#hello i finally come back to offer you pain 💛

[ednaeflowers]

@crystallizedflowers : ❝  you're always taking care of my hair, edna. can i try braiding yours for once. lailah , alisha , and rose taught me something called french braids and i wanted to try it on you. ❞ he pauses , only realizing after uttering the words does mikleo realize how ridiculous it sounds coming from him.❝  or not i can't force you or anything. ❞ but those beautiful amethyst eyes are looking at edna with all the love and adoration in the world. his words might not always be the easiest but his heart? mikleo's heart had always lived on his fingertips when it came to her.

she doesn't know where to begin, so she starts with staring blankly at him for a moment. this is actually a lot to process: first off, when did he find the time to visit those three? second: why did he learn how to touch-up hair when he's always wearing the exact same ponytail? third: why did those three teach him that anyway? fourth: she thought he was away, exploring another new place surrounded by dingy old ruins? fifth: did he learn how to braid hair just for her—

edna immediately ceases the thought.

reaching up, she touches her hair absently, staring at his ponytail swaying behind him. his hair is much longer and wavier, so of course she gradually developed a habit of playing with it; it just never occurred to her that he would like to touch her hair in return. hers is much shorter in comparison, leaving not much to work with—though, that never meant she was opposed to getting her hair done at all. lailah and the other girls have touched her hair before, but she figured she could be lenient because she got along better with them, especially when they're at a hot spring and she'd need someone to help dry her hair. onii-chan often patted her head and spoiled her with hair ruffles, so he had always been the special exception to the touch rule. nevertheless, edna has never minded her hair being touched as long as she knows who is touching it.

meebo, though... she is at a loss: after all, he has never expressed interest in her hair, of all things, nor has he ever been this openly thoughtful to her either. back then, she got used to hearing not-answers from him whenever he replied or retorted back at her—but now: now, he is actually being clear with what he wants. now, she actually feels a skip in her chest whenever he looks at her like this. now, they are facing each other with different feelings, and it's remarkable how the old familiarity is still there within their relationship, but also changed: no matter how the world evolves, water and earth still exists all the same.

if sorey asked if he could touch her hair, she would've simply allowed it—but it's different with mikleo. very different. he and sorey grew up together, but her first impression of him was vastly different from her impression of sorey. unlike sorey, meebo retorts to everything, and can get surprisingly temperamental, and seems more sensitive, and while he tries to fit into the role, she thinks it's actually sorey who's more reasonable and rational. he was always by sorey's side, so it's strange to see him facing her now with such an earnest, harmless request, his attention solely given to her.

what she finds most ironic is that if he had asked her this question all those years ago, she would've easily let him, thinking that it would mean nothing in the long run; that it was just something akin to once-in-a-blue-moon type of morbid curiosity from his part. it's because she feels this way for him that it's also why edna is now struggling to show him her different sides, the sides of herself that she doesn't want to show anyone, not even to onii-chan. she doesn't want to show the real edna. no one should see her. she's what edna doesn't want to revert back to.

still.

still: she finds herself untying her ribbon, letting her hair fall down. it reaches somewhere near her shoulder blades, last she remembers. she enjoys having her hair up, only taking it down to sleep, but she hardly sleeps anymore, so it feels different already. he probably feels surprised too. after all, it's his first time seeing her hair naturally down. does she look weird?

❛  here.  ❜ she hands him the ribbon that she's treasured for so many centuries. it is offered on her open palm: a sign of easy, obvious trust. already seated on a boulder, she turns around and lets her back face him. she has her umbrella placed aside, she has nothing set up to ambush or attack him: she has none of that as she simply sits there, her back open and exposed to him. she hasn't trusted someone like this ever since onii-chan left home. perhaps there was lailah, one of her closest friends, but the trust with her was invoked by their longtime sisterhood. the trust for mikleo stems from something else: something a lot closer to the heart, something that is woven from many days of waiting, something that only exists within the lapse of the waves meeting the shore.

❛  i'm going to hit you if you mess up, tug too hard, or give me tangles,  ❜ she warns, but she's certain he knows it's an empty threat. after all, why would she show her back to him then, completely unarmed? he wouldn't hurt her. she is sure of it. not to mention, it has been a while since he's last stopped by. the time together would be nice, even if he's being a dork again. she has always been simple; when it comes down to spending time with someone, it doesn't matter what they do as long as they are together. living alone for so long, edna values that foremost.

( maybe in another universe, it would be easier to just admit that she missed him. )

her eyes soften, staring at the scenery as she waits patiently for him to start. ❛  if it turns out decent, then i'll let you be my hair stylist, meebo. it should be the highest honor you'll ever get, even more than manservant.  ❜ seraphim can't appear in mirrors, so she has to depend on him anyway. maybe he can be reliable sometimes. just sometimes. she also has no idea what a french braid looks like, so maybe she'll keep the umbrella on standby, though. she doesn't mind an image change, but she needs to know she won't end up looking like a bird's nest by the end of this. ❛  and if you were taught by three people, then i already have high expectations. no pressure.  ❜

[superblysubpar]

Can wee have a sneak peak of wcil? Totally don’t want to rush you if it’s not finished 💕

You're not rushing me, I'm just slow and in my head and I don't know why and I'm very very very frustrated I can't just finish this for you guys. 💛

I appreciate the patience, and so, here's the first 2.9k of the chapter (it's basically final, but technically hasn't officially been sent over to my beta in like the final form of the chapter, so just be prepared things may be slightly different when the whole thing is posted. )

Why do we want to believe in things like fate or destiny - divine intervention? Why do some put their faith in religions with blind following? Why do we look to the stars in moments of despair, when we’re desperate for hope, when we’re lost? 

We seek out answers from something we can’t see but we want to believe in. Whether it’s a fortune cookie in your take out, a penny head’s up on the sidewalk, a community of like minded souls coming together for prayer or worship, or a horoscope you read on your morning Instagram scroll - the reasons have to be the same for choosing to believe, for the hope that starts to rise in you for the promise these things try to offer. 

We look for solutions to problems. We need reason. We need purpose. We need to feel like we’re not alone. We need confirmation that it’s all gonna work out even though nothing can really guarantee that. 

When you look up at the stars that work hard to shine through clouds and a full moon, your chest rises with air trying to fill your lungs and you wonder if they’re up there. Your eyes blink up at that indigo sky, searching. He sits next to you and Leigh waves, whispering their hellos. His hand rests next to yours on the plaid blanket, he clears his throat and straightens his shoulders. It’s all too stiff, too on edge and you hate it. That attempted deep breath is unsuccessful, lungs deflating as it catches in your throat, and your thoughts wander back to the stars again. They wander to him, and them, and seek answers. 

What if they are up there, watching, like it’s one of those movies your mom was always putting on and your dad and you boo’d at from your spot playing cards. When he walked in with her with that on her finger, your mom would have gasped, she would have paused the movie, she would have yelled at you and your dad about the plot. She would have thrown popcorn at the TV and declared there’s something going on, he couldn’t, no way - there was no way. She’d have calmed herself down, rationalized there was still time left, gone to the pantry for more chocolate, kissed the top of your head and your dad’s cheek as she passed. By the end of the film, her prediction would have been right, she’d be crying and sighing at the couple who got their happy ending.

So could Steve declare his feelings for you here in a dramatic scene? Tell you it was all a big misunderstanding - that he’s sorry, that it was a rocky road but being together is worth fighting for? Could you leave here, hand in hand, as a top forty song plays and the credits roll? 

Of course not. 

Because this isn’t a rom com your mom would have loved. Life is not a movie full of soul-mates and cosmic connections. People like your parents are the exception to the rule. The couples who make it work - the ones who don’t let the trials of life take their love away like Allie and Noah, Kate and Sam, or Westley and Buttercup, are fictional characters. They’re stories to escape into when the despairing reality of yours is too much to read or write anymore. It’s exactly why you don’t like most movies or stories like theirs. Because eventually, the movies end, the credits do roll, and you have to face real life once again. Love like that doesn’t exist off the big screen, and you’re just kidding yourself when you fall into their traps. 

Knowing this simple fact of reality doesn’t stop the hope though. 

That painful, aching hope that clings to your skin like honey when you can feel the heat from his arm even through the sleeve of your sweater - like your bodies burn hotter when close together - too close to the sun. It feeds the hope that your brain tries to squash away but your heart thuds harder for. The what if, what if, what if replacing each beat of it. Hope that makes you want to cry out ‘please let this just be a bad dream’ to the universe. Hope that tries, but can’t escape the gnawing pit in your stomach that’s growing wider, threatening to swallow you whole. Hope that makes you wonder why this can’t be a story - why can’t you just be the grandson, yelling at his grandfather that he can’t be telling it properly. Someone is getting the story wrong. He can’t be marrying her, you’re just sure of it. Screaming at him, at someone, to please, just get it right. 

You wonder if someone were watching, would they be feeling the despair you are? Is this the moment? That scene in the movies is always the gut punch - for the audience and the character. It’s meant to hurt, make you hold your breath. Made to be dramatic - yell at the screen, break your heart, make the character in the action get back up and fight. They’re moments made to ignite that hope - but really, it’s the double tap - coming right after the feeling catches flame, that’s made to shatter you completely. 

The moment that extinguishes the what if for all it’s worth. When your heart is already breaking for the grandson, only for the grandfather to ask who says life is fair? Where is that written? When the knife is entering your chest, but the mask falls and the killer turns out to be someone you thought you could trust. When you’re untethered in space only for your last moment of consciousness to be seeing a friend cutting the cord. The person who sucker punched you kicking you when you’re down, taking it one step too far, leaving you crumpled on the mat. It’s all enough to make that fight, that urge to be angry instead of scared or hurt, disappear. It’s enough to knock you down so hard, you can’t possibly get back up - the hope is extinguished, and the story seemingly over. 

Robin squeals quietly, pulling Leigh’s hand across you to admire the ring, knocking Steve on the shoulder and saying something about the Dingus doing good. Your gaze flits down to the brown sugar and apple donuts in your lap, convinced you’re about to get sick right on top of them. Not because he’s marrying her, but because instead of being angry with him, you feel like you’ve been squashed, you feel hurt, you feel betrayed. Despite your better judgment, despite the past several years, you’ve let a man make you some pathetic, sad, heartbroken, and weak version of yourself. 

When Leigh’s hand retreats from Robin’s, lifting and curling a piece of hair behind her ear, diamond sparkling in the moonlight as she smiles over at Steve, your story’s end is written, and you need to accept it if you ever want some semblance of normalcy to return. You can’t lose him and them. But when Steve’s pinky brushes yours and you look over, his eyes resemble the broken beer bottle from the football game all those weeks ago. Shattered emerald and amber, cutting you to shreds with each shard of glass as he murmurs, “Can I tal-“

“I’ll be right back!” You whisper-shout, cutting him off and squeezing Robin’s shoulder as you get up. 

She yanks on your wrist, halting your attempt at an exit. Her eyes narrow as she interrogates, “Where are you going?”

Swallowing harshly as her blue eyes peer directly into your soul. She can probably smell the desire to run on you. Remembering your vow that Steve won’t take them away from you, a not quite a lie falls from your lips as you gesture to the concession food trucks, “You don’t have those cinnamon roasted almonds. They were my mom’s favorite and the smell is driving me crazy. Promise that’s all.”

“I swear to god, if you don’t come back, I will literally come stand outside your window on the sidewalk and scream-sing Monster Mash until someone calls the cops and I’ll drag you down with me.”

Her eyes blink, features incredibly serious despite the amusing threat. Your laugh mixes with Leigh’s and you ignore the shared moment, tugging your wrist free. “Would expect nothing less Robin.”

She motions she’s watching you, fingers to her eyes then yours, lips twitching in the corners before she turns back to the screen. 

Your feet feel heavy as they drag through the damp grass, and wait in line. It shouldn’t be a surprise after ordering when you hear his voice behind you. It floats through the air, soft, barely audible over the popping kettle corn, “I really didn’t know you’d be here. I wouldn’t have…” he sighs, settling on restating, “I didn’t know you’d be here.”

Your shoulders fall and your eyes stay focused on the truck. You’ve had time, since that night on the sidewalk, but your hurt still sits fresh under your layer of armor - tender like an open wound you need to keep protected. Your palms slide further under the sleeves of your sweater, clinging to the garment like the shield you’re willing it to be - you don’t want to fight with him anymore, no matter how hurt and angry you are with him. 

So the tone you respond with aches to sound indifferent, if not a tad harsh, reminding him you’re mad and pretending there isn’t any spark of hope within you still. It’s over, it has to be over, and all it ever was to him was something to kill time - fun and no strings exactly what you wanted. So your words are really just a reminder to yourself, another layer of the wall you need to keep up around him, “It’s fine Steve. Would have been nice to get a head’s up,” your shoulders shrug, “But, well, that’s probably too generous for the girl you were just fucking while waiting for the one, right?”

The people next to you clear their throats and you can’t find it in yourself to care, to be embarrassed. 

Steve moves in front of you, his face filling your vision. He shaved - no more scruff you like. His jeans are dark again, with fresh, new creases, and a light blue sweater pulls across his chest and shoulders. He’s picture perfect, his polished uniform in place.

He shakes his head, eyes bouncing between yours as he asks, “Is that really all it was?”

Your shoulders shrug again, because it’s easier. It’s easier to try to deny, to ignore the flutter the question causes in your stomach. Easier to bite back the words that try to form on your tongue. Because of course that’s not all it was, at least not to you. You wouldn’t feel the way you do right now if that were true. But what’s the point in telling him that though? What happens? Can you forgive each other for the words said, that, no matter how true, can’t be taken back? Things like this only end in heartbreak - because what happens if you tell him how you were starting to feel - does that change anything for him? And even if it did, that means a broken engagement, it means complicated truths coming out, it means attempts at forgiveness. And even after all of that, life won’t give you a guarantee. There is no promise of zero fights, of nothing bad ever happening. There is no happily ever after where the possibility of a break up, of losing everyone you’ve grown to care for deeply, doesn’t exist. 

So yes, it’s easier, to not say any of that, because you know. This isn’t how life works. This isn’t a movie. No one is immune to life’s misfortunes. These sorts of open-ended questions and complicated emotions that come from his simple ask are unmeasurable and unreliable. Wondering and giving into those feelings only open you up to be used as a target for someone else’s shooting practice. You’ve known this, but you allowed yourself to forget, hating it was Steve who had to remind you. 

Which is why you look away from his eyes as you say, “I believe that is what was established a few weeks ago at that party Steve. You were there, remember? You were dressed as a pirate.” 

His head drops, hands running through his perfectly styled hair as he laughs, breath shaky, like the laugh is covering up any feeling in his voice. “So, that’s it? We’re just gonna act like none of it happened? You don’t wanna talk. You run away every time we get a chance to do so, a beer in my face and-“

Your hand rising in the air cuts him off, his mouth clamping shut as you make eye contact with him. “You deserved that and I’m not apologizing for it.”

He takes a step closer to you, his hand reaching towards you, then back into his hair like he second guesses himself. “I’m not asking you to, and I’m not apologizing for what I said either.” Steve swallows, hands on his hips as he looks at the ground then back up at you, “What I said wasn’t a lie.” 

He breathes out the next words, both of you staring at each other with the weight of what he says hanging in the air between you.

“You couldn’t tell me.”

Your hands shake from the confrontation, from his request you left unanswered that night. The emotions that still want to bubble over, the time apart did nothing to cool either of you down. That what if, what if, what if that replaced your heartbeat grows louder, but your brain only shuts it down harder. If you hurt now, how will it feel if you keep feeding the flame only for him to extinguish it again?

The beat of your heart and those hopeful words thud in your ears as your head shakes and your voice tries not to, barely audible as the words leave your lips, “I don’t want to do this anymore Steve. We’re just going in circles. You’re getting married. You didn’t tell me. Can you look me in the eye and tell me you were really my friend while you were clearly getting engaged this whole time?”

Blue light flashes from the screen, catching the corner of your eye and illuminating his, their gaze bouncing over your face. Your bodies move closer like they can’t help it, like they know they won’t be this way again. Steve’s tongue darts over his bottom lip before his breath blows out, your name a whisper on it. The way he says your name with that look in his eyes, chests almost touching, it’s easy for your head to tilt with familiarity. Your breath out is his breath in, and it’s even easier to forget the last time you were this close. Sounds other than his harsh swallow and your heartbeat fade away. Time freezes, just a little, and the air pulses with tangible possibility of hope. 

A shrill classic horror movie scream shatters the bubble. Your name is called, you blink, and take a step away. Guilt washes over you as you see your friends staring intently at the movie you’d practically forgotten you were there for. Leigh and Robin talk quietly and your eyelids flutter as you will whatever wants to escape down your cheeks away. Him showing up with Leigh and a ring on her finger wasn’t the double tap, this is. That hope was still there despite the fight against it, and it’s ripped from your fingers. The book is closed. The knife drips in the killer’s hand as the victim’s chest stops heaving. The spacesuit floats through a noiseless and lifeless galaxy. The body doesn’t get up from the mats and a silence falls over the crowd. 

“I don’t want to talk about this anymore Steve. I just want to go hang out with my friends. I need this to be over. Can it please be over?” You stare intently at the ground, one single tear slipping past your lashes. It feels like it rolls down your cheek for an hour before Steve finally answers. 

“Okay,” he quietly agrees. 

Your head nods once and you brush past him, barely choking out a whispered ‘by the way congratulations’ as you grab your snack. Hand swiping at the stray tear as you make your way back to the blanket slowly. 

When you sit back down, Leigh’s typing on her phone. She squeezes Robin’s hand before whispering a goodbye to everyone. She jogs over to Steve, cocking her head at him. He pushes his hands through his hair again, giving her a short smile. He runs his thumb and forefinger down the bridge of his nose, swiping under it with the back of his hand. His other extends towards her as she reaches him, fingers lacing together as they walk out. 

Robin’s shoulder nudges yours and your head turns to find her with eyebrows pinching together. She leans in and quietly asks, “Is he okay? Did he say something about leaving to you?”

Your head shakes, and you extend the bag to her with a tight smile. You will just keep lying to her. Steve and you will move on, and maybe, one day in the distant future, you’ll be able to tell her. It’ll all work out.

She mirrors your sad smile, the wrinkles in her forehead deepening as she takes a small handful and turns her attention back to the movie. Or she tries, but you watch as her eyes glance down to her phone every few minutes, until it lights up with his name and she quickly starts typing a response. 

It’ll all be fine.