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cdroloisms · 3 years ago

Text

take a shot - dsmp!mcc fic

MCC FIC! MCC FIC! MCC FIC! To be clear, I outlined this weeks back, when teams were first announced, and I took very very little from the actual MCC itself when it came to actually writing this - all I have are the same teams, but it really exists in its own continuity outside of Real Life MCC (obviously, as it’s using the dsmp characters) and everything like that as a whole! Just to be clear :D)

The worldbuilding is also Absolutely Bullshitted start to finish, as well as any and all medical information. Rip. We’re here for a good time, not for a long or particularly accurate one - hope you guys enjoy regardless!! I had a LOT of fun writing this fic, dsmp!mcc aus my BELOVED

title obviously from win it all by derivakat

---

Michael loves MCC.

But it’s one thing to love the normal Championships and quite another when his team looks like it’s falling apart from the inside out - and as the games progress, it becomes more and more obvious that losing, this time, might not be an option.

tws: C!QUACKITY CRITICAL (sorry i promise i love him but he is NOT portrayed very nicely here, very dark portrayal of him), implied trauma, abuse, torture, panic attacks, manipulation, gaslighting, needles, hospitals, MCC-typical violence, emotional distress, prison arc, pandora’s vault themes

(16k words !! :D long boi)

Michael loves MCC.

Of course he does! It’s fucking MCC - like, who wouldn’t love it? MCC is how he met so many people, how he met Dream, that one time, the two of them teamed with Techno and Burren and winning it all - MCC is a goddamn blast and he’s thankful every time he gets the invite that he’s able to compete.

Still- it’s hard not to be a little more nervous, now.

Dream gave him an invite to his SMP right after they teamed, but it wasn’t until months later that Michael actually cashed it in. Entering the server, it became very obvious very quickly that the DreamSMP, as it’s known, isn’t quite the same as its shiny media appearance. The spawn was covered in blocks, creeper holes littering the ground. The people he passed were grey-faced, too stoic to be the same, smiling faces he remembers from only less than a year ago. The air stings of gunpowder and iron. Worst of all are The Crater, shoddily covered in glass that does nothing to hide the damage done, rending the server in two straight down to bedrock, and the Prison, looming on the horizon. Absent-mindedly, Michael rubs at his left shoulder, remembering the Warden setting the prongs of his trident against the skin in warning, just hard enough to barely draw blood. Yeah, that place is bad news.

The fact of the matter is the server is a mess. And like, okay, whatever, Michael gets it. Everyone has their issues - it’s just the DreamSMP seems to have more than most. Despite his original worries, it’s honestly not been as bad as he originally feared upon logging in; yeah, Bad and Puffy and Foolish and the rest of them are a little more trigger-happy than he might’ve expected (and he’s not going to say that Bad crying over turtles wasn’t a little startling when he first joined, but honestly he thinks Bad is just Like That.) There’s way more death than he’s really comfortable with, and Puffy keeps mentioning Bad murdering her son (Foolish? He thinks? The guy is also a literal God but like, families are weird, who’s he to judge) in a way that’s way too casual to come from anyone entirely well-adjusted, but overall his experience has been alright.

Still, he gets the feeling that nobody exactly wants the outside world to know about the issues with the place. It’s not an issue for him usually, not when his sleeping schedule is the exact opposite of most of the people he knows and he spends most of his time screwing around on the server, anyway (usually harassing the Warden until the asscrack of dawn if he’s being honest) but with MCC, with everyone watching - he’s starting to get why everyone from the SMP was so damn tense all the time, now.

Anyway- he loves MCC, he really does. But even that doesn’t stop him from wincing when he sees his team card, the names Dream and Quackity and Sapnap written in Scott’s looping handwriting. He’s not seen Sapnap at all since joining the server, has only heard a little about his place (something Kingdom, not that he was paying attention) from Foolish, and has no idea what the man has been up to. Quackity is his own unique can of worms; Michael doesn’t know exactly what’s up with him and his country, but everything he’s heard so far has sounded like nothing but bad news, casinos and schemes and a trail of wreckage following wherever he goes. And Dream-

Michael looks out his window, chewing on his lip, looking directly in the direction where he knows the prison stands, impenetrable, intimidating. Where Dream’s cell is, in line with his house, where he’s been hidden for months without a trace. Where the Warden had confronted him that one night, a dangerous gleam in his eyes, blood splattered on his boots.

There’s no real ignoring an MCC invite - not without good reason, not without the admins picking up on something being up. There’s not really a choice, here, but for Michael to duck his head down and pretend everything’s fine just like everyone else from the SMP. He directs one last glance at the prison before walking away, setting the invite on his counter. If he’s lucky, everything will turn out fine.

(He ignores the part of him that asks what’s going to happen if they’re not. No point in worrying about what hasn’t happened yet - right?)

---

Weeks pass, the tournament creeping closer, and Michael gets no alerts from his teammates on his comm. No one comes to his house to check in, say hi, not even a ‘hey, we’re kinda competing in a massive tournament in like, seven days, you ready?’ Hell, he even starts checking his goddamn mailbox for a letter or something only to come up empty-handed every time. Never mind performing well - it’ll be a miracle if their team manages to arrive at the tournament at all.

It isn’t until the day before MCC, the sun high in the sky at what must be near noon, when he finally gets a message on his comm. Michael fishes it out with a frustrated huff, seeing Quackity’s name pop up first when he manages to turn on the screen.

Quackity whispers to you: you down for some practice?

It takes a couple seconds for him to blink away his shock - out of everyone he expected to arrange practice for their team, Quackity was definitely not at the top of the list. He half-thought they would have to drag him to the tournament kicking and screaming; from what he’s heard, he’s been nothing if not devoted to his country. Shaking his head, he goes to reply; practice is practice, and their team really needs it.

You whisper to Quackity: sure. practice server?

Quackity whispers to you: yes

Pulling up his server list, Michael scrolls for the practice server, finding it and then letting the server transfer do the rest. A few nausea-inducing seconds later, he’s at the practice server spawn, standing in the middle of a neatly paved road surrounded by colorful arenas and signs.

“Michael!”

He turns; there, by the Battle Box arenas, Quackity is waving at him, already dressed in a red varsity jacket and a pair of shorts, the jacket bearing a front pocket embroidered with a rabbit and a large R stitched onto the back. He reaches behind him for a red bag, throws it his way for Michael to catch mid-air.

“Got these outfits for us last minute - hope it’s alright with you,” Quackity smiles, and Michael tries to prevent his eyes from clinging to the scar spanning the entire left side of his face. “Anyway- how are you, man? I feel like we haven’t seen each other at all on the server. How’s it been?”

“I’m good- it’s been good.” Michael opens the drawstring bag, cataloguing the contents - there’s a jacket, just like Quackity’s, a pair of shorts and sweatpants, a t-shirt, and a headband, all in varying shades of red and white. “Nice outfit- thank you. Is anyone else around?”

Quackity waves a hand behind him. “Yeah- Dream’s here. Should be coming out of the arena soon, actually.” Michael looks over behind his shoulder to where he’s pointing - there, walking down the stairs, is another figure wearing all red that must be Dream. “There he is- hey Dream! Michael’s here!”

Dream hurries down the stairs; unlike Quackity, he is wearing the sweatpants along with the same jacket, hands stuffed in his pockets. His hair is a lot longer than Michael remembers, pulled back behind his head in a ponytail, mask, as usual, fastened over his face. He settles behind Quackity, giving Michael a small wave; his hands are covered by a pair of fingerless gloves.

“Hey, Dream!” Michael grins; it’s been such a long time since he’s seen his old teammate, and despite the circumstances and everything that’s apparently happened since then, it’s still pretty damn nice to see him. “How’ve you been?”

Dream seems to freeze for a moment, before shaking his head. “Good,” he says, quiet, sounding almost breathless. Michael’s eyes go to the slivers of skin that show on either side of his face, to the slight shake to his hands.

“You alright? You look a little pale,” Michael asks, and he definitely doesn’t miss the way Dream stills at the words, muscles tensing, gaze averting to the side even with the mask - doesn’t miss how Quackity steps forward, looking Michael in the eye as he tosses a casual arm around Dream’s shoulder, smiling brightly.

“Don’t worry. This idiot has just been practicing a bit too much before you got here,” Quackity gestures with a flippant twist of his wrist, “You know how he gets. Right, Dream?”

“Um- yeah. Ha,” Dream responds just a little too late to be strictly normal, shoulders tight and nearly pulled to his ears under Quackity’s arm. “Practice- I’m a little out of shape.”

“You sure?” Dream’s breathing hitches and Quackity steps forward, just a little bit, eyes still fixed firmly on Michael’s own even as he shifts his gaze to try and look at Dream. “We can take a break if you need, Dream-”

“I’m fine!” Dream smiles with a little stuttered breath that turns into a small laugh, “It’s- uh. It’s fine. Thanks Michael, but we can practice. Not much time left to waste, you know?”

“You sure, Dream?” Quackity says, suddenly, voice soft and sincere. “I guess it has been a while since you’ve been able to practice- you sure you don’t need a break?”

Dream shakes his head firmly. “No- it’s fine. Really- where’s Sapnap? He should be coming soon, right?”

“If you say so, pal,” Quackity replies, doubt coloring his tone as he pulls out his communicator. “I told Sapnap to come, he replied a couple minutes back; he should be here soon, I think. You want to go meet him at spawn?”

Dream nods, and they begin to set out towards the center of the server, Quackity and Dream quickly taking the lead as Michael falls back. After a minute, Quackity falls into casual conversation, rambling about something as Dream nods, Michael trailing behind the two of them and adding his own input as he sees fit. Sapnap arrives soon after, and the noise level picks up even more after that, Sapnap and Quackity falling into an easy rhythm of banter and quips as they set out to practice Battle Box and Parkour Tag, carefully working their way through the different games under Dream’s tutelage and advice.

And here’s the thing- Michael isn’t stupid. Yeah, he’d hardly consider himself a top tier MCC player, and he’ll be the first to say that he’s nowhere near qualified to deal with the literal laundry list of issues that affect every member of the SMP, but even so, he’s not clueless. He’s good at looking at multiple sides of a situation, doesn’t easily give into intimidation or manipulation, and he’s observant as all hell. So when Quackity wraps his hand around Dream’s wrist, fingers wrapping all the way around until his knuckles pale, when Dream winces, muscles in his arm locking before letting it go limp, not protesting when Quackity drags him forward except in the tiny, tight expressions that flit across his face every few moments, tight and gasping and shaky at the corners - Michael notices.

“See you at the tourney, yeah?” Quackity calls to him after practice with a wink before clapping Dream on the back, Michael watching silently as the muscles of Dream’s neck pull tight, head ducking to his chest. “Good job, big guy,” he says, laughing. “Keep this up for tomorrow and we’ll be good.”

“Mmhm,” Dream mutters after a brief second, “We’re- we’re gonna win.”

“Betting on it, pal,” Quackity replies, voice light in a way that completely fails to explain Dream’s full-body flinch. “MCC, huh? Can’t fucking wait.”

“See you tomorrow, Quackity,” Michael says as he presses DreamSMP on his server list, pretending that a chill doesn’t crawl down his spine at the smile that the other man throws his way in return.

---

There’s no real easy answer.

Michael comes to that conclusion at some point in the middle of the night, restless and pumped on way too much adrenaline to go to sleep. He can’t outright antagonize Quackity, can’t let him know he knows something’s up - not when Quackity had already spent the majority of practice keeping one dark, narrowed eye on him at all times, lips pursed in a slight frown whenever he thought Michael wasn’t looking. He’s not stupid; whatever’s happening between Dream and Quackity is secret, and kept that way for a reason. His mind goes back to the brief flashes of anxiety that had moved over Dream’s face before he could react fast enough to school them back into a carefully neutral position; whatever it is, he doubts it bodes well for Dream in the slightest.

Unfortunately, his hands are pretty damn tied. He knows public opinion on the masked man in the server is overwhelmingly negative, but has no damn idea how far it extends. How many people are in on whatever’s happening in that damn prison? How many people know what would make Dream, bold and bright and recklessly confident in all of Michael’s (rather limited) memories, into someone so quiet, unimposing, nervous? His head spins with the possibilities, with the ever-present reminder to not make a fuss, let the tournament pass on, to never, ever let anyone find out what’s going on within the SMP. Should he do anything at all?

Too soon, it’s morning, and he drags himself out of bed with a groan to glare at the sun streaming through his window. Somewhere, Quackity and Dream and Sapnap are also waking up, are preparing to compete in one of the biggest damn tournaments to exist. Michael sighs, glancing over to where he’s set out his outfit, freshly pressed and waiting. Any other day, and he’d probably be fucking ecstatic. Here, he buries his head in his hands, muffling a frustrated groan against the palm of his hands.

He loves MCC, but he sure as hell doesn’t like whatever the hell is going on with the rest of his team.

Getting into the server goes smoothly enough. The outfit is comfortable and looks damn good, props to whoever made the thing, and the sight of the multicolored crowd successfully manages to tamp down some of his nerves. He busies himself with saying hi to all of the members waiting in the lobby, happy for the chance to talk to some people he hasn’t seen in ages, feels the night of anxieties wash away with every stupid joke told and burst of laughter drawn from his lungs.

They come back the moment Scott steps up in front of the lobby. “Teams, it’s time to head to your team rooms! The tournament will begin in fifteen minutes,” Scott says, expression sunny and bright, “we’re wishing you all luck for a great performance today! May the best team win!”

In a flurry of movement, they’re all whisked to their rooms for a final few minutes of preparation and morale-boosting, and Michael enters the glorified dressing room to Quackity, Dream, and Sapnap already standing there, seemingly in the middle of conversation.

“You ready to win?” Sapnap yells, and Quackity whoops, and Michael manages a small cheer of his own. They’re all visibly nervous; Quackity has scarcely stopped moving, pacing from one side of the room to the next; Sapnap is basically jumping in place where he stands. Dream stands at the very back of the room, looking tense; Michael directs a wave his way and gets a small one in return.

“Game plan, game plan,” Quackity mutters, “do we know what games we’re playing first? Dream?”

He nods at Dream, and Dream stands up straighter, mouth falling open.

“Oh- um,” he hesitates, a strand of hair flopping forwards as he tilts his head in thought. “We’ll want to save Parkour Tag and Battle Box towards the end- maybe something more high-risk at the beginning, but not first, just to boost morale,” his teeth catch on his bottom lip, “Maybe something like To Get To The Other Side? If they have that- or Build Mart, if we can get it out of the way.” He shakes his head. “If that’s alright- I mean-”

“Great,” Quackity cuts in smoothly. “Sapnap? Michael? Does that sound good to you?”

Sapnap flashes a thumbs up, and Michael nods. “Yeah, sounds great. Thanks, Dream.”

Dream’s head snaps towards him, mouth slightly open in shock. The sight of it makes Michael’s gut twist uncomfortably; there’s something about how surprised he is, at the nervous hesitancy with which he spoke that was nothing like what Michael remembers of his easy leadership in that MCC with Techno, that doesn’t sit right at all in his stomach. Even with his expression largely hidden, there’s no mistaking the clear, genuine surprise on his face at the idea of someone thanking him - Michael tries to tell himself that he’s reading too much into it as Quackity continues to speak.

“We’re going to win,” he grins, just a little too sharp at the edges, “so get out there and play like your lives depend on it, yeah?”

Sapnap cheers, and again, Michael and Dream follow. It’s not until he’s outside the door, within the clamor of screaming teams and people counting down with the timer that Michael realizes that Quackity was staring at Dream the entire time.

---

Michael curses, frustrated, when he’s knocked off a platform again, making sure to flip Krinios the bird before he falls into the Void entirely. When he makes it to the other side, Quackity and Dream are already deep in conversation - if you can call it that. Even from here, it looks worryingly one-sided.

“-were you thinking, falling off there-” Quackity’s hand is on Dream’s shoulder, Dream standing stock-still in front of him, “you better be taking this seriously, Dream.”

“Hey- sorry about that,” Michael calls with a wave, “I swear Krinios had it out for me. At least I made it across, right?”

Quackity turns, startled, and in the split-second that it takes for him to register Michael’s appearance, his expression smooths over into something friendlier, more inviting. “Michael!” He says, enthusiastic, and it’s like the anger that had filled his words just seconds before was never there at all. “Don’t- don’t worry about it, man. We all kinda dropped the ball on that one, right Dream?”

The words should be encouraging, just simple ribbing between teammates. Dream’s mask is still ducked down, facing the floor, shoulders slightly hunched in.

“Um- Sapnap did pretty good,” Dream says, quiet, “he got top ten, right?”

Michael looks over to where Sapnap is standing a little ways away, seemingly busy typing on his communicator. Quackity laughs, sharp and loud.

“True,” he punches Dream lightly on the upper arm, and Michael watches the way he freezes the second the fist makes contact with his jacket, “come on, man, you’re losing your touch. You really gonna let yourself get beat by Sapnap?” he shakes his head, still laughing as he pulls open his communicator. “Jesus- even I beat you in that last round. Watch your spot, Dream, I’m coming for you.”

“I mean,” Michael says when a second passes and it becomes clear Dream isn’t going to respond, “Dream was doing pretty well with the last two rounds, right? I thought I saw his name pretty far up there.”

Quackity takes a second before responding, again, staring at Michael oddly as he does. “That’s true,” he concedes, “hey- I was just making a joke, don’t worry. It’s all for fun, right Dream?”

His gaze goes to Dream, and automatically, Michael follows. Dream seems to startle under the attention, twitching Quackity’s direction in the awkward silence that results. Michael watches as the mask slants slightly to face Quackity, as Quackity looks back at him with an intense, unreadable expression, shoulders strangely tense. Whatever unsaid conversation that seems to pass between them is entirely lost on Michael as Dream finally responds with a sudden, almost strangled bark of laughter.

“Yeah- just jokes,” his fingers twist over one another, hands held close together in front of his body, “Though Qu- Q’s right, I- I should probably pick it up. We’re playing to win.”

A ding alerts them to the end of the round, and Michael steadies himself in preparation for the teleport to the next map. As he turns, he catches Quackity’s expression, once again, and the self-satisfied smirk on his face as he continues to look at Dream.

“Good luck,” he calls just before they enter the next round, and tries not to think too much about what he’s saying it for.

---

They manage pretty well for the rest of To Get To The Other Side, finishing with a second place overall that got cheers from Sapnap and even a slight smile from Dream. Hole in the Wall, on the other hand, has been a lot less successful - though Michael will be the first to say that it’s his fault. His practice in the last few months has been lackluster (at best) and it definitely showed in the arena.

He leans over the railing, watching Dream and Sapnap through the crowd of participants left that have yet to be knocked out by the giant walls of slime. Quackity’s standing next to him, having been similarly thrown off the platform early in the round, expression tight and lips set in a small frown, and looking at him for too long makes Michael uneasy so he looks down at the arena again. They’re in the last round, and they’re supposed to be making callouts anyway for their teammates still participating below.

Without thinking, once again, Michael looks over at Dream. Sue him, he knows the guy best and Dream has been acting odd all day, to put it lightly. Even ignoring the part of him that’s screaming that something’s wrong, that there’s something up that has everything to do with the beanie-wearing man standing besides him, it only takes a few minutes of observation to see that Dream is - for the lack of a better word - off. Michael watches as he vaults over another wall, only barely managing to bring himself to his feet in time on the other side. Dream’s movements - even to his untrained eye - have always been fluid, effortless. He jumped and vaulted and ran like gravity didn’t exist, like every physics-bending maneuver he made was as easy as breathing. Michael remembers watching him sprint over the parkour course before, time completely unmatched as he appraised each obstacle and basically flew his way through, sounding hardly even winded when he whooped loudly in victory from the top of the salmon ladder. In total contrast, Dream jerks away from the coming wall again, movements sloppy and harsh as he scrambles to the other side of the disc-shaped arena. He’s still fast, and still making jumps, but everything is strangely angled where it had once been fluid, stopping and starting suddenly, moving in bursts of speed and then skidding to sudden stops.

“WEST!” Quackity shouts, and Michael watches as Dream’s head turns jerkily at the noise before he dives out of the way of the incoming wall and manages, barely, to twist around the side. Michael winces at the tumble he takes on the opposite side, clutching his chest slightly as he stands back up again.

“North!” Michael calls, because he should probably actually help his teammates, huh, and Dream manages to move around this one better, jumping through a hole in the wall and tucking and rolling as he lands. “Nice jump- East!”

It’s an easy wall, thankfully, and both Sapnap and Dream visibly take a breath as they stand in place for the wall to pass over them. As it passes, a droning buzz comes from the speakers, and the walls below them speed up.

“South-to your right!” Michael shouts as they turn, eyes turning between all of the false walls before finally focusing on the right one, his shout echoed by a similar one from Quackity. At each one of the calls from the man besides him, Dream seems to tighten further, movements increasingly erratic as he dodges and weaves around the walls. There’s still a lot of people left - Michael follows Dream through the crowd with a frown, watching as he and Sapnap jump the next wall, Dream’s foot nearly catching on the top edge.

“West-” Dream flinches, jumping over the two-high wall at the last possible second, landing completely off-balance on the other side and falling to the ground. He scrambles to his feet, but there’s already a wall at the west edge of the platform - his head turns, still searching for the wall - Quackity yells.

“LEFT!”

Something in Dream’s movements seem to shift, even in the distance - Michael watches as he immediately, almost robotically, steps to the left at Quackity’s voice, not even jumping, not turning his head to take in his surroundings, just moving instinctually at the words, and slams into the coming wall hard enough to get flung into the middle hole in the platform. Quackity curses, fist crashing into the railing as Dream falls and the chat message shows on their communicators, and a second later he’s materialized beside them, face oddly slack and mask focused somewhere faraway.

“Shit,” Dream mutters when he seems to come back into himself, shaking his head and then turning to the two of them, still by the railing, “Dammit. Sorry, I-“

“Don’t worry about it,” Michael cuts in before Quackity can speak. “You did good.”

“I-” Dream catches Quackity’s gaze, then pushes his head away, mask facing the ground. Something about it and his raised shoulders and the dark, angry glare that Quackity directs over the railing when Michael looks back makes him shift in place, uneasy. “Could’ve done better, ha. Sorry.”

The three of them watch, silent, as Sapnap continues to compete. He manages to get pretty damn far, making it to the top three, but getting knocked off-balance by a wall and off the platform just before the timer sounds. Michael cringes back at the sound of it over the speakers, watches the other contestants settle into place, panting, in victory.

“Great job, Sapnap,” Michael shouts when he materializes in front of them, and the other two are quick to echo his sentiments. If they sound a little duller than they should be, if Quackity’s jaw seems clenched and Dream’s all coiled up like a spring, far too tense, it’s from placing lower than they wanted and slipping in the rankings, not anything else.

Keep your head down, Michael reminds himself, and everything’s gonna be fine. And if the words ring more and more hollow with every repetition, well, that’s for him to ignore and for everyone else to never, ever find out.

---

Buildmart is chosen next, which they all groan at, but at least it’s going to be out early and not left to ruin all of their scores later. Michael takes his place at his build, one third from the left side - it’s some abomination of colored glass and white concrete meant, if he is to guess, to emulate a stained glass window. He’s between Dream and Sapnap, the former positioned in front of a flower-dotted grass field with a picnic table, the latter staring down a miniature car with black concrete for tires and stone buttons for detailing. He breathes a steady breath as they await the countdown, already planning for his trip to the Colors section to grab materials for his build and the others’- Buildmart isn’t his strongest game, but it’s not his worst either, and he’s damn well going to try his best.

He skids into the portal with an armful of colored concrete and glass, spilling half of its contents inside a chest before running to his build. He pulls himself to the crafting bench to craft - he squints at his build - he needs four red glass panes and 3 yellow, right. As he brings the panes to his inventory and begins laying out the frame of the build in concrete, he looks over to Dream, who is noticeably struggling with placing the flowers in his build and getting the placements to match that of the original. He knocks away a white tulip with a muffled curse, sounding frantic as he looks back to the original, and places it again to no avail.

It seems that his struggle hasn’t only caught Michael’s attention, as the statue to the leftmost side of the room explodes in gold coins and confetti - Quackity has finished his build and is now looking at Dream with narrowed eyes. Dream places the flower again, and the build refuses to respond. Quackity’s gaze narrows further, and he opens his mouth-

“Hey Quackity!” Michael starts speaking before he’s even noticed that he’s opened his mouth, fumbling as he regains awareness of what he’s doing and tries to find a direction for his sentence to go, “do you have any concrete?”

Quackity looks at him like he’s grown a second head, which is fair, considering there’s a block of white concrete pretty obviously visible in his hand. “Um- no? Weren’t you supposed to go to Colors?”

Dream finally manages to place the tulip where it belongs, and the build between them disappears in another explosion of gold glitter. Michael laughs awkwardly.

“Sorry- haha. I got a little mixed up.” He places the last piece of white concrete, watching as his own build disappears. A little wooden cottage takes its place, made of what appears to be just oak wood and cobblestone. “Are you going to get wood? Or should I?”

“I- You get wood,” Quackity shakes his head, visibly frustrated, “And I’ll get stone. We have to hurry, we’re falling behind.”

After that, Michael finds it a little too easy - or maybe not easy, but at least tolerable, to interrupt when Quackity looks a little like he’s about to fall on the side of being angry versus just annoyed, stepping between his angry glares at Dream with a forced smile and an incessant string of annoying questions-

“Hey Quackity, do you have any spare iron?”

“Hey Quackity, I think you placed that a little too far back.”

“Hey Quackity, can you take a look to see what I placed wrong?”

It’s not perfect. It’s hardly even functional; Michael knows that Quackity has begun with the habit of directing death glares at his back whenever he thinks he’s not looking, his responses to Michael’s questions becoming more and more clipped, often paired with irritated grumbles and sighs. Sapnap, when Michael looks at him, seems largely engrossed with his own builds, but he’s also begun looking over at the two of them with a vaguely dissatisfied expression, and Dream only seems to be getting more jumpy with every frustrated growl out of Quackity’s mouth. Even Michael’s forced levity and falsely ignorant questions can’t do much against Quackity’s anger when they walk out of Buildmart dead last for the minigame, dropping their team all the way down to seventh in the overall rankings, and the tension within the team as they walk out - Quackity nearly stomping, Dream following with his hands wringing around each other and head ducked fearfully - is almost enough to make Michael scream. He looks at the scoreboard with a worried expression as he enters the Decision Dome, trying to quell the sinking feeling in his gut.

There’s still five more games to go, and he’s not sure how long they can last before something snaps.

---

Battle Box is chosen next, and they react to the game with quiet cheers and slightly grim faces. Michael’s been in enough MCCs to know that this game, of any, is crucial - after their lacking performances in the last two games, a good showing at Battle Box will be crucial to pull them back into the competition and raise morale. With Sapnap and Dream, if this were any normal game, they should be able to sweep through a good amount of the competition without much effort. As it is, though, Michael looks at the two more combat-oriented members of his team with a worried expression, the two barely even able to meet each other’s eyes. Their interactions so far have been less than promising- if they can’t hold it together for this round, well.

Michael shakes his head. They’ll do fine. They have to.

Even so, the first round only seems to confirm his concerns - they get woolrushed almost immediately, and in Dream and Sapnap’s stumbling to get to mid, nearly crashing into each other and focusing their efforts on the same player by accident, the other team manages to fill out the wool, sending them back to the spawn box even more frustrated than before.

“Amazing teamwork, guys,” Quackity snarks immediately, and Michael rolls his eyes.

“Like you did that much.”

Sapnap is still staring at Dream oddly, Dream turning his head to avoid his gaze. The two of them look largely oblivious to Quackity and his whole deal, even as Quackity whirls around to give him the stink eye.

“You didn’t do anything either, if I remember correctly,” Quackity mutters, and Michael shrugs.

“Fair.”

A ding alerts them to the round’s end, and they resign themselves to preparing for the next round. Michael picks the extra arrows from the wall, knowing that no one else will want the kit, and watches as Dream anxiously runs his hands over the crossbow.

The next round goes better, barely; Michael and Quackity end up knocked out pretty early, but Dream and Sapnap manage to kill the rest of the team soon after. He watches from the box as they fill in the wool, Dream looking awfully tense as he shears away the white wool for Sapnap to fill it with red. Quackity watches them both with a tight expression, hands clenching and unclenching at his sides.

Michael turns away, ignoring him, going back to watching Dream and Sapnap still standing within the arena. Both of them look awkward, oddly out of step with each other - Michael’s not watched them fight much, but he knows that they have a reputation as a pair, was there for the Sky Battle round where they completely wiped through the competition. Even here, Sapnap moves forward and Dream flinches back - there’s something heavy and tense between them, lingering in the few words they’ve spoken to each other, if they’ve even spoken to each other at all, one always rushing forward too fast or following just a little too slow. They’re still brilliant fighters, almost unrivaled in hand-to-hand combat and with swords, but the faltering communication is sure to hurt them more in the future.

His worries come true just three rounds later, the two in between being narrow wins for their team, each a little more shaky than would be comfortable. Michael has found himself easing off the worst of his anxiety in verbally sparring with Quackity, jabbing at the other with offhand remarks and little needling jokes to keep his attention off the other two, especially as his glare has become more pronounced and his words more angry. Even so, nothing he does or can do will fix the odd tension between Dream and Sapnap, whose communication remains as stilted and awkward as ever.

They’re facing a stronger team, PVP wise, with Punz and Seapeekay, and Michael ends up falling in a bow duel against Jack. He watches as the Captain falls to a potion by Sapnap, then as Jack is taken out by a crossbow bolt courtesy of Dream, just before Quackity falls to a well-timed bow shot from the opposing team.

That leaves the strongest PVPers to battle it out, and Dream and Sapnap manage to team up and kill CPK - but not without taking a nasty damage potion to the face that must leave the two of them low. Michael watches Punz, booking it to mid with a crossbow, anxiously - both of them would be a oneshot with the thing, and on the condition that he takes no damage before fighting with either of them outright, he’s probably got enough health to hold out a few hits.

Sapnap pulls out a health potion, and Michael grins - that’ll be good for the two of them, and should secure them the win - only for him to gesture roughly with his sword and for Dream to stagger backwards, panic flashing over his face. He only seems to grow more fearful at the sound of glass shattering on the ground, falling backwards further - far enough to be largely out of range of health pot - and in their shock, Punz manages to catch both of them off guard and nail Sapnap with a crossbow bolt that downs him for the round before similarly dispatching Dream in two hits of his sword.

Sapnap explodes upon respawn in the box - “What was that? I had a health pot!”

“I-” Dream fumbles, face still oddly pale, “Sorry I didn’t- I- I-”

“We had that round!” Sapnap’s arms flail forward as he gestures angrily, Dream freezing further as one hand skims past his shoulder. “I can’t believe- I had a health pot! Punz was on, like, half! We could’ve killed him!”

“Easy, easy,” Quackity moves forward, putting a hand on both of their shoulders - Sapnap seems to relax immediately, while Dream, if anything, only looks more tense. “It’s time for the next round - we’ll talk about this later, alright?”

Dream nods, movements overly tense, and Quackity flashes a toothy smile his way as Sapnap moves back, still mumbling to himself. He and Quackity move to talk in the back corner, words quiet enough that Michael cannot make them out, and something sick and cold slithers over his spine. Sapnap and Quackity are fiancés, aren’t they?

Michael looks over at Dream, mask still covering his face as he looks away through the glass to the arena, shoulders still tight as Michael’s pretty sure they’ve been for as long as he’s seen him since he came onto the server. He remembers the panic that make itself obvious on his face every time Quackity came up to him, even as covered as it is, the similar- if not the same- fear that had painted his face when he respawned fresh off of the Battle Box round after Sapnap’s sword had passed a little too close to his body.

Quackity and Dream- he’s sure, even if he doesn’t want to admit it, that there’s something going on there, dark and dreadful and poisonous. Who’s to say that Sapnap isn’t involved, as well?

---

They finish Battle Box decently well, but not as well as they’d hoped, pulling them up to fifth place with a decently large gap between them and fourth. Quackity and Dream disappear immediately as the Audience Votes begin coming in, leaving Sapnap and Michael to stand awkwardly in the lobby to wait for the rest of their team to come back. Michael watches the crowd for a glimpse of Quackity and Dream, comes up empty. A sigh fizzles through his teeth as he looks up into the sky, the endless blue doing little to ease his nerves - he’s worried, even if he doesn’t want to think about it, for his teammates. For Dream.

It doesn’t take a genius to see that the man is scared of Quackity, that there’s an odd sort of history there that Michael conveniently has no information about. Whatever it is, it’s left Dream unsure and uncharacteristically nervous, left the entire team floundering without proper leadership to tie them all together. Really, a part of him knows that the Championships should be the least of his concerns - if he were braver, or a little better at combat, or a little less inclined to just let things pass as they always have, then he’d be raising a fuss. Getting in the way, talking to Dream, doing something other than making backhanded compliments to Quackity that he’s sure have been doing little more than annoy the man further.

“Michael?” Sapnap comes within his line of sight, lips pressed together in a carefully put-together expression that Michael is sure will collapse the moment they’re away from others’ prying eyes, “Can we speak for a moment?”

Michael forces another easy smile to his face as he turns towards his teammate, feels a little disgusted at the amount of them he’s had to use to simply function with the rest of his team. “Sure! Where to?”

They walk at a brisk pace to the team room, Sapnap’s eyes focused forwards the entire time, not speaking. If he’s being honest, it’s a little awkward, but the lighthearted comment on his tongue to break the silence dies out the minute Sapnap closes the door and looks back at him with fierce, focused eyes boring into him.

“What’s your deal?” He hisses immediately, words pitched low even though he doesn’t really have to - there’s no one nearby, and the team rooms are decently soundproofed. Michael feels his hackles rising as Sapnap’s arms cross in front of him, eyes still focused on his own as he talks. “I’m not going to lie- I don’t know you that well, even though you’re on the SMP now, but can you quit it with Quackity already?”

“Quit what?” Michael snarks - sue him - matching Sapnap’s tone with irritation of his own.

“Don’t- you’ve been antagonizing Quackity all day,” Sapnap’s hand runs through his hair, messing up his hair and tangling it into knots, “And I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but we’re kind of in the middle of a competition here? So it’d be really nice if you could save the fighting for until after we’re done?”

“Says you?” Michael can’t help the retort this time, huffing irately at the offended expression that flashes over the other’s face, “I don’t really know if you’ve noticed, but your teamwork has been a little less than stellar, today. Pot calling the kettle black, much?”

“What-” Sapnap looks confused, even through his anger, gesturing more and more wildly. “What do you even mean?”

“Oh, so are we just ignoring what just happened in Battle Box then?”

Sapnap’s eyes flash as he closes into himself again, hands gripping at his upper arms as he crosses his arms in front of his chest once again. “That- that’s different. That’s because of Dream.”

“Oh, just keep blaming it on the other guy, why don’t you?”

“No-” Sapnap shakes his head furiously. “You haven’t been on here for nearly as long, you don’t get it, Michael. Dream- he’s-,” Sapnap flails, and Michael groans at the familiar words.

“Dream’s what? I was on the team with the guy before, you know. It’s kind of the reason why he invited me in the first place?” He raises an eyebrow. “We worked together perfectly well then - am I supposed to believe that his self-proclaimed ‘best friend’ can’t do the same?”

“You don’t understand,” Sapnap repeats, expression hard and oddly far away, “Dream- he’s changed- he’s done so many terrible things. I don’t know what he’s said to convince you, but he’s bad news, man. He’s hurt- so many people.”

“Oh- you want to talk about hurting people?”

Michael isn’t quite sure what comes over him - only really realizes a white-hot flash of rage lancing through his chest, a sleepless night and half a competition’s worth of anxiety and frustration and build up combining into a sizzling spike of fury that briefly tinges his vision red.

“How about the way Dream looks like he’s about to keel over whenever anyone gets close to him? How about how he flinches back at literally every loud noise and fast movement? How about how Quackity’s been making these stupid, angry comments at him for the entire competition that make him freeze for a minute each time? Or how about when you were in Battle Box and Dream backed away from your sword like he thought you were gonna drive it through his chest?” Michael barely feels himself stepping forward with each word, jabbing his index finger into the other’s chest. “You want to talk about hurting people? How about you go talk to that fiancé of yours and then come back to talk?”

A loud, droning buzz comes over the speakers, alerting them of the end of the break. Michael steps back, face flushed in embarrassment, before the world whirls away and they’re teleported back into the Decision Dome.

He adamantly refuses to meet Sapnap’s eyes as Quackity and Dream materialize in the sector with them, Quackity’s hand clamped around Dream’s upper arm as the other man keeps his eyes fixed firmly on the floor, looking even more panicked and frozen than before the break.

“You ready to win?” Quackity laughs, and Michael watches as his hand tightens around the sleeve of Dream’s jacket, knuckles paling from the strain.

“Yeah,” Michael tries to cheer, and it feels like ash on his tongue. “Let’s do this.”

---

Survival Games ends up being picked next - Quackity and Sapnap quickly pull up to the front of the group, close enough to be within eyesight but too far to really pick up their conversation. Michael keeps an eye out for the reddish glow of their bodies as they scout the surrounding areas for chest, staying back with Dream as they look at the other side of the road. He’d be lying if he said that he didn’t feel a smug sort of satisfaction of Sapnap seemingly confronting Quackity about whatever the hell has been going on, as awkward as his whole outburst had been. As it is, some time with Dream is nice without Quackity watching over his shoulder like a hawk - he directs a small, genuine smile at the man by his side that Dream seems to do a double take at before shyly returning it with one of his own.

“There- I think I see a chest,” Michael points under a lamppost, running to the wooden box and flicking the lid upwards. He pulls out a chain chestplate that he promptly puts on himself, then throws over the iron boots to his teammate as well as a small stone axe that he’s sure Dream will make better use of. “We should probably catch up to the others - don’t want to be caught off guard while separated.”

Dream nods, and the two of them pick up the pace before finding another chest that Dream rummages through, this time, finding an iron sword that Michael takes for himself and a cake.

“You’ve been doing really well so far,” Michael says after a few minutes of quiet, words becoming more firm when Dream looks up at him with a surprised expression. “Seriously- you’ve been doing great, man.”

“Thanks,” Dream smiles, words quiet and terribly sincere, and the sinking pit in Michael’s gut returns at the tone. “Not as good as I should, though. I’ve been underperforming a lot,” he laughs a little at the words, but even to Michael’s ears it rings hollow. “It’s not over yet, though.”

“No it’s not,” Michael concedes, rearranging his inventory as they run. “But it’s good enough, man, really - just look at my rankings.”

Dream huffs. “You’ve been doing good, Michael.”

“And you’ve been doing a hell of a lot better than me,” Michael tips his head in his direction. “Give yourself some more credit, man. You’ve been playing well.”

Dream smiles again, but even now the corners of his mouth seem tight, tense. “I need to play better, though, if we want to win,” he says, matter-of-fact, analytical to a damn fault. Michael rolls his eyes, but nods to concede the point.

“Sure, but that goes for all of us, Dream,” he shakes his head. “And it’s okay if we don’t win, you know?”

“No.”

Michael turns, frowning. Dream’s tone has become oddly flat, eyes dead as he continues to stare at the pavement under their feet. He seems to be chewing on his lip anxiously, startled out of his own thoughts when he looks up to meet Michael’s gaze. “I mean- I don’t know. I really have- want to win.”

There’s something so carefully worded about the admission, quiet and scraped open and raw in the slow sincerity of the words. Michael wants to poke at it, wants to understand what’s left him so unsure of every step, what determination lies behind the words that has left desperation clinging to every shallow breath he draws. A crack of thunder on the horizon, heralding a player’s death, reminds him that now is not the time.

Keep your head down.

“Alright,” he smiles thinly, hoping that the fracturing, yawning pit of emptiness in his chest isn’t obvious in the words. “Then we’re going to win.”

---

Michael skids to a stop at the finish line, feeling the elytra deequip as he’s thrown into spectator mode. He runs his hands through his wind-tousled hair, feeling it strain against his fingers as he roughly finger-combs it back into place. Dream and Sapnap are off to the side, standing next to each other but seemingly not speaking - Michael smiles as he floats over, still shaking the adrenaline off from the race.

“Hey,” the two look up, smile in recognition, and Dream waves; there’s a small smile on his face, strained but present. “You both did really good!”

“Thanks, Michael,” Dream laughs, earnest, “I did decent, I guess- haha. Top ten at least.”

Sapnap whoops. “We’re popping off!” Michael cheers in agreement, and their efforts manage to pull Dream’s smile a little wider as he ducks his head to look away again.

“Thanks, guys.”

They watch as Quackity flies through the finish line, appearing in front of them and shaking his arms out as he gets his bearings.

“Geez- that trident,” he shakes his head, looks up. “Hey, there you guys are. How’d we do?”

“Dream got seventh,” Sapnap scrolls through his comm, looking through the rows of contestants and their times as they come in, interspersed by the occasional chat message, “And I got 10th. Michael got- 28th, I think? And you got 32nd.”

“Hmm,” Quackity hums, “What do you think, Dream? Is that good enough to pull us to Dodgebolt?”

Once again, Michael watches as Dream stiffens under the scrutiny, head ducking down and looking for all the world like he’d rather be anywhere else. “Um- I don’t know,” Dream mumbles, “I messed up a trident- fell into the void once, probably could’ve done better otherwise-” his voice trails off, tensing further as Quackity takes his usual spot by his side, jabbing an elbow none-too-lightly into his ribs.

“But you didn’t, though,” Quackity says, tone flippant, “so what do you think? With those placements- is it going to be enough?”

“Hey, we did great, man,” Michael glares at him, more forward than he’d usually be - but all he can see is the shoulder that he has pressed against Dream’s arm, the way Dream’s stood stock still since the moment he made contact, “Lay off of Dream, would you? He did great.”

“Yeah, Q,” Michael’s eyebrows raise in surprise as Sapnap chimes in from the side, rising further when Sapnap moves forward to link his arm with Quackity’s own and half-drag him away from Dream. “Chill out, man, we popped off. We’re gonna fucking win this, ok?”

Quackity’s lips press together; he’s still smiling, but there’s no mistaking the seething darkness that lingers in his narrowed eyes and furrowed eyebrows, gaze still trained on the pale off-white disk of Dream’s mask. Still, with the rest of the team against him, he’s in a losing fight and he knows it; Michael watches as he visibly backs down, rolling his shoulders back as he lets Sapnap pull him further back.

“We’re going to fucking win this,” he repeats, and Michael wonders how he manages to make the words sound so much like a threat.

---

“Sky battle,” Sapnap calls as the decision dome below them lights up in confirmation of the penultimate game, expression immediately becoming more focused as he turns back to the rest of the team. “Alright- strats, what are we thinking?”

“There’s the iron at spawn,” Dream starts, interrupted by the teleport to the Sky Battle arena, making him cut himself off comically and take a second to shake off the resulting disorientation, “And then there’s the iron in the nearby island. We gotta pick one, tower as soon as we can.”

“Got it,” Sapnap looks down, seemingly calculating, before looking up again - Michael has heard him compared to fire before, but he thinks this is the first time he’s really seen it; there’s a veritable blaze burning in his eyes as he looks at each member of the team, easily taking charge as they prepare for the first round. “Same buddy system as Survival Games - Q, stick with me, Michael, stick with Dream. I’ll tower to the next island- Dream, you good with getting the iron at spawn and crafting armor for us?”

Dream startles, before flashing a small thumbs up at the other - Sapnap smiles wider, teeth bared dangerously.

“This is our game,” he cheers, and Michael enthusiastically whoops in reply, “we’re winning this, you got that team? Let’s go!”

This, Michael thinks, is the way the games should’ve gone - they jump into action upon the start of the game, Michael watching as Dream races through both chests on the spawn island, getting the iron and jumping down cleanly with a water bucket before following Sapnap’s bridge to the other island. He tosses over a pair of leggings and boots as he lands, then takes Sapnap’s excess iron to craft the other pieces of iron for himself and Sapnap as the other man begins shooting at opposing teams. Their communication is near wordless, simple one- or two-word requests communicating all they need as they follow each other seamlessly into the main arena area, sealing off their entrance as they search the ring for other teams.

Sapnap, especially, seems to have shifted - instead of waiting for Dream to take the lead, he seems comfortable barrelling on forward on his own, trusting for Dream to follow his steps. Michael watches as the two of them easily work through the two lagging members of Orange, shooting through a gap in the wall to catch an unsuspecting Yellow player chased by the border. Michael ends up dying to an unlucky block of TNT placed on his head - curses out what appears to be Quig, bounding over to the other side of the arena, and follows Dream and Sapnap as they continue to fight their way through the competition.

It’s not perfect, for sure - Dream hesitates at a bad place a minute later, ending with Sapnap getting 2v1ed and exploding in a flash of red sparkles. Dream is similarly dispatched a few seconds after, and the three of them watch Quackity, caught in the crossfire of two other teams, before he also goes down.

“Good work, team,” Sapnap says as he appears, disoriented, in spectator mode, and they watch the remaining two teams battling in a rapidly shrinking border before Fruit falls as well, leaving Pink as the winners. “That was close- we’ve got this.” The conviction in his voice leaves no room for argument, and Michael, briefly, feels bad for anyone that stands in the way of it.

With the second round, they once again fall into rhythm without any major hiccups - someone tries to cut them off before entering the main arena, but are made quick work of by Sapnap’s relentless onslaught. As Michael watches, Dream seems to regain confidence as well, moving more to fight with Sapnap side by side instead of just playing support, tugging him back from a risky play and catching Punz in a nasty combo that does him in when he manages to slip past Sapnap.

The four of them end up in the final stand off in the middle, but end up getting caught too high up and killed by the border before they can jump down. Sapnap hisses at the narrow defeat, but the disappointment has hardly seemed to dim his determination - if anything, it seems to burn brighter.

“Last round,” he mutters, and Michael watches as Dream walks up to him, bumping him lightly with his shoulder.

“This is our game,” he says, a small smile appearing on his face, and Sapnap returns it with a fiery, blinding one of his own.

“Ours,” he says, and even just standing on the side, watching - Michael believes it.

Still, his concerns have yet to disappear - they linger in his mind as they jump into an adrenaline-filled last round, jumpy from excitement and victory just within their grasps. Dream is still more jittery than he should be, taking a second more than usual to react to fights, and his teamwork with Sapnap - while good - is still noticeably rusty. Michael’s lips thin at the memory of Dream backing away from Sapnap’s sword in Battle Box, hunched into himself, almost on the floor, with a clearly desperate edge to his expression - and no matter how he tries, he can’t quite manage to shake it off.

Unfortunately enough, the third round doesn’t bode well for them from the start - Quackity gets bowed off while bridging to the main arena, and upon entrance there they end up flanked, hard, by another team in a conflict that gets Michael killed within seconds. Sapnap and Dream book it to the other side of the arena, where they manage to work through a full team without too much trouble - but the next minute brings another half-team flying at them from the back, catching them in the middle of trying to recuperate. The two focus Dream in the middle of eating a steak, and Michael watches as Dream steps back instead of moving forward to fight, that same shade of fear making his muscles seize as he stands, stock still, watching helplessly as swords fly his way- Michael cries out, but there’s nothing he can do-

Between one blink and the next, Sapnap is standing in front of Dream, a snarl painting his features as he whirls through both players in a fury. Michael watches, awed, as his sword weaves and dances between the two attacking Dream, making quick work of them both until they’re no more than items scattered over the ground, then grabs Dream by the wrist and drags him up a nearby ladder onto the upper floor, plopping him by the wall and then backing off.

Sapnap stands back as Dream sits against the wall, breathing fast and labored, dropping to his knees with his hands in front of him, palms up, no weapons in hand. Michael watches, frantic, for the signs of any teams nearby - with Dream panicking and Sapnap’s back to the rest of the arena, they’d be easy pickings - but for once, luck seems to be on their side, because no one comes. Dream heaves a breath through his lungs, deep and shuddery - Sapnap watches, lips flat from concern, but doesn’t speak.

“You good to continue?” he asks, when Dream seems calm enough to recognize his surroundings, and Dream looks up at the words, jaw slack from shock and disorientation, before his head dips in a firm nod.

“Good,” Sapnap smiles, tight-lipped and fiercely determined, fiercely loyal, as he reaches out a hand that Dream moves to take. “Let’s go fuck them up, yeah? You and me, just like we used to.”

Michael watches, heart in his chest, as they stand together to face the rest of the competition, towering towards the middle and facing off with the remaining teams, watches as they move forwards through explosions and buckets of lava, coalescing onto the middle island, as they battle through the remaining opponents as one in a clean spiral of clashing blades and flying arrows, fighting with their backs to each other in the center of the arena. He watches as a well-placed fishing rod by Dream knocks their final opponent off the platform, leaving them in the middle, triumphant, as the only remaining team -

Watches, a brilliant, bubbling laugh in his chest as Dream and Sapnap take their spots in the middle of the arena, standing side by side as Sapnap raises Dream’s hand in victory, both laughing and cheering into the sky.

---

Their performance in Sky Battle manages to pull them to third - but second place still stands a few hundred coins away, and they watch anxiously as Parkour Tag is chosen as the last game and they are transported over the arena.

“Last game,” Sapnap calls, “We’ve got this, alright?”

He gets terse, short nods in return - it’ll be a close game, and even Michael is feeling the pressure. He breathes a soft, quiet breath through his teeth as they prepare, looking over to the opposite team as they choose their hunters and runners.

“Dream, you up to hunting first four?” Sapnap seems to be watching the effects of his words more, waiting for Dream’s agreement before moving forward, sliding into the position of leader easily when Dream seems to struggle. Dream nods and steps into the hunter’s box, lips pressed together, flat and focused, and Michael turns back to the arena to plan out his route.

Parkour, by far, is not his strong suit. It hadn’t been his strong suit during Parkour Warrior and sure as hell isn’t it now - he enjoys it well enough, but with the pressure of a hunter on him or the time creeping past and the competition standings hanging over his head like a guillotine, he’s prone to slipping up and he knows it. The map is full of dizzying, multi-colored structures and difficult jumps, the twists and turns of the arena making his head spin. Being good at parkour is more than being good at movement - it involves being able to make split-second decisions and execute them with no time to hesitate. Unfortunately, Michael isn’t particularly good at any of that, so Parkour Tag mostly just stresses him the hell out.

He sets out to the arena, listening for callouts over comms as he fumbles over the buildings. Halfway through the game, Dream’s voice comes through comms, quiet, focused.

“Gottem.”

“Nice, Dream,” Michael smiles, trying not to trip over a particularly hard jump, only to fall to being tagged in the back by the opposing team’s hunter - Ant, if he remembers right. “Sapnap and Q are still in- we’ve got this.”

Once again, each time, Dream races through the opposing team in seconds, seemingly going faster with each round. Michael has heard his reputation as a hunter before, but only now is he really appreciating the extent - the speed at which he manages to dispatch all three opponents is downright terrifying. They manage to win all four rounds, lingering around second place overall on the leaderboards, before Sapnap and Dream switch off for hunting.

With each round, Michael watches Dream in the lobby, watching as he tenses further in focus and determination and no small degree of fear, but it hadn’t been nearly as obvious in between rounds. Now, with him in the arena with Quackity and himself, Dream’s jumpiness is all that more palpable, adrenaline making him pace and jump in place from where he stands at the edge of the place. The glass lowers, and he explodes into motion, bounding on top of the nearest tower to wait for the hunter to come towards them.

Michael ends up caught first, early in the round, once again, and resolves to following Dream over the glass to watch his movements and make callouts for the hunter chasing behind him. Watching Dream move through the arena, dodging below fixtures and through tunnels and jumping from tower to tower with seemingly no regard for gravity pulling him down, it’s become all the more obvious that this is his element. He makes another hairpin turn around a pole, kicking himself up over a tower and then diving from it to a nearby building, landing on a ledge inside it, hands clutching the wall - Michael watches, quietly awed, as he outlasts the hunter, landing in small, panting breaths in the lobby.

“Great work,” he cheers, quiet, as Dream shakes off the last dregs of the adrenaline, all of them watching the leaderboard anxiously, “Just three more rounds, alright?”

The rounds that follow continue in much of the same vein - Dream, once he’s gotten started, seems near-impossible to chase down; Michael and Quackity provide support, distracting the hunter for as long as they can until they get tagged, but part of him wonders if it’s all even necessary. Dream flies from structure to structure seemingly unhindered by The Laws That Be, expression firm, if a little frantic, as he parkours his way through the arena. To their credit, the hunters chase, and several come pretty close - but Dream, worked up on adrenaline or anxiety or some twisted mix of the two, races over and around the buildings within the arena like his life depends on it.

It’s a surprisingly (if sickeningly) apt description - the skill in parkour is far from unacknowledged on Dream’s record; they all know his reputation with Parkour Warrior, all know that there are little that can match his skill as a traucer - but there’s something newly desperate in the way he runs, the muscles of his body tight and taut even in between rounds, expression permanently tight at the corners from fear. His movements, lacking in their usual fluidity, are made up with sheer speed and mad scrambles up walls that no one else seems to dare replicate. It’s concerning, even to Michael’s untrained eye, how frantic he seems the entire time, the flashes of expressions that he’ll direct towards the hunter like being caught by them will be his end, but- if anything, at least it’s effective.

Between his parkour and Sapnap’s own skill, they manage to dominate the other teams without much issue, and the bonuses from eliminating the other team first combined with Dream’s survival points each round land them a first place for the game by just a few hundred coins. The four of them watch with bated breaths for the event standings, whooping and cheering together when it shows the red rabbits in second -

“DODGEBOLT, BABY!” Quackity cheers, loudly, and the rest of them join him, laughing and screaming incoherently, “LET��S FUCKING GO!”

“LET’S FUCKING GO!” Sapnap punches the air with a loud, resolute whoop of joy, and Dream - still shaking off the jitters of his last round in Parkour Tag - soon joins in with a few cheers of his own.

Michael watches them all with a smile on his face as they cheer in victory - Dodgebolt has them against the Yellow Yaks, which will be a hard match up, but between Dream and Sapnap’s skill, if they all stay focused, they shouldn’t have any issue.

They’ve done it. They’ve made it to Dodgebolt - if they keep their heads in the game, then they should win. All he has to do is keep his head down a little longer, long enough to win them the game, long enough for them to go home with new crowns and new coins, long enough for him to go back to living his quaint little life in his quaint little house - going back to heckling the Warden at night and hanging with Bad and Puffy, working on builds and living life away from the rest and pretending that nothing is wrong. The server will go back to normal come tomorrow, and it will all be okay.

The smile slips off his face.

They’ve done it. And then they’ll go back to the SMP, and Dream might evade whatever immediate consequences come with losing, but there’s no evidence that whatever’s caused that heartstopping, devastating fear that has characterized his every move is going to stop. They’ll win, and they’ll go back to the SMP, and they’ll keep dying and fighting wars and keep pretending that the world they live in is normal; they’ll go back to the server, and Michael will go back in his house while Dream goes back into his cell directly across from it, still locked in a black box with no way in or out, no means of communication with anyone outside, locked away with the key thrown away for anything to happen with no one to know-

Michael glances over to Dream, to the tense edge of his shoulders that has never left for as long as the tournament has continued and long before. To the grey-faced, grey-eyed inhabitants of the SMP, coming to the Championships with sealed lips and a shared determination to never reveal that anything is wrong, to pretend that things are normal and move on.

Michael’s hands clench into fists at his side, then unclench, the helplessness cutting through his excitement like a splash of cold water straight through his chest. They’ll win the Championship, and then what? They’ll go back to the server, and then what?

He looks up at the sky, avoiding the eyes of the rest of his team as they are teleported to the arena. Around him, nothing comes in reply.

---

“Shit-”

Sapnap disappears in a flourish of red particles, and Michael winces as Dream picks up the arrow he left behind, biting his lip as he watches the opposite side maneuver on the ice.

Both of Dream’s shots hit true, and Michael switches to dodging over the ice as the opposing team begins to shoot. His mind is still buzzing with uncertainty, questions whirling around his skull and making his head spin, the reminder to just let things be raging against the anxiety that has wormed its way deep into his bones for the better part of the day. His performance has fallen a bit as a result, and they’re tied, 2-2, for the last round of Dodgebolt against Yellow - winner takes all.

He doesn’t know what to do. He wants to tell, but he wants to fall back into the background. He wants to make a difference, but also wants nothing more than to go on pretending that everything is fine. It would be so, so easy to move on and wash his hands of the whole affair - it’s not like anyone else will know, only himself and the guilt that he’s sure will haunt him to remind him of his failures. Is there even anything he can do? He’s no genius at combat, or parkour, or strategy- all he has are his eyes, his ability to see what the hell is happening with no means to change any of it.

An arrow whizzes towards him, too low to hit, and falls to the ice by his feet. Michael feels it plop into his inventory as he runs past it, shivering slightly from the cold or adrenaline or some mix of the two - not that he can really tell. The other team still has an arrow, the gleaming arrowhead catching the light as the person shooting - Jack, it looks like - moves it from one side to the other, looking for someone to aim. Michael lets the arrow into his hand, feeling its weight.

A sudden shock of clarity.

He staggers back and nearly trips over his own feet, feeling relief rock his body when he manages to catch his balance - his eyes rake over the rest of his team, still dodging over the ice, completely focused on the opposing side. He worries his lip between his teeth - it’s a risk. It’s a hell of a risk, and if he messes up - they’re fucked. They’re more than fucked. There’s a good chance that this does more harm than good, a good chance that it won’t do anything at all.

Michael takes a deep breath, and nocks his arrow.

With his bow pointed to the floor, he doesn’t think anyone’s noticed yet - especially the rest of his team, gazes still trained over the centerline to the other side of the arena. Michael plants his feet, raises his bow, aims - he’s standing still, too still, and he can already see Jack swinging the bow towards him from the corner of his eye, preparing to let the arrow fly directly at him. That’s fine. It doesn’t matter.

Keep your head down.

Michael lets go, and Quackity manages to turn just in time to see the arrow hit him between his eyes.

Not this time.

Michael just manages a wicked, satisfied smirk before the world disappears in a flash of red.

---

“What the hell was that?”

Michael teleports into the middle of the MCC main lobby, finding Quackity already mid-yell in front of the podium, where the Yellow Yaks have taken their places as the winners of the Championships, new, shining crowns on their heads as they greet the crowd with smiles and cheers. Michael turns to where the rest of the team has gathered in the corner, Quackity hissing angrily at Dream, curled into himself against the fence.

“I- I-”

“You lost us the fucking game, that’s what you did,” Quackity grabs him by the arm, rage painting his features as he yanks Dream closer to him, ignoring the other’s panicked yell at the proximity and flailing to get away. “What the fuck- you had both the arrows. How the fuck did you miss that?”

“Back the hell off, Quackity.”

Michael steps forward, bodily shoving Quackity out of the way - Dream’s head rises just enough for the two eyes painted on his mask to look above where they’d been hidden behind his arms, though Michael’s far too lost in his own anger to pay any mind to him at the moment. Quackity turns his furious direction towards Michael, only seeming to get angrier as he meets his eyes.

“Oh, fuck off, Michael- you-” he rakes a hand through his hair, “You fucking- we fucking lost because of you, you know that? We had that! We were going to win that, you fucker-”

“And then what, Quackity?” The words Michael had been pushing back the entire day come forth, mixed with his simmering anxiety and muffled anger that he’d been forced to push down, game after game after game, one bubbling mess of emotion underscoring his tone and making Quackity rear back, “Then you’ll go back the SMP and pretend that everything’s fine and dandy? Go back to your shiny little country with a shiny new coin, beat up Dream a few times to work off the adrenaline because, hey, it’s not like anyone else is gonna know if he’s black and blue inside of that shitstain of a prison, is that right?”

The flash of panic that makes its way over Quackity’s face is more than enough to confirm the worst of Michael’s assumptions, and the rage that has made a home in his chest only burns hotter.

“What- what the fuck did he say?” Quackity barely manages to catch onto his tone, pressing harder with narrowed eyes and a snarl, “He’s lying, you fucking idiot, that’s all he ever fucking does-”

“He’s not told me shit,” Michael presses forward, forcefully pushing Quackity away from Dream, who is cowering from both of them behind him, “But you would know a hell of a lot about that, wouldn’t you Quackity?”

“I have no fuckin’ clue what you’re on about, pal,” Quackity shakes his head, hair whipping past his eyes, “And I’d recommend you shut your fucking mouth before you go around hurling baseless accusations- I could have you sued for defamation, you know-”

“Oh, we’re talking law, now? Fine! We’ll talk legalities- how about we start with that casino of yours and work from there?”

Sapnap moves over, quiet thus far as he watched from the sidelines, and Michael watches as Quackity relaxes, minisculely, at his approach - only to tense further when Sapnap presses a hand to his shoulder, meeting his eyes with blazing eyes staring right at his.

“Q,” Sapnap says, voice uncharacteristically serious, “tell the truth, now- what did you do?”

Quackity laughs - it sounds unsure, even in Michael’s ears, “Sapnap? You can’t tell me you believe-” he waves his hands frantically, “this- this fucking asshole, now, do you hear him? He sounds- he’s literally out of his fucking mind-”

Sapnap shakes his head, firm. “Quackity, I’ll need you to cut the bullshit. What did you do?”

“He’s backing up Dream, Sapnap,” Quackity focuses his gaze on Sapnap, something creeping up in his tone, sweet and cloying despite the bitter tone, that Michael can’t quite recognize, “You know what Dream is like- he pulled the same shit with you, remember? You and George? Tommy?” He waves a hand at Dream, who ducks down further at the attention, “He hasn’t changed, man! He’s still pulling the same bullshit, still manipulating people for the hell of it- you know, the exact same thing he did to you? Don’t fall for that again, man.”

“I-” Sapnap seems to hesitate, conflict warring over his features.

“Look at me, Sap - you know what Dream’s like. He pretends to be your friend, makes up some stupid bullshit to justify his shit - Michael hasn’t been around for as long, not like the two of us, remember? He doesn’t know.” Quackity brings his hand to Sapnap’s own, ignoring Michael’s protests as he laces their fingers together, “I care about you, Sap. All of this- I’m just worried that he’ll end up manipulating you again. I’m just trying to protect you.”

“...liar.”

“What?”

Sapnap steps back, wrenching his hand out of Quackity’s own. His expression, out of what Michael can see from the sliver of his face that is facing him, is stormy with fury and no small amount of regret - Quackity steps back, unease finally beginning to flicker in the corners of his self-satisfied expression as Sapnap stares him down.

“You’re a liar, Quackity.” Sapnap draws himself up. “Now, I’m asking this for the last time- what did you do?”

Quackity’s expression stutters, falls, as Sapnap stands back next to Michael, the two of them between him and Dream. His eyes flick between their faces, then to Dream, then back again, frown deepening with every pass he makes between the three of them. Michael keeps his arms crossed in front of his chest, feeling his muscles tense with every second of silence that ticks by, Quackity seeming to grow more and more angry and tense under their scrutiny and unforgiving stances-

-a second passes, and he throws himself forward.

“Quackity!”

Michael only manages to throw himself out of the way of the man barrelling towards him just in time - too late, he realizes that he wasn’t Quackity’s intended target. He tackles Dream to the ground, pinning the taller man underneath himself onto the ground in a rough thump that seems to knock all the air out of him. Dream immediately begins to thrash aimlessly, jaw going slack in panic as Quackity levels his arm against his neck, going still as Quackity presses harder against his windpipe. Michael is only barely close enough to pick up what he says over the sound of the surrounding screaming, Sapnap rushing forward to pull Quackity off to no avail-

“-make what I did two weeks ago look like a fucking joke when we get back, going to make you wish you fucking died-”

The world explodes into white.

When Michael’s vision clears, he’s face to face to the stony face of one of the MCC admins, their status displayed by the proud red [Admin] by their nametags and the fact that they’re floating several inches off the fucking floor. He backs away, strangely winded - probably from the panic or adrenaline or yelling or, more accurately, all three, as Quackity is pulled back effortlessly by an admin, easily caging his flailing limbs with a snap of code as he is frozen into place - and Michael whoops.

“LET’S GO!”

(The arrow hits Michael in the shoulder, and he disappears in a flash of red - only instead of going to his usual place above the Dodgebolt arena, standing with the other competitors, he finds himself teleported in front of a dizzying array of screens and buttons, too many to have any idea where they connect and how they work. Michael turns to meet the faces of the MCC Admins, each one looking at him with odd, concerned expressions and furrowed brows.

“You shot your teammate,” one says - Noxite - and Michael nods to concede the point, not quite finding the words to speak. “Why?”

“If you had such a big issue with the teams, you could’ve just talked to Scott,” another one pipes up from the back, “I’m sure we could’ve worked something out.”

“I know, I know,” Michael runs his hand through his hair, both relieved at the plan working better than he could’ve ever fucking imagined and suddenly lost for words in front of the admins, each one looking at him with their full attention. Every nerve in his body rails against the scrutiny, reminds him to pretend that nothing is wrong - but it’s too late to pretend, now. It’s been too late for a long, long time.

He remembers Dream, looking away all competition, voice dead and lacking all of its former vitality - remembers Puffy, hair a little greyer from stress, grief painting her face whenever she thought anyone wasn’t looking - remembers Bad, hands still shaking despite his attempts to hide it - the prison, looming on the horizon, unbeatable, impenetrable - himself, helpless, for all this time, to do anything but watch and wait. Until now. He takes a deep breath, steels himself-

“Something’s wrong with Dream.”)

“Thank you for your information, Michael,” Noxite smiles at him, and relief throws itself through his system so fast that it makes him dizzy- “We’ll handle this from here. Good job.”

“Holy shit- when did you get time to contact the fucking admins, Michael?”

Michael ignores the clamor around him as the lobby bursts into activity and people talking over each other, each one probably trying to figure out what the hell just happened, ignores Sapnap muttering, awed, from beside him, to move towards Dream, still sprawled out over the floor. There’s an admin by him, standing by to seemingly keep the crowd away but not engaging with Dream directly, and Michael ducks by them to kneel down by Dream and meet his gaze.

“Hey,” Michael smiles, still shaking from the leftover adrenaline as he presses his hands to the ground to try and hide it, “We’ve got you. It’s over- Quackity’s gone. You’re safe now.”

“Michael?” Dream’s voice is so damn small when his head twists to look over, hair having fallen largely fallen out of his ponytail to land in wisps all around his face. “You- how-”

“Don’t worry about it,” Michael shushes him, chest twisting painfully. “It’s alright.”

“...I don’t feel so good.”

Dream coughs harshly, and Michael quickly maneuvers him to a sitting position as his shoulders shake with another one, hand flying to his mouth as he is wracked with loud, wet-sounding coughs. Concern wells up in his throat, watching as Dream shakes with more coughing, nearly choking as he curls into himself, muscles tense. After what feels like an eternity, he pulls his hand back, and Michael gasps at the sight.

“Dream-”

There’s blood, and a lot of it - mixed with the saliva in his palm, shiny and stringy over the planes of his hand, dribbling past his lips and down his chin. His teeth are similarly stained red when his mouth opens slightly, stance wobbling before he collapses altogether against Michael’s body - Michael can barely hear himself shouting for a medic as Dream heaves a rattling, wet sounding breath into his shoulder.

“Th’ts not g’d,” he mumbles, quiet, before going completely limp.

---

When you first get strong enough to go to the Nether and collect blaze rods and brew potions for the first time, the first thing that gets beaten into your head forwards, backwards, left, right, and every way in between is that health and regen aren’t a replacement for actual recovery. Instant health pots are famous for their tendency to heal everything affected to the same degree - which is bad when you have a particularly deep injury, as it’ll often finish healing it near the surface while the injury persists underneath. Regen pots tend to be better at that front, but even they cannot completely fix a serious injury - the two can only act as a temporary, emergency fix for severe wounds, often being an invaluable resource to stop the worst of the bleeding and hold everything together for long enough to bring someone to proper medical attention.

Unfortunately, when someone tries to use health pots and regens to completely bypass the time and rest needed for the body to properly heal itself and recover, what usually ends up happening is internal injuries - not completely healed by the potions alone - continue to be jostled and irritated, which can lead to further, worse, problems with internal bleeding and bones shifting out of place if they’ve been broken, which can then pierce through muscle and organ tissue - to be honest, Michael was never the best with all the medical stuff, and he’s half-sure that the horror stories he’s heard were exaggerated to beat it into his head never to be an idiot that thinks that potions can solve everything, but either way, he’s never tested his luck with the things.

Unfortunately, Dream doesn’t seem to have done the same, as the entire day’s worth of intense activity, between practices and MCC itself, were more than enough to fuck over the healing effects of whatever health potions he apparently downed before coming to the Championships. From what Michael has heard, it got a little harried after he was first brought into the hospital, but he’s apparently stabilized since - recovery will be slow, both physically and mentally, but at least he’s out of that damn prison to actually start on that path.

“Simply put, your teammate is a bit of an idiot,” Scott tells him when he finally catches him in the waiting room, hair fluffed up at the sides from where he’s evidently messed it up in Admin-related stress. “But he should be alright now, with proper medical attention and lots of rest - make sure to tell him to actually rest, will ya? No more parkouring for him - he can wait until after he’s out of the hospital to show us all how it’s done.”

Michael laughs, relief settling into his chest, “Thanks, Scott.” He directs a playfully accusing look towards the other, a grin tugging at his lips, “but you know, he’s only my teammate because you made it that way. Kinda sounds like your own fault there..”

“Oh, quiet, you.” Scott laughs- he looks stressed, and Michael feels a twinge of sympathy. The administrative side of things after his whole stunt at Dodgebolt, and then especially with what happened in the main lobby, must be an absolute nightmare. “Anyway, I need to go back - Admin meeting,” he shakes his head, already looking at his comm. “You should go see Dream, by the way. I think he’s awake.”

“Thanks for everything, Scott.”

Scott smiles at him, soft, sincere. “Go see your friend.”

He disappears in a flash of white light, teleporting away, and Michael looks at the empty space where he stood for a few seconds before standing up out of his chair to move towards the door. He hesitates at it for a second, hand on the doorknob but not yet turning it to the side - it’s suddenly awkward, without the pressure of the competition at his back and the relentless questions of what he should do. He doesn’t even know if Dream knows what happened, or if he’ll be happy with him - for all he knows, Dream was the one who started the whole ‘don’t tell the Championships what happens in the server’ deal. His teeth catch on his lip as he stands, lost in thought, at the door.

Well. Here goes nothing.

He eases the door open, getting a glimpse inside the room - it’s white, clean-looking, the smell of disinfectant heavy in the air. There’s a bed in the middle of the room, a chair on the side with his Championships clothing and what appears to be some sort of padded body armor laid over the cushions. Dream, as expected, is lying down in the bed, unmoving; for a second, Michael thinks he’s sleeping, before he suddenly twists his head over to look at him.

“Michael?”

“Hey,” Michael smiles, moving into the room and closing the door behind him. For the first time today, Dream’s face isn’t masked, a glimpse of it visible behind him on the dresser by the bed. He blinks up at him owlishly, eyes wide and green, looking even bigger combined with the hollow planes of his cheeks, overlaid by pale, slightly raised scars. “How are you feeling, man?”

“Um-” Dream tries to pull himself up, visibly struggling, and Michael rolls his eyes as he hurries over to help raise the back of the cot because you’re supposed to be resting, Dream, just let the fancy bed do its job, and settles back with an odd look on his face as Michael pulls over a chair. “Good? I think? I mean-” he flails his hands a bit, “this is weird. And I kind of hate this gown- but um. Yeah.”

“That’s fair,” Michael laughs, and Dream huffs a small laugh out of his own, settling back into his pillow. He looks strangely small, with all the layers stripped away, frail and skinny against the sheets. His skin isn’t that same paper-white shade it had been when he collapsed in the middle of the fucking lobby, but it’s still pale enough to be vaguely worrying, especially combined with the IV and other wires hooked up to him.

“Apparently, I’m dehydrated,” Dream drawls when he catches Michael staring at the IV, making a small, frustrated sound through his teeth as Michael turns to look at him, “figures, I guess, but still sucks. I hate needles.”

“Ouch,” Michael winces in sympathy, “yeah, those don’t look that fun.” Dream smiles up at him, before his expression shutters, dulls, and he looks away, not meeting his eyes. The sight of it makes Michael frown, quiet, remembering the way he’d drawn back from them all over and over again throughout the day - that fear and trauma won’t go away in a day, but it hurts all that much more to see his face as panic flashes across it and he pulls back, gaze carefully detached.

“Dream?” Michael moves closer, but is careful not to make contact, “you alright?”

“Hmm?” Dream directs another small, tight smile his way, strained at the corners as his eyes flick away to the floor once again, “yeah- I’m- I’m fine.”

Michael sighs, but decides not to push it. “Have you done anything else here, yet?”

Dream shakes his head. “No- I think that someone’s going to bring food over soon, I’m not sure. Not really hungry,” he mutters, half to himself, and Michael tamps down the concern that wells up in protest, “But we’ll see, I guess.”

“That’s good,” Michael nods, and Dream looks up at him, expression startlingly unsure.

“Um- do you know?” He wrings his hands together, eyes darting across the room nervously before flicking over Michaels’ face, and Michael tries to make himself look as calm and comfortable as possible, “I mean- do you know what’s going on with- everyone?”

Ah. Michael winces internally- he probably should’ve expected this question, but in the fallout of what happened in the lobby and Dream, you know, passing out in his arms, he ended up brushing off or ignoring a lot of the chaos that resulted. He wracks his head for snippets of information that he’d seen in his communicator and from visitors to the waiting room, including people that had been there with him that had been pulled for questioning and meetings, Tommy’s expletive-filled yelling from the lobby still ringing in his head.

“Um- I think that they’ve got a team of moderators pulled up to investigate the server, figure out what’s been going on,” Michael ticks names off on his hands, mentally going through the list of people that he’s been given information on, “They have Quackity in custody, I think, for the moment- they’re still waiting for more information on what to do with him, but they’ve got a whole MCC lobby’s worth of witnesses that saw him assault you so far, if you plan on pressing charges and stuff- um- Sapnap got pulled for questioning, nothing too major right now, I think that they’re going through the other server members that were attending the Championships for the moment.”

“Are they- putting them in jail?” Dream’s voice sounds slightly tinny despite his forced calm, arms crossed in front of him, and Michael shakes his head firmly.

“No- legal stuff between servers is weird, and I think they’re holding off on anything like that for now. Quackity’s just there at the moment because of assault charges on the MCC server - stuff in the SMP is still technically outside of their jurisdiction.” Dream visibly relaxes, and Michael smiles thinly, “It’ll be rough for a few weeks as they collect evidence and figure out what to do, but for now, they’re just focusing on recovery - giving people medical attention if they need it, lining up therapists,” he laughs, quietly, “lots of therapists.”

Dream hums, looking away. The corners of his mouth fall, eyes fluttering shut as he breathes a shuddery sigh through his lips.

“I- never wanted it to get this bad,” he opens his eyes, looking down at his hands, lip slightly trembling, “I don’t- I don’t know where it all went wrong.”

“Hey,” Michael slides closer, ducking to meet Dream’s eyes with a soft smile. “You’re not alone anymore, alright? You don’t have to fix it all by yourself. Focus on yourself, on recovering.”

Dream hesitates, breath seeming caught in his throat, wide green eyes staring into Michael’s own, before ducking his head to look away with a slight nod. Michael leans back in his chair, watching as Dream turns to the side, curling in on himself slightly with a small wince, eyes fixed on the window.

“Didn’t think I was going to see the sun again,” Dream says after a while, gaze still trained behind the glass to where the sun is slowly setting, rays of sunlight streaming past the slits in the blinds and casting glowing stripes of honey-gold throughout the room and over Dream’s face. Michael feels something cold press against the back of his throat, the quiet admission making air stutter in his lungs at the image of Dream, alone, huddled in the middle of an obsidian box for months and months and months, never knowing if he’d see anything other than the same black walls for the rest of his life.

“You’re not there, anymore. You’re safe now.”

Dream doesn’t reply, continuing to look out the window silently, breathing slowly as he moves his hand through a sunbeam, watching the way it streams between his fingers and warms his skin, seeming mesmerized by its soft glow.

“Michael?” Dream looks over, and Michael feels the air punched out of his lungs at the soft, disbelieving sincerity held within his expression, the fearful edges for once pulled back far enough for the light to catch the quiet, heartfelt appreciation gathered in the slight quirk of his lips and downward slope of his eyes. He looks away a second after, a band of light cutting across his face and landing over the bridge of his nose, smile still on his face, voice almost too quiet to make out. “Thank you.”

“Of course,” Michael feels his own smile widen, looking out the window himself- it really is a beautiful sunset. “What are friends for?”

#-> my writing #my writing :D #c!Quackity critical #tw trauma #tw abuse #tw torture #tw panic attack #tw manipulation #tw gaslighting #tw needles #tw hospitals #tw emotional distress #pandora's vault #prison arc #god this was so fun #hope you all enjoy !!#long post

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mysterioh · 5 years ago

Text

little things | b.b.

Pairing: Modern!Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: Weddings bring people together. It brought Bucky back to you. Problem is, you don’t want to see him.

Requested by @anjali750 !! Thank you so much for requesting and I hope that you like it!! I feel like I could’ve made this better but I didn’t want it to be too long.

W/C: ~4080

Prompt: “I was doing fine, really, and then you waltz back in like you didn’t break my heart.”

It’s funny how the little things about a person, things you once adored, turn into the things you now despise.

When Bucky Barnes sauntered into the room, fashionably dressed in his absolute best, it was the little things about him that made you hate him.

The smooth swipe of his fingers through his hair. The way his words danced with a chuckle when someone teased him. How his eyes twinkled under the light despite their cool visage.

The little things you once loved about him were now something you looked on with contempt.

How dare he show himself after so long?

You had to admit. It wasn't really his fault. He was brought here into this room just as you were.

In celebration of the engagement of the future Mr. and Mrs. Wilson.

---

"I swear you're out to get me," you complained, slouching into the rattan chair in Natasha's apartment. "You hate me, don't you?"

"I do not hate you," Natasha sighed, flipping through a magazine of wedding venues. "I wouldn't make you maid of honor at my wedding if I hated you."

"But you just had to pick him, didn't you?" You sat straight up.

"It's not my choice to make, Y/N," she replied, eyes still scanning her magazine. "It's Sam's and he chose Bucky. There's nothing I can do about that."

“What about Steve?” you counter, “he exists!”

“Steve just had a baby,” Nat retorted, turning the page. “Well not Steve but Sharon. Sam would’ve asked him but he felt like Steve’s busy with the baby. Bucky is his best friend too y’know.”

“Likely story,” you grunt, turning your head away from her. “You’re all scheming against me.”

“Oh for God’s sake, Y/N!” Nat drops the magazine onto her lap. “Would you stop being so cynical? Not everyone is out to get you,” she states. “Who knows? Maybe you’ll actually enjoy it..”

“Aha!” you point an accusatory finger at her. “I see what you’re trying to do here!”

Nat groans audibly. “What? What am I trying to do?” she questions irritatedly.

“You’re trying to get us both back together!” you exclaim. “Too bad sis! It ain’t gonna happen!”

“You’ve gone mad,” she sighs, shaking her head. Nat stands up and walks around the coffee table and towards the hall. “Believe what you want. You’re my maid of honor. He’s the best man. Deal with it.”

You grumble, sinking deeper into your chair. “If I see his ass anywhere near me, I’m drop kicking him,” you stated.

“You will do no such thing!”

---

Bucky tries his best to keep his focus on the conversation at hand, but his thoughts keep wandering, taking his eyes along with them to the opposite end of the room.

You stood by the bar with a glass of alcohol as your only companion. Your form was turned slightly away from him, leaving the curve of bare back in perfect view for him to see.

He watches shamelessly, his eyes drink you in, despite the fact that he thinks he’s ogling you—which he is.

He shouldn’t be. He didn’t deserve to.

But could he blame himself?

You look gorgeous.

Your dress is a heavenly creamy off white, bejeweled with gold embroidery around the chest and hips. His eyes follow the long slit that runs along the side of your leg, trailing along the path of skin likened to smooth caramel, until cold blue clashes with warm hazel.

Crap.

You freeze when your eyes lock with his. He’s halfway across the room and you still managed to gain his attention. You avert your gaze and place your glass on the counter gently before disappearing into the crowd.

Bucky sulks when he sees you leave.

You hate him.

He knows that.

But even so, he wishes he’d get a chance to make it alright.

“Nat,” you tap on her shoulder from behind.

The redhead turns from the guest she’s speaking with to find you agitated. Red cheeked and lip biting.

“Everything alright?”

“Uh, I think I’m going to call it a night,” you reply.

“Already?” Nat asks. You nodded quickly. “Is this about—”

“Don’t,” you stop her. “Just let me go?” you ask softly.

“Fine,” she sighs with a frown. She gives you a hug goodbye. “I’ll call you later, alright?”

You nodded with a smile and made your way out the door. You fumble with your clutch to take out your keys. Not watching where you were going, you bump into someone.

“Oh, I’m sorry—” you pause, when your eyes meet his again.

“Right now would be a good time for that dropkick,” The Jiminy Cricket in your head spoke.

“Hey, Y/N,” he smiles, voice lilting with his words like he’s happy to see you.

“Oh, uh, hi, Bucky,” you stutter nervously.

“How have you been?” he asks.

No, don’t start a conversation with me.

“I’ve been good,” you tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, diverting your gaze to the right. You always did when you were nervous. “You?”

“Great,” he replies, “it’s good to be back home.”

Your eyes finally fall on him. He’s still the same old Bucky. That same sweet smile. The familiar scent of brisk cologne. Still the prettiest blue eyes you’ve ever seen.

Stop staring, dumbass.

“It’s been a while?” he breaks the awkward silence.

Yeah, four years is quite a while.

“Yeah, it has been,” you smiled softly, “back for the wedding?”

Of course, he’s back for the wedding, moron. Stop acting so stupid.

“No, for good.”

What? No. No. No. No.

“Wow! Really?” you asked with a nervous chuckle. “Finally got bored of travelling?” you blurted with a sharp twinge.

That wasn’t supposed to come out the way it did.

“Uh, yeah,” he chuckles in reply. “I guess I did." There's a bit of disappointment in his eyes.

Good.

"You’re leaving?”

“Yeah, I’m going home,” you nodded.

"Here, let me–"

"No, it's fine," you interrupted. "I can walk by myself," you gave him an awkward smile, taking a few steps backward. "Besides I think Steve was looking for you."

"Oh," he whispers disappointed. "I'll go see him then. It was nice seeing you again," he smiles warmly while turning.

Shut the fuck up.

"Good night," he wishes.

"Yeah, you too," you said, before quickly turning and dashing out the door.

Bucky sighs deeply. He knew you were lying.

You always played with a strand of your hair when you lied.

A little thing you thought he had forgotten.

Months had passed since the engagement and life was thrown back into its normal routine.

The awkward meeting with Bucky became one of those horrible memories that came up at three in the morning when sleep wouldn’t come. But other than that, he didn’t phase your thoughts.

Four years ago, you loved Bucky. Enough for you to say you wanted to spend the rest of your life with him.

But Bucky had other plans. He wanted to see the world. Places you’ve only seen on screensavers. He was ambitious and adventurous. An extrovert with a passion for the unknown. You were the opposite. An introvert cooped up in her room writing those very adventures he dreamed of.

So when he got the chance to travel the world as a photographer, you didn’t stop him. You knew just how much it meant to him. It was his dream. But it hurt how his one dream never had a picture of you in it.

He never asked if you wanted to come with him. Instead he wanted to break it off.

It became clear to you that the three years you spent together meant nothing to him. Three years worth of fights and reconciliation, of understanding and appreciation, of promises professed as whispers underneath a glassed moonlit sky, meant nothing to him.

You learned the minute he walked out the door, ticket in one hand and suitcase in the other, that sometimes a love given in full was not one fully returned.

It took time, but you got over him. With tubs of ice cream and supportive friends, you made it through and came out stronger than ever. You earned yourself a great book deal with a well-known publisher, and were even lauded as a rising star in literary circles across the nation. You were set on a path to succeed, to live the life you dreamed for yourself. And there was no sight of Bucky Barnes in that dream at all.

Until you stepped foot onto the ancient cobblestone paths of the island of Crete. The shore was a graceful arc of sand, glittering under the July sun, a perfect place for a placid ocean to lap. The waves rolled in a soothing sound, the salty waters a brief flurry of sand.

The warm caress of an afternoon breeze from the briny waves of the Aegean Sea felt like heaven against your skin. Even with the sun burning onto the bare skin not hidden by your sundress, you can’t help but absorb the serenity that radiates from the shore of Elafonisi.

“Y/N!” Nat’s voice pierces through the sweet silence as her head sticks out of the car. Red hair flowing in the wind wildly just like the hand that’s waving to you.

You smile sheepishly, waving at her from your spot in front of the airport. She jumps out of the car the minute it stops and hugs you. “You made it!” she exclaims.

“Of course I’d make it,” you reply with a laugh. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“Nat started freaking out when you said your flight got delayed,” Sam replied, walking up to you and giving you a hug.

“I was not!” she retorts. “I was completely calm.”

“You and calm are two things that could never be put together,” a voice comes from behind and it makes you want to scream. Bucky walks up to the crowd of three and Nat hits him on the shoulder, earning a chuckle from him.

“Hey, Y/N,” he greets with a smile.

“Hi, Bucky,” your voice is plain.

“Had a nice flight?”

“Yeah.”

You glare at Natasha but she pretends as if you aren’t.

“Here let me take your bags,” Bucky offers, reaching forward.

“No, that’s fine,” you replied, but he doesn’t have it and takes them anyway.

“Hey, Sammy, unlock the trunk for me, will ya?” Bucky asks, walking to the back of the car.

Sam nods, walking around to him.

You take Nat’s hand by the wrist and squeeze tightly, making her look directly at you.

“Why did you bring him?” you whisper harshly.

“He wanted to come,” she replies in the same manner. “I couldn’t say no.”

“You could have.”

“Why don’t you give the guy a chance?”

“How about no?”

Nat rolls her eyes. “Do what you want,” she walks away, you pull her back.

“You’re sitting in the back with me,” you ordered.

“You have got to be kidding me,” she groans, placing her hand on her hip.

“Do I look like I am?”

She yanks her hand from yours. “Fine,” she sighs, opening the door to the car.

---

Bucky looks at you from the corner of his eye. You leaned against the car door, arm propped up to hold your chin, sun hat resting on your lap. As you watched the passing scenery, the wind from the opened window blew through your hair.

It’s a bit shorter this time.

It looks nice.

Your lips are pulled down into a disgruntled expression as Nat rambles on about the wedding schedule.

You’re not listening, completely submerged into your thoughts.

Bucky chuckles quietly to himself.

Always the daydreamer.

“Y/N, are you even listening?” Natasha asks.

“Hmm?” you turn towards her.

“You’ve bored her to death, Nat,” Bucky replies for you, turning his back so he could get a real look at you. “She likes adventure novels.”

“Actually I was listening,” you retorted sharply. “She said we have practice at the church at ten tomorrow. Don’t be late, Barnes.” You turn back to your window gazing, leaving the three completely silent.

Sam snorts, unable to keep his amusement inside. Bucky slaps him on the arm then turns back into his seat with a loud thud. A smirk creeps its way onto your face.

Home : 1

Guest: 0

“Good Morning, Y/N,” Bucky greets cheerfully.

Suddenly, your orange juice tastes sour in your mouth. You turn towards him with a horribly forced, sweet smile.

“Good Morning, Bucky.”

“It’s 9:58,” he points to his watch, “so that means I’m not late.”

You look at him blankly, tired of hiding your distaste of him. “Congratulations, I could honestly care less.”

“You should care,” he points with a mock frown like he’s teasing you.

I’m about to start swinging.

“Where there’s no you, there’s no me. Where there’s no me, there’s no you.”

How fucking poetic.

“We’re an integral part of this wedding, L/N,” he chuckles.

“I see your horrible sense of humor hasn’t changed,” you bite.

“And you still have that snarky twist to yours,” he retorts, leaning against the wall of the church hall, eyes straight on you.

Stop admiring her, dumbass.

You cross your arms and divert your gaze from him as if you’re ashamed.

“I don’t mean it in a bad way,” he quickly corrects himself, standing straight. “It’s a good thing, I’ve missed it,” he confesses.

Your head whips towards him, shocked eyes meeting his. A scarlet red scatters on your cheeks the same way they do on his.

The tips of his ears burn the brightest hue of red that only happened when he was extremely nervous or embarrassed.

A little piece of information your brain cared to remember.

“Uhm, uh, what I meant was—” he starts to stutter.

You look away again, not wanting to hear another word. You catch Yelena walking by with a few baskets of decorations in her hands. You quickly walk towards her, leaving Bucky in the dust.

“Here, Yelena, let me help you,” you place your hands on the baskets she was holding.

“Oh, it’s okay, Y/N, I can handle—”

“No,” you tug on the basket. “please let me help,” you strained through gritted teeth. Yelena raises a brow and looks over your shoulder to see an awkwardly placed Bucky standing behind you.

“Oh! Yes, please help me!” she yells handing you a basket. “These are oh so heavy!” she laughs.

Taking the basket from her, you follow here out of the hall and into the sanctuary.

All Bucky wishes is that you’d look back at him one time. Just once.

But why would you?

He never turned back when he left. Not even once.

---

“The Best Man and the Maid of Honor will come out together,” the coordinator stated.

You grumble quietly, giving a glance in Bucky’s direction. He catches you looking and gives you a wink paired with a smile. You turn away quickly and keep your eyes strictly on the coordinator as she verbally listed the instructions of the procession.

After a painstaking thirty minutes of instructions and tips, the wedding party lined up in order of entrance. Bucky and you were placed right before the flower girl and the ring bearer and after the bridesmaids and groomsmen. Allowing Bucky to make trivial conversation. You were literally linked with him with your arm hooked in his.

He rambles on about something stupid. Or at least you think it’s something stupid. You’re not really listening so you couldn’t really tell.

“You know I’ve read your book,” he states.

“What?”

“There you go daydreaming again,” he shakes his head with a chuckle, taking a step forward.

You huff at him. “I was not.”

“You haven’t listened to a word I’ve said in the past ten minutes.”

“Not my fault you’re boring,” you hurl at him, taking another step forward, coming closer to your turn.

Bucky frowns playfully. “Ouch, so mean,” he whines.

The couple in front of you begins to walk down the aisle, leaving Bucky and you at the doors.

“Good luck, guys!” Nat cheers from the back.

You turn with the biggest scowl on your face which she received with a wide smile and thumbs up.

The two of you get the signal to walk and proceed with even steps.

“I said that I read your book,” Bucky recalls.

You turn your head to look up at him. “You—you did?” you stuttered.

He nodded with a smile. “Yeah, I got stuck at the airport in Berlin cause of a delay and saw your book in the window of a bookstore, so I bought it. I read it in one sitting.”

Your heart beats wildly and palms grow wet. “Um thank you,” you whisper sheepishly.

“No, thank you,” he chuckles. “I enjoyed it very much. You did an amazing job.”

You smile small in appreciation of his words, but quickly harden your heart. “You don’t have to be so nice,” you reply, letting go of his arm just as you reach the end of the aisle.

Bucky couldn’t tell what made chills run down his spine. The cold tone of your voice or the way you let go of him so easily.

“Who’s the cutest baby in the world?” Steve cooes. The little girl in his hands giggles at her father’s words. “You are! You’re the cutest baby in the world. Ah, look at those eyes,” he fawns, “just as pretty as mama’s.”

Bucky groans loudly, slouching into the chair in the hotel room.

“What’s with you?” Steve diverts his attention to Bucky.

“Nothing,” he mumbles.

“It’s Y/N, isn’t it?” he drops it on him like a bomb.

An embarrassingly red blush creeps on his cheeks. “I never said that!”

“I don’t know who you’re trying to fool, but it’s not working,” Steve retorts, bouncing the baby on his knee.

“I just—I don’t know why she hates me,” Bucky says.

Steve gives him a look as if he’s in The Office. “You don’t know why she hates you?” he asks incredulously.

“No,” he shakes his head. “I know why she hates me,” he sighs. “I just don’t know how to make it up to her. I want to fix things, but what’s the point if she won’t even give me a chance to speak two words to her.”

Steve covers his little girl’s ears. “How about you stop being a whiny bitch and stop beating around the bush? Stop the whole nice guy act and just come clean to her. Give her the raw feelings and not this flowery, teasing bullshit you’ve got going on. You’re a fucking adult for crying out loud. Start acting like one.”

Bucky opens his mouth to speak, but he doesn’t have any words. Steve had a point, but he didn’t have to say it the way he did.

“I’m telling Sharon you said that in front of Sarah.”

“You tell her anything and you’re gonna be walking down the aisle with a missing tooth.”

Elafonisi was just as beautiful at night as it was in the day. The waters danced underneath the moonlight. The stars sparkled in the sky. You marvelled in the simplicity of the beach. No towering skyscrapers and bustling crowds. No flashing screens and odd smells.

It’s like paradise.

A cool ocean breeze brushes against your skin like kisses from the divine. The air was thick with a cacophony of aroma. Pungents smells of rosemary, thyme, and lemon trees mix with the faint smell of slowly roasted meat coming from inside the hotel.

It’s been a long day of practice and preparation. You’ve been around way too many people than you normally enjoyed and decided to take a break from it all. And you couldn’t find a better place than being hidden on the canopied balcony that jutted out of the building.

Peace and quiet. Just the way you liked it.

“I thought I’d find you out here.” Bucky approaches you on the balcony.

Of fucking course.

“I wish you didn’t,” you murmured.

“What was that?”

“Nothing.”

Bucky comes to stand next to you, he rests his forearms on the stone fence. “It’s nice here,” he says, “I came here about two years ago, but it feels like the first. Crete is a beauty.”

“I’ve seen the pictures.”

“Hmm?”

“The pictures you took,” you explained. “I’ve seen them all.”

Bucky’s heart flips at your words. A lazy smile tugs at his lips as he turns towards you. “Have you been stalking my Instagram?”

“No! Nat showed me.” you yell at him, hoping he couldn’t see the blush on your cheeks. Anger rushes through your veins. “You’re so full of yourself,” you snarl, turning on your heel you walk away only for him to catch you by the wrist.

“Y/N, I was just joking,” he said, pulling you closer.

You tug your arm out of his grasp. “Stop joking with me,” you hiss. “Stop pretending to be my friend. Stop acting like everything’s completely fine between us when it’s not!”

“Y/N, let me explain,” he pleads.

“No,” you deny. “I don’t want your explanation. It’s too late for that now. I’ve spent four years without a good one and I don’t need one now. I was doing fine, really, and then you waltz back in like you didn’t break my heart,” you choke out.

Tears brim at the corner of your eyes, threatening to fall if you said another word. You’re not going to cry in front of him. You didn’t back then and you sure as hell weren’t going to now.

“Just please do me a favor and leave me alone?” you ask quietly.

“I can’t,” he shakes his head. “I can’t leave you alone. I did that once before and it was the biggest mistake of my life,” he confesses. “I was young. I was foolish and I thought what I wanted was out there somewhere but in reality it was always right next to me. It was always just you.”

His eyes tell the truth and that was what truly angered you. Even after four years, he still had a way of breaking through your hard exterior.

“Then why didn’t you come back?” you asked, voice straining, eyes holding back the tears.

Bucky looks down at his feet. The crash of the ocean waves in distance calms him, letting the feelings he harbored for so many years flow out of his mouth.

“Because I was ashamed. Because I felt like you wouldn’t want me back after how much I’ve hurt you,” he looks up nervously.

“When I saw you at the engagement party I knew I had to at least try to get you back,” he says, hoarsely. “You know I suck at confrontation, it freaks me out,” he chuckles awkwardly, keeping his own tears at bay. He swallows deep then sniffles. “But I’m here now and all I’m asking for is one chance? One chance to make it alright?”

“I can’t,” you shake your head and it makes his heart fall. “I don’t think I’m ready.”

“We don’t have to start where we left off,” he quickly replies, pleading for his case. “We can start over if that’s what you want. We can take it slow.”

You look at him, quietly thinking about his proposition. He’s willing to fix things. Even if it meant starting over from scratch so he could rebuild the foundation of trust he had foolishly destroyed. He’s willing to put in the extra hours. So who were you to say no?

You’d be lying if you said you didn’t think about being with him again.

Bucky was still the one you wanted to spend your life with. He always was and always will be.

“Baby steps?” you whisper.

Bucky’s lips curve into a half smile. A small chuckle escapes them. “Yeah, anything you want sweetheart.”

Your lips follow his. “I want to start again.”

Bucky smiles, brighter than the moon. He takes your hand gently in his and kisses the back of it with a nod.

It was the little things about him. The little things you wanted to believe you hated. The feel of his lips against your skin. The warmth in his eyes that he only showed you.

The little things you once loved about him and continued to, even after so long, gave you the surety that a love given in full can be given fully in return. Sometimes it just takes a little time.

FIN

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes imagine #bucky x you #bucky x y/n #bucky x reader #bucky barnes fluff #bucky barnes angst #modern au bucky

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mydisenchantedeulogy · 5 years ago

Text

Invincible [Chapter 11] Good Feeling [Katsuki Bakugou]

“Try to remember that quirks can put a strain on the body. They are an extension of power, but without proper training the user can suffer greatly,” the nurse with a bow in her hair explains. She writes several things down on her clip board as she lectures me. “In your case, Miss Usui, your mind isn’t strong enough for the amount of stress you put on it. I’d suggest taking it easy for a couple of days. Then, once you are able to, try strengthening your mind a little. Don’t push yourself too much, but widen the limits of your control.”

I agree with her, even though I am upset with it. The news fills like salt on a wound. It seems like the practice I put in during the 10 months before the practical exam were for nothing. I may have exceeded my limits, but not by much. My mother had pushed far beyond hers in such a sort time. It feels awful that I can’t.

“Does this mean I can go home?”

The nurse with a bow in her hair gives me a quick smile, then glances down at her clipboard again. “Looks so. You seem to be able to stand without feeling dizzy, and according to your tests you have a slight heart arrhythmia, but it’s nothing serious. I’ll ask that you avoid stressing yourself. If it persists; the dizziness and shortness of breath, you should come back immediately.”

“I understand,” I tell her.

She hands me a paper with my diagnosis on it, explaining my reason for being hospitalized, then allows me to go. I have been checked out already. The nurse tells me that the person is waiting out in the hallway for me, and once she leaves the room, she allows them in. I am surprised to see Katsuki here.

He comes over to the bedside and moves my food tray to the side, placing down a small bag with my necessities in it. He then sits in the chair across from me.

“Classes are canceled for the day. The school is being investigated, so you didn’t miss much.” Katsuki looks me over. “Get dressed. We’re going on that date I promised you.”

I am confused. I remember winning the date, but I don’t see why he’d choose today to take me. It’s Thursday afternoon. I have been in the hospital since yesterday. The way I see it, Katsuki should take the day for himself. He needs to relax too.

“Are you sure? You fought harder than me at USJ. Don’t you want to spend the rest of the day at home?”

“Of course I do, fuck munch.” His reply is course. He sounds tired, but I don’t comment on it, and allow him to continue. “However, I lost. You made a decent score in the practical exam, so I’d be a liar if I didn’t take you out. Today is a better time to go, then this weekend.”

I don’t argue with him. Instead, I grab the bag and stand up. I’ll get dressed in the bathroom. This morning I had taken a shower, so I am good to go. Once I am inside the confines of the stark white room, I close the door and strip out of my hospital gown. I take each of the items out of the bag; my underclothes and bathroom supplies. The last item is a white dress with light blue snowflakes printed on the fabric. I remember this dress. My mother had bought it for me to apologize for missing the snow festival last year. She had said it reminded her of the statue of the snow woman in one of the pictures my father took. I love this dress. How does Katsuki know?

Once I’m done, I bag my stuff and leave the room. I decide to leave my hair down today, since it’s nice outside. Katsuki glances up at me, and sits his phone down in his lap.

“Is something wrong?”

He scowls at me. “You look nice, dumbass. The dress is out of season for this weather, but it suits you.”

I feel my face heat up. Did he really just compliment me? It was very Katsuki-like, but still, he actually gave me a decent compliment. “Are you sure that you’re up for this? You seem different. Are you sick?”

“Piss off,” he snaps. “I was only telling you that you look nice, so you won’t complain. I don’t have time for your mood swings.”

He should take some time to look in the mirror. He’s the one with the mood swings. Even so, I am happy that he likes it. His father works in the fashion industry, so I assume some of his comment spawns from the this fact. His mother might kill him if he leaves the house wearing something vile. The truth is, he looks nice anytime he goes out.

I give him a quick glance over, and slip my arms behind my back. Suddenly I feel very shy. He’s wearing a red shirt beneath a black button-down that he keeps completely open. Sometimes I wonder if Masaru dresses him before he goes out. I’ve seen what he wears at home; sweatpants and shirts with violent logos on them. I doubt they’d let him walk around the city like a thug. However, I will admit, he looks nice either way.

“Ready to go?”

Katsuki stands up and leads me from the room. Once we make it down to the lobby I notice my father. I call out to him and run across the room to speak with him.

“Glad to see your doing better, kiddo.” He pats my head. “I came here to check you out, but I ran into Bakugou on the way. He mentioned taking you out on a date, so I waited here to get your bag from you.”

I laugh, honestly happy to see him. “Thank you for bringing the dress.”

“It was Sachiko’s idea,” he admits. Sachiko is my mother’s name. Somehow I had known that she was behind this.

My father rakes his fingers through his light-colored hair, and dips his head towards Katsuki. “I’ll be heading back now. Try to have Airi home before dark.” He pats my head once again, and takes my bag from me. I wave goodbye to him as he leaves. Soon after, Katsuki and I follow after, heading into the city.

I glance around at the shops, enjoying the bustle of the busy urban environment. But, Katsuki pulls me from my thoughts.

“Where do you want to go?”

I frown; honestly I don’t know. “I don’t care. Anywhere is fine with me.”

“Don’t give me that bullshit. I know better than that,” the blond argues. “If I listen to you and take you somewhere you don’t want to go, you’ll complain the whole time. Now answer the damn question.”

“What about you? How do you spend your day in the city?”

“I go to the arcade,” he says with a sigh.

I recall him going to the arcade a lot with his friends. I had assumed it was something they liked to do. Katsuki had never taken me with them, so I knew nothing about it. Honestly I am happy. This is something new about him that I am learning. I want to be someone he can enjoy himself with.

“I’ve never been to an arcade before,” I admit. “Let’s go there.”

He agrees to take me and leads me to a game center that is five stories high. I can’t believe how massive this place is. We take the escalator up to the fourth floor – Katsuki refers to it as the floor with the fighting games. Once we’re there, Katsuki picks a game. It’s a 2 player station with knobs and buttons. The idea is to fight each other until one of us wins. I chose a character with a color scheme of hot pink; Katsuki choses a male character that’s like him, uses explosives. The round begins.

Katsuki beats me the first round, but once I have the moves down, I easily beat him. During the last round, I manage to beat him again. He narrows his eyes at me, stating that I used the same move over and over. I agree, but at least I beat him.

The credit screen pops up and I am allowed to type my name in. I notice a familiar name amongst them and laugh.

“King of Explodo-kills. Is that you?”

He nods, despite being upset about his loss. I am impressed. Katsuki is really good at a lot of things he does. He has a high score in this game, which it pretty cool. I didn’t do bad, but I doubt I’d be able to beat Katsuki’s score.

“Give me a name,” I order him. The blond furrows his brows so I explain better. “You have a nickname. I want one too.”

Katsuki agrees, taking the knob in his hand. He begins to type in a name while I wait in anticipation. Once he’s done I hiss annoyance. The screen reads fuck-munch. I poke at his cheek.

“I demand a rename. You can’t write anything with curse words in it,” I argue.

Katsuki ignores me and grabs my hand. He pulls me over to a new game, and we begin playing. He curses at me as I button punch again. Sooner or later, he’ll see that playing fighting games with me is pointless. He’ll never win.

Hours pass by on the fourth floor. I am having fun. Once we get bored of fighting games, Katsuki takes me to the first floor to try my hand at the crane machines. I am surprisingly good at this and score a cute, sleeping Pichu plush. It reminds me of Denki, so I laugh.

Katsuki doesn’t seem to like crane machines much, but that’s okay. I notice a photo sticker booth in the corner of the room and drag him over to it. He takes some convincing, but I manage to do so. We enter the booth and pay the machine, getting an option for 4 pictures. I chose this option. Within seconds we are asked to pose, and the timer begins to count down.

“How should we pose?”

“I’m not going to pose. Just let it take the pictures so we can get out of here,” Katsuki tells me.

I can’t allow that. At the last few seconds, I reach over and use my fingers to pull up the corners of Katsuki’s lips. The camera snaps before he can protest. The next picture is wasted with him glaring at me. I pretend to never have touched him. In the third photo, I lean forward and kiss his cheek – his face turns red. The last photo is next, so I beg him to make it count. I smile and lean against his shoulder. He faces the camera, but flips it off once the shutter snaps. Honestly, I am not mad. This is Katsuki; king of pride.

As we leave the booth, I pick up the pictures and look them over. They’re kind of cute. I defiantly like the two were Katsuki is being himself, so I decide to keep them. I offer the first 2 over to him, which he looks at with a soft expression, then shoves into his pocket.

We decide to leave the arcade and head home. It’s getting late. On the way, Katsuki buys me a cupcake from the bakery. He catches me trying to peek at a fan service magazine at the stand across the street, and calls me a pervert. Guilty pleasures; I can’t help it. I pout at his name calling and take the cupcake. It looks delicious. I thank him and eat it happily as we continue to walk.

“You eat like a damn pig, Airi. There’s frosting on your face,” Katsuki hisses at me.

He stops and uses his thumb to wipe the chocolate frosting from the corner of my mouth. My face instantly goes warm. Since when does he use my first name? Maybe I am overthinking this. Maybe I’m not. I really do like Katsuki a lot. A smile pulls at my lips.

“The hell are you smiling for?”

“I’m just happy is all,” I admit. “I like being with you.”

I notice the blush spread across Katsuki’s face. He seems embarrassed, which is cute. Wish I could know what he’s thinking. Maybe he likes me too.

“Do you consider this a date?”

“Yeah, I guess. Why do you ask?”

A sly smile pulls at my lips. “I just wanted to hear you say it, is all.”

Katsuki glares at me, then takes my cupcake and smashes it against my face. I can feel the frosting coat my skin. My poor cupcake. Annoyance boils in me.

“I can’t believe you did that,” I pout. “I don’t like you very much anymore.”

Katsuki scoffs. “I don’t believe that.”

“Then you’re right. I don’t hate you,” I admit. I wipe some of the icing away, and lick it off my fingers. “You’re a good boyfriend, Katsuki. Even those times you tried to talk sense into me. I wasn’t lying when I said that.”

Katsuki slips off his button-down and starts to wipe away the icing on my face. This makes me kind of sad, considering I like the piece of fabric. But, he owes me for ruining my cupcake.

“We’ve been dating since middle school; longer if you consider preschool,” he says suddenly.

I feel my stomach flutter. “Do you?”

“It’s something the hag told me before I left the house,” he recalls, ignoring my question completely. “She calls it a childhood romance.”

“Sounds weird,” I admit. Do people still have this? I never thought of what we have as a romance. I just thought of it as something life partners have. It’s strange to think of us as actual lovers. We don’t act like a couple.

“No shit,” Katsuki agrees with me.

“Are we an actual couple?”

Katsuki scrubs at my face. “Kind of stupid to disagree now. That fucking hedgehog already told everyone we are. You didn’t disagree, so now you’re stuck with me. Like it or not, you’re my girlfriend.”

“I can live with that,” I agree with a smile. “However, don’t you think calling me a fuck-munch is a little mean. You should be a little nicer to me.”

“Not a fucking chance,” the blond hisses. He grabs my nose and squeezes hard.

I cry out in pain, swatting at his hand. He’s the absolute meanest person I have ever had the pleasure of meeting. “I take it back. I don’t think I like you. When I get home, I’m looking for a new boyfriend. Maybe one of those cuties from that magazine.”

“Good luck, pervert. None of those dumbasses can equal up to me,” the blond boasts.

I wrap my arm with his and walk beside him to the station. The truth is, I wouldn’t trade him for the world. I just wish he wouldn’t tease me so much. A smile pulls at my lips. Tough luck, I guess.

#katsuki bakugou #my hero academy fanfiction #oc #romance

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ersonist · 8 years ago

Text

where i would be if you hadn't found me

title: where I would be if you hadn’t found me

rating: t

word count: 6,359 (This was supposed to be a drabble, I don't know what happened.)

a/n: modern AU in which Jyn is secretly a sci-fi fan, Cassian works too much and somehow I still made it all angsty. Also went really meta, my apologies. No beta - I literally wrote it in one sitting at work to get it out of my system (who cares about deadlines, right? the correct answer is my boss actually...). Title’s from dodie’s sick of losing soulmates.

Written for RebelCaptain Appreciation Week, Day Four: AU of your choice || Writing Prompt: Nerve.

the original trilogy

She sees the leaflet pinned to the bulletin board outside her campus apartment. “May the Power be yours” it proclaims in bold, orange letters that the generations of geeks and movie buffs have come to know, love and incessantly quote out of context. She’s already late for her first morning class but she stops anyway, staring at it for a moment that is definitely longer than necessary to memorise all the details. She notices the same poster on her way back home and with a quick glance around she quietly rips it down and stuffs in her bag.

“There’s a Galactic Battles marathon organised next weekend,” she nonchalantly tells Bodhi while pouring a copious amount of milk into her tea, turning it meringue shade of white. The air is pleasantly cool that morning - a nice change from the recent heat of San Diego’s summer - so they keep the windows open, letting in the sounds of the life outside. Faint radio chatter, a dog barking in the distance. She takes a sip, stealing a glance at her friend from behind the oversized mug. He looks frozen, strawberry jam dripping from the knife in one hand, a piece of bread in the other.

“You want to go?” There’s a clear surprise in his voice, his breakfast already forgotten.

Jyn just shrugs, takes out the crumpled paper from the bag hanging on her chair and puts it between them on the table. It’s torn at the edge, cutting the word ‘yours’ in two.

“I thought... You know, you never mention him... it,” he corrects quickly avoiding her gaze.

There’s one last piece of toast left untouched on Bodhi’s plate and Jyn grabs it playfully just to prove how banal she finds this conversation. As if they’d talk about her dead father over a breakfast on regular basis. Her hand doesn’t even shake when she does it and she idly wonders if this is what moving on genuinely looks like.

“You’re a shrink now? This is not why I asked you to be my flatmate,” she quips with a forced grin that Bodhi pretends not to notice.

It’s because you’re the only family I have left, she wants to say but as always decides to keep to herself. They might be life-long friends but she’s nowhere near that level of sentimental. Besides, she’s pretty sure he knows that already.

Bodhi doesn’t dignify any of this with a comment. He just gives her a warm smile that reminds her of the rainy afternoons they spent building blanket forts in the living room of her parents’ London apartment. She can feel that empty ache again, closing her throat, threatening to spill a chocked sob at the memory of toy soldiers and Lego spaceships, and her parents bickering over whether Jaffa Cakes are biscuits or cakes. They have nothing on Anthon Berg, her father would always conclude with a laugh.

She finishes her tea in one gulp and wordlessly leaves the kitchen. When she comes back after the classes she finds the leaflet pinned to their fridge.

Turns out she doesn’t like movie marathons. Or maybe it’s because sci-fi tends to bring out the weirdest of people? For one, she’s one of the few people not in a costume. Even Bodhi, that traitor, borrowed a leather jacket to resemble the trilogy’s famous smuggler. Frankly Jyn has a feeling that this is just an additional point in the grand scheme of impressing some golden farmboy from his Aerospace Structures class. Of course the guy’s attendance that evening is purely coincidental as Bodhi assured her earlier and she had to bite her lip to keep from laughing.

The hall is getting crowded, noisier by every minute and it’s clear that this old, artsy movie theatre is not used to such large audience. She almost feels sorry for the stone faced usher who is trying to control the situation. He doesn’t even flinch when the enthusiastic fans are waving those ridiculous plastic weapons over his head. He looks resigned and just as out of place as she feels.

“You don’t want a good seat?” She hears a voice behind her, the tone casual and friendly, and she groans at the thought of talking to some avid fanboy. She turns around with a heavy sigh and a scowl already firmly placed on her face. An older man with a white cane is definitely not the kind of person she expected though.

“It’s fine, my friend dragged me here. I don’t even like these that much,” she lies through her teeth but judging by the knowing smirk instantly appearing on his lips she obviously failed. It’s such a stupid thing to lie about as well and his amusement makes her feel a little ashamed. She mutters an apology and pushes through the crowd, shoving her ticket in the usher’s hand without as much as a second glance.

She almost gets to the end of the first movie but then they’re blowing up the Planet Killer and it’s the best part, Stardust, she can hear her father saying in a raspy, broken voice. And just like that she’s back in that hospital room, curled by his side, her laptop’s screen illuminating the room with a blueish tint, the noises of the ongoing battle drowning the steady beeping of the machines surrounding his bed.

You’re so silly, she’d force herself to mock him gently; by now nothing but a well-rehearsed routine shielding them from the unforgiving reality. He’d always chuckle at that, so she kept teasing until that late October night when everything stopped. The treatments, the machines, his heart, her heart, nothing but pouring rain soundtracking their sudden silence. One week after the funeral she packed up nothing more than a handful of necessities and her mom’s necklace, and moved halfway across the planet to start over.

She tries to focus on a different memory but it’s too late. She feels an incessant pressure on her chest, her breath uneven. It’s too much. She stands up, the row behind her already snickering angry remarks, Bodhi mouthing a worried “you ok?”. She nods and gives him a feeble smile that comes out more like a grimace.

“Stay. I just need some air,” she whispers to him while gathering her things.

The hall is empty save for the usher leaning against the wall, carefully avoiding a framed “In the Heat of the Sun” poster. She looks around, itching to run home to lock herself in her bedroom and muffle a cry with that ridiculous smiley face pillow that Bodhi got her as a house-warming gift.

“You’re missing the best part,” the usher tells her quietly, his eyes never leaving the pages of the book he’s reading. She sneaks a peek at the cover - A Theory of Justice. Now that she sees him closer she realizes he’s older than she first thought - 25, maybe 26. Dark floppy hair, thin lips and tired eyes. He’s a welcomed distraction.

“The second movie is better anyway,” she replies with a quick shrug. She has approximately 3 minutes left before the first part ends and she’ll have to face people. It’s better if she pretends to be unaffected than to make Bodhi worry. He’s too caring and she feels like every day spent with her and her demons destroys him piece by piece.

The usher mutters something under his breath and puts the book aside. His face is that of a careful neutrality.

“This is the one that started it all, though. The beginning of the whole story,” his voice is now clearer, his accent more pronounced.

“There’s nothing that exciting about beginnings. Nor the endings to be honest,” she muses, her gaze lingering, judging the weariness of his features, the dark lashes and the light stubble. “It’s the stuff in between that counts.”

He tilts his head and gives her the tiniest of smirks that her traitorous mind catalogues as oddly attractive. But before either of them can say anything else all the doors open and the swarm of filmgoers floods the hall.

the prequels

For someone who was literally non-existent in her life prior that weekend she finds herself bumping into the guy on regular occasions. She now knows he also works in that coffee place that sells more of overpriced sugary concoctions than actual coffee which for some reason appeals to tipsy Bodhi (Coconut milk chocolate cherry latte with a foam bunny, Jyn! A foam bunny!). She sees him with a bag of groceries across the street and deduces he must be living somewhere near the Krav Maga school she goes to on Wednesday evenings. She notices him having a late lunch with Leia, the twin sister of the guy that Bodhi’s crushing on (and still vehemently denies it). He goes to Farmers Market on Saturday mornings and actually smirks at her over a stack of organic lettuce. It’s unsettling and Jyn ends up going home huffing in annoyance, two small tomatoes and a sole carrot in her tote bag. He’s suddenly everywhere and she doesn’t know what to do with it. Her social circle begins and ends with Bodhi, and this seems like an unwarranted addition. They’re not friends, they’re not even acquaintances. Exchanging hellos would be too much and yet every time she spots him she carefully appraises such option.

A couple of weeks of this game ends abruptly with a bouncy Bodhi and another leaflet.

“They’re marathoning the prequels this Friday,” he interrupts her dinner by dropping the piece of paper on the table. It almost falls into her plate of microwaved noodles and she shoves it aside with a frown.

“Don’t care about the prequels,” she grunts.

“Exactly!” Bodhi exclaims as if this was actually good news. “There are no memories attached to those. Nothing but pure fun and admittedly a lot of bad dialogue.”

Jyn eyes him warily.

“Cassian thought you might want to go,” he finally adds off-handedly before taking a can of soda out of the fridge and sitting down across a very confused Jyn.

“I don’t know any Cassians,” she scoffs, her gaze involuntarily lingering on the leaflet.

“Sure you do,” he tells her with the maddening confidence that Jyn associates with the most terrible of their plans. Like when they were 14 and tried to climb onto his parents’ balcony because he lost his keys. “He says you’ve been stalking him lately or something.”

He lets out a small chuckle at Jyn’s vexed face before pointing to the leaflet with a short explanation, “He works there.”

The usher. Of course. She rolls her eyes and aggressively ignores the warm feeling at finally knowing the guy’s name.

She quickly realises it’s a lost battle. Once Bodhi has an idea she can protest all she wants but in the end she always agrees. She blames his stupid puppy eyes.

This is how she finds herself standing outside that cinema a good hour before the first film even starts. Cassian, she purposefully repeats his name in her head, told them to drop by earlier so they can skip the queue but he still hasn’t let them inside. She leans against the ticket booth and makes small talk with Leia who in a few colourful sentences explains her non-relationship with the guy they’re still waiting for. Usually Jyn wouldn’t care about anyone’s heartaches but Leia’s range of insults is frankly impressive. The guy finally shows up and Jyn quickly steps aside as if she’d be caught in the crossfire otherwise. She looks affectionately at Bodhi, too busy fumbling on words to realise Luke’s small blush and eager eyes, and when Cassian finally unlocks the doors her heart is filled with something closely resembling fondness for these people.

“Hey,” he greets them quietly. He looks like he hasn’t slept in days, dark circles under his eyes, cracked lips and that unruly lock of hair that Jyn briefly wants to brush from his forehead only to remember they don’t even know each other. Not officially. Not yet.

“Hey, Cassian,” she replies just as quietly, testing the way his name feels on her tongue.

“Jyn,” he nods.

She doesn’t think anyone from their little group realise how monumental this feels to her.

There are two other people already inside the hall, one of them struggling to hang a large vintage poster, the other giving him directions with a laugh.

“The owners,” Cassian explains. “They can be a bit... peculiar.”

“He thinks he’s being funny, the old fool,” the larger of the two grunts, leaving the slightly crooked frame as it is. “Right, left, no, your left. Hilarious, Chirrut. You’re such a comedian.”

Chirrut, whom Jyn recognises as the guy with the white cane from the other night, lets out a loud laugh before joining the group.

“We heard that, Cassian!” he says teasingly. “By the way when Baze said we needed to sell more tickets, he didn’t mean to literally fill the audience with your friends.”

“Did they even pay for the tickets?” The other owner, Baze, asks with a pointed look.

“You should be paying us to watch these,” Jyn mutters before she can stop herself.

“Very true, little sister,” Chirrut cackles. “Cassian, find the best seat for her. Popcorn’s on us.”

The evening turns out to be as much fun as Bodhi promised. With a less crowded theater and no emotional attachment, Jyn finds herself enjoying it surprisingly more than she thought she would. Leia and Han argue all through the first two films, only to end up making out during the last one. Luke switches places after that, mumbling something about needing a therapy and Bodhi eagerly joins him. And Jyn finds herself waiting for the intermissions so she can catch a glimpse of the silent guy who’s not even her friend. She’s too good at denial to admit it, so she concludes it’s a side effect of being lonely. She just craves human interaction and someone as quietly intense as Cassian seems like a good challenge. She steps into the hall and her eyes lock on his silhouette almost immediately. There’s a certain gravity to everything he does; the way he moves, stealthily and purposefully, like he can’t afford any additional gestures. A carefully constructed illusion of detachment with just a hint of something softer, sadder. She struggles not to find him intriguing.

“He looks exhausted,” Chirrut appears out of nowhere, concern clear in his voice.

“How-” she tries to ask but he cuts her off with a chuckle.

“Just because I’m blind doesn’t mean I can’t see it,” he tells her with a challenging gleam in his pale eyes.

Jyn tries to come up with an appropriate reply to that, something that wouldn’t make her sound like the biggest asshole who puts down a disabled person.

Before she can formulate her own thoughts a gruffy voice belonging to Baze helps her out - “That’s exactly what it means.”

Chirrut dismisses him with an easy laugh and a shake of his head. This is a routine for them, she realises with affection. She remembers her own parents and their bickering, smooth and familiar, creating that little bubble of pure happiness she now misses so much.

“He should quit that second job,” Baze declares pensively, his eyes assessing Cassian’s current state. “That kid will work himself to death.”

“We don’t pay him enough for that,” Chirrut reminds him, not unkindly, and it’s clearly a conversation they’ve had before. He sighs softly, their small chat turning a bit too private, too intense for Jyn to witness. She doesn’t know Cassian, not really. She shouldn’t be listening to any of this.

“No one wants to watch Chirrut’s selection of foreign documentaries,” Baze whispers to her with a conspirational wink but she can hear a note of regret.

“Cassian will help us to steer this place in the more profitable direction,” Chirrut’s optimism is infectious, a small smile already slipping into place on Jyn’s lips. “He can help us crush the evil multiplexes!”

After that evening, Cassian and that odd couple become somewhat of a fixture in Jyn’s increasingly changing life. They’re not exactly friends, the don’t really talk, they don’t call each other to complain about their respective lives but there’s a quickly installed degree of trust that still amazes her. She drops by the movie theater a couple of times per week now, rarely for any cinematic reason although she tries. She sits through a “Retrospective of the 50s Asian Cinema”, attended by all of 12 people, 7 of them seemingly Chirrut and Baze’s friends. They screen an old kung fu film one Tuesday afternoon and she’s literally the only person there before Cassian caves in and joins her. They spend the rest of that day trying to repeat the moves they’ve seen, out of breath and almost giddy, cheered on by a grinning Chirrut. It feels like home again and it’s both exhilarating and terrifying.

She knows it won’t last.

Luke drags them to his favourite fast food joint one evening. The three of them wait patiently for Cassian to finish his shift, Bodhi smirking at her in a way that spells Trouble. With capital T. The last time she saw that look on his face, he was trying to set her up with a fellow student. The lovely guy turned out to be engaged and very much in love with his fiancée. Bodhi officially sucks at matchmaking.

“What?” She finally snaps, whispering just in case.

“I’m just glad Cassian could join us,” Bodhi replies innocently and Jyn wants to murder him. It’s a trap. A fucking double date if she sees one.

The place turns out to be a hole in the wall, in some ways quite literally, but the burgers are good and the wobbly table they find outside gives them enough of privacy to chat in peace. Luke’s talking animatedly about an aviation project he wants to work on and the conversation almost immediately steers towards their future plans.

“Jyn’s still undeclared,” Bodhi cuts in as though Jyn was unable to admit it out loud.

“I’m just considering all my options,” she explains defiantly, her chin jutting high and her arms crossed. “Who knows what will happen. The world’s a mess, I might end up a petty criminal or something.”

“You hear that, Cassian? Here’s your first client!” Bodhi exclaims with a small punch to Cassian’s arm.

She steals a glance at Cassian and his usually blank face has a hint of a blush.

“You’re planning on being a cop?” She asks jokingly with a sudden realisation that she doesn’t even know that, that she never bothered to ask him about his plans.

“Lawyer,” he clarifies, his eyes stubbornly avoiding hers.

“Great,” she snorts dismissively at that and she can feel an abrupt change in the mood, like something unexpectedly charged the air with an unwanted tension.

“What’s wrong with lawyers?” Cassian crosses his arms defensively, leaning against the back of his chair, his shoulders growing stiff.

“Nothing,” she frowns at him while mirroring his pose. “It’s just not very noble. I thought you wanted to change the world or something. You seem like the type.”

“Do I now?” Jyn notices a coldness to his voice she’s never heard before. “And I can’t do that as a lawyer?”

“Oh I’m sure you can save a few scums,” she fires back, fuelled by the furore his words start to provoke. “The guy who killed my mum had an excellent one. By the end of that trial you’d think she purposefully threw herself under his car.”

“So one British asshole makes all of the profession evil?” His voice is getting louder, the accent thicker.

“There are jokes about lawyers going to hell for a reason,” she scoffs because it’s too late now. She’s nothing if not determined, even if it’s in hurting someone.

“Wow, Jyn. If I’m such a monster why are you even here,” Cassian‘s words are sharp, calculated, shooting through her like bullets. “Grow up. You’re not the only one who lost someone.”

He rises from his chair, tossing a few crumpled bills on the table, and leaves. Jyn stubbornly sits still.

the new trilogy

Jyn decides she’s a terrible person. It’s official. She knows she’s good at pushing people away but she never did that as spectacularly and over such a stupid thing as she did with Cassian. Sadly just because she realises certain things doesn’t mean she knows how to make it better. Everything becomes awkward after that night and for the first time in her life Jyn cares enough to wanting to fix it. She knows she owes Cassian an apology or at least a talk to clear the air but every time she comes to his workplace he seems to be miraculously absent. Finally Baze takes pity on her and gives her a scrap of paper with something scribbled on it in light green ink.

“It’s his home address. I don’t know what happened but Chirrut says you two need to talk.”

She keeps it in the front pocket of her jeans for a day. There are two possible outcomes in her mind, both leaving her anxious: he can either shut the door in her face or they can talk it out. She’s just not sure if she’s ready for either. She clearly hit a nerve when they argued and she spent a good chunk of her time overanalyzing everything he said. She always knew there was much more to him than he was letting people see, she just didn’t recognise the extend of damage. She should have, though. She’s been there before.

She spends an entire evening mulling over that until Bodhi finally shoves her off their couch with a firm “fix it.”

She notices a DVD of the first part of the new Galactic Battles trilogy and on an impulse she takes it with her. It’s the lamest of excuses she could ever come up with but it gives her unexpected confidence.

Judging by his state, he clearly didn’t expect any guests. He’s dishevelled, dressed in an old t-shirt and sweatpants under a ridiculous yellow apron, his hands covered in flour.

“You cook,” she states lamely and cringes as soon as she hears herself say it. She shifts awkwardly and holds the DVD up for him to see. It’s a peace offering and an apology all in one and she silently begs for him to understand that. He thankfully seems to get it because he finally gestures for her to come inside, shutting the door behind her with a small kick.

“TV’s over there,” he points to the small room on her left. “I just need to finish this quickly.”

She nods, already looking around his place with an unabashed curiosity. It’s the first time she’s been here and it’s not what she expected. The room’s almost empty, save for some old furniture and books lined on a shelf in what seems to be an alphabetical order. There’s nothing that reminds her of Cassian though, no item that Jyn would judge as personal, as a of value to him. It’s a sad apartment, cold and impersonal. She sighs and kneels in front of the DVD player searching for the remote control. It’s only then that she notices a skinny black cat perched on the edge of the table.

“Hey, kitty,” she says, hesitantly extending her arm to pet it.

The cat crouches, its yellow eyes unnervingly fixed on her, its long tail twitching. And then it pounces.

“Your cat just scratched me,” she complains immediately once Cassian appears in the room, two bottles of beer in his now flour-free hands.

“Sorry about that,” he apologizes looking with a fond exasperation at the hissing creature. “Kay doesn’t like people.”

He hands her one of the bottles and settles on the shabby dark couch.

“People or just me,” Jyn mutters but nods in understanding anyway. She scoots closer to Cassian’s spot on the sofa and stares at the cat with a pointed expression - a fleeting thought that challenging a pet over its owner’s affection is a tad childish. Also she doesn’t even like Cassian like that. Nope. She shifts to move away and she swears the cat looks at her triumphantly.

“Cassian, I-”

“Don’t, ok?” He interrupts her pleadingly. There’s a new-found vulnerability to him as if she discovered already more than he wanted her to. She’s just an intruder in this crappy, small apartment that shows her more about him than she bargained for. Maybe she is the one who has it easy. In the end her parents left her comfortably settled in life, armed with soft memories of love and tenderness that she chose to ignore, too focused on her anger to remember. Does he have any of that?

“Gracias,” she declares instead with ridiculous pride pointing to her beer.

“Is that all you know in Spanish?” Cassian grins at her and Jyn instantly decides she missed it. It looks good on him.

“Don’t mock me! I had French in school,” she huffs faux hurt. “I’ve never been to Mexico. How is it?”

“Depends,” he replies non-committally but doesn’t offer any further explanation and Jyn doesn’t dare to ask.

“I’ve only been to Spain. Well... Ibiza, actually,” she explains a little embarrassed. “It’s like a rite of passage for European youth.”

“How did you like it?” Cassian seems amused by the turn of their conversation and Jyn lets out a long sigh.

“Got sunburn on my first day and lost my wallet two days after that,” she finally recalls with a laugh. “Bodhi had fun, though.”

They settle into their old routine after that, comfortable and reassuring. Cassian brings them food and teaches her the ingredients in Spanish, gently mocking her terrible pronunciation. Neither of them comments on how domestic this all feels.

Halfway through the movie Cassian brings out a bottle of tequila.

“We had Mexican food, this is the obvious next step,” he explains with a grin.

Two shots later the movie becomes nothing but a background noise and she catches him observing her with a new intensity.

“My parents died when I was six,” he confesses after shot number four, his eyes slightly glazed over. She takes a quick gulp and then wordlessly hands him the bottle. He talks about shattered childhood and running away and working, constantly working, just to pay his rent, his food, his school. She tells him about a witty mother who just wanted to cross the street and a nerdy father who gave up. It’s only fair.

When there’s nothing left in the bottle and the DVD keeps playing the title menu on repeat, she leans her heavy head on his shoulder and takes his hand in hers, slowly tracing each knuckle with a fingertip. He slurs something in Spanish, her name being the only sound she recognizes. She looks up and his face is so close, their noses almost touching.

His lips are soft and he tastes like alcohol and it burns so brightly, so beautifully. And then it all goes black.

She wakes up confused, her head pounding. She dimly notes she needs to evaluate the situation before panic starts to set in for good. She’s warm and probably safe, tucked under a worn-out blanket, still wearing all of her clothes. One of her feet sticks out and when she wiggles it she notices the additional weight around her. Cassian lies behind her, his arm draped around her waist, his nose pressed in the crook of her neck. He snores softly, his breath hot on her skin. She untangles herself from his still form and quietly moves to put her shoes on. She spots Kay sitting in the hall, eyeing her every movement carefully and slightly judgementally. She’s halfway through the door when she hears Cassian groan. She freezes, unsure on what to do, Kay already meowing accusingly in her direction. She quietly goes back to the hall. She can see Cassian dropping his head into the palms of his hands, letting out a string of curses.

“I work today,” he croaks miserably, more to himself than anyone. Jyn doesn’t think he even realises she’s standing there, watching him.

Not until he looks right at her.

“Jyn, about last night-” he starts hesitantly.

“Don’t worry about it. We all know tequila is evil,” she laughs and the sound is ugly to her ears. “It’s fine. Really.”

She throws a quick “see you later” already fleeing the room. She ignores his worried glance as she grabs her jacket and runs out of his apartment.

It’s fine, she tells herself all the way back home.

It’s not fine.

She figures it out pretty much the second she locks herself in her bedroom, carefully avoiding Bodhi on her way in. It meant something to her, she knows that, but dealing with messy feelings is the last thing on the list of things Jyn knows how to handle. Avoiding him would be near impossible. She tried that already anyway. Talking seems too terrifying. She has no idea how he feels. It could’ve been just a fluke, a lapse of judgement helped by that fucking alcohol. Jyn heard quite a few tequila related stories, always ending with regrets and terrible headaches and even worse heartaches. She just never thought she’d live one herself.

She takes a deep breath and admits she might actually need an advice. She mentally goes through the list of all her friends slightly shocked she has more than one now. Bodhi would normally be her first choice but he’s still in his honeymoon phase of the relationship with Luke and Jyn doesn’t want to burden him with her mess. Chirrut and Baze are too intuitive, too involved, simply too close to Cassian. She finally settles for Leia, currently running an all-time record of 8 days without a fight with Han. That’s gotta count for something, right?

That Friday aftertoon Jyn lies upside down on her couch, toes lightly touching the wall behind it, a half-written paper on her chest. Inviting a confused Leia to a study session seemed like a brilliant idea, except for one major flaw - them not sharing a single class. She comes over anyway and Jyn shows her awkwardly the apartment before gesturing to the living room table currently occupied by Bodhi’s supposedly revolutionary plane model and a selection of their unfinished papers mixed with (hopefully) paid bills. Leia graciously pushes it all aside before setting her laptop and quietly getting to work. Jyn drops on the couch with resignation.

20 minutes later she still hasn’t manage to approach the subject.

“We kissed,” she finally blurts out and looks at Leia expectantly.

And waits. And waits some more. Frankly she’s a bit annoyed by Leia’s lack of reaction.

“Ok,” Leia eventually mumbles and Jyn’s not even sure if she’s talking to her or just commenting the research she’s currently reading.

“Did you hear me? Cassian kissed me,” Jyn repeats with a huff and moves off the couch so she can face Leia properly.

“So?”

This is all going horribly wrong.

“That’s usually how people behave in relationships,” Leia explains to her as if she were a three-year-old eating a crayon.

Jyn scowls with a curse under her breath.

“Oh,” Leia’s eyes widen almost comically in shock. “I honestly thought you two were-”

“We’re not,” she cuts in drily. She picks at the leftover piece of cheesecake that Leia brought, this whole conversation turning into an unanticipated nightmare.

“But you’re always together,” Leia tries again, more gently this time.

“It’s called being friends,” Jyn replies, letting out an exhale of frustration.

“Do you want him to be more than a friend?”

Jyn looks around helplessly as if by some miracle someone would come over and answer on her behalf.

“Turns out we’re both kind of a mess,” she ends up confiding. It’s not exactly an answer to Leia’s question but it’s as close as Jyn can get to one.

Leia closes her laptop and folds her arms, nodding pensively.

“So you’re both fucked up, but honestly, do you know anyone who isn’t?” She asks bluntly.

“You?”

Leia giggles at that: “You actually think anyone sane would date Han?”

Jyn can’t help but smirk at her answer.

“Did my brother ever mention our parents?” She steals a spoonful of cake from Jyn’s plate and ponders her words carefully. “They were childhood sweethearts, king and queen of the prom, thick as thieves and all that crap. Fast forward a few years and a set of twins and you get the messiest of divorces you can imagine. They even Parent Trap-ed us for a while. Without the summer camp part. Or the happy ending.”

“That’s a terrible example,” Jyn almost whines. “How is that supposed to reassure me?”

“It’s not,” Leia replies frankly, waving at her with the now empty spoon before grabbing another bite. “What I’m trying to say is that relationships are messy and they’re hard work and sometimes they fail. But sometimes they succeed, too. And when they do, you know they were worth the risk.”

“This is a Hallmark level of platitude,” Jyn points out, her disappointment more than obvious.

“Probably,” Leia agrees pleasantly. “Doesn’t make it any less true.”

“Fine,” Jyn gives up if anything just to end this awkward talk. “So what now?”

“Just let it happen? I don’t know, Jyn,” Leia shrugs. “I’m not exactly an expert.”

She reopens her laptop as if the whole conversation never happened and Jyn is left alone with her thoughts again.

Jyn is not a patient person and waiting for something to happen doesn’t exactly sit well with her. But all of her usual methods clearly failed and she’s out of useful defensive mechanisms so maybe Leia’s advice is not that bad. It probably is, she thinks deep down, after all Leia is spending most of her time arguing with her boyfriend.

Turns out there was no need for any of that painful chat because the next time she meets with Cassian he doesn’t mention what happened between them. He’s not awkward with her. He doesn’t try to explain. He doesn’t want to talk. Jyn’s torn between being relieved, disappointed and somewhat mad but she grits her teeth and goes with it. It’s probably for the best, she rationalises. And if they’re standing a bit closer and smile at each other more openly, well, it doesn’t need to mean anything.

the standalone

He has about an hour before the first evening screening and the hall is still quiet, drowned in warm colours of the dusk. Jyn sits silently at the concession stand, her papers spilled all over the counter. He has no heart to tell her to clean it up and move, not when she looks so serene, illuminated by the sunset that brings out those reddish hues to her long hair.

“There’s the new Galactic Battles movie coming out next week,” he mentions over the first of the umpteen popcorn bags he will surely fill that evening. Movie theaters survive because of junk food, Baze once told him. People don’t care about films as much as they care about eating crap in the dark. Judging by the amount he serves every time he firmly believes there’s truth to that.

Jyn hums in agreement, absent-mindedly twirling a pencil in her slender fingers. Cassian often finds himself just watching her restless hands, imagining holding them in his rough palms.

He shakes his head at her silence and scoops another portion of popcorn.

“Renegades,” he looks up at the sound of her voice. “It’s the first standalone of the franchise.”

There’s a small smile tugging at her lips. He finds it mesmerizing.

“Second generation sci-fi geek, remember? Plus I don’t live under a rock,” she reminds him amused and goes back to her notes.

“Right,” he clears his throat embarrassed. “I know we never actually talked about... you know... but maybe you’d want to see it?”

“With me, I mean,” he adds hastily.

Seconds are ticking by and the deafening silence makes him almost regret working up the nerve to ask her. It’s too late to take it back now, not with all the hopes it implies.

“It’s a date,” she finally murmurs softly and he’s amazed at how one simple sentence can permanently change someone’s world.

Turns out Renegades is not exactly a first date material. It’s good, hell, it’s more than just good but for two people too afraid to move past their respective traumas it’s hitting home a bit too close. Cassian pretends not to notice Jyn furiously blinking her tears away and he squeezes her hand reassuringly through the ending credits. She rewards him with a rare shy smile before they leave the cinema. They walk in odd silence after that, neither comfortable nor not. It’s only one block away from her place that Jyn abruptly stops.

“This is stupid. I know it makes sense because original trilogy and reality of war and all that rubbish but-” she takes a deep breath and turns to face Cassian for the first time since they left the movies. “They deserved better, don’t you think?”

Cassian finds himself nodding, his gaze lingering on the fire in her eyes.

“They deserved a happy life not some bullshitty death on a lake shore,” Jyn continues her rambling and Cassian can’t help but smile softly at the way she wrinkles her nose. “Can you believe she didn’t even kiss him? She should’ve kissed him. And something must have happened between them before that battle. There’s no way one minute she almost kills his father and the next it’s all forgiven and forgotten.”

When she stops her face is flushed and she holds his gaze, intense and warm. He bites his lip in anticipation. This is real life, there’s no Planet Killer looming over, threatening to take away their chance at happiness.

“There’s nothing more regretful than almost love,” she whispers and finally, finally, her voice has that hint of hope he dreamt of hearing.

So he kisses her.

The end.

Hi lovely people! I haven’t written anything in a very very long time and I’m sorry for this being kind of rubbish I just really wanted to contribute. Hope you enjoyed it anyway.

(jfc this was terrifying to post.)

#rebelcaptainweek #therebelcaptainnetwork #rebelcaptainprompt #rebelcaptain #rogue one #my first fic for them i'm nervous #myfics #jyn's ibiza trip is my own experience and it was terrible and i hated it

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