of the whole. People are made of other people, that is what it means to be alive.

[dpfantasyzine]

Phantasmal Nights is a fantasy themed Danny Phantom zine available for preorder digitally, in print, and with merch! For more information on the zine, check out our pinned post. Preorders open Dec 13 – Jan 23.

Maebird - Tumblr | AO3 | Bandcamp Paenling - Tumblr | AO3 | Carrd ScarletMotifs - Tumblr | SoundCloud | Carrd

Title: Fae-Touched

Summary: The throne of the Seelie Court sits vacant. After Danny accidentally opens a portal to the Fae, he comes face to face with a heritage that was kept secret from him. Now, the Seelie are giving Danny the crown, whether he wants it or not.

Excerpt:

The Fenton Farm was the last house on the edge of the wood, before civilization gave way to wilderness. In a one-road town like Amity, where everyone was a neighbor and outsiders were looked upon with suspicion, the Fentons stuck out like brambles in a berry patch.

Everyone knew you didn’t mess with the fair folk. Stay away from faerie circles. Leave milk on your doorstep as thanks for good fortune. Don’t circle an oak tree counter to the sun’s turning—and if you did it by accident, repeat the turning thrice.

But the Fentons took superstition beyond the bounds of reason. They marked every oak tree along the forests’ rim. They set traps by the milk on their stoop. They mapped every faerie circle between Amity and the mountain’s base, hoping to find a doorway in. So perhaps it wasn’t so strange that their youngest child, a boy of barely fourteen, had turned out so odd.

[ckret2]

Are we getting a chapter this week? (It’s fine if it’s late, just curious :) )

Nope, sorry, no chapter this week. Like I mentioned might happen at the end of last week's chapter, this week's been too busy for me to get the chapter prepped. In particular, I had two zine deadlines, and one of them was pretty quick but the other one I'm still working on.

The next chapter needs more work than usual ("what's Bill's understanding of romance/flirting?" is one of those topics that TBOB gave us a lotta new material on that I've got to incorporate, and on top of that I decided to add in an entirely new scene I'm writing from scratch) so it's not something I could squeeze around the edges of the zine writing.

Drop dead date for the zine submission is sunday, so hopefully between monday & friday i'll have enough time to get the chapter ready by next friday.

(On top of that, during evenings when the anti-adhd juice has worn off and i can't write anymore, I'm learning how to do vector art. Which is slowing down my art output in the short term but I hope will speed it up in the long term.)

[mamamittens]

Every Fold a Wish

This is my piece from the Marco Zine, not related to Spooktober, I promise! For the rest of the fics--and even artwork!--just click the link provided above!

Also, I swear I didn't mean for it to be so sad--the original plan was goofy shenanigans and maybe ending with Marco trying to throttle Thatch when he cracks a joke about his little paper cranes but then...

well, this happened!

Oh, and here's a link to the fic specific artwork for it by @luna-orix, it's a wonderful take on the Big Scene in lovely color and style!

Word Count: 2,757

Under much pressure, Marco would have to confess this all started a very long time ago.

Back when he was still a deckhand sorting through musty maps littered with ink blots that barely passed as navigation tools. Their contents were downright illegible at best, but did well enough as teaching tools for what not to do. Over time, as they were passed from hand to unsteady hand, the parchment became worn. Rips becoming tears and holes until the only thing keeping them in one piece was hopes and dreams.

What to do with such a well loved piece of parchment?

Tossing them seemed almost an insult. And making them into paper again, while an interesting task, was usually not worth the effort. The ink bleeding and dying the usable parts darker and darker. Until it was good for little else but tissues. Marco had done it a few times just for something to do between tasks. The paper drying in the press able to be left for hours if needed. And he did hold a fondness for the old parchment made new again. But it was still not terribly useful. The ink needed to be even darker, or chalk but it smeared something terrible at the slightest touch.

In all fairness, he didn’t start with the worst off pieces.

A kind, older nurse with weathered hands and a gentle smile showing him the way. Every crisp fold building up to a new, enchanting shape. Even money could be manipulated. A cute way to leave a tip, if he was so wanting. And something to do with his hands.

And he kept doing it too. Starting with his clumsy, childish fingers. Baby fat clinging to his digits as he used his bitten nails to scrape the edges clean. Until they started to even out, habit and hard work turning them into slender, calloused tools of his trade. A little treat for himself as he learned the medical trade. It was good, to know that his hands could create even if he could not heal the hurts in others. A small comfort for himself after his patients fell asleep holding his hand, yearning to not be alone with their sickness.

He got some flak for it over the years. Always teasing remarks about how cute he was being. Little flowers and fortune tellers a popular demand when a particularly mischievous brother or sister was bedbound. And Marco would sigh. Teasingly remarking on their ungrateful attitudes even as he was plied with gifts of decorative paper for his little hobby.

They decorated his office shelves. Tucked in corners and atop the spines of medical texts. Peeking behind picture frames or marching along the windowsill of Oyaji’s room. A cavalcade of shapes in a rainbow of colors and prints. Every so often one would be found covered in layers of dust somewhere forgotten and returned to him with a wide grin. Laughter echoing down the halls as Marco racked his brain to remember when he made it.

Officially, he had no favorite paper craft. No beloved origami he had mastered over the years. Just as he had no favorite sibling.

But, if his family had the wherewithal to gather every one of his little treasures from over the years and fill up a room or four with them, there would certainly be an obvious contender.

Starting with the very first one he made with a crooked wing, crumpled lightly from the very hand that had taught him so long ago.

“I saved this one for last, boyo. Hope is… so dangerous to have on the high seas. Without it, you’ll never truly live. But too much and you’ll be too drunk to survive. And this little fella? This is what he’s all about, in a way. They say a thousand paper cranes, each folded with love and care, can grant you a single wish.” She whispered to him softly, guiding his hands over the worn map of some distant island lost to time. “Make as many as you want, it’s important to remember what it means to live—to wish. But never forget the work that goes into them. Wishing—wanting—that’s not even half the journey. Admitting you want something bad enough to dream is but the first step. After that, you still need to fold the paper. And fold it over and over again until it’s fit to fly. And then? And then, little Marco, you need to do it again. Until you have a flock a thousand strong. It can’t be done in a single day. Most won’t have the patience to do it in a lifetime. But one little crane at a time…”

She never finished that sentence.

She sighed, leaning against the pillows of her bed as Marco finished his first little bird in the palm of her hand. His own cradling the bird between their palms and she squeezed gently. Bending the worn paper a little in the cramped space.

Then she let go.

And Marco hadn’t stopped making them since.

Even as he gained his devil fruit. Grew from a boy to a man. They were his little indulgence, the fuzzy memory of a weathered hand clasped in his, paper crinkling between them never far from his mind. It hurt in a good way. A way that his fruit never gave him. A sense of release. A long sigh after a hard day. Sea breeze wrapping around his bare ankles in the hot sun. Endless blue before him with heavy storm clouds littering the horizon behind him.

His office door slammed open.

A boisterous voice practically singing out as Thatch sauntered into his office with a hot meal. It was late. Later than Marco realized. The bubbly, cool fire running thick in his veins. He’d been pushing it as of late, Marco acknowledged reluctantly.

“I come, O’ Great One! With the gift of food~!” Thatch sang, squinting into the dim candlelight of Marco’s office. Free hand hovering ominously over the light switch.

“Do it and I’ll kick you into the sea.” Marco warned. His fruit offering little reprieve from eye strain at this point. Bigger fish to fry, he supposed.

Thatch pouted, nudging the paperwork on his desk aside. Rather than setting down the food, Thatch instead placed his ass there. Wafting about the food Marco still couldn’t quite identify temptingly.

“C’mon, Coco! You’ve been in here for hours! It’s time to eat up and get some rest!” Thatch huffed.

“Stop calling me that.” Marco was ignored, as usual. The nickname a little rare but typically whipped out when Thatch thought he was being an idiot about himself.

“What could possibly be more important than enjoying some good food and even better shut eye? C’mon, I’ll even give you breakfast in bed! Doesn’t that sound scrum-didily-upmtious? This handsome man personally serving you up a hot plate of food in the morning?”

Marco imagined—not Thatch ‘handsomely’ serving anything—but sputtering as seawater ruined his hair. The woeful cries for mercy as he drowned, just a little while, he swears Namur. He deserves it!

Familiar with Thatch’s everything by this point, Marco doubted many would argue that Thatch didn’t deserve just a little waterboarding.

As a treat.

“Sounds like my sleep paralysis demon talking.” Marco drawled, fixing Thatch with a dry stare.

Thatch arched back as though struck, his dramatics nearly sending the food and himself to the floor.

“My own brother! After all the hard work I put into this? Every ounce of love I put into it?” Thatch emphasized, finally lowering the plate enough for Marco to see it was flayed sea king, glazed with honeyed pineapple and served with stuffed potatoes, a hot roll, and a slice of upside-down pineapple cake. A cup of what could be anything from tea to booze to wash it down with.

It looked fucking good. But just for being obnoxious, Marco rolled his eyes.

“Gross.”

That earned him a sharp gasp and playful tears as Thatch attempted to clamber into his lap for apology cuddles. Pressing obnoxious kisses to his face like Thatch was trying to console him from some terrible tragedy that had occurred.

“G-Get the hell off of me, you ass!” Marco sputtered, reeling back as Thatch smashed Marco’s face into his chest with petulant cries of forlorn love.

“—Oh, my poor, stalwart brother! You’ve worked so hard and can’t even accept crumbs of affection! It doesn’t make you any less of a man to cuddle!” Thatch reassured him as any protest was muffled into his shirt. “I promise I won’t think any l-LE—ES--! SHIT! ACK! M-MARCO—NO!”

Marco dug his fingers into Thatch’s unprotected sides, trapping his idiot brother in place for the deserved payback.

“Marco, yes!”

Thatch wriggled fiercely, yelping with every poke and prod as they laughed, eventually knocking back the chair and ending it with Marco wheezing under Thatch’s weight.

Finally, Marco shoved Thatch off into the floor, face aching from the smile they both shared.

“Ugh! Fine! I’ll eat and go to bed, you prick!” Marco huffed, Thatch still giggling beside him.

“Great! I’ll be sure to deliver breakfast to you, as promised~!” Thatch tittered cheekily, dodging the swipe of Marco’s hand.

“The fuck you will!” his fingertips grazing the fabric of Thatch’s sleeves. Still warm with laughter and affection.

Thatch was cold now.

Somehow colder than Marco’s veins as he desperately lifted up the other man into his arms. So much heavier than before, faint breaths wheezing with blood on his lips. Cool blue fire danced over his pale face, sinking in deep with a desperation Marco hadn’t felt in a long time. Hands slick with blood, skin blossoming with feathers and scales. Teetering between bird and man so violently his words were more akin to bird cries.

There were hands pulling him away. Trying to tug his trembling body from curling over Thatch’s cooling corpse. Hot, burning hands ripping him away.

A large hand, firm and steady. A rock in the ocean that beached him with such violence.

A deep, rumbling voice.

“We’ve got it from here, my son. We’ll save him, my boy. Come back to me. Come back to us. We love you.” Those words followed him into the dark. The world shaking as his lungs rattled with sobs.

“We love you…”

There was a beeping.

That was all Marco could think about.

All he could handle.

His hands were wrong. Almost incandescent. The bones vague shadows flickering in gossamer blue light. Gold licking his fingertips as he stroked… something. Lips stiff. Twisting with difficulty out of the pointed beak they were trying to form. Every ragged breath licking across his tongue with a heady weight to it.

There was something in his hands, Marco knew.

It was… thick. A little tepid. Some give until stiff scaffolding within protested. Thin threads slipping beneath a strange, upper layer. A steady, weak thrum beneath his touch.

His eyes burned. He wanted to rip into it, whatever it was. Until it was hot and thrashing and alive—

But a keen slipped from his lips as a rhythmic beeping finally registered properly.

He was at someone’s bedside.

Again.

He was a little deckhand tending to a dying nurse.

No.

He was a man at a bedside.

A friend?

A brother?

He loved them fiercely. Whoever they were.

Marco wanted whoever it was to wake up already. Tease him for losing control like this. Obnoxiously cry about the display of affection that was cutting into Marco’s chest. Turning his lungs to ribbons. Hooking into the arteries of his heart until every thump made him ache for release.

There was a blanket over his shoulders, Marco realized.

How long had he been here? He shifted in the chair and heard paper crinkle.

Fresh, patterned sheets. Traditional ocean waves with little fish peeking here and there. Tiny boats fighting even, arching waves. All in soft blues that transitioned to richer hues, imbuing the artwork with depth and emotion.

It was instinct to reach for the paper. But the weight of a whole person stopped him. Marco looked.

Both his hands were grasping a limp wrist with a faint pulse.

Letting go felt like ripping away his flesh. Piece by piece.

Fold it over and over again.

Marco’s hands were steady despite everything. And it felt like betrayal.

He shouldn’t be able to do anything right now.

Not even breathe.

But his heart kept going. Lungs expanding with the scent of cold antiseptic.

The paper was smooth. Flawless despite the neglect he’d shown it for… however long he’d been sitting at…

Here.

Without it, you’ll never truly live.

She meant this, didn’t she? His family?

Even without a smooth surface, Marco’s hands knew the way. Folding and pinching the edges clean.

No, Marco remembered.

She meant dreams. She meant hope.

Marco knew, deep down, that eventually there would always be a goodbye at the end of their stories. Said or avoided like the plague.

But he expected it…

Marco never wanted to expect it.

He’d rather drown than look forward at a time he’d say goodbye with any one of his precious family members.

The little crane perched between his fingers. Perfect after years of practice.

Marco choked up as he placed it in Thatch’s hand. Gently curling those limp fingers around it’s delicate shape. Calloused hands cradling the bird in a loose cage.

Marco retreated. Shuffling into his dark room. No one stopped him, their gazed burning his hunched shoulders.

In the bottom desk drawer, so rarely opened it almost got stuck, was a single item.

A lopsided paper crane with a bent wing. Stained with faded ink and weathered with age.

Like he was scooping up a live bird, Marco lifted it to his chest. Careful even as he collapsed to the floor.

He cried. Wept like he’d been cut in two with sea stone. Tears gushing out instead of blood. His fire, confused at the agony he was experiencing, danced in the air. Casting dizzying shadows across the space battered with open sobs.

Marco couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t fill his lungs enough between his cries that ached down to his bones and the fire filling his lips with faux heat.

Everything hurt.

Nothing could heal.

He was a little boy again in his father’s arms. Weeping and certain he was dying from grief. Every wail a benediction. A plea against the inevitable. What was already past.

A wish burning in his veins even as shame filled him.

Death was natural. A long sigh at the end of a hard day.

But Marco wanted to hold his breath until he burst. Stop in the middle of a hurricane just to keep feeling the rain.

Parchment protested in his grasp and Marco shot up like he’d been burned.

Opening his palms to find the paper crane bent even further. Flickers of light cast across the ragged edges of ink—no?

Burns.

The bird was smoldering. Fueled by the open air of his shaking hands, it burst into golden fire. Marco wailed, shaken and confused as it lit up. Flying into the air with a trail of burning embers. Dancing in an unseen wind until, before Marco’s blurry eyes, it was gone. As though it was Thatch’s vivre card.

Time stopped. Stuttering as his heel stamped into the ground.

His shoulder nearly slamming into someone.

A door bashing into a wall.

That damn beeping so like Thatch. Annoying and reassuring in its consistent presence.

Nurses crowded Thatch’s bed, arguing over each other as familiar hair rose over them. Wide eyes looking around, face flush with warmth again.

He smiled, that crooked, familiar smile that tugged Marco’s lips into a similar shape.

“Hey, Coco, look! I got a little hospital buddy!” Thatch crowed, voice a soft rasp as he gently held up a small, blue paper crane. Gold catching the light as fire flickered over it’s wingspan. Every cresting wave lined with unnatural color that had not been there before. It seemed as alive as Thatch.

Thatch let out a creaking rush of air as Marco hugged him. Body awkwardly half in his lap as he buried his face into Thatch’s neck. Careful and weak, Thatch curled his arms around Marco’s chest. He smelled of antiseptic, sea salt, and spice.

The storm was behind them now, but there was still time for rain. One breath after another.

Little paper cranes littered across a pirate ship.

Every fold a wish.

Every step hope.