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drop-dead-dropout · 14 days ago

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OKAY KDJEHDHDNDZHXHX I'M DONE WITH THAT FIC NOW HERE IT IS LOL

it's like 1.5k words (look I'm trying to write longer fics but there's only so much you can write when it's just One Guy Talking okay 💔)

I just made up a fake birthday for kim, I don't think he has a canon one? lmk if I'm wrong. also I am so so sorry for the random references to a le retour fic in my drafts which is probably never going to get finished... maybe one day lmao

April 19, '78

"I made it, Harry," you whisper reverently. Talking any louder is hard these days, decades of smoking finally catching up to you, and besides, you know he can hear you anyways.

(He can always hear you.)

"You never said, but I don't think you believed I would. Honestly, I don't blame you. I didn't either. It was a fantasy, a story I could tell myself when I was afraid. When I wanted to imagine that everything could turn out alright. But I made it. Seventy years old in a free Revachol— well, a mostly-free Revachol, in any case. And still on two feet, no less!" You set your cane on the ground and sit down on the grass, feeling a sigh rattle in your chest. "Jean says hello. Don't worry, he'll come back to see you next week, but... It just hit him. That this summer, he'll be the same age as you were. I think he needs a moment." Stretching your arms over your head, a slight groan escapes you, your aged limbs protesting the strain. "They had him and I give a talk at some local high school. Did I tell you that? Oh, you'd laugh and laugh if you met those kids. They had so many questions, and almost all of them were very silly."

Time passes. It tends to do that. A gentle spring breeze rustles the branches of the trees above you, and you inhale, a wave of calm overtaking you. You come here as often as you can, rambling for far too long about any old thing that pops into your head. You like to think he'd appreciate it, and... It's the only place you feel at home these days.

(You wonder if this is what palesickness feels like. A bone-deep ache that you can't quite bring yourself to hate. A fond smile on your lips even as grief and yearning gnaw through your ankles like twin dogs, starving and desperate. A tender feeling in your chest as you return to your memories again and again, the green of his eyes catching the light, his arms around you, the way he said your name.)

(You don't dwell on it.)

"And yes, they did ask about you." Your voice is lilting, smug, because you know he would've asked. "The three of us are something of a legend around here, you know, especially you. Apparently evacuating a whole city, through a section of underground tunneling that no one was even sure still existed is, ah, mildly impressive. Though most of the kids were more interested in seeing if the rumors were true— about the amnesia, and the voices especially. I wanted to be honest, and Jean seemed more than happy to reminisce. But the teachers were shooting us dirty looks for telling their young and impressionable pupils about such fantastical things, so we had to keep it vague."

As you take off your glasses for a moment to wipe away a few stubborn smudges on the lenses, you blink a few times, disoriented at your sudden loss of vision. "Speaking of our reputations, did you know they have a saying these days? Le rêveur, l'aviateur, le commandant. You, me, and Jean's old titles. It basically means 'to envision what must be done, to carry yourself to your goal, and to have the strength to see it through'. I heard someone say it the other day and I turned towards them, as if they were calling my name..." You chuckle, shaking your head. "... I suppose it still shocks me sometimes, how much we accomplished. How much we mattered."

Tilting your head up, you try to make out shapes in the clouds, the way he always used to. It's a fruitless endeavor— your distance vision may be relatively intact, but you never had his imagination. But that's alright. Even if the sky is just a meaningless swirl of colors, it's still beautiful to you. "Anyways, I'm getting off-topic. I meant to tell you, at one point they asked about us. What I was to you. How I knew so much. Why we were always so close." A light puff of amusement escapes you, despite yourself. "I swear Jean was almost purple, the way he held in his laughter. Mister Kitsuragi, my sister says you were secretly brothers, but Jessica's mum told me his eyes were green, and your eyes aren't green. Were you adopted? Kids say the funniest things. If this were a decade ago, if I was still RCM, I would've just lied. Though perhaps not with such an improbable explanation. It's just..."

Your left hand drifts up, out of habit, to the twine around your neck.

But you don't wear the ring on your neck anymore, do you? You wear it on your finger, where it should be. Because you can.

"When Toussaint, the lazy old fool, finally got around to marriage equality back in '71, I personally requested that same week for the judiciary to make it official for us. I doubt they would've bothered for anyone else. It's posthumous, after all... Not useful for much other than sentiment, and a bit of an odd request either way. But, like I said before, our names carry a lot of weight." A wistful smile tugs at your lips. "So, when that child asked me that ridiculous question, up on that stage in front of a crowd of nearly two thousand, I showed them my ring and I called myself your husband for the first time. And no, it doesn't count that we were already saying it to each other," you quip. "It went over well. I wasn't worried, of course. It's '78; two men being in love is hardly a matter of life or death these days. But... It made me miss you. Not in the quiet way I always do, but in a way that hurts like it hasn't hurt in years." You swallow, more embarrassed by the naked longing in your voice than the admission itself. "So I've brought you something. Isn't that funny? Giving you a gift on my birthday. You'll have a lot to make up for when I see you again." The chiding words are undercut by the grin you can't quite hide as you dig through your messenger bag.

When you find what you're looking for— a weathered Mnemotechnique A6, torn in a few places, practically ancient— you place it on the ground in front of him, opening the cover to admire the flower pressed into its first page. "I can't believe I managed to hold on to this old thing. It's from when we first met, in Martinaise. Jean had the idea to press a flower in, so I picked a may bell. I thought you'd like it— you always used to like them, and I suppose they've grown on me, too."

Closing the notebook, you slide it closer to him, warmth blooming in your lungs like the first drag of a cigarette on a cold night. "So, let me promise you something, as if we were young fools in love, rather than the relics of the past we are." You reach out and rest your hand on the headstone, tender, like you're cupping his cheek. "I'll find you again, Harrier. I promise I will return to your side."

Bracing yourself, you attempt to stand up, but a jolt of pain sparking up your unsteady legs forces you grit your teeth and rest your achy bones for a moment.

(You try not to be secretly grateful for the excuse to stay just a bit longer. You fail.)

With a breath of laughter, you add under your breath, "Sooner rather than later, I think. But, it's as they say: après la vie, la mort..."

You lean forward and press your lips against cold, porous rock.

Somehow, for a brief moment, you could almost convince yourself that you were kissing him on the forehead— bidding him farewell, or perhaps goodnight. You like the second option better.

(You hope the morning comes soon.)

"... Après la mort, toi," you say, altering the line. It feels right. There is nothing after the pale, and you can't possibly know what's after death, but you know one thing: you will see him again. Pulling back, you stare for a moment at the words on his grave— you can't read it this close, but you already know exactly what it says, tracing your fingers over the indented lettering.

HARRIER DU BOIS

AGED 61 ('07-'68)

SOMETHING BEAUTIFUL IS GOING TO HAPPEN

Finally, you manage to retrieve your cane and bag and get to your feet. After a few steps, you stop, turning back around to add, "I love you, Harry," because you've just realized that you haven't said it yet. You almost want to apologize for forgetting.

It's just that it feels unnecessary. Redundant. Everything you do is loving him. You've sat here with him and rambled for nearly an hour, and you've said so many different words, and yet somehow, at the same time, all of them were the same.

A million different ways to say I love you.

(He can always hear you.)

Not for the first time, you find yourself huffing with amusement— Jean is right, you really have become more like him, if your this is where your train of thought is leading you. A disorganized and poetic mess. You nearly open your mouth to voice this observation to him, but... You stop yourself. You don't need to. He heard you.

#alex writes sometimes #thank you guys so much for the positive feedback btw it's been really nice #this fandom is so sweet #or idk maybe i'm just lucky haha #fanfiction #also i have no idea if I'm writing kim's voice right #i keep second guessing myself lol i'm so worried about having a “he would not fucking say that” moment #disco elysium #harry du bois #kim kitsuragi #kimharry

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nerdyerror · 2 months ago

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Chapter 1

Chpt. 2

“How could you be so stupid? I will revoke the challenge,” Uther rages, pacing behind Arthur. Arthur seethes slightly, two of his men have died to the mysterious knight, “No.” He turns away from his father, he would cave if forced to look in his eyes.”The Knights’ code must be upheld. That’s what you told me.”

“This is different,” Uther insists, he lays his hand on his son’s shoulder turning Arthur to face him, “You are the Crown Prince. Someone will fight for you.” Arthur pales, he can’t lose another knight, “You want me to prove myself. I cannot do that by being a coward.” Uther opens his mouth to speak, but the door creaks open before he can, Leon pokes his head in.

“Ah, my apologies, Sire, I was not aware you were having a private conversation,” Leon says, backing out and going to close the door. “No, Sir Leon, this is perfect timing,” Uther says, beckoning him in. Leon nods.

“You’ve returned from patrol early?” Uther says; it is more a formality than actual interest. Leon holds out a pile of papers, “Yes, I came to deliver my report.”

“Yes, yes,” Uther says, “I have another assignment for you.” Leon hesitates, his brow furrowed slightly, his eyes glance between the prince and king, “What is it, my lord?”

“Arthur has foolishly challenged a foreign knight to a duel. One he is not prepared to face. Leon, you are one of my most skilled knights, would you take his place?” Arthur stares for a moment, it’s true Leon is perhaps the greatest knight of Camelot, skilled, and dedicated. They cannot afford to let this knight kill him, it would be a greater loss to Camelot than Arthur’s own death, at least in Arthur’s opinion. Leon only blinks for a moment, “Who is this opponent?” Arthur’s stomach drops, Leon is accepting or preparing to accept.

Arthur suddenly wishes to leave the room, but he feels rooted to the floor. He doesn’t listen to Uther’s next words, nor Leon’s response. How can he? Leon is Arthur’s cousin, more than that, his friend. And Leon has always been there, steady and sure as the sunrise, the knight that Arthur admires most, (sometimes even more than his father- but that is a private thought he would not admit,) someone who is loyal and kind and gentle. Leon has always treated Arthur well, allowed him to win duels when he should not have, offered advice, and taught him to wield a blade well. The thought that steady sure Leon could quite possibly die in only a day’s time was- (world ending-) impossible.

Leon observes his soon-to-be opponent with careful dread, he knows the armor well, he knows the crest upon the shield, he knows what Uther dares not to admit. Tristan DuBois, Leon’s father, dead for nearly twenty years. How he was here was unimportant; no, what was important was that he was unlikely to lose, to be capable of being felled. Leon could not face his father, or whatever was left, a wraith, he suspected. It is amusing perhaps, in that sick twisted way, that Uther has knowingly faced Leon against the remains of his father. Remains that Uther had caused. There was an ache in his chest, an ache he knew all too well. He turned his head, he must prepare, and rest was likely the best thing he could do.

As Leon walks to his room, his thoughts return to the oppressive feeling in his chest. He knows what it is, hate. Hate is the only word for it, a soft dull thing, like the fading embers of a fire, or an old wound, the cause is distant but the pain is alive and well- after all embers still burn and old wounds can kill. Leon has long since lost the energy for righteous fury; it died with his brother, a decade ago. He sighs stopping, right in front of the heavy wooden door to his room, he has kept this room for a decade, his feet know the way. He allows his hands to trace the lines of the wood, before opening it and going to sit on his bed.

He looks around, his room is as bare and plain as always. The other knights thought him modest or spartan. Too busy with his duties to decorate his room or to befriend. A more cynical man would realize that Leon’s room was as unadorned as Leon was, a purposeful act. He had done it out of fear, never shown who he was, never shown himself in his rooms, or made close friends of the knights. He regrets it now, with the promise of death awaiting him. Which is funny because he had never feared death. It was the one thing Leon did not fear. He shuts his eyes.

His old desk only holds the various papers he must work on, a quill, and an even older inkwell. His bed has only the plain sheets provided. All of him is in his closet. There is a knapsack tucked away, next to it an ancient family heirloom sheathed and never to be used. The knapsack contains his knick-knacks, the things that identify him as Leon. A small Lion figurine his father had carved for him when he was a newborn, a necklace that had belonged to his mother and then his sister, and a portrait of his family when they were all together. The heirloom- the sword, had been passed down in his mother’s family for generations. It was a work of art and a magical artifact. The sword, by its proper name the Glas Sword, had been burnished in a dragon’s breath. He could not use it for it would reveal his magic. He opens his eyes, standing he opens the closet door, and reaches for the knapsack, pulling out the small rolled canvas. Unfurling it, he looked upon the portrait.

He traces the figures with his eyes. Starting from the left, Uncle Balinor, his mother’s brother, his hand is on his sister’s shoulder, who sits in a chair in front of him. Mother sits in an elegant chair, her right hand in her lap, her left on the armrest. Father is to the right of Uncle Balinor, one hand covers his wife’s. Uncle and Mother both have a mischievous glint in their eyes. Sitting next to Mother are her parents, Caractos and Adhan. Grandfather Caractos holds an infant, Eleanor, Leon’s sister, her eyes are open and a tuft of blonde hair is visible from underneath her swaddle. Leon is next to them, sitting atop his grandmother’s lap. She has a hand on his shoulder, he was about two and a half at the time, but when he looks at this picture he swears he can remember the feel of her hand. Then to the right of his grandmother is his paternal grandfather, Amlawdd, hands folded in the center of his lap. Behind Grandfather Amlawdd, are his two younger children. Uncle Agravaine, he is much younger than Leon has ever remembered him to be, still stuck with peach fuzz rather than stubble, though he already must’ve been into his late twenties, and Aunt Ygraine, she is smiling, in Leon’s memory she is always smiling, her hands are sat on the corner of her father’s chair, though she looks at the painter. His elder brothers sit on the ground, Patrick is beside Mother, directly below Uncle Balinor, and Andre sits before Grandfather Amlawdd. Uther was not in this portrait, he had not accompanied his wife to the DuBois estate, Leon did not know the reason, nor did he care.

He doesn’t look at this picture often, he tells himself it is a fruitless thing to live in the past. Most of the people in this portrait are dead now. His paternal grandfather was the first to die, it was when he was a child, and Leon’s memory of him is foggy at best. He supposes that he was technically a child when all of them died, assuming his Uncle Balinor is still alive, though he didn’t feel like a child for most of them. He stopped being a child after his Aunt’s death because that’s when everything changed. Then his mother died, she was already ill when this was painted, she had struggled with Eleanor, and her health had slowly declined. Leon was four when his mother died, but he remembers her with awful clarity. When his Aunt died, Leon was seven, she had only held her son for a moment, naming him Arthur, and then she was gone. Leon had been close with his aunt; she had spent much of her time with her nephews and niece after her sister-in-law had died. He remembers seeing his father cry. A month later Uther announces his plan to start the purge. Father rides to Camelot, Leon slips away from his siblings and follows him. Leon doesn’t see the duel, doesn’t see the fight that preceded it, no he only saw the end of the duel, only saw the sword plunged into his father’s belly. There are ten days before the purge starts in full force. It starts with the murder of the dragonlords, it starts with the death of his grandparents because his grandfather was a dragonlord and his wife had insisted on following him. Leon is eight when his sister dies, she is six years old. And she dies because she wasn’t willing to stand by and watch as Patrick was dying. She had used healing magic, and been discovered. It is a long time till the next death. Andre died protecting Leon, using magic. He had jumped in front of an arrow intended for Leon and was only able to do so using magic to slow time. He was seventeen then, just knighted, on his first patrol as a knight.

He puts down the portrait, he looks at the sword, a blade like this could destroy the Wraith, but the Wraith is of his father and he can’t. Besides the blade is spelled to wield a dragon-knight’s magic, Leon’s magic. He is tired, he should rest.

Merlin has to find a solution before Leon faces the wraith. And he thinks he has, but where convincing Gwen to give him a sword was easy enough, convincing the dragon will be far more difficult. He sneaks down the long staircase, and into the dragon's cavern. He is waiting.

“Merlin!”

“Do you know why I’m here?” He called. “It may surprise you, Merlin, but my knowledge of your life is not universal,” the dragon sassed. “It’s to do with Leon, his life’s in danger, he will die. Unless I can make a weapon that will kill the dead.”

“Leon, hmm?” the dragon said, “So what do you come to ask of me?” Merlin drew the sword, the sound echoing in the cavern.

“Will you burnish it? To save my friend.”

“The dead do not return without reason, who has he come for?”

“Uther,” Merlin said. He knew this would make the dragon less likely to help him, but the dragon would know if he lied.

“Then let him take his vengeance, the wraith will die without my aid.”

“But it’s Leon who’s going to fight him, you have to save him,” he pleaded.

“And why, young warlock, should I aid him?” the Dragon spoke, he wasn’t really asking, Merlin could tell. Merlin scrunches his face, frustrated, “Leon is the best of the knights, he’s one of the people that makes Arthur less of a prat, if he dies, then Arthur would be changed. Arthur looks up to him, cares about him.” ‘So do I,’ remains silent. The dragon weighs his head, and shockingly, “You make a good point, but if I burnish this sword for the young knight, he must not keep it. It is not his destiny.”

“I’ll give it to Arthur,” Merlin agrees quickly, too desperate to save his friend than to question why Leon too has a destiny.

With the sword burnished, he runs to the physician's quarters needing to formulate a plan about how exactly to get Leon to fight with the sword. He is shocked to find Leon already sitting there. “Leon! I need to talk to you!” Merlin exclaimed, he doesn’t think as he says his next words, “This sword can kill the wraith, you have to use it!” Leon’s eyes widen almost imperceptibly, then his expression is smoothed over before he gently smiles, “Merlin, thank you.” Leon stands, the knight’s hand comes to the servant’s shoulder, “But I cannot use that sword.”

“What! But-” Merlin says, cutting himself off when Leon raises his hand, “I wanted to talk to you before it’s too late.”

“Leon, don’t talk like that,” Merlin frowns. “Just listen to me, please, my friend,” Leon says. Leon goes back to his seat, gesturing for Merlin to sit next to him. There is a pause as Leon seems to think; as if he’s about to broach a difficult topic.

“I know,” he says, “About your magic.” Merlin is shocked but Leon’s eyes are gentle and comforting, he allows Merlin to process the information, before continuing, “I’ve known since we met,” he sighs, “That’s not all. I have magic too. Nowhere near as powerful as yours but that’s how I know. I’ve known. And it’s not just shown me things like that. You’re my cousin. My uncle’s son.”

“You know who my father is?” Merlin says, barely processing what Leon just said, it seems impossible, “Who was he? I mean what was he like?” Leon smiles, “His name was Balinor Glastos, he was a dragon-lord, and he was a lot like you.”

“What’s a dragon-lord?” Merlin asks. Leon begins to explain, “A dragon-lord is the human term for what we are. ‘Man-faced dragons’ is what we call ourselves. We are dragons with human bodies, there’s actually not much more to it. And if you’re the child of a dragon-lord you’re a dragon-lord or a dragon-knight, and vice versa.” Merlin has a million questions, one that Leon had already answered, but he had to stay on track, “I have a ton of questions, but more importantly why won’t you take this sword?” Leon looks away, “I can’t destroy the wraith, even with that sword, I wouldn’t be able to do it.” Merlin wants to protest, Leon is one of the best knights he knows, he could totally beat the wraith, but Leon talks again before Merlin can begin.

“The wraith is my father. I can’t kill him, even if he’s already dead,” Leon turns his head back looking Merlin in the eyes, “I’m sorry.” Merlin doesn’t know exactly what Leon is apologizing for but, “It’s okay.”

Leon spends the rest of the night telling Merlin all about his father. And what it means to be a dragon-lord.

“Then Uncle Balinor set Gorlois’ socks on fire, and he…”

“...Well I’m a dragon-knight, not a dragon-lord, the magic I have is more related to the physical aspects of a dragon’s magic, rather than the intellectual like yours.”

Leon patiently answered Merlin’s questions, they laughed at old stories and pretended like Leon was not to face his death tomorrow. It was wonderful. But tomorrow came anyway.

Leon put on his armor for the last time. He sheathed the sword, put on his helmet, and stepped out to face his father’s wraith. There is a large audience but the crowd was silent as Leon walked forward. It felt as if all of Camelot was holding its breath. He faced the Black Knight, and the two drew their swords.

The wraith immediately went in on the offensive, hacking his sword at Leon. Leon parried easily, trying to pretend like this wasn’t the walking corpse of his father. Leon refused to attack, it would waste his energy, it takes five minutes for the cycle of attack and parry to end. The Wraith lands a particularly hard blow knocking Leon to the ground, his sword skips along the arena grounds and the Wraith discards its shield. He scrambles working on pure instinct as he hides behind his shield. He manages to dodge a blow and use his shield to deflect the next. The wraith lands a foot on Leon’s shield, locking its position into place, the wraith raises his sword above his head and- “LEON!” Someone shouts it sounds like Arthur, but Arthur hadn’t been in the stands. The Black Knight is frozen in place. “Leon,” it whispers, its voice a hair louder than a breath. The wraith moves his sword to one hand and uses the other to pull Leon’s helmet off. Leon has lost his grip on his shield, shocked and confused. The wraith hisses, throwing its sword to the side, and then it repeats, in his father’s voice, “Leon.”

His father moves backward before reaching out and enveloping Leon in his arms,

“My Son.”

Leon’s eyes began to water. His father removes his own helmet, looking the exact same as the day he died, “Oh my baby boy, my darling son, my little light! Look at you! Look how you’ve grown!” There are tears streaming down Leon’s cheeks and there are tears on his father’s as well. And then Gaius is there, and so is Merlin, and Arthur, and Gwen, and Morgana. And it’s alright, and Leon is half sure he’s dead, but-

“Let’s get you two to my quarters,” Gaius interrupted his thoughts, “Make sure you’re alright.”

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acekindaneat · 2 years ago

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Serirei Week !!

Day 3: firsts/love languages

Reigen finds himself speechless (rare occasion)

continuation below but it's written form !! ↓↓

Serizawa gave him a slight nod, his face unreadable but tense. He gently directed Reigen towards the couches and sat him down. Wordlessly sitting beside him, he opened the first aid kit and rummaged through it.

Reigen watches in cautious silence, eyeing his coworker's rigid movements. The cloth he used to temporarily cover the large scratch left by the spirit was starting to itch. He slowly untied the knot with his uninjured hand and peeled off the blood-soaked makeshift bandage. It was drying off, but it still looked terrible. Four large gashes across his forearm, it almost looks like a scratch from a big cat.

Serizawa shifting closer brought Reigen's attention back to him. Their eyes met for a second before Serizawa looked down at his arm with a wince. Guilt evident on his face as he wet a towel with water and started to wipe off the blood with the lightest touch he could manage. Reigen swallowed the lump in his throat, the tense silence was getting to him so he spoke up.

"This could be part of your training, you know." He lightly joked, shrugging with his unoccupied shoulder. "It's important to know first aid, especially in our line of work." Serizawa's eyebrows furrowed as a frown formed on his face, but didn't take his eyes off his work, nor did he say anything back. As soon as the blood that smeared was gone, he grabbed the disinfectant and a cotton ball.

It was gonna sting, Reigen already knew that, but he still felt his heart flutter when Serizawa glanced up at him with a sorry look and muttered, "This might sting..."

Reigen didn't miss the way Serizawa was holding his hand with his free hand. He didn't miss the way his thumb was soothing the back of his palm with light strokes. He didn't miss the way he could feel the warmth radiating off of Serizawa's body just from how close they were sitting. Reigen felt himself gulp, not sure if it was in preparation for the pain, or to force himself back to retain his composure.

He let out a small hiss and a wince, before letting it dissipate quickly upon seeing Serizawa's face look more like a kicked puppy. He knows the man felt guilty for not arriving quick enough to prevent the spirit from hurting Reigen further. It wasn't his fault though. He can't blame Serizawa, not when he looked this sorry.

Gentle, flitting hands finally wrapped the wound in a bandage and secured it carefully. When it was done, Serizawa didn't move away, but instead let his hand rest on the wrapped arm, slowly rubbing his thumb against it like it would help heal the wound faster. It might, Reigen could hope. He could hope that this moment lasts. He looked up at Serizawa with a soft look, hoping that his message came across. Please.

Serizawa looked up at Reigen's eyes with the same level of fondness. Despite what he feels, it still scares Reigen, to see someone look at him like that. He's scared of seeing it often that he'll get attached to it, attached to the fondness, attached to feeling loved.

He almost felt himself jump when Serizawa gently held his hand up and pressed Reigen's palm against his lips with closed eyes. It's like his heart stopped, his breath hitching as he inhaled sharply.

This seemed to wake Serizawa from whatever trance he was in and pulled away, his face flushed red. His gaze landed everywhere except Reigen's as he cleared his throat and gathered up the used cotton balls and the bloodied washcloth. "I'll, uhm, throw these away. I'll grab some ice for your neck.. and make you some green tea in a bit..." He paused, sparing Reigen a glance and assessing his state.

"I'm glad you're okay, Reigen.." Serizawa spoke again, then escaped to the restroom to clean his hands off. Reigen sat there staring at his palm, dumbfounded and speechless.

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