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tamedandscripted · 2 years ago

Text

oh, I'm no good at this at all

pairing: hawks / takami keigo x reader

length: 2.5k

genre: angst, hurt/no comfort

warnings: it's implied that keigo drinks a lot, reader is self-destructive, implied smut, everyone's sad and lonely, keigo is rlly sad in this one tbh it kinda hurt to write, poor boy just wants to be held and has no one to hold him

a/n: would it be a fic from me if it wasn't noah gundersen inspired ? no, go listen to heartbreaker, and pls comment it brings me limitless joy

Silence. That's all you have left. The kind that slithers down your throat and wraps around your lungs, squeezing and pulling until your heart thumps against your ribs and it echoes enough to fill the space.

And the silence feels loud - too loud. Your ears ring and your eyes burn and your head aches.

If only the bed weren't so cold. If only you weren't so alone. If only he hadn't left - why did you leave him?

If only there weren't so much silence.

You roll onto your back and will your eyes open before squinting at the light spilling in from your window.

Oh, you aren't good at this at all, you think. Not anymore, at least. You sigh, cursing him in your head as you think of yourself before you met him - the version of you that was fine with waking up alone - the version of you that remembered how to ignore how much it hurt, how much you hated it.

---

Keigo sighs heavily as he swings his legs over the side of his bed and rolls his head side to side in a futile effort to rid his neck of the knots that seemed to have become permanent. He stretches as he stands, letting his wings flutter and unfurl as he stumbles to his balcony, kicking empty beer bottles away with his feet.

He breathes deeply when he gets to the balcony, ripping open the door and stumbling outside before letting himself slide down the railing and sit on the concrete floor. He eyes his bed through the sliding glass door, gaze flitting over the pillows that had tumbled onto the floor, the sheets that he'd thrown off in the night. He clenches his teeth and shakes his head, ignoring the way the railing digs into his back.

Oh, you're no good at this, he thinks. He isn't good at wishing there was someone in his bed, someone to warm him when he goes inside, someone to come home to. He digs his palms into his closed eyes as he tries to rid himself of the image of you in his bed. You're gone, he reminds himself sternly. You're gone because he is a coward and you are the same.

So he sits there, still, letting the wind ruffle his hair and ignoring the shivers it causes, as he racks his brain to try to figure out when it all went wrong, when he changed so much, when his thoughts suddenly began to swim with you.

---

It was you who'd approached him; he'd been lounging in his booth at the bar he frequented as he swirled the ice in his glass and propped his foot up on his opposite knee. Sure, he'd been eyeing you all night, and you both knew how obvious he was being, but it was you who'd approached him before batting your eyes and asking if the seat next to him was taken.

And of course, he'd let you sit with him; he'd swung his arm over the back of the bench and let you slide into the space next to him, close enough that you could feel the heat rolling off each other and your legs brushed.

"What are you looking for tonight, sweet thing?" he'd asked, and his voice dripped honey.

"A distraction," you'd purred back as you leaned into him and fluttered your lashes, and he caught the mischief swirling in your eyes.

"Oh, yea?" he'd murmured, pouting with mock sympathy as he snaked his hand up the back of your neck to anchor itself in your hair, guiding your lips to his "well I think we can arrange that."

---

Keigo shifts his back against the railing and wraps his wings around himself - tells himself it's to shield from the cold, tells himself he doesn't want to go inside and get a shirt - that the low-slung sweatpants he wears are enough. Tells himself that of course, it's not because, if he closes his eyes, if he squeezes them shut enough that light sparks behind them, if he curls small enough into himself, it's almost like being held by you. No, it's not that at all. It's just the cold.

But it was that first night, he realizes; it was the minute you waltzed into his life, all charm and wit and dazzling smiles, determined to get what you want. It was as soon as that happened, that he fell for you, that the walls he'd built so meticulously came crashing down around him.

---

The two of you had collapsed in his bed, skin slick with sweat as you panted. You'd rolled over to settle on his chest, throwing one of your legs over his, and he'd froze, his hands had hovered over your naked back, unsure of what to do.

But you'd laughed, then, really laughed, as he watched your mask of suave indifference slip for a single breath. And that was all it took.

You were beautiful, he realized then. Of course, he knew you were attractive - that's how you ended up in his bed. But the way you smiled, the way you laughed, the way you curled up against him - it made him pause, made him really look at you.

Keigo felt his heart hammer against his ribs and the breath leave his lungs as his lips parted in shock. But just as he jolted back to reality, just as he willed his hands to move, to smooth down your back and hold you to him, you rolled over, standing up and walking away from him.

"Thanks for that," you shot over your shoulder as you picked your clothes up off the floor, slipping back into them. "You're a good distraction," you said, before slipping out of the room.

Keigo lay there with his eyes fixed on the ceiling as he listened to his front door close. He lay there as the sweat cooled on his skin and the sheets wrinkled. He lay there until he couldn't keep his eyes open, until they drooped in time with his slowing breath. Then he curled onto his side, pulled a pillow against his front as he held it in a crushing hold, and wept. He wept as he desperately held on to the memory of your hands on him, and as he hiccuped and sniffed, he realized, for the first time, how lonely he was, and how much he so painfully wanted to hold someone the way he almost got to hold you.

---

He went back to that bar every night after that, hoping to see you again. His eyes bore into every couple he saw, the way hands ghosted over one another and lips brushed, and his heart clenched. He'd never before thought that it was something that'd he'd want, and he blamed you for making him realize how wrong he'd been.

He saw you, eventually, after days of searching, and couldn't help but swing himself to his feet and make his way over to where you sat at the bar. You arched a brow as you watched him slide into the seat next to you.

"I don't often do repeat performances," you said smoothly. Keigo smiled and eyed you despite the way your words squeezed his chest.

"Can I persuade you to make an exception?"

And so, an exception was what he became.

He noticed it, over the months, the way your touch began lingering, the way it took you longer to pull away from him, the way your eyes softened when you looked at him. And Keigo latched onto it - these brief, fleeting moments of nearly imagined intimacy. And he curled into himself, alone in his bed, every night that you left, and wept until he fell asleep.

---

Keigo shifts again, wrapping his arms tighter around himself. Looking back on it now, he realizes that maybe he was right not to say anything for so long; he thinks that maybe it was some subconscious part of him, the only part of him you hadn't touched, that knew how badly it would go, how wrong everything would end up. He pulls his phone out, thumb hovering over the call button next to your contact name, and wonders if it would've been better to keep having nothing with you, instead of having to face being something on his own.

Keigo scoffs, then, tossing his phone onto the balcony flooring next to him and runs his hands through his hair, tugging at the strands. The last words you spoke to him ring through his head.

---

"I never wanted more," you'd said as you pulled away from him and grabbed a sheet to wrap around yourself. Keigo had flinched at that; you'd never felt the need to cover up in front of him before.

"It doesn't have to be more," he said in a rush and reached out to you. "Just - stay. Stay the night. You don't…" but he trailed off as you pulled farther away and he watched as you gathered your things and slipped out his door.

"You don't have to leave me," he whispered into the silence as he felt his heart split in two. That night, there was no crying; he didn't see the point. He cursed himself for getting soft, for ruining what he had, as he stumbled into his kitchen and pulled a beer out of his fridge.

He wondered if you were thinking about him as he started working his way through the bottles in his fridge; he wondered if, somewhere, deep down, beneath that iron mask of yours, you cared about him, even a little. And then he wondered what would've happened if he'd never laid eyes on you that first night, and then he began to weep again, because he wasn't sure which was more painful - to be alone for so long that it was all he knew, or to experience touch just long enough to have something to miss.

---

You lay in bed still, staring at the ceiling and replaying your last conversation with Keigo. He'd looked so small, so fragile as he'd asked you to stay. And it had shocked you; it had scared you into movement as you tumbled out of his bed and away from him. That wasn't what you were to him, and he should have known that. It wasn't what you wanted, but…

Your hand reaches across your bed, meeting nothing but empty space, and your heart clenches in your chest as you think of him. Regret pools in your gut, harsh and painful as you think of the way you left and how much you wish you hadn't. You wish you could've loved him the way he wanted, and you shake your head in an effort to rid yourself of the image of his face.

Eventually, you reach your hand over to your phone, but you flinch when it pings before you touch it. The notification you see makes you flinch again; it's a message from Keigo, and it's asking you to come over.

---

Keigo snaps his head towards the door when he hears the knock, before scrambling to answer it. He runs his hands through his hair again, trying desperately to tame it as he pulls at the hem of the t-shirt he'd thrown on, having not wanted you to see him in the state he was in.

But your eyes still widen as he pulls the door open, they still flit over him, his red-rimmed eyes and shaking hands, and Keigo huffs a breath as he sees something he probably imagines to be concern pass across your face.

"You wanted to talk," you say quietly, and he nods in conformation.

"Yea, yea I did. So, uh, come in." the silence is heavy as the two of you make your way to his kitchen table, and he struggles to wade through it as he watches you sit gingerly in one of his chairs while he heads to the fridge.

"Can I get you a drink?" he asks without looking at you, hand already pulling the fridge door open.

"No… thank you," you begin tentatively, "it's a bit early for that."

"Right," Keigo replies quickly, closing the fridge with enough force for you to hear things falling over in it. He turns abruptly, instead, and walks towards you, planting himself in the chair opposite you before fixing you with his gaze.

"Talk," you urge, shifting under his stare.

"Why did you leave like that?" he asks immediately.

"Because you want us to be something we're not,"

"That's not true," he responds quickly.

"Then why did you ask me to stay?" you press.

"I just wanted… I just want you."

"But that's the problem, Keigo. You want too much of me - more than I'm willing to give."

"Why?" he asks, and the desperation in his voice becomes more prominent. "What are you so afraid of?"

"I'm not afraid of anything," you snap back.

"You are, I know you are. It's why you left."

"No, it's not."

"Look at me right now and tell me you don't feel anything for me," he demands. You sigh, shoulders slumping, before letting your eyes fix on his.

"I don't love you," you say purposefully.

"That's… not exactly what I asked."

"Keigo," you sigh, rubbing your temples. "There's nothing here. There's nothing for us in this."

"That's not true, I just - you just need to admit -"

"You don't feel anything for me either, Keigo. You just can't see that." He stiffens as you speak.

"You don't get to tell me I'm wrong about this; you don't get to tell me what I feel," he says icily. You sigh, and your eyes soften when you look at him.

"You're not in love with me, Keigo," you say gently. "I just… I think you're in love with the idea of having someone - of not being alone."

Keigo pauses at that, his mouth opening and closing as he searches desperately for something to say, some way to tell you you're wrong.

"Well… what about you?" is what he weakly settles on. You shift uncomfortably in your chair.

"I never claimed to be any different," you say softly as you keep your eyes trained on the table between you.

"So… what?" he begins. "We just do this forever? Meet, get drunk, fuck, and then you leave and pretend it's what you want while I stay and pretend I'm okay with it?"

"No, Keigo," you say firmly. "We can't do this anymore."

Keigo feels as if the floor vanishes from beneath his feet at your words, as he watches you stand and make your way to the door.

"Wait, no," he rushes, stumbling over his chair as he stands, tripping after you. "No, it's - it's fine, you won't have to - we can keep doing this, I'm sorry, please… please don't leave again." He stops abruptly as he watches you open his door before tilting your head to look at him.

"You're no good at being loved, Keigo. And I'm no good at loving," is all you say before you slip out of his apartment one last time.

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gadyna · 3 years ago

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I see, what goig on.

AZTA! Looted emotion under

She happily reports last night that there are GRFN,- great things are happening with the genuzly artdesigne futurist zilioner, Kálóczy, I can give others opportunity through. She said enchanted smile on Her, not knowing today the smile on Kálóczy’s face is a real or forced grin, smiles are so rare on her face one of these days. Something had changed again. To my question, she said something, I…

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totigerlilly · 8 years ago

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When you woke up at 7am and had some time on your hands. #OOTD #fashion #whatimwearing #raptors #peacecollective #timberland #GRFN #nativelife #anishinaabe #styled #fashiongame #tashinaleeemery #pendleton #choker #jeans #alberta (at City of Fort Saskatchewan)

#peacecollective #raptors #whatimwearing #anishinaabe #timberland #ootd #styled #fashiongame #pendleton #jeans #choker #tashinaleeemery #grfn #alberta #fashion #nativelife

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tamedandscripted · 2 years ago

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@tetsupeach this is what you've done to me btw

(gripping the sink) vienna waits for me

#I say this with love #grfn. mutuals

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anistarrose · 6 years ago

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Make My Way Through The Night All Alone (GF Stanuary Week 3 - Dreams)

Summary: Caryn tells her twins that they’re too young to see the future, but Stanley dreams of crows and stars and mirrors.

Word Count: ~3200

Warnings: none

Written for @stanuary Week 3: Dreams! Title is from “Lonesome Dreams” by Lord Huron, which I’ve always associated with Stan for some reason.

“Thanks again for callin’,” Stanley’s mother says into the phone. “If the future ever grows uncertain again, just give me another ring.”

She hangs up, and reaches over to muss up Stan and Ford’s hair. The boys are crammed on either side of her as she sits on the windowsill, having spent the whole phone call poking each other and whispering jokes and doing just about everything they could to annoy their mother.

“All right, what’s the fuss about this time?” she asks them. “Stanford, you got a question for me?”

“When doesn’t he?” Stan snarks, but Ford ignores him and asks:

“Are we supposed to be able to see the future like you, Mom?”

Their mother sighs, and shakes her head. “Odds are I’ve passed my Sight onto you, but it’s not gonna show up ‘til you’re teenagers. I’ve told you this before, haven’t I?”

“You have, but… are you sure?” Ford frowns, like he’s struggling to find the right words to capture all the thoughts floating around in that big brain of his. “Because I just don’t get how seeing the future is supposed to work. Do you just see possibilities, or is the whole future already determined?”

Their mother starts to reply, but Ford doesn’t stop talking. “It can’t just be possibilities, can it? Because you’re always so sure about whether one of your clients will get a job, or stay healthy, or whatever they’re asking you about. Except if there’s only one future, if… if everything is predestined, then… by who? Does someone up there —”

He points to the sky. “— just choose every single thing that happens to us? And if we can’t control any of our destiny anyway, then what would even be the point of —”

Their mother holds up a hand. “Whoa there, smarty-pants, you’re starting to lose even me a little bit. I know you’re not gonna like me saying that you’ll get it when you’re older, but you’ll get when you’re older. It all sounds complicated now, I know, but sometime when you’re in high school or thereabouts it’ll start making sense all of a sudden, and you’ll see it’s a lot simpler than that.”

Ford frowns, but she pats him on the shoulder and gives him a wide, knowing smile — the teasing smile, Stan has always called it in his head, the one she makes when she’s hiding something from the twins.

“But I can promise you now, your choices are yours and no one else’s. They do matter. Some things might be certain, but not in the way you think they are — you’re the one who makes things certain for yourself, not any being up in the heavens.”

“Maybe you’re right that I need to be older,” Ford mutters, “because I don’t get how that works at all.”

“Oh, don’t worry. I didn’t either, for a long time.” Their mother turns to look at Stan. “Stanley, you’ve been quiet. What do you think about all this?”

“I dunno. I kinda got lost once Ford started talking about destiny.” Stan’s not too upset about not getting it, if Ford doesn’t get it either. When Ford says something doesn’t make sense, it usually doesn’t make sense.

Their mother looks like she’s about to say one last thing, but then the phone rings again, and she gestures for them to wait. But Ford doesn’t stick around — instead, he trudges upstairs, shoulders slumped and eyes fixed on the stairs below him.

Stan follows. “What’s with the long face, Sixer?”

Ford shrugs as he heads into the twins’ bedroom. “It’s nothing.”

“C’mon, I know there’s gotta be something botherin’ you.”

“I just…” Ford sits down on the lower bunk of their bed and half-heartedly flips through a comic book. “I guess I’m just not used to not understanding things.”

“Well,” Stan tells him, “even if you don’t get it right now, I bet you’ll still end up with psychic powers way before you’re a teenager.” He gives Ford a playful punch in the arm. “It could happen any day now!”

Ford’s frown fades away and his eyes light up with excitement. “Hey, you’re right! It could!”

A few hours later, before Stan goes to sleep, Ford puts a pen and a notebook on the table beside their bed, and then tosses another set onto his bunk up top.

“The human brain isn’t very good at remembering dreams after it wakes up. So that’s why tomorrow morning, I’m going to write down all my dreams before I forget them, so we can decipher their meaning and see if they predict anything! You should too — psychic powers seem like the type of thing that would sync up in twins.”

He notices Stan giving him a skeptical look and adds “Please?”

“Okay, nerd, I’ll try. But don’t get on my back if I don’t write anything, ‘cause I don’t really dream that much.”

It’s true — or at least, Stan thinks it is. In the mornings, Ford’s always retelling some wild adventure from the past night, something about dinosaur ghosts, or Bigfoot getting abducted by aliens, or his comic books coming to life, forgetting half the details but still enthusiastically recounting the sensation of dreaming. Stan always wakes up remembering nothing but a black void.

But there’s a difference between not dreaming at all, and forgetting all one’s dreams when morning arrives — and Stan falls in the latter category.

***

He’s watching a soaring bird — or is he the bird? No, there’s two of them, and he’s flying a bit behind the other, catching an easy ride as its dark form slices through the wind ahead of him. There’s a warm, blustery feeling against his stomach, and he and the other bird both spread their wings wide —

But he doesn’t rise.

He’s left behind.

ulglqj rq brxu eurwkhu’v frdwwdlov — vfudsh wkh eduqdfohv rii wkh grfn — frph ylvlw ph rq wkh rwkhu vlgh ri wkh frxqwub

He cries out for the other one, the one that the updraft catapulted towards the bright yellow sun, but his caw is lost in the wind. He flaps harder and harder, but he feels like he’s only sinking lower and lower, until finally he’s on the ground and his wings ache too much to lift him up again.

It’s muddy here, and the dampness seeps into his feathers, sending a chill through his tiny body. He ducks underneath a tree, hoping that it’ll be drier there and that the warm bed of pine needles below him will keep him warm…

It’s dark here too, not a single star in the sky and the moon just a sliver of white that keeps shrinking more and more, leaving him blind. What is he supposed to do? Where is he supposed to go?

It’s lonely here, so lonely. He wishes the other one would come back.

But he is a bit warmer now, and drier too. Maybe he’ll be alright, just staying like this for a while…

There is smoke in his lungs and fire at the tips of his feathers, waves of red surging all around him, lashing out at him. He launches himself into flight, and barely escapes from beneath the old pine tree before it topples to the ground, ablaze. It will no longer be a sanctuary for him.

(But maybe that’s for the best — it stirred up an uncomfortable twinge of homesickness in his stomach anyway.)

The fire keeps raging, flickering flames reaching closer and closer, so he keeps fleeing it — he must, if he wants to survive. It roars and sputters, it’s scorching hot but cold and lonely, it’s the anger of the rest of the world but it’s a part of him too, it’s the past and the present and the future.

It’s inevitable, it’s destiny. He will burn one day —

But not today. It’s not the right time, not yet. He’s not ready to go up in smoke.

He keeps flying, staying barely ahead of the blaze until his tail feathers are nearly singed into nothingness and his wings feel like they’re made of lead. Only rarely does he find a moment to rest, and even more rarely does that reprise last more than a few seconds.

He doesn’t know how long he’s been fleeing like this — though he doesn’t spend much time wondering, either. All he can do is fly…

But suddenly, he hears a caw, and pain tears through his gut like a lightning strike. He soars past a cliff, and the trees and flames come to a halt, replaced below with an ocean’s choppy waves and above with a sky full of constellations, of bears and hunters and triangles.

The other bird is here, suspended between sea and sky as if in a trance. Even though it’s far away, he recognizes it as the same one from before. Its feet have one more talon than his do.

But the other one is still rising — soaring towards the stars, the hypnotizing light of the cosmos reflected in its eyes. It moves unnaturally, barely flapping its wings but going faster and faster, like gravity has reversed and it’s unable to stop itself.

He flies after it, not knowing why. Nothing good happened the last time he tried to catch up with it — but he must follow, he can’t just leave the other like this. Not now, not after having missed it so much. Not when everything about this ascent to the heavens feels so horribly wrong. He has to catch up to it, he has to…

He flaps harder and harder, and the air around them grows warmer and warmer, like they’ve grown close enough to the stars to feel the heat from their fire. The spot where his right wing meets his body begins to burn with a sudden red-hot pain, but he keeps flying, and the gap between him and the other grows smaller and smaller —

A black feather floats past him, falling in a spiral. Then another, and another, and then he finally sees it — the other bird isn’t rising anymore.

For one terrifying moment of revelation, it’s held in place in the sky, wings dripping feathers like splotches of melted tar. For the first time, it acknowledges him — letting out a hollow, frightened caw. A plea. A prayer.

Then it falls. The one that could never do anything but rise falls, and he dives after it.

No, this can’t happen —

l mxvw jrw klp edfn, l fdq'w orvh klp djdlq —

They’re still far above the sea, but he can already tell that he won’t catch up in time. Please, he prays to the stars and the waves, please help, I’ll do anything…

For a moment, there’s no response.

But then beneath him, as they plummet towards the water, black feathers begin to glow golden-white. No longer is the other bird shedding drops of tar — now it’s liquid fire, it’s candle wax, it’s starlight.

The sea goes calm, the rough foam of the waves dissipating to form a flat surface, a perfect mirror of what lies above. When the other strikes it, it does not splash — only distorts for a moment, and suddenly the bird is gone, but there’s another star in the reflection that isn’t there in the sky.

He cries out for the other, but no sound comes, and something tugs at him from behind. He can see a glow appearing at the tips of his wings and spreading towards his body, and an unseen power hurtles him towards the cosmos, higher than he’s ever been, where his feathers melt away into a brilliant explosion of gas. He can still see, but cannot move, as if the other heavenly bodies around him have become his cage.

Far below, he can just barely make out his reflection — the star that used to be the other bird. You were supposed to be the one up here, he tries to call to it. What went wrong?

But he’s a star now too, and stars have no voice. So all he can do is watch, staring down at the faint light of his reflected twin.

Twin stars above and below. Twin stars, fallen. Twin stars, trapped.

He wonders if this is how he’s meant to burn, imprisoned in the vast and lonesome cosmos. But it can’t be, for this is not an end for him — no, instead he’s the source of continued life, an anchor in reality so that his twin may live on in a reflection.

He’s still so terribly, terrifyingly alive.

A shooting star crosses the sky, but instead of burning out, it changes direction, and he realizes it’s heading towards him — then another star falls from its place in the north, above the Big Dipper, to follow the meteor’s path. Together, the two bright lights circle him, as if they’re accepting him into some embrace — they feel young for some reason, young and friendly. After a moment’s hesitation, he tries to move and finds that he still cannot, but he embraces them back in spirit.

Below, there is no such display of affection reflected in the sea — but there is a raging supernova, tainting the whole sky red and growing brighter with every minute.

He’s running out of time to save the other.

A human with an obscured face walks through a vaguely familiar forest, breathing in the morning mist as their gaze flickers between the trees, between the pines and the birches. For some reason, it lingers on the birches for just a little longer.

A small, battered-looking crow eventually catches their attention. They’re no birdwatcher, but they know they’ve seen this specific animal before — the scar on its right wing is hard to miss. They watch it from a distance, as it hops around on the forest floor and collects silvery shards of glass — no, of a mirror.

The human suppresses a chuckle.

What a funny bird, the crow. Genius by animal standards, but still so dedicated to such strange rituals. Is it because so much of the world lies hopelessly beyond their comprehension, that they choose to focus on such worthless things as mirrors?

For a long time, the human watches the crow as it labors, paying more attention to the status of its craft than to the behavior of the animal itself. Finally, they see it arrange the shards into a small but complete triangle, where despite the cracks, its shadowy reflection becomes clear — only for that reflection to leap out of the mirror and strike at the bird, lashing out with long, strong wings and talons.

To work so hard, to sacrifice so much, with this as your goal? The human laughs, and laughs, and laughs.

hyhubwklqj l'yh zrunhg iru, hyhubwklqj l fduh derxw, lw'v doo iru wklv idplob — l phdq, zkr zrxog vdfulilfh hyhubwklqj wkhb'yh zrunhg iru mxvw iru wkhlu gxpe vleolqj?

He’s a bird again, and so is the other, blindly fluttering through a smoke-filled forest together. Just when he feels like he’ll die if he takes another breath, they finally find a clear patch, and look to the sky to see that it’s all gone red.

Three more birds descend. All of them are made of stars, but two are from the real night sky while the third is from the sea’s reflection, that horrible nightmare prison, that corruption of all the promised secrets of the universe. The beast from the reflection flashes red and blue, suspended in air not by wings, but by massive plumes of fire. The crackling of its flames sounds like a horrible, mocking laugh, as it grips the other two birds from the stars in its talons.

The captives are so small and so fragile, their golden-white glow flickering. That glow should never leave them, not like it left the two elder birds — for these children were born as stars, not imprisoned there, and that light is a part of their nature. If it’s going out, then it’s only a matter of time until…

Without a single sound exchanged, the elder twins reach a decision.

He’s burning, and this time he knows it’s the time, the destined time. There are two things that are making this time different, so different from when the forest fire would singe his tail feathers and from when he was caged in the sky —

First, the flames are not orange-red, or golden-white, but blue. There’s two different shades of blue, really, and they’re working against each other, but it’s easy to see which one will win. After all, fire destroys — you can’t save yourself from fire with more fire. (Ru fdq brx?)

And second, he’s not lonely anymore. He doesn’t want to go up in flames, but he now sees why he must. It’s worth it, to save them. (Jxhvv l zdv jrrg iru vrphwklqj diwhu doo.)

He knows he could not stop this fire. It’s all laid out ahead of him and behind him, every choice of his life — fixed, yet still his. Destinies are not made by some divine mastermind setting your path for you, but by the non-linearity of time, by all your own choices all flowing back to exist simultaneously, pooling together into one spectacular fate of your own choosing, one beautiful destiny that resonates deep within you, all at once and not at all. He sees that now.

He sees.

He burns, and a warm updraft catches the embers. In front of two stars shedding golden sparks and a mirror shedding silver tears, a flaming pair of wings spreads out once more.

Two crows are soaring just above the ocean. Other birds of their species might shy away from conditions like these, but the salt in the air and splashes from the waves only feeds their excitement. They could fly across the world like this.

For a moment, the sun above them seems to blink like the yellow eye of a cat. But everything is at peace now, and it’s not really here. It’s just a memory.

It’s only here, only now, that the rhythmic crashing of the waves lulls Stanley awake.

***

He forgets about the notebook in the foggy haze of morning, and the dream fades to a blur by the time he eats breakfast. Ford wakes up shortly after him, and excitedly recounts a thrilling nightmare about exploring a haunted mansion, but when he asks Stan if he had any dreams of his own, Stan shakes his head.

By the time they’re teenagers, they learn how cold reading works. They come to identify their mother’s knowing, teasing smiles as not those of someone withholding genuine information, but simply those of a parent pulling their children’s legs. Neither can remember for sure who first voiced skepticism, but by the time they’re in high school it seems perfectly obvious.

Of course Caryn Pines fakes her “Sight.” If she really could see the future, she’d be able to make a lot more money than the meager earnings of a phone psychic. Neither Stan nor Ford is particularly upset about her lies, though — after all, they were the naive little kids who believed it without a second thought.

But every once in a while, Stan will still close his eyes and find himself locked in the sky again, alone.

***

Dg dvwud shu dvshud!

I’ve always felt like the myth of Icarus and the myth of the phoenix are opposites, in a way. One flies too close to the fires in the sky and falls, and the other burns but then rises towards the sky again.

I also love the myth of Castor and Pollux — where one twin dies, and the other shares his immortality so the two can become the brightest stars in the constellation Gemini.

Last but not least, shoutout to @howl-osullivan for the idea of Stan being a crow! This fic almost certainly wouldn’t exist without that inspiration!

#gravity falls #stanley pines #stanford pines #ma pines #stanuary #rosalia writes fic

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pharmaslots511 · 3 years ago

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