#i do not care if i sound sanctimonious. i am pissed

[basiltonbutliketheherb]

hello and welcome to my chappell roan ted talk

these days, more than ever, i am feeling incredibly disheartened by the treatment of female artists and the deep societal misogyny that it signifies. there is such a vast expanse between this and the typical experience of a male artists, that they have come to occupy an entirely different space in the cultural zeitgeist. male artists are often considered evergreen. allowed to make mistakes, to be rude, to release below average material and be given endless chances, to age, and to have problematic pasts and relationships. (yes, i am generalizing, of course male artists experience mistreatment as well, but generally to a lesser, and less permanent degree. we are talking about women today.)

the experience of a female artist is that of being constantly balanced on a knife’s edge. they are idolized, deified and built up to insanely lofty heights, then one (real or perceived) wrong move and they are viciously turned upon. they are built up almost solely so that they can be delicious to destroy.

we’ve seen this over and over in the past with people like taylor swift, demi lovato, britney spears, katy perry, kristen stewart, miley cyrus, ariana grande etc. (blake lively is a current example.) once they reach a level of overexposure and mass appeal, the vultures begin circling. one bad song, or thoughtless remark, or bad breakup, and they are public enemy #1. even when they do something truly problematic they are not allowed to learn and grow from it as men are. their purpose in society is immediately shifted from entertainment at their charm and success to entertainment at their suffering and demise.

this phenomenon used to be mainly sourced at the hands of media figures. journalists, talk show hosts, gossip sites, magazines. this highly visible upper echelon held all the cards and could sway the public in any direction they pleased in a pre internet monoculture, but now, with the rise of social media, billions of normal people have this power while being safely guarded behind a screen, or even wholly anonymous.

the recent years (and impact of younger generations growing up chronically online) have led to a sort of moral grandstanding, virtue signalling, victorianesque societal revolution. in this space there is no room for error. everything female artists do is taken out of context, twisted, and shamed. they are fully dehumanized and treated like a product belonging to the masses. a subject of discourse more than a person. they are expected to be perfect in every aspect, off the bat, with no room to make mistakes or learn. they need to be knowledgeable in every subject and never ever offend anyone, or do anything to bring anyone, anywhere, anything less than pure satisfaction.

there is no right move a female artist can make. if they take chances to further their career they are calculated, selfish, greedy, competitive. if they are content with the level of success they are at they are lazy, mid, a flop. if they are comfortable with their appearance and body size and aging, they are mediocre, not meant to be famous, a bad influence. but if they alter their appearance in any way they are fake, self obsessed, arrogant, and a bad influence. if they appear perfect, well spoken, kind, and generous then they are liars, manipulators, schemers. but if they appear blunt and not perfectly media trained then they are not cut out for fame, ungrateful, annoying, and spoiled.

( i am aware that i sound like the barbie movie monologue, but that doesn’t change the reality.)

the thing is, there have always been haters, trolls, liars who wanted to instigate the downfall of female celebrities. who couldn’t bear their success and admiration, and just wanted to burn it all to the ground. but today, in this social media generation, the call is often coming from inside the house. so often the ones to turn on famous women and treat them inhumanly, are their own supposed fans. people who are so obsessed with this perfect image that they project onto their fave. who feel so deeply entitled to their time, attention, and recognition that they feel personally slightly and attacked when things don’t go the exact way they want.

let’s take for example, the cancelling of taylor swift’s vienna tour dates.

these shows were cancelled by the venue management, due to a planned terrorist attack that was intended to kill 10s of thousands to 100s of thousands of people. due to the delicacy and danger of this whole situation, taylor swift decided to not mention the incident until after she had finished her european dates and was safely back in the US, as to not further endanger herself, her crew, and her fans.

this caused an unbelievable outrage. people who were both personally affected by the cancellations and those who weren’t, came for her throat. they were furious at her for not talking about it. for not coddling them and telling them how deeply sorry she was. for not grovelling at their feet and self flagellating to make it up to them. once she was back in the states she did in fact release a statement telling everyone how devastated she was over the whole experience and explaining how she felt it was important to stay silent until the right moment to speak on it.

now you’d think this would be enough to assuage the angry mob, but no. they doubled down and declared that it was too little too late, not enough remorse, and that they deserved even more of her attention and repentance. the whole behavior reeked of a desire to chain her to a post and throw bricks until she promises to do better next time and to give everyone their own personal concert and cradle them in her loving motherly arms, to make amends.

and these are supposed to be her FANS. people who were willing to spend hundreds, if not thousands of dollars just to be in the same room as her. just to breathe her air.

now, taylor swift ultimately will be fine (i am talking career wise), she is one of the richest female celebrities in the world. no one can even come close to matching her music sales, fan base, legacy, and broken records. she can lose 10%, 20% of her fan base and still be on top of the world.

but now let’s look at chappell roan.

in the past 6 months or so chappell has rocketed to fame. as someone who has been a fan for ages, this explosion of recognition and admiration was both outstanding to witness, and deeply dread inducing. especially knowing that chappell stands out as a loudly queer artist, who is unique and deeply talented, who is open about her struggle with bipolar disorder and depression, and has no desire to whittle herself down for public consumption. all of this, while incredible and refreshing, was a clear warning sign for what was to come, given the history of female artist reception, even for those who check every box of being publically consumable.

in the past couple weeks there has been a massive wave of both “fans” and those who didn’t even know chappell previously, turning against her for sport. chappell roan released a statement after having nonconsensual interactions with crazed fans, having her family members stalked and doxxed, being yelled at and harassed on the street, and having her personal history, relationships, and childhood mined for exploitative content.

now this behavior may sound familiar. just the typical feral stan behavior that celebs often experience.

but one key factor here is that chappell is brand new to this level of exposure. her fame exploded before her income could from this success, far too suddenly to have taylor swift level security measures set in place around herself and the ones she loves. too sudden for anyone to adapt to their experience of existing in public, online, and even private spaces being permanently altered. she woke up to an entirely new world and had little time to figure out how to move within it without further damaging her own mental health and safety, and likely few people around her who had experienced even close to this caliber of success and could guide her through it. all with no major record label crafting her image or providing pr.

so, the statement. chappell has recently gone on social media and set boundaries for herself. for how she chooses to move within this new world. she has explained the way this rise to fame has impacted her mental health and filled her life with fear and anxiety. she has made her position clear that she is an artist professionally, but a human being when she’s off the clock. her career is just that, a job. an amazing job, yes, but she is still an autonomous person who is allowed to clock out. who is allowed to turn off the character that she puts on for performances, and be left alone when she is not at work.

this includes, (considered most egregious) fans not touching her without permission, coming up to her in public and asking for pictures or autographs, or shouting her legal name at her on the street and taking pictures of her. as well as not harassing the people in her life or sharing her personal information online.

now while these things all sound reasonable, and something any one of us regular folk would expect in our daily lives, this boundary setting is nearly unprecedented for female artists. anyone who has tried has been deemed a cultural blight.

celebrity worship and stan behaviour has lead to an extremely parasocial society.

fans feel it is their god given right to own every aspect of a celebrity. they “deserve” to know every detail of their relationships, their thoughts on politics and events, their secrets and shames and preferences and loves and traumas. they are “entitled” to their time, attention, and endless gratitude, no matter what they are going through or willing to offer up. female celebrities are solely there for the consumption of the general public, they are to be picked apart and chewed up strip by strip. fans “deserve” to touch them, take pictures of them, yell at them, just for a moment of recognition, validation of their obsession, a glimpse of heaven at the alter of their deity. this is just the way it is, has always been, and will always be.

but chappell roan has said NO. no, this is not the way it has to be. just because something has been tolerated in the past, doesn’t mean it’s not wrong. doesn’t mean the future generations need to abide by the tradition of stalking, harassing, and devouring. doesn’t mean that it should be the norm to accept the potential of home invasions, hacking, and assassination attempts.

this simple act of boundary setting has caused an absolute outrage. media publications, other artists, “fans”, haters, and causal media consumers have come with pitchforks and torches to burn her at the stake. they say she is entitled and ungrateful, despite her explaining how deeply grateful she is to all those who support her and also support her privacy. they say she is a nobody and hasn’t earned the right to set boundaries. that society needs to swish her like wine in their mouths and spit her out once they’ve tasted enough, before she’s allowed to say anything other than “thank you thank you i love you i am not worthy”. they say she is not cut out for fame, because this is what fame is and has to be for all female celebrities. they do not get to have autonomy or choice. how absurd that they’d even try, how selfish and greedy and self important to think they deserve it??

of course true fans are going to rock with her no matter what, but chappell is brand new to most. to outsiders she is a face that appeared one day already cemented in a superstar position, and was suddenly unavoidable, confusing, and suspicious. the court of public opinion and the power of negative discourse have a weight to them which can easily overshadow the newfound success of a niche, less easily marketable celebrity like chappell, who has only just gotten her foot in the door.

in the midst of this discourse something else has occurred to deepen the gash of public animosity. chappell roan was given the career and life changing opportunity to perform at the VMAs for millions of people. an opportunity to grow her critical notoriety and fan base, as well as bring queer representation to the live screen, that would be a massive career misstep to pass up on. in accepting this opportunity, chappell was forced to cancel a couple shows that had been planned for a while. she tried to make the situation work for everyone, but ultimately was unable to. she expressed her regret and apologies and assured everyone that she would be rescheduling those shows when she had the chance.

as we have seen with the taylor swift vienna situation, this was NOT going to go down well.

“fans” came after her with a vengeance. they called her selfish, greedy, fake, and wicked for choosing her career growth over their personal experiences. said she was an ungrateful hypocrite for asking the world for space and then choosing the option to be unhumble and promote herself to the masses. the tickets were refunded, but people had CHOSEN to book hotels and fly out to see her in concert and thus blamed her for their financial burden. just as taylor swift “fans” did with the vienna tour dates.

as if chappell roan should be obligated to recoup them for the financial choices they made, and give them the experience they wanted right the fuck now, with the right level of humility, or else be deserving of punishment.

it is understandable for fans to be disappointed that they didn’t receive the experience they hoped for. that the situation was so sticky and immediate that they didn’t have time to cancel plans and grieve the loss. i know when i waited two hours after the opener at sabrina carpenter’s tour last year, just to find out she wasn’t able to perform due to bomb threats, i was heartbroken and angry at the world. i was frustrated with how the situation was handled by management, but i was not angry AT sabrina. i didn’t evicerate her online and demand that she FIX my heartbreak at once. i sat with my feelings and knew that there would be other opportunities, and that

sometimes life isn’t gratifying, no matter how fucking unfair it feels.

it is becoming more and more rare for any degree of understanding and grace to be given to female artists. every success i witness for the artists i appreciate (like this year for sabrina and chappell) fills me with a deep foreboding dread. because they are considered disposable and easily replaceable in this instant gratification, tiktok algorithm generation. everything has to be right now, done perfectly, and hold up to high moral inspection or else they are slotted for obscurity or public crucifixtion.

meanwhile, every aspect of these situations is deemed frivolous by society. they say if you don’t like it, get out and go work at dairy queen, there’s a line waiting behind you who are willing to appease us more. they say that having income from success immediately delegitimizes any social commentary or personal issues. because celebrities are not human beings. they are religious figures. they are both royalty and court jesters. they are toys to be played with ad nauseam, and then discarded.

but why?

why does it have to be this way? why does wanting to share your art with the world mean giving up your safety, privacy, and peace? why is it okay for male celebs to be grumpy and brash and never interact with fans, but it is a cardinal sin for female celebs to do the same or to transparently ask for it? and why is any of this important to you and i, who are barely scraping by and unlikely to ever be famous? why does it matter when these women generally still have some semblance of their careers leftover even after mass disdain?

because all of this is indicative of a greater issue that pervades every aspect of society. it is simply that with famous people we can see it on a macro scale.

all women and femme presenting people are held to the same standard as female celebrities, but on a less publicly visible level. in our careers, our relationships, our expressions of joy, our community and bonds with other women, and our own calcified internal misogyny.

we are here for consumption, we are here for the pleasure and entertainment of others. how dare we ask for more? how dare we know our power and set boundaries for ourselves? how dare we think we deserve a seat at the table, even as we age and grow and expand beyond the bounds of charming ingénue? how dare we collaborate instead of seeing each other as competitors and threats to our own power and beauty and ability to be loved?

how fucking DARE we ever get the idea that we are worth more than our youth and beauty and service to others?

i don’t know how we, as a whole, address any of this when the matter at hand is so deeply pervasive and engrained in the foundation of society. but i, for one, will start by looking at my own role in the treatment of female artists.

i will take the time to ask myself why even the existence of certain figures sparks a feeling of rage within me, and why i feel such a deep desire to know every detail, action, and thought of the artists i appreciate. why i feel joy and satisfaction when female artists i dislike are taken down, or “beat” by someone i prefer. why i let drama that has nothing to do with me alter my perception of art created by people i do not know personally. why my black and white thinking and sense of justice only applies to those who don’t resonate with me on an artistic or personal level.

i will work on finding grace and understanding for those who are trying to grow beyond their mistakes and be better people, the way that i am trying to everyday. those who exist both in the public sphere and in my daily life.

because it’s never too late to rip out the teeth of the bear trap we were born in.

long story short: chappell roan did nothing wrong. but if she ever truly does, all you can do is ask for accountability, then take a breath, get the fuck over it, and see the bigger picture for once

thank you for coming to my ted talk

[dracothedeatheatingcupcake-ao3]

The Problem with Perfection Chapter 10 spoilers!

Hey all! So, a couple people asked for this, so I figured I’d post it. It’s chapter 8 of the companion to TPWP, The Problem with Mondo, which corresponds with chapter 10 of TPWP. Yes, this confuses me a lot too, the fact that the chapters don’t align. -.-

Anyway! Don’t read this if you’ve not read TPWP chapter 10, since it will definitely spoil that chapter, ha. Warning for an overabundance of foul language and some sexualized thinking, as well as an absent thought of suicide, same as in TPWP. This chapter is super long, about 20,000 words, and I’m posting all of it because... why not, am I right? Ha.

I did cut a few sentences from this chapter because they might spoil things for later chapters of TPWP, but they don’t really contain anything major.

The chapter is below the cut! Hope y’all like. :-)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Mondo is angry. Blindingly angry. So angry he doesn’t know why he’s angry, but honestly, what else is new? He just knows that he’s angry and the reason he is angry is that goddamn motherfucking kid and his goddamn motherfucking glasses-

 “They! Are!! Glasses!!! Just!!! Wear them!!!” the boy grits out, thrusting his goddamn hand out towards Mondo, looking like he is about five fucking seconds from bashing his head against the goddamn wall. Mondo almost wishes he fucking would, to save him the fucking trouble! Unable to help himself, he scowls and crosses his arms, shaking his head firmly, so fucking pissed it ain’t even funny. 

 “No! I ain’t no fuckin’ nerd!” Mondo yells back, glaring like he was born to do it. Unfortunately, it seems so was Ishimaru, as the kid is glaring like his life depends on it, as fiery and beautiful passionate as ever. That goddamn motherfucking... 

 “Just! Wear them! The doctor says you need them! You don’t have to wear them all the time! Just when you’re reading! Stop! Being an idiot!���

 “Me?! I ain’t no fuckin’ idiot, you’re a fuckin’ idiot! If ya think I’m gonna wear that shit, yer outta yer goddamn mind! Now get that shit outta my face, ya fuckwad, or I’m gonna bash yer head in!” 

 “Like heck you will! You’re all bark and no bite, Owada! Now just! Wear! The! Glasses! You said you were okay with them when you bought them! I will force you to wear them, don’t think I won’t!” 

 “Oh, you motherfuckin’-!”

 “U-uh, g-guys?”

 Mondo and Ishimaru turn, as one, to glare at the intruder on their private fucking conversation. Okay, so maybe they’re in the middle of the hallway outside their dorm rooms, but fuck! That don’t mean shit! Eavesdropping is a nasty fucking habit and if this goddamn motherfucker doesn’t butt the fuck out right the fuck now- 

 “Shut up!” the pair shouts in unison, before turning to glare at each other again. 

 Mondo doesn’t know why he’s so angry. He doesn’t know why he’s doing this, or why he has been doing this for the past week and a half. From hot, to cold, to hot, to cold, again and again and again, never fucking ceasing. One minute he’s fine, relaxed as shit and not at all angry, maybe even feeling kinda good, and then the next...

 And he doesn’t know why. Why he’s doing this. Why he’s fucking ruining this shit, like he fucking ruins every fucking thing. He... h-he just... 

 Things had been okay, you know? Between him and Ishimaru. At first. Sure, they weren’t really friends, evidenced by how they are still referring to one another by last name, but they’d been friendly enough. Mondo had taken care to keep his anger in check, and— to his surprise— it... it hadn’t actually been that hard. It seems that Ishimaru can be pretty fucking cool when they’re not at odds. 

 He’s also a great fucking tutor. He somehow manages to not sound sanctimonious and pretentious when explaining shit, instead looking so fucking earnest and like he genuinely wants to just... help. 

 Because of that, they’d gotten along pretty well those first few days. Ishimaru had been determined to get him brought up to speed before they started the fucking novel, so he’d taken care to spend a couple hours a day hanging around Mondo, at various times. The pair usually spent an hour or so in the library after class ended, but more than that, they just... they would walk together between classes, Ishimaru rambling on and on about what they’d just learned about in class. Mondo doesn’t know why he’d allowed it, usually not caring about shit like that, but somehow... somehow, it had been nice. Hearing Ishimaru talk about the shit they’d learned, the kid better able to impart knowledge in the ten fucking minutes they had between classes than the teachers were able to in the hour plus they had. It’s not at all the sorta shit Mondo would have expected himself to enjoy, let alone look forward to, but shit. There they were. 

 But then... Mondo got stupid. He overstepped his bounds and got fucking scared, fuck. 

 They’d been in Ishimaru’s room. Mondo doesn’t know why he’d made the offer to go to the kid’s room rather than the library, like they usually did, like was safe, but he... he had. And the kid had fucking accepted, and so there they were, sitting on the hall monitor’s fucking couch, sitting too fucking close. The kid was reading the short story Teach had assigned to the class, the pair realizing it was just... easier, while Mondo waited for the nurse to contact the eye doctor for him, since it turned out that yeah, his eyes were kinda fucked up, shit. 

 He had felt so fucking weird inside, the first time the kid had read to him, since they’d been in the library and he’d been nervous someone would see them and think Mondo was an idiot who needed to be fucking read to, but... shit. This time it had just been... different. Without the fear of being judged (since Ishimaru never fucking judged him, not ever, god fucking damn), he... he’d been able to listen to the kid reading without any fucking reservations. And he’d had to admit that- that he... he liked it. A lot. Like... fucking a lot. 

 So fucking much that it had made him feel relaxed for the first time... shit. Prolly ever. Ishimaru just had a nice sounding voice, ya know? It was strangely deep, at times, when he got lost in the story, his words not too fast but not too slow. He actually emoted when he spoke, too, the sound not a dull and dry monotone like so many fucking other people he’s heard read before. It just... made him feel so fucking calm inside, like the monster inside of him had been fucking purring. 

 And... and then...

 Mondo had let his head drop down onto Ishimaru’s shoulder, eyes closing in contentment, the kid faltering for one split second, breath hitched, before he’d smoothly continued, like it had never happened. And with his eyes closed and his head resting on a warm, comfortable shoulder, hearing that wonderful cadence from that wonderful, beautiful mouth... he hadn’t been able to stop the thought. And the thought he had was... 

 God, his voice is so fucking nice, isn’t it...? Wonder what it would sound like screaming your name as you pound the fuck outta him. He’d prolly be loud as shit, so fucking passionate, clawing you to all hell, but damn if you’d mind. Shit... wouldn’t that be fucking nice...

 He had been, to put it mildly, freaked the fuck out. 

 His eyes had shot open the second the thought had crossed his mind, heart fucking pounding as he wondered where the goddamn fuck that shit came from. Ishimaru had been startled, looking at him with his wide fucking eyes, lips opened softly in shock, voice faltering for the first time and Mondo... Mondo couldn’t fucking handle it, holy fucking shit. 

 He’d immediately stood and stammered out some bullshit about needing to check on his hog, before fucking bailing, eyes wide and heart an absolute mess. He had, indeed, gone out to his hog and rode around for a bit, not wanting to think, but he’d been unable to help it. To stop it. And it... it made him feel...

 He’s not gay. Okay? He’s fucking not. There’d be no fucking problem if he were, but he just ain’t. He likes chicks, something he knows better than anything else, something he’s known since he was a fucking kid, goddamn. He’d even made sure to look at his porno mags that night, reassured when he felt his dick harden so fucking hard as he saw the tits and pussy that always made him so fucking hard to see. 

 So, he wasn’t gay. He fucking couldn’t be gay, and it’s not possible for him to like both, so he figured that the thought had meant... meant Mondo wanted to fucking pound Ishimaru’s head in, not- n-not any other meaning of the word that it could have meant. He guessed that he didn’t like being around Ishimaru as much as he had assumed and that he actually hated him, after all. 

 As freaked out as he’d been, he took hold of that idea and fucking ran with it. He told himself that he hated the kid, of course he hated him, his voice was fucking annoying as shit, not nice, not nice at all! 

 And so, the next day, he’d been cold to the kid. So fucking cold. And when the kid had tried to approach him after home room ended, looking open and earnest and so fucking cute-

 Mondo hadn’t been able to handle it. His stomach had clenched, and his heart had fucking lurched, and he told himself it was hatred he felt, it had to be fucking hatred. And so, he’d snarled at the kid, telling him to ‘get the fuck away from me, freak!’ before he’d run off, heart aching so fucking stupidly. 

 He had considered skipping class, getting on his hog and fucking booking it, but he needed to give his girl a break, and he still kinda wanted to try the whole ‘giving school a chance’ thing, so he’d eventually decided to storm into class, even if he’d been five minutes late. He’d refused to look at Ishimaru, though, thinking that seeing his stupid fucking pathetic face would fucking destroy him infuriate the shit out of him, and as soon as class ended, he’d shot out, not needing to pack anything up since he’d not fucking brought anything, shit. 

 That had kept happening the rest of the day. Every class they had together (which was pretty much every fucking class, god fucking damn this school) Mondo would carefully keep his eyes off the kid, ignoring the feel of sad, hurt, bright red eyes as they bored into him. After the second class, the kid had tried to chase after him, tried to talk to him, but Mondo would fucking turn and head the opposite fucking direction of their next class, and he knew the kid wouldn’t dare risk being late, so he’d give up pretty quick. He’d constantly be looking in class, though, lips pulled down in a frown, eyebrows furrowed in concern. Not that Mondo was fucking looking! Shit! 

 It wasn’t until Ishimaru had cornered him outside his dorm room that night, looking so fucking hurt and upset and not a little bit annoyed that they’d managed to resolve things. 

 In that Ishimaru had been so fucking annoying that Mondo had immediately started yelling, causing Ishimaru to yell back, his words bleeding hurt, making Mondo feel like absolute scum. They had been loud enough to garner the attention of most of their classmates, even fucking Togami gracing them with his condescending presence, which had made Mondo even more pissed, honestly, wanting nothing more than to be anywhere fucking else.

 It was when the kid looked about ready to fucking cry that Mondo had had enough. His insides were squirming, and he felt so fucking scared, for reasons he still doesn’t understand, but he... h-he hadn’t wanted to make Ishimaru cry again. After spending several days interacting with Ishimaru, having a lot of fucking conversations that hadn’t actually ended in the kid’s tears, he... he hadn’t wanted to go back to that. 

 And so, with all the confused fucking emotions swirling inside him, he’d yelled ‘fuckin’ fine, ya goddamn bastard! I’ll fuckin’ meet you and do that goddamn fuckin’ assignment tomorrow! Now leave me the fuck alone!’ before storming into his room and slamming the door shut so loud it made even his ears ring. 

 He’d then promptly stormed into the shower, turning the water on as hot as it could go, the water fucking hurting, but he’d wanted it to. He just... he’d felt so... so...

 Confused...

 He’d never felt this way for anyone before. So angry and scared and confused and yet also so fucking happy, so bizarrely, stupidly happy. Ishimaru fucking... he made him happy. And he didn’t know how to handle that, because clearly, he still hated the kid... right? Right? What other option was there? Why did he want to hit Ishimaru (and he had to want to hit him, it was the only fucking option that made any fucking sense) if he didn’t hate him? 

 But he’d agreed— stupidly— to meet with the kid for another fucking tutoring session after class the next day. And while the thought had made his insides squirm, he... fuck. He hadn’t wanted to make the kid cry again. God, did he not want that. Even if he did hate him— which he must, he must— he... fuck. 

 He couldn’t make him cry. 

 He wasn’t his goddamn old man.

 And so, when he got out of the shower, he’d resolved to contain his anger the next day. He’d push it down, keep it locked up tight tight tight, and he wouldn’t let it hurt Ishimaru. He’d gotten into bed (still hated it, but he was slowly getting use to the ridiculously plush material) and fallen into a fitful sleep, dreams full of wide, hurt red eyes, a sad voice begging him to explain why he was hurting him so. He’d woken an hour early with a start, heart pounding, and had spent the remaining time until he usually got up doing push-ups again and again and again, until he didn’t remember the dream anymore. 

 And then, when he went into class, carrying his supplies for once... he’d given the kid a small, sheepish smile, stomach roiling with all the emotions within it. He’d then spent the rest of home room doodling absently on the notebook Ishimaru had helped him pick out from the school store, doing his best to not think of everything and psych himself out. He’d even managed to feel almost calm as he let himself draw, something he rarely allows himself to do, but always has kinda enjoyed, even if he’s shit at it.

 Once home room ended, he’d waited for Ishimaru at the door, telling him as casually as he could that the nurse had contacted him the day before, saying she’d scheduled an eye doctor (he still can’t remember the official name Ishimaru called the dude, shit) appointment for 3:00 the next day, hesitantly asking the kid if he had wanted to come along. He could tell that the kid was taken aback, clearly not having expected such a thing, but he’d still stammered out an acceptance, looking so flustered it wasn’t funny when Mondo turned to look at him with a small, soft smile. He’d not meant to look at the kid like that, but he’d just... been unable to help it. 

 The rest of the day had gone well, the tutoring session going nicely like it had before that stupid fucking bullshit two days prior. It had happened in the library again, which Mondo figured would be safer. He’d almost started to hope that things would stay that way, stay as calm and easy and nice, but then-

 Mondo got angry. Again. 

 He doesn’t even know why, he never fucking does, but the kid had just... he’d been so fucking patient, helping Mondo pick out a pair of ‘reading glasses,’ since the doc had said he had pretty bad close-up vision and would be benefited from having prescription reading glasses, not just the over-the-counter stuff you find at drug stores. Mondo had felt so fucking lost, no idea what any of the bullshit meant, but Ishimaru had... he’d been so fucking helpful, explaining the complicated terminology and shit, helping him find a pair that didn’t make him look too much like a fucking nerd. And the pair he settled on was honestly kinda nice. It was a rectangular silver metal frame that had deep purple plastic on the sides, and it actually make him look kinda cool... if a bit nerdy. He’d given the salesperson his school insurance card and was pleasantly surprised to find he’d not have to pay a penny for the frames, since the school covers shit like that. 

 It was then, as he and Ishimaru exited the shop and the kid absently commented that the glasses made him look very smart that Mondo just... fucking lost it. 

 And he doesn’t even know why.

 It just... it made him feel weird inside. Being around the kid. Being soft with him. And he was. Soft. Soft and kind and fucking gentle. And the kid was the exact same back. The entire time they’d been in the shop, Mondo had been thinking how nice it had felt. How domestic. The panic and fear had been slowly rising in him the entire time they’d been in the store, and he’d done all he could to push it the fuck down, but he... he hadn’t...

 He’d left the kid standing there, looking so fucking confused, as he hopped on his hog and drove away. He’d not cared how the kid would get back to the school, he had refused to ride with Mondo since it made him ‘nervous’ anyway, so it wasn’t his fucking problem.

 And that pattern just... kept repeating. Mondo would get angry, say something toxic to the kid, and storm away. The kid would wait a couple of hours, maybe try and talk with him after class or something, only to eventually corner him and force him to talk to him, looking so fucking fed up, but also so fucking upset and sad and confused. Like he didn’t know why Mondo was doing this to him. Like he didn’t know why Mondo was being so fucking difficult. Like he... he didn’t...

 Didn’t know why he fucking bothered...

 And… honestly? Mondo didn’t know why either. Why he kept trying. Why he was so stubborn, always chasing after Mondo even after Mondo fucking shoved him away, sometimes literally. Even when Mondo would get so fucking nasty, making tears build up in the kid’s eyes, frustration clear in his every movement. 

 For almost two weeks this occurred, again and again and again, and Mondo... Mondo doesn’t know why the kid doesn’t just leave him already. Why he doesn’t just say ‘the hell with it,’ realize Mondo isn’t fucking worth it, and leave his ass. Like every other person on the face of this goddamn planet... 

 It’s only a matter of time until he does, though. Leave him. It’s what always was going to happen, since Mondo couldn’t ever hope to hold onto someone so very, very good. So very, very nice. Mondo is poison. He’s gas. He only knows how to destroy and break and hurt. 

 He’s not allowed something nice. 

 He’s not allowed someone nice. 

 He’s just...

 Not worthy of it. 

 Case in fucking point...

 “Look. Owada-kun,” Ishimaru spits, hands clenched around the stupid glasses case that he for some reason has (Mondo doesn’t even know how he’d gotten a hold of them, shit), looking like he wants to crush them, shit. “I don’t understand why you’re being so stubborn about this! You picked them out! You said they were fine! Why! Why have you changed your mind!”

 Mondo scowls at the words, heart racing and swirling and hurting, hurting, hurting, and he doesn’t wanna be doing this, wants to stop, but he can’t, he can’t, he fucking can’t! He doesn’t know how to stop this, doesn’t know how to make this go away, all he knows how to do is break and hurt and destroy, destroy, destroy-

 “I ain’t changed shit! I never fuckin’ agreed ta wear fuckin’ glasses, now get the fuck outta my face!” 

 It’s a lie. They both know it’s a lie, he can see the anger rising on Ishimaru’s face as he processes the abject lie. Mondo had, in fact, agreed on the glasses, had even kinda liked them, but he can’t concede that, can’t say he does, if he does then- then that means he’s okay with this, this weird thing he has going on with Ishimaru, and he doesn’t know if he can handle that, handle the proof that Ishimaru is so fucking amazing, the proof that Mondo doesn’t fucking deserve him, proof that... t-that he... 

 Mondo can’t take it. He can’t fucking take it! He tries to leave, to get away, to fucking end this shit already, but then Ishimaru is grabbing hold of him, holding so fucking tight, and Mondo tries to break free, tries to get away, but the kid just doesn’t fucking let go, and Mondo is so fucking freaked out, he just wants to leave, please god, let him just leave, don’t let him break this fucking kid again, god, please- 

 “You-! You are the most infuriating, pig-headed, arrogant... jerk I have ever had the misfortune to meet! If I never saw your face again, it wouldn’t be long enough!”

 “Oh, I’m so wounded, please don’t call me anymore fuckin’ names like that, how the fuck am I ever gonna recover?!” Mondo snarls, sarcasm so thick he’s sure even Ishimaru will be able to pick up on it, wanting to stop but not being able to. “Grow the fuck up, ya cock suckin’ assfucker! Learn some better fuckin’ insults or don’t even bother tryin’ ta play!”

 “Just because I am too sophisticated to resort to such foul language does not mean anything! You may be a lowly, classless heathen, but I, for one, refuse-”

 “Oh, so now ya think yer fuckin’ better than me?! I told ya already, y’ain’t goddamn shit, Ishimaru! Ain’t no shit at all!”

 “I am one hundred times the man you will ever hope to be! And if I’m not... feces, then you’re not even worth anything at all! Y-you’re... you’re an amoeba, so tiny and insignificant that it’s a miracle you think you’re relevant at all!”

 “What the fuck did ya call me, ya son ofa bitch?!”

 Mondo sees the kid open his mouth— likely to fire something back, barely any space between them— holding onto Mondo’s arm so fucking tight, like his life depends on it or something, looking so fucking pissed and angry and hurt and fucking beautiful, so fucking beautiful, god fucking damnit-

 But before the kid can say anything, another voice pipes up, the same voice as earlier, making Mondo’s rage reach a paramount, oh god-

 “Aw, come on! I thought you guys resolved things already, do you really have to do this?! Please!” 

 Mondo turns to the fucking eavesdropper, snarling at the beyond fucking average boy. Naegi turns super fucking pale at the look, but he doesn’t cower away for once. Mondo doesn’t care. He’s far passed the point of caring. 

 “I told ya ta stay the fuck outta this!” 

 Naegi frowns, but Mondo doesn’t give him a chance to say any other stupid ass thing before he’s turning back to Ishimaru, eyes practically spitting fire as he stares so deep into Ishimaru’s that it feels almost like a physical embrace. It makes Mondo’s breath hitch for some stupid fucking reason, his stomach swirling as he looks deep into the most gorgeous fucking eyes he’s ever fucking seen-

 But he can’t feel things like that, so he pushes it firmly away. 

 He can hear their eavesdropper fucking sigh, soft and almost disappointed, and that should make Mondo even angrier, but something in Mondo is feeling so fucking weird now. G-god... he doesn’t even know how to begin to describe it, other than it feels like he’s on fire, but not even in a bad way. Ishimaru is staring at him, eyes wide, anger in them, but also something else, something Mondo can’t understand, no matter how much he fucking wants to. 

 He can’t let this end here. He wants to let it end, but he fucking can’t. He... h-he needs to figure out how to settle this, how to make this stop, how to not be as fucking pathetic as he knows he is. He... he needs to prove that he’s not as worthless as they both know he is, as weak, as nothing, so fucking nothing. Everyone knows it, knows he doesn’t belong here, knows that Ishimaru is so much better than him it’s not funny, but he- he needs to prove that he has something going for him, that he... he can do something, even if he’s worthless in every other regard, every other aspect, even if Ishimaru is better than him everywhere else he just needs to prove he can beat him at fucking something, god-

 He’s issuing the challenge before he can stop himself. 

 And god, is he so fucking afraid. 

 “You think yer so perfect, don’t ya, Ishimaru? Think yer better than me? Well... well, yer not, an’ I can fuckin’ prove it. I bet I can beat you, hands down, any day of the fuckin’ week. Y’ain’t better than me, ya shit fuck. Y’ain’t nothin’,” Mondo hisses, lying through his fucking teeth. Ishimaru is better than him. He knows it. He’s always known it. He hates it, though. Not being good enough. Not being worthy. He... he wants to be. Good enough. For... f-for... 

 Ishimaru’s eyes are shiny again, even despite his glare. 

 Typical. 

 “What?! Y-you guys aren’t going to- to fight, are you? Guys-!”

 Mondo breaks his stare down with Ishimaru to shoot that goddamn fucking bastard a single, solitary sneer, before turning back to Ishimaru, chest heaving with all the emotions he carries within him. 

 “Nah. Ground floor, there’s a sauna. Ya know it?” 

 Ishimaru blinks slowly, sluggish, before nodding slightly, looking very fucking confused. His eyebrows are furrowed, and his lips are pulled down, and he looks so fucking cute stupid, god. After a moment, though, it seems he understands what Mondo is getting at, the challenge he is suggesting, as his face lights up, eyes bright and passionate once more, an honest to god grin on his face. 

 Holy fucking shit... 

 “Aha! A simple endurance challenge! If that is your gauntlet, then I happily accept! I will wipe the floor with you!” 

 Despite the anger that is still flowing through him, Mondo can’t help the small smile that passes on his lips, something about the enthusiasm so fucking... not cute, not cute, not cute at all, but maybe, a little, teeny tiny bit... endearing? He pushes it away, though. It’s not helpful, here. 

 “Yer fuckin’ on. And you,” Mondo points blindly to Naegi— who ‘eeps’ at the gesture, fucking coward he is— not able to look away from Ishimaru for a single fucking second, “will be our witness. Got it?!” 

 As intently as Mondo is staring at Ishimaru, he doesn’t see the other kid’s response, but he can hear how Naegi splutters, the kid clearly not as enthusiastic about the idea as Ishimaru and himself are. Bastard. 

 “W-what?! Now?! B-but it’s so late... g-guys, are you sure this is a- a good idea-?!”

 “Yes, ya fuckin’ moron, it’s a fuckin’ great idea!” Mondo snarls, at the exact same time Ishimaru— eyes bright and feverish— exclaims, “yes! It is an excellent idea!” 

 Uncomfortable at their agreement, Mondo finally tears his eyes away, ignoring the churning feeling in his chest as he storms down the hall to where the bathhouse is, mere meters away. Ishimaru stares after him for a stunned second, but quickly spurs himself into motion, using his long-ish legs to catch up quick, head held high as they march determinedly on. God... he’s so fucking...

 Shit. 

 When they reach the bathhouse a few moments later, Mondo firmly pushes aside the rational voice inside him that is screaming at him not to do this. He knows his limits when it comes to endurance. While he’s not the best at running, he has great endurance for other things, especially pain and discomfort. (This sentence was removed due to ~~spoilers~~) 

 But Ishimaru... fuck. He’s so fucking passionate, so fucking determined, but who knows what his endurance is like? If he’ll be able to keep up? And it shouldn’t matter, shouldn’t give Mondo pause, but he... he can’t help the stab of concern that fills him as they enter the room, Mondo grabbing a ‘closed for repairs’ sign and putting it in front of the entrance, not wanting anyone to interrupt. 

 He hates the feeling and pushes it away as he turns to glare at Ishimaru, pointing a finger, not wanting to deal with such weakness, but he... he can’t quite manage to force it fully away... 

 Shit. 

 “Alright, here’s the fuckin’ terms. First ta tap out is a fuckin’ bitch ass loser who ain’t worth shit. The one who lasts the longest is the official winner. We ain’t allowed ta touch the other or do anythin’ ta them directly, this is strictly an endurance challenge. Oh, an’ we’re gonna do this fully clothed. What do ya say?!” 

 Mondo sees Ishimaru’s eyes widen when he gets to the last term, the kid fucking shaking his head sharply in denial. Fuck. Fuck. Shit. He’d added that last clause in last minute, realizing as he detailed the rules that they were gonna be fucking half fucking naked in there, and his mind had shorted the fuck out. He’s been in saunas fully clothed before, he knows he can handle it, but he isn’t fucking sure he can handle sitting nearly nude beside Ishi-fucking-maru...

 But of course, the kid wouldn’t fucking agree. Of fucking course...

 “I do not agree to that last term, but I agree to the rest!” 

 Glad his angry flush fully disguises the fucking embarrassed flush he can feel rising on his face, Mondo just nods tensely, sneering, as he storms over to the water cooler in the corner. 

 “Alright, whatever, fucker. Ya got five minutes ta prepare. Then, we’re fuckin’ doin’ this shit.” 

 With that, Mondo grabs a paper cup and downs some water, feeling so impossibly tense. He can feel Ishimaru staring at him, mouth partially open, but he gets spurned into action when Naegi shifts awkwardly beside him, chasing the kid away to one of the lockers, where he... he fucking...

 Starts taking off his fucking clothes...

 Holy. Fucking. Shit. 

 Mondo is staring. Mondo knows he shouldn’t be staring, knows it’s wrong to be staring, but he can’t fucking help it. His eyes are like magnets, drawn to the kid, watching as he takes off all of his fucking layers, folding each one so neatly and carefully as he sticks them in the small fucking locker. The kid hesitates a little when he gets to his fucking tighty-whities (of course the kid wears that shit, of fucking course), but ultimately, he doesn’t take them off. Instead, he bites his lip and grabs a white towel, wrapping it firmly around his waist before putting the rest of his stuff away. Mondo firmly pushes down the stupid as shit rush of disappointment and tells himself to stop staring, to look away, but god, he fucking can’t. Ishimaru, he...

 He’s so fucking gorgeous, so fucking hot, so fucking sexy-

 Mondo feels himself heat the fuck up when Ishimaru turns abruptly and looks him straight in the eyes, looking fucking startled at something. Feeling strangely caught, Mondo looks away as quick as he can, pushing away the stupid as shit thoughts, marching over to a locker stiffly. Shit... he’s gotta fucking get laid one of these days. The tension is doing fucked up shit to his brain... 

 He takes his time putting some of his more fragile shit away, like his crappy cellphone and his key card. He does, honestly, consider taking off his uniform, or at least taking off his duster, but he just... shit. Can’t. Not with how strange he feels inside, his mind’s eye still stupidly forcing him to think of Ishimaru, his stupidly muscular back flexing with every move he made. It means nothing, fucking nothing, but he... shit. It prolly would be better to remain fully clothed, duster included, even if it does put him at a disadvantage. But ya know what, whatever. Doesn’t matter. He knows his limits and knows that he can last longer in the sauna than Ishimaru, even when fully clothed. Shit...

 When the five minutes he gave them are up, he meets up with Ishimaru outside the entrance to the sauna, fully intending to slide it open and step inside, when-

 “Owada-kun, you cannot seriously be considering entering the sauna fully clothed! It’s suicide!” Ishimaru exclaims, sounding fucking concerned as shit. His eyes are wide, and his brows are furrowed, and he’s biting his fucking lip, god fucking damn, and it’s messing with Mondo’s head so fucking much. Why... why the fuck would he care?! Huh?! They’re not fucking friends! Why would he care if Mondo did try and kill himself, huh?! World would fucking be better off for it, shit! 

 Deciding to definitely not say that, Mondo just sneers at the kid, crossing his arms stubbornly. 

 “Just ‘cuz yer a fuckin’ pansy ass bitch don’t mean I am! Now, ya ready ta do this, or are ya a fuckin’ chicken?!”  

 His face flushed, Ishimaru doesn’t even bother to answer, instead just yanking open the door and entering the sauna with a stubborn tilt to his jaw. 

 Staring after the kid for a split second (pushing down the disappointment that he didn’t press the issue harder, proving to Mondo how fucking right he is), Mondo enters on Ishimaru’s heels, the heat not even bothering him one bit. 

 It’s nothing compared to the fire that constantly burns within him. 

 Sliding the door shut behind him, leaving Naegi outside to do whatever the fuck he wants while the contest takes place, Mondo marches over to where Ishimaru is sitting, taking a seat an arm’s length away. He can feel bright red eyes on him, but he determinedly pushes the feeling away, trading a few snide comments with the kid, not even feeling the heat really. 

 About ten minutes in, Mondo will admit the heat is getting to him a little, a thin sheen of sweat making its way onto his skin, which is more uncomfortable than anything. Ishimaru looks a little woozy, so Mondo taunts that the kid should just give up now. Ishimaru just laughs, saying how he never gives up, ever. Fucking pretentious bastard. 

 After half an hour, he can admit he is feeling kinda uncomfortable, the heat becoming somewhat unpleasant, but he’s still feeling pretty good, all things considered. Ishimaru looks flushed as all hell, though, his cheeks bright red and sweat clinging to his muscles. The kid tells him— unprompted— that he’s doing fine, and Mondo’s brain feels too stupid to allow him to do much else than glare, shit... 

 After around fifty minutes, the kid... he looks fucking awful. Mondo isn’t doing too hot, the uncomfortable feeling spreading to be extremely uncomfortable, but he knows he can handle it. The kid, though... he looks like he’s starting to lose it. Ishimaru mentions absently that he’s starting to feel cold, which honestly concerns Mondo, since he knows that shit is a bad sign, but his head is too stupid to remember why, so he just says it’s prolly not good. The kid doesn’t call it quits, though. 

 Instead, he actually... talks... huh. 

 “Y-you can take off your uniform... if you w-want... I- I won’t judge...” the boy mumbles, sounding super fucking exhausted. Mondo tries to snort, but it’s a lot harder than it should be, shit. 

 “N-nah... I’m... I’m... I’m good,” Mondo finds himself muttering back, looking at the kid intensely, wondering why he isn’t giving up when he so clearly feels sick. Mondo finds himself muttering about how red Ishimaru’s is, likening him to a hot spring monkey, of all things. The kid mumbles back about being born with a red face, which makes no fucking sense, but ya know what? He’s too tired to waste energy on this shit. He’s got a challenge to win. 

 After what he figures is an hour and five minutes, the warning bell rings, telling them they have five minutes until curfew. Mondo figures the hall monitor will end this now, since he wouldn’t dare stay out past curfew and risk breaking one of his ‘precious rules,’ but the kid doesn’t seem to even notice the bell had rung. S-shit... that... that’s not good, is it...? 

 Mondo gets distracted from his stupid as shit concern when a new voice pipes up, shocking Mondo. Huh... he hadn’t realized the kid was still out there. Shit. 

 “U-uh guys? It’s almost curfew, shouldn’t you... stop? I know you both want to prove how big of badasses you are but... don’t you think you’ve done enough?”

 Mondo scowls at the meaning of the words, knowing that he sure as shit ain’t gonna back down first. He’s already so worthless. He’s gotta prove that he can at least do this, of all fucking things.

 “Shut up!” he barks, at the same time Ishimaru does, making him feel fucking wigged out at how they’re both on the same page again. 

 Naegi replies back to them, saying something about it being nighttime, and a tie... it honestly offends Mondo, but before he can reply, the kid is... talking... saying something about how in a true competition, there are no ties. That you either win or you lose, and that... that’s the only thing that matters. It honestly kinda pisses Mondo off, even if he agrees fully, so he fires back how he will push the kid right up to the gates of hell, meaning it fully. 

 He tells Naegi to leave then, knowing that this might drag on a lot longer than he had anticipated. Shit. He knew Ishimaru was fucking stubborn as shit, willing to do absolutely anything to reach his goals, but this... this is just madness. Utter madness. As Naegi leaves, Mondo cannot help how he stares at the hall monitor, who looks so fucking sick right now. He does his best to ignore it, to wait the kid out, but when roughly fifteen more minutes pass and the kid isn’t tapping out, despite looking half dead, he... he can’t help the worry that he feels. And then, when the kid closes his eyes, barely breathing, Mondo... s-shit... 

 “Hey... man... are you... are you okay...? Ya don’t... don’t look so good...” 

 Mondo listens, getting really kinda freaked, when Ishimaru lets out a soft puff of air, almost like he’s trying to laugh but can’t find the energy. He lolls his head over to Mondo, the first movement he’s done in minutes, but his eyes are still closed, which looks so fucking freaky. It takes him far longer than it should to open his eyes, and when he does, they... shit. They look glazed, like the kid isn’t fucking in there, like he... he’s...

 Already dead...

 F-fuck... 

 It really does look like that, though. Eyes glazed, mouth partially open, chest so scarily still... o-oh, shit. Shit, what if he... what if he is dead...?! Y-yeah, he just moved, but he- he looks so still, it... Mondo... 

 But then the kid is speaking, and he sounds so very out of it, but at least he’s alive, thank god... 

 “I- I’m... I’m fine, I...” 

 Oh, shit... no, he... he’s not fine, is he...? Shit... s-shit...

 “Shit... man... no, y’ain’t. I know my... my limits. I’ve got some time... left in me... but you... shit. Just give up, dude. Just... just give... up...” 

 It makes something in Mondo clench when he sees the kid’s face screw up, like he wants to cry but just has no tears left within him. And then he... he’s speaking... 

 “No... n-no, I can’t... I- I can’t... give up... I have to... have to...”

 The kid stops, then, and Mondo feels so fucking confused, his head all stupid because of the heat, making it hard to think. What? He has to... what? 

 “Hafta... what? What... is so important... ta ya?”

 The kid blinks, like he hadn’t expected to be spoken to, before opening his mouth and muttering words. It... it’s like the kid doesn’t even know he’s speaking, the words sounding so fucking slurred and soft. Mondo has to strain to hear them, even though the silence is oppressive between them. 

 “I can’t... give up... must... restore... honor... family... f-family name...” 

 Mondo furrows his eyebrows, his lips turned down in a frown, not... not understanding...

 “Yer family... name? What… what about it?” 

 Ishimaru blinks, like he can barely understand what Mondo is saying, and fuck is that scary... 

 “I must... fix his mistakes. I must... I must bring honor t-to... to our name... my grandfather...”

 Okay, that... that doesn’t make any fucking sense... his grandfather? The fuck? Shit... Ishimaru needs to stop this, he... he’s not making any sense...

 “What? The fuck... the fuck ya talkin’ ‘bout, man? Shit... Ishimaru, yer ‘bout ta... ta fuckin’ pass out... why can’t ya just... just give up, man?” 

 Ishimaru isn’t looking at him anymore and is instead staring blankly at the steam that is billowing around them, looking like he’s not aware where the fuck he is. It makes Mondo’s stomach clench, the concern rising. He... he doesn’t wanna give up, needs to prove himself, but he... Ishimaru... f-fuck... 

 And then... Ishimaru starts talking again...

 “It... it’s all up to me to fix it... t-to make it better... m-make it- it right-! I... I can’t... give up, I... I’m not... not allowed to... give up... giving up is- is wrong... and immoral, and- and I am not wrong! I... I’m not- not immoral... I... I’m better... better than my grandfather... better than myself... better... than...” 

 Okay. Okay. Okay, it’s official. Mondo is fucking freaked the fuck out. What... what does any of that even mean? He... Ishimaru...

 “Fuck, dude, yer- yer scarin’ me... what the hell does… does any a’ that even… even mean? Yer the fuckin’... Ultimate Moral Compass... ‘course yer not- not... immoral...” 

 Ishimaru is shaking now, eyes still glazed, staring at the steam as if it holds the answer to life itself. And fuck... it’s so fucking creepy... 

 “But I am, I am... I’m worthless, I’m nothing... my grandfather... he’d done so many terrible things, had hurt s-so many people... he’d ruined... ruined Japan... e-everyone hated him... hated me... I have to do better... to be better... to fix... my grandfather’s... mistakes...”

 His grandfather? Who the fuck is his grandfather? And why... why does he even matter? Even if he was so fucking terrible, Ishimaru... he ain’t... he...

 “Dude... y’ain’t... ain’t yer grandfather... yer yer own person... an’ frankly... I kinda... kinda like... s-shit. Just... stop this, man. Just admit it. Admit it’s... too much...” 

 The kid shakes his head, and Mondo doesn’t know how he’s able to even hear him, as far fucking gone as he looks, but fuck, he’s clearly responding, ain’t he...? 

 “Nnnn- n-no! I- I... I can’t... can’t admit... weakness... god I’m so... so weak... pathetic... the children, they’re right about me, they’re all so... so right... I’ll never... amount to- to anything... I’m worthless... pathetic... scum...” 

 H-holy shit... Ishimaru he... he can’t fucking believe that... can he? No... n-no, he... he ain’t none of that shit, Mondo is, Mondo is, but not- not Ishimaru! He... he’s fucking... he... 

 “Ishimaru... Ishimaru, stop... s-stop! Y’ain’t... none a’ that is... is true... yer the best... goddamn person I ever... ever met, ya... ya never gave up on me... no matter how horrible I treated ya... ya just... wouldn’t leave... I tried ta make ya leave, why... why wouldn’t ya leave...” 

 He hadn’t meant to ask the question, voice so fucking soft, but he couldn’t help it. It’s been plaguing him for weeks now, wondering why... why Ishimaru bothered staying... why he didn’t just leave his ass... why he didn’t just... give up on him... like everyone always does... 

 “Me... leave? Why? Where would I... go...? I’ve n-never... had a friend... if this is... is friendship... then what else can I... do? I don’t... w-wanna... be...... alone.........”

 Oh... oh, shit... suddenly, so many things make so much fucking sense. Why the kid always seems so fucking nervous and awkward around people, though he tries his damndest to hide it. Why he is always alone, never seen really talking to anyone, not without a reason. Why he always... always does his best to extend olive branches to people, offering to tutor or help or do whatever is needed to... to get them to talk to him... g-god... he never would have thought the kid would have no friends, even though it’s so fucking obvious when Mondo thinks about it. He’s just... he’s just so fucking bright and full of sunshine... Mondo can’t imagine people seeing that and not... not wanting to... 

 It’s right then, in that moment, brain stupid from heat, halfway gone but not fully gone yet, that Mondo... Mondo makes a decision. 

 If they survive this stupid fucking challenge... he... he will be Ishimaru— no, Kiyotaka, his name is- is Kiyotaka... he will be Kiyotaka’s friend... and he will be a fucking good one, the friend that the kid... that he fucking deserves...

 If the kid even wants to be friends with him... 

 “Fuckin’... shit, man. Yer not... alone... I’m here. Ishimaru... Kiyotaka... I’m right... right here...” 

 The kid shakes his head, breath still shallow, but now it’s wavering, shaking... trembling... g-god... fuck...

 “No... no... I’m alone, I’m alone. Everyone... always leaves... my mother... my grandfather... even my father would leave... if he could... he’s never... never understood me. No one... understands me... I don’t... even... understand...... myself..........”

 Oh. Oh. Oh. This... this poor fucking boy... he... s-shit. Shit... this... they gotta fucking stop this... they... 

 “I... I understand ya. Yer... yer like me... ain’t ya? Shit. We gotta... gotta stop this, man... what are ya... tryin’... ta prove?” 

 Kiyotaka is shaking again, looking like he wants to cry but just... can’t. God... god... fucking... god.

 “Everything. Everything. Every… everything… I have to prove them... wrong. I have to prove... that I can do this. If I... if I give up... i-if I let myself give up... then I fail. I fail, I fail, I fail, I fail, I fail. I c-can’t... fail, I can’t... g-give up... or else... what is... the point... of me...?” 

 Point? The point? Why... why does he have to have a point? Shit... he’s so fucking amazing, he... he doesn’t have to have a point... no more than just... just being... 

 “Ain’t gotta... have a point man... ya can just... be. Be... Kiyotaka. What’s so wrong... with that?” 

 The blank look on the kid’s face grows, his voice soft, weak. Trembling, like he doesn’t mean to say it, like he doesn’t even know what he’s saying. Mondo has never heard someone sound so... so... dead before... h-holy shit...

 “Everything. Everything. Everything. E-everything... is wrong with... me... I- I’m too... too much. T-too passionate... too vibrant... I- I hurt... hurt my own eyes... I hate... l-looking at myself... hate... b-being myself... if I could... be someone else... I- I would... gladly...” 

 No. No. No, fucking... no! Ish- Kiyo... Kiyotaka can’t fucking believe that... yeah, he’s so fucking passionate, so fucking bright, but that... that’s not a bad thing... he... he’s so fucking good... so fucking... amazing... and he... Mondo wouldn’t...

 “I wouldn’t. Want that. Yer... fuck. Yer somethin’... somethin’ special... I thought I... I hated that ‘bout you, but... man you... you shine... I don’t deserve... someone as... as wonderful... as you...”

 Kiyotaka is shaking his head again, barely breathing, looking so dead, so very, very... dead...

 Oh, god...

 “I- I’m not... wonderful. I’m not... anything. T-the children... they hated me... t-they all... hated me. My f-father... hates me. My mother... if she could s-see me... now... s-she’d hate me... too. Why... w-why do I bother... trying...? W-why... why don’t I just... g-give up...” 

 N-no... no, no, god, please... no... Mondo feels pressure behind his eyes, and he doesn’t think he has ever felt such pain. Because that... that sounds so goddamn familiar... he always has seen Kiyotaka as so different to him, so much better, so much brighter. But if the kid is to be believed... he... he thinks of himself like... like Mondo thinks of himself, and he... he can’t... can’t fucking stand that thought, oh god... 

 “Kiyo... Kiyota- Taka. Kiyo... Taka. Just... ya don’t hafta... give up... but yer... yer gonna kill yerself if ya... keep this up... s-shit...”

 Mondo feels himself go cold when Kiyotaka responds, sounding half dead, looking so... so nothing... 

 “Kill... myself? No... I’m not- not that weak... not anymore... not... n-not again... but maybe... maybe... m-maybe it would be better. If I weren’t... weren’t...” a pause. “Alive...”

 What?! No... no, no.... nonononononononononono-!!! He... he can’t... he can’t-

 “What?! Dude... no... god... fuckin’... dammit! Ya can’t be... serious... Kiyo... Taka, ya can’t...”

 “I am. I am. I- I am. If I wasn’t... so weak. If I wasn’t... s-so afraid. I know... k-know how to fix it... a-all of it. How to... t-to make it better. My father... would be happier. The children... w-would be happier. And I... I... I’d be... I’d be...”

 A pause. Inhalation of breath. And then... softly, so fucking softly...

 “Dead...” 

 No. No. No, fucking-! No. This... this is so fucking stupid, why is Mondo doing this, he... he has to stop this. This kid ain’t gonna stop, he can’t fucking stop, he won’t stop until he is fucking dead, and Mondo... Mondo can’t... he fucking can’t-

 He can’t lose someone else... not during another fucking challenge that he fucking issued... he just... can’t.

 “Okay. That’s it. This ain’t... fuckin’ worth it. If y’ain’t... gonna quit... then I! I fuckin’... I fuckin’ will. Ya... ya win... Kiyo... Taka... ya... ya win. Now, c’mon, man. Let’s… let’s get outta here.”

 With all the strength he has left, Mondo stands and hobbles over to where Kiyotaka is sitting, looking like a puppet with its strings cut. He’s not moving, barely breathing, and his eyes are so glazed over Mondo doesn’t think he can even see right now. Mondo has never seen someone look so still before, and it scares the ever-loving shit out of him. Especially now that he... he knows that... that the kid has tried... or at least wanted...

 Fuck. 

 Fuck. 

 Fuck.

 But he doesn’t have time to hate himself for issuing this stupid ass challenge. He doesn’t have time to waste. Gathering all his strength, he bends down, and he wraps an arm around Kiyotaka, heart stopping when he feels how boneless he is, not moving at all. But then, as he starts moving towards the door, he feels the kid start to struggle. It’s weak and doesn’t sway Mondo even a second, but fuck does it relieve him. The kid is even able to walk a little, barely. It... it’s good. 

 The second he manages to get the door open, however, the cool air almost torture on his overheated skin, he feels Kiyotaka gasp, all the fragile strength he had gone as his knees buckle, making him deadweight. But Mondo hasn’t spent the majority of his life lifting weights for nothing, so he just adjusts his grip, taking on more of the kid’s weight. He doesn’t lift him, doesn’t have time for that, but he drags him bodily over to the bench, accidentally throwing him on it since he’s not really at a hundred percent himself. He sees the kid start to topple, then, and he immediately moves forward to steady the kid, the skin under his hands far, far too warm. Oh... shit, that’s not... not good, oh fuck...

 “Goddamn shit. Ya look... fuck man. Why didn’t ya just... dammit. Ya need water... I’ll be right back.”

 Mondo stand abruptly then, feeling clumsy and wrong. His chest feels so fucking painful, like it’s being sat on by an elephant, and he doesn’t think he’s ever felt more concerned for anyone. Well... other than one person... but shit, he can’t think of him, not now. Not now. Not when Kiyotaka needs him. He takes off his duster as he strides forward, tossing it carelessly on a bench, too fucking hot to deal with that shit. He needs to go quick, needs to... to get back to Kiyotaka... and he needs to drink some water himself, fuck, he’s so fucking dehydrated... fuck. 

 However... once he’s at the water cooler, filling up one of the paper cups for himself to drink, he hears the kid muttering again, the words making no goddamn sense, but damn if it doesn’t make his heart clench...

 “...they won’t, they won’t, they won’t... I’m alone, again... all alone... everyone has left... everyone leaves me in the end... why would I expect anything different... why would I expect-“

 Shit. Shit. Shit. Mondo quickly finishes filling the cup and downs it, filling the second one as quickly as possible while the kid rambles on about being alone again. As soon as the cup is full Mondo practically teleports back to the kid’s side, an odd sense in him that he never, ever wants to be anywhere else... 

 “Shit, Kiyotaka, I’m here. I just... had ta drink myself, shit. Now c’mon. Drink this. Please, man. Fer me. I can’t... ya can’t fuckin’ die on me, man... f-fuck...” 

 He carefully places his hand on the back of Kiyotaka’s neck, lifting it gently up, so he can get the kid to drink some water. He knows that the boy is prolly dehydrated as fuck, and he seriously hopes that’s the only thing wrong with him, because if it isn’t... s-shit. He can feel Kiyotaka struggle as he moves him, his lips moving, muttering those fucking words again... 

 “W-why am I so weak, I need to... to be stronger... to be... better...”

 God, is everything this kid says gonna make his heart break? God... he’s not equipped for this, he doesn’t know how to be kind, to be gentle, but after all the shit he has done, all the pain and misery he has needlessly made this wondrous, incredible, sad fucking boy go through... he owes it to him to not only try, but to succeed. 

 Even if it fucking kills him... 

 “Shh... hey, it’s okay. Y’ain’t fuckin’ weak, man, yer goddamn incredible. Now c’mon. Stop fightin’ me. Let me take care a’ you. You... you’ve been so strong fer so long. Let me... let me help you...” 

 With that, he slowly presses the cup against the kid’s lips, and he feels as he struggles, whimpering softly, scared. Shit, he... he prolly has no idea what the fuck is going on, is so fucking disoriented... 

 He begins whispering to the kid then, not knowing what to say, but just... knowing he has to say something, something soothing. He hums softly as he decides to just... let the soft words that he’s been gathering for weeks now out of his heart, telling Kiyotaka that he is there, that he will always be there, promising that he’s not alone, that he’ll never be alone again, that Mondo will take care of him, he promises... he promises... 

 And then he... he says...

 “Open up, Kiyotaka, shit. P-please... I’m beggin’ ya man... just... drink some water...” 

 The kid... Kiyotaka stops struggling then, and finally, finally opens his lips. It’s just a little, a small amount, but it’s enough for a small trickle of water to get passed his dry and cracked lips, which is so fucking relieving. But then... then the kid startles again, a soft sound of distress getting released as he panics, taking too much water too quick. Oh, shit... 

 So fucking scared, not knowing what to do but knowing he has to do something, Mondo lowers the hand holding the cup but doesn’t put it down, moving his other hand to rub soothing circles on the kid’s back, shushing him softly. 

 “Aw, shit. Slowly, man, slowly. That’s it, nice an’ easy... I’m gonna try that again, okay? Go slow this time. Idiot.”

 With that, Mondo moves his hand back to Kiyotaka’s neck and brings the cup back up to his lips, praying that he will drink this time. He’s so fucking dehydrated and if he won’t drink, Mondo is gonna have to call an ambulance or some shit, because he needs liquid, and fast. 

 Luckily, this time when he asks the kid to open up, he does so immediately. And then, when he tips a little of the liquid into his mouth, the kid doesn’t panic and just... sips it. Slowly. Mondo can see his throat working, moving slowly, swallowing the water, and fuck... he’s never felt so relieved in his life, watching the kid drink some fucking water, god... 

 However, then the kid is letting out a sound of desperation, seeming to realize that he is so fucking thirsty or something. He sees the kid’s hands try to come up, wavering so fucking much as they try and force the water down faster, but Mondo stops him, knowing he needs to go slow. 

 “Aw, shit man, stop! Ya gotta go slow. Yer dehydrated, ya can’t drink it too fast... trust me, man. I got you. I won’t let you down. Not again. I… I promise.”

 And he means it. He fucking means it. He has failed this kid so many fucking times, but he won’t this time, and he never will again. Because now he... he knows that this kid fucking matters. He’s always known that, from the minute the kid had run into him and knocked his world on its side, but- but he... he’s always been so afraid of it. Of the feeling. Of what it means. 

 But he’s not afraid of it. Not now. Not... not anymore. He doesn’t know why he feels this way, why this boy matters so fucking much to him, but it just doesn’t matter now, and he refuses to let his goddamn fucking nonsense ruin this shit anymore. This kid has faced some truly horrible fucking things, things that Mondo has barely scratched the surface of but can tell have damaged the kid so fucking much. He has scars all over his chest and back, which Mondo has noticed before, of course he’s noticed them, but now he’s really starting to realize what exactly they mean, and it just... it’s fucking him up inside, and all he wants is to bundle this kid up and never let him get hurt again, keep him safe from all harm, and Mondo has always felt like that, always wanted that, but now, for once...

 He’s not afraid of it. 

 And he won’t back down. 

 Not unless Kiyotaka wants him to...

 (But even then. Even then, Mondo will do everything he can to keep him safe. He won’t stalk the kid, but he will make sure that no one dares to lay a finger on him. He’s firmly under Mondo’s protection now. Nothing will change that. Absolutely nothing.) 

 Knowing that Kiyotaka needs to drink more, so he’s not so weak (physically. He’s so fucking strong emotionally, so fucking strong) anymore, he presses the cup back to the boy’s lips, his heart lurching softly when the kid immediately opens up and drinks, slowly, not even needing Mondo to remind him to go slow and steady. Mondo is so fucking proud of the kid, like a fucking mother hen, but he doesn’t care. This kid deserves all the softness in the world. If there’s one thing Mondo is sure of, it’s that. 

 It doesn’t take long for the cup to run empty, but the kid needs more, so Mondo gets up to refill the cup. But then he’s fucking crying, sad and pitiful, and Mondo immediately returns, holding him close, saying to him, “aw, shit, I’m just getting more water, alright? I’ll be right back, I promise.”

 And when Mondo is forced to leave again— though god does he not want to— he keeps talking. Promising that he’ll be right back, that he’s not leaving, that he will never leave again... promises that he will never break, and not just because he doesn’t break promises, but because he fucking means the shit out of them. More than any promise he’s ever made before. 

 He’s back soon after, bringing two cups with him this time, helping Kiyotaka drink, and drink, and drink. Mondo doesn’t know much about severe dehydration, just knows that it’s important for the person to be given fluids, preferably sports drinks, but since he doesn’t have that shit, water will have to do. If Kiyotaka doesn’t get better after the third cup, Mondo’s gonna try and see if he can take him to the nurse if the lady is still there. If not... shit. He’ll prolly have to call an ambulance, since he doesn’t think Kiyotaka could handle riding on his hog to the hospital, which is at least a ten-minute ride away. He’s hoping he won’t have to do that, though. Hopes that drinking the water will be enough to help him. He also hopes that it’s just dehydration that’s the problem... fuck. 

 The good thing is that Kiyotaka is drinking willingly. And the more he drinks, the more lucid he appears. He still seems very out of it, but about halfway through the third cup, he starts blinking rapidly, like waking himself from a dream. His eyebrows furrow, and he starts looking around a bit. He takes in the bathhouse and even looks down at his chest, like he’s just then noticing that he’s half naked. Mondo allows him to do this, but always makes sure the kid is still drinking, wanting to make sure he gets at least three cups in, since he had to have lost a lot of water while sweating. Mondo himself isn’t feeling too hot and knows he needs to drink more, too, but he’ll be damned if he doesn’t ensure that Kiyotaka is okay before doing anything else for himself. 

 Mondo knows the exact second that things slot into place for the kid, since one second he’s loose and pliant in his arms, allowing him to hold his neck and give him the water, and the next he’s sitting ramrod straight, eyes wide. It startles Mondo a bit and he straightens up from the hunch he’d found himself in, so fucking relieved to see some lucidity in those bright red eyes. Fuck, but was that glazed look terrifying... 

 “Oh, shit. Are ya back? Ya really fuckin’ scared me there, dude, the fuck...? I was ‘bout ta take yer ass ta the nurse, consequences be damned. Shit, should I still do that...? Kiyotaka?” 

 The kid is just staring at him, his skin far too pale, his eyes moving back and forth over Mondo’s face as he seems to try to be figuring something out. They then widen somehow further and then-

 “Aw, shit! Fuck, man, what the hell!”

 Mondo stares wide eyed at the kid as he abruptly stands, his body shaking horribly, looking like he just saw a ghost, shit... Mondo is afraid the kid is about to collapse so he stands quickly, hands hovering to ensure he doesn’t fall, but the kid doesn’t seem to notice him. Oh... shit... he’s not better, is he? God fucking dammit...

 “W-w-w-what... w-what... h-h-happened?! I... I didn’t... oh god...” 

 Mondo sees Kiyotaka sway then, looking like he’s about to faint, scaring the absolute shit out of Mondo. Rushing forward, he grabs the kid by his shoulders, holding him upright. Part of him wants to pull him close, to wrap him up and never let him go, but he can tell the kid is super fucking freaked out, and he doesn’t want to make him panic, shit. 

 “What the fuck... aw, shit, y’ain’t better. Okay, that’s it. I’m takin’ ya ta the fuckin’ nurse. Goddamnit...” 

 Mondo tries to move Kiyotaka, then, carefully guiding him over to the door so they can make the stupidly long walk to the nurse’s office, mind racing a mile a minute as he tries to determine if it wouldn’t just be better to call the ambulance now. On one hand, he doubts the nurse is still there, since it’s well after curfew, but on the other... calling for an ambulance means he might have to explain this shit, and he just... shit. But he needs to do right by Kiyotaka, and if that includes getting himself in trouble, he’ll fucking do it. He doesn’t care what happens to him, just as long as this wonderful, incredible boy is safe. Huh...

 As distracted as Mondo is, he doesn’t expect any resistance to his movement, expecting Kiyotaka to be as pliant as he previously had been. As such, when the kid fucking pulls away from him, weak as it is, Mondo isn’t expecting it and thus is unable to keep his grip. And he watches, heart stopping, as the kid slams into the row of lockers, collapsing immediately to the ground with a soft noise of pain. 

 Shit!!!

 “Shit! Kiyotaka, are you fuckin’ alright?! What the hell, man?! Stop bein’ an idiot and let me take ya ta the nurse, fuck!” 

 He doesn’t mean to sound angry or anything, he’s just so fucking scared, needing the kid to cooperate so he can just get better already and not make Mondo worry he’s gonna fucking die or something... but given the way that Kiyotaka glares at him (or tries to glare, Mondo can tell he’s still a little out of it and can’t quite put the usual amount of passion into it), he can tell the kid intends to be difficult, looking at him like he doesn’t want Mondo to come any closer or something. Mondo immediately says, ‘fuck that,’ though, and rushes to the kid’s side, kneeling down, his eyes bleeding with his concern. He watches the kid blink, some more lucidity rising within the red, as he opens his mouth to speak. 

 “W-wait! I don’t... dang it. I don’t need to go to the- t-the nurse! I’m just... confused. Give me... give me a moment to... collect myself!” Kiyotaka says, his chest heaving with the effort of speaking. Mondo looks at him firmly, ensuring the kid means it and that he’s not just saying random, nonsense bullshit again. 

 Once he’s satisfied that the kid is, in fact, lucid enough to make that decision, he nods stiffly, still feeling so very, very concerned. 

 “Alright... shit, fine. If ya say so. But ya gotta drink some more water, alright?! Slowly. I should drink more too, fuck...”

 Mondo stands, then, and walks over to the water cooler again, hands tingling unpleasantly as he leaves Kiyotaka’s side. He quickly fills up two fresh cups of water and hurries back, handing the kid one of the cups as soon as he is by his side. 

 As soon as the kid takes it, Mondo flops down to sit beside him, so close they touch, and begins to drink his water, finding comfort in being able to feel the kid warm against his side. He is honestly thirsty as fuck, wanting to gulp it down again, but he forces himself to go slow, not wanting to be a hypocrite. He notices after a second that Kiyotaka isn’t drinking and is just staring at him blankly, eyes glazing over again, which scares him more than he is willing to say, fuck. 

 “Dude. Drink. Or I’m draggin’ ya ta the nurse, kickin’ an’ screamin’. Don’t think I won’t,” Mondo rumbles, startling the kid out of whatever fugue he’d entered into. The kid glares at him lightly, not nearly as strong as Mondo knows it could be, but at least he doesn’t try and counter him. He just brings the cup to his lips and drinks the cool water slowly, his eyes darting back and forth as he thinks hard about something. They don’t glaze over again, though, so Mondo lets him be and just drinks his water, every cell in his body so fucking aware of the kid sitting directly beside him. It honestly would scare him, how much he cares about this kid, if he’d not already decided to not care about that shit anymore. He cares about the kid. He doesn’t know why, he just does. End of fucking story. 

 Mondo doesn’t know how long they sit there drinking their water, and he doesn’t really care. He usually hates sitting still for so long, his skin crawling to get up and do something already, but strangely... he doesn’t really mind it too much. Sitting here, beside Kiyotaka. It... despite the worry he still feels, there’s also a strange calmness inside him now. Like... like something inside him that had been out of place and broken for years is just... gone, allowing him to breathe easy for the first time. It’s so strange but also... so very, very nice...

 Eventually their cups run empty, and Mondo is about to offer to get them both some more water again when the kid speaks. His voice is low and shaky, but it sounds a lot better and more lucid than it had before, which relieves the shit out of him. But then he comprehends the words, and he...

 “O-Owada... back in... in the, uh, sauna... I didn’t, um. Say anything strange. Did I?” Kiyotaka asks softly, looking very nervous. It concerns Mondo a lot that the kid apparently doesn’t remember what happened in the sauna, but he supposes it makes sense. He had been super fucking outta it... 

 He still takes his time to think about it. He usually just blurts out his words, no thought put into them at all, but this... shit. This matters. And he has to be so fucking careful if he doesn’t want to hurt the kid again. And god, does he not wanna do that... 

 Finally, he figures he’ll go the safe route and figure out what, exactly, the kid does and doesn’t remember. If he remembers nothing, then maybe... maybe it would be better to keep it that way, shit... 

 Ignoring the way his heart clenches at the thought, he sets his face into a carefully neutral expression, revealing nothing as he speaks, voice a low rumble. 

 “That depends. What do ya remember?”

 Mondo watches, heart clenched strangely again, as Kiyotaka bites his lip gently, eyes unfocused as he thinks. They’re not glazed, though, so Mondo thinks he’s just concentrating, not zoning out. After a few moments, the kid glances up at him, expression open and searching. It makes Mondo want to gasp, everything in him swirling, and when the kid speaks, still looking at him, he... h-he... 

 “I’m… I’m not sure. It’s all... fuzzy. I can’t quite tell... what is real or not. I have no idea what I said during that last part, though... just fragments of old memories and thoughts.” Kiyotaka pauses, his hands shaking lightly. He looks away then, down at the ground, and Mondo feels so strangely bereaved... “But I... I remember you... you said... things. About- a-about me. Y-you... you called me... wonderful. Special. H-heh! H-how r-ridiculous! I must... must have been- been hallucinating! Aha!” 

 The kid sounds nervous, frantic, like he’s afraid Mondo will hurt him, like he’s afraid Mondo will laugh at him, will tell him that he... he’s wrong, that Mondo hadn’t said that, that he... he doesn’t believe that...

 Which is bullshit. Because he did say that. And he’d meant it. Means it. Fully and completely. 

 Mondo consciously forces his shoulders to lose the tension that had entered them unbidden at Kiyotaka’s frantic words, sighing softly, a wry smile rising on his lips as he looks at the kid. The kid looks so fucking scared, so desperate, like he doesn’t believe that Mondo had said that shit, but that he wants to believe it. 

 And, shit... even if he hadn’t said it, he sure as shit would say it now. Because Kiyotaka truly is wonderful and special, ain’t he...? 

 Heh... 

 “Nah. That, uh. That happened. You really don’t remember what you said?” he asks as casually as he can, his head tilted in question, hoping he’s hiding the way his heart is racing well enough, but honestly not really caring if he’s not. He... he doesn’t want to keep shit from this kid. Not... not anymore... he watches as Kiyotaka shakes his head weakly, moving his eyes to stare at his hands again. It makes Mondo’s smile widen, eyes soft as silk. Heh. So... so fucking cute...

 “Heh. Makes sense. Ya weren’t exactly all there, ya know. Kept mumblin’ bits a’ nonsense. Could barely make sense a’ ya myself, tell the truth. Somethin’... somethin’ ‘bout yer grandfather. ‘Bout needin’ ta right his wrongs. An’ then there was somethin’ ‘bout other kids? An’ hatred? Ya mentioned how yer da don’t understand ya, how he hates ya, or somethin’. An’ ‘bout how... how ya... ya hate yerself. Which I think is fuckin’ bullshit, ya shouldn’t fuckin’ hate yerself, yer incredible, but whatever. There was a lot a’ other stuff too. ‘Bout not givin’ up, ‘bout havin’ ta prove people wrong. Some other shit, too, but I don’t really ‘member it all, sorry. But... shit man. Is that... is that real? Did ya... did ya really mean alla’ that?” 

 Mondo doesn’t really mean to ask the question, knowing the kid needs to be allowed to rest and relax, not be asked stupid fucking questions, but he can’t help it. He’s not lying when he says he doesn’t quite remember everything. It’s all starting to blur in his head, and while he’s fairly certain he remembers the most of it, some details are starting to slip away, and he just... did the kid really say all that shit, or had he imagined it, too? Shit...

 But then... then, after a moment, Kiyotaka, he... h-he...

 “Aw, shit,” he mutters under his breath, which seems to just make the kid cry harder. It breaks Mondo’s heart so much, hating seeing his tears. God... this kid just always fucking cries around him, doesn’t he...? Shit... shit! H-he didn’t want to make the kid cry! G-god, he... he wants so badly to hold the kid, to keep him safe from the sorrow within him, but would the kid even want that? After everything he’s done, all he’s taken from him, would he actually want to be held in his arms? It’s his fault he’s crying, his fault he’s in this situation, and he doesn’t know if Kiyotaka would want to be anywhere near him, let alone in his arms! But he... he wants so, so badly to... t-to...

 “Please, man, don’t cry, shit, I’m sorry! I... aw, fuck it. Come here.” 

 Mind made up, Mondo darts forward and— carefully as he possibly can— wraps an arm around the kid, pulling him gently to his chest, firm and tight. He can feel the kid struggle against him, and it kills him inside to feel it, especially when the kid starts frantically apologizing, like he thinks Mondo is going to hurt him or something. He thinks it might be best to let him go, to apologize and never touch him again, but he... h-he thinks the problem isn’t that Mondo is hugging him, but that the kid thinks Mondo is upset. So maybe... if he can reassure the kid that it’s okay, that he wants this, maybe... m-maybe he’ll stop struggling so hard... and maybe... m-maybe...

 “Shhh. Shh, c’mon. It’s okay, Kiyotaka. I’m here. Y’ain’t alone. I got you. Ain’t got nothin’ ta ‘pologize fer, ya got it? Yer okay. We’re both okay.” 

 He keeps his arms steady on Kiyotaka, praying to any god that will listen that he’s doing the right thing, that he’s not hurting the kid more, that this is okay, and then... after a minute... after a minute...

 The kid stops. Stops struggling, stops apologizing. His chest is heaving, and his eyes are still leaking tears, but he doesn’t seem distressed at Mondo holding him anymore. At least... Mondo hopes he isn’t. And then... t-then...

 Kiyotaka buries his head in his chest, firm and present, hiding his face. His arms come up too, fists curling into Mondo’s tank top, clutching it like his life depends on it. And then he... he just...

 Lets go.

 The kid is crying so fucking hard, chest heaving, sobs loud and noisy, and fuck, does it hurt. Mondo feels so fucking helpless as he holds the kid, doing all he can to rub soothing circles on his back, whisper soft words in his ear, doing all he can to remember the shit Daiya would say when he was little and he still allowed himself to cry, not yet realizing it was wrong of him to do such a thing. He feels like it’s not enough, never enough, but he doesn’t know what else to do. He’s never seen the kid cry so hard before. Before he- he would always stifle it, keep it in. 

 Mondo hadn’t realized it at the time, but seeing the kid truly let go now, he can see just how hard he would fight to keep his tears and true sorrow contained, and he feels so much for the boy that he can’t even begin to describe it. It’s like... a sad kind of pride. Like he’s proud the kid was able to keep going despite the sorrow and despair he clearly feels, but also so, so fucking sad that the kid had to do it. That he had to keep this all in, unable to have anyone to share his burden with, to shoulder the pain and anguish he so clearly feels inside. Mondo... M-Mondo knows what that is like, what it’s like to have to always keep everything in, never let it out, and he... he hates that Kiyotaka knows it, too. The pain.  The loneliness. 

 Maybe they really aren’t so different... are they? 

 Fuck... and who knows? Maybe that’s why he’s always cared so much about this kid. He... he just reminds him of him so goddamn much. Of... of the kid he used to be, before he built up walls so high around that child that he’d never see the light of day again. Of the scared little boy that he was, wondering why his parents hated him, why he was never good enough, why he didn’t fucking matter. He’d always been so scared and sad back then, so small and weak. Kinda like Kiyotaka is now, even with how fucking strong he knows this kid to usually be. 

 But...

 But he had Daiya, didn’t he? Even when the whole world was against him, (This sentence was removed due to ~~spoilers~~) he... he always had Daiya. Daiya, who loved him. Daiya, who cared for him. Daiya who raised him, Daiya who taught him, Daiya who sacrificed fucking everything for him. (This sentence was removed due to ~~spoilers~~). It didn’t matter that he was scared, or that he was weak. Daiya loved him regardless, and he always, always kept him safe. 

 Kiyotaka... Kiyotaka never had that... did he? He can’t say for sure, but the kid has never mentioned a sibling, either older or younger, which makes him think he’s an only, no sibs, bro or sis. Which means that he... he didn’t have anyone always on his side. Someone who would protect him no matter what. Or someone that he could protect, no matter what. His da is clearly not that great, if Kiyotaka’s words about him hating him were to go by, and his ma is gone, who knows for how long, or what his relationship was to her when she was around. He... he didn’t have someone to protect him... to keep him safe, from all harm... to... t-to love him...

 Eventually the kid stops crying so hard, the desperate sobs petering out into soft, quiet ones, his breath hitching only slightly every few seconds. And then, a little while later he... he stops sobbing entirely. The tears have run dry, his body has stopped shaking, but he... he doesn’t move away. He just stays there, in Mondo’s arms. 

 Like he belongs there... 

 “Ya feelin’ better?”

 The words are said softly. Gently. He doesn’t wanna spook the kid, knowing how fragile he prolly feels right about now. Mondo gets it. He hasn’t let himself cry fully in years, not even... h-heh. Well. Point is, while he’s not truly cried in years, he remembers how fragile it leaves you feeling afterward. How shaky. 

 And when he sees Kiyotaka’s eyes dart up, looking scared and afraid, Mondo doesn’t tense up. Doesn’t try and hide the openness on his face. He lets the kid see it. The softness. The care. The... the affection, because god, does he feel affection. He lets the kid see it, and he feels the kid settle against him, the fear vanishing, though the lingering sorrow remains. God... how Mondo wishes he could take that away...

 “Yes. I... yes. M-Mondo... t-thank you. I... I’m sorry...”

 Mondo can’t help the way he reaches out at that, hand gently grasping a warm, wet cheek. He realizes absently that that’s the first time the kid has said his name, and god is it making his insides squirm. And he can see the kid look at him with wide, watery eyes, lips open on a soft gasp, looking almost... dazed... shit...

 “Don’t. Thank me. Apologize. Ain’t nothin’, got it? I... I didn’t mind. At all. So, don’t... don’t apologize. It’s alright. You’re... you’re alright.” 

 And he means it. God... does he mean it. It... it had felt nice. So very, very nice. Holding Kiyotaka. Comforting him as he cried, somehow not fucking it up as badly as he’d been fearing. He’s always been so fucking shit at comforting people, feeling like he has to be tough all the time, unable to comfort since tough people aren’t soft and sympathetic. But here, with Kiyotaka... h-he’d been able to be soft. Kind. Gentle. All the things he’s secretly yearned to be for so fucking long, but never was able to, since he doesn’t lead a life that is suited for such things. He always has to be so tough, so strong, but... but with Kiyotaka... with this wondrous, amazing, incredible, beautiful boy...

 He can be soft. 

 And he will never be able to thank Kiyotaka enough for giving him that ability. 

 And when Kiyotaka smiles at him, wide, bright, unrestrained...? Mondo can’t help how he smiles back, wider than he’s ever felt it go before, heart beating so softly and yet meaningfully, feeling so very much for this precious boy. He... he’ll never be able to repay him for this... will he? For what he has given him this day... even if they are never this close again, even if Kiyotaka doesn’t want anything to do with him after this, he’ll never forget what this felt like. What it feels like to be soft. And gentle. And... and kind. 

 But... shit. Shit. 

 Now that they have this... now that he’s tasted this... what happens now? He... he doesn’t wanna... 

 “Shit, man. The fuck we do now? I... I don’t wanna go back ta how it was. I... shit. I was a goddamn monster ta ya these last few weeks... since we met, shit… I... goddamn it,” Mondo mutters, feeling his smile fade as pain fills him, remembering all the shit he has done to this poor, amazing kid. The shit he’s said. The way he’s acted. Kiyotaka gave him so much today, but he hadn’t earned any of it, had he...? He can see the kid shaking his head, looking frantic, like he doesn’t agree, and Mondo can’t help how he glares. Lightly, but it still makes the kid flinch back, proving how much he’s hurt him, and how much he can still, potentially, hurt him. God... he doesn’t wanna ever hurt him... not again… “No, don’t deny it. I was a fuckin’ moron. I just... I ain’t ever... I don’t get you, Kiyotaka. What I feel... when you- you look at me...” 

 And it’s true. He still doesn’t quite get it. What he feels. Why he feels it. It... he thinks he might kinda get it, might kinda realize what this feeling is, why he wants to protect this kid so badly, but it... it doesn’t quite feel like it fits. And he just... he just doesn’t know... but... if not this then... what else? H-heh... 

 Sighing softly, feeling so confused but strangely not angry about it, Mondo allows a wry smile to rise on his lips as he presses closer to the kid, as close as he’s always secretly longed to be, since that first day when he held him but not ever close enough. One of his hands is curled loosely around Kiyotaka’s waist, while his other is still gently cupping his cheek and has been for a little while now. He notices dimly how they are almost bare, Kiyotaka wearing only his underwear while Mondo is in his thin tank top and loose black pants, and he can feel the kid’s heat as it presses against him, oddly intoxicating. Mondo’s hair is down from its pomp, having been knocked loose sometime in the sauna, and it’s been years since someone outside his gang saw him without it up, it makes him feel so naked to have it down, but he... he doesn’t really care. Not when it’s only Kiyotaka who sees it. 

 He... he wants Kiyotaka to see all of him... every last part. 

 Because he... he views the kid like... like a... 

 “It’s like yer my brother or somethin’. Like... my nerdy, dorky little brother. Someone I gotta take care of. Protect. Keep safe, from all harm. I never... shit. I had my brother, but he... he’s gone now. I can’t... I couldn’t protect him, fuck. An’ I… f-fuck. I can’t protect you, either, can I...?  No, I… I can’t... I can’t... a-and why the fuck would you want a fuck-up like me, anyway? You... god, you could do so much better... why would you want someone like me as your brother, s-shit...” 

 The thought stabs Mondo through the heart, the realization that as much as he may want to have this with Kiyotaka, to have a brotherhood with him, they... they likely never will. Because Mondo has messed up too much. Because Mondo ruined their chance before it ever even had the opportunity to live. Because Mondo is so fucking broken and damaged that no one in their right mind would ever want him as a brother. Daiya was forced to have him, and he was so fucking amazing that he chose to love him anyway, but Kiyotaka... he doesn’t have to be stuck with him. He doesn’t owe Mondo anything, anything at all. In fact, Mondo is the one who owes Kiyotaka. So much. So very, very much. Kiyotaka wouldn’t want him. He just... he wouldn’t. 

 And as he feels the kid freeze against him, breath stuttering and harsh, he... he knows he’s right, isn’t he? S-shit... he shouldn’t have said that, shouldn’t have thought himself good enough to deserve such a gift. Kiyotaka, wanting him like that... wanting him at all... while he may have been soft and pliant in his arms a moment ago, seeming like he was at ease, that doesn’t mean it was because of Mondo or anything that Mondo did. He’d been through an emotional time and he’d needed comfort, and Mondo had just been the nearest warm body. Doesn’t mean he trusts Mondo or that he wants anything from him at all. He’d have to be the world’s biggest fool to think Kiyotaka could ever want him, want him at all. 

 And Mondo... he may be a fool, but he ain’t that big of a fool. 

 Heart aching painfully in his chest, Mondo can’t help how he pulls away, not wanting to force Kiyotaka to be near him when he doesn’t deserve it, doesn’t deserve it at all.

 “Shit, I was right, goddamn it, aw shit! J-just forget I said anything, I- fuck!” 

 Mondo hands come up to clutch at his hair, then, the grip tight and painful but he doesn’t care. He wants it to hurt. To ache. It’s what he deserves for fucking this whole thing up, for being so woefully unworthy of being close to such a bright and beautiful boy. Maybe, had he been better— a better person, a good person— he could have been worthy of it. Had he never let his insecurities get in the way, had he just accepted what he felt as true the minute he felt it, not pushed it away in fear, maybe... maybe then, he could have had this. Kiyotaka, as his friend. Kiyotaka, as his brother. 

 But no. No, no. He had pushed it away. Had been afraid of it, so very afraid. Had let his fear turn to anger, like he was so wont to do, and ruined everything before it even began. 

 He deserves all the misery he feels for how stupid he’d been... 

 Mondo gets jolted out of his thoughts when he feels a soft, tentative hand touch him, his eyes wide and manic as he looks at Kiyotaka, who looks so fucking afraid, god. H-he scares the kid so goddamn much, like he scares everyone, because he’s a monster, a senseless beast that only ever hurts people. Breaks people. He’s not allowed nice things, not allowed good things. Not allowed to be gentle, or soft, or kind. He... he’s just not... 

 To his utter shock, he can see Kiyotaka smile at him. It’s soft, and hesitant, and... and beautiful... but it can’t be real. It... the kid is trying to be kind, trying to hide his fear to make Mondo feel better, because he’s so goddamn nice, so fucking good, shit- 

 “N-no! Don’t worry! I was just- not expecting that! But I- I feel- the same. I feel- the same! I would be honored, Mondo Owada, to be considered your brother! I’ve never had a brother, never even had a friend, but I couldn’t imagine a better one than you! Y-you... you’re incredible...” 

 He... he... does he really mean that...? Does he truly... truly wanna be Mondo’s... Mondo’s brother? The kid is so bad at lying, and it hadn’t sounded like he was lying, but... but it... shit. It can’t be true, it can’t... after all the shit Mondo has done, how could the kid ever see him positively, even a little? Mondo isn’t a good brother, he’d always been so shit to Daiya, taking and taking and taking and never giving. He’d taken everything from Daiya, never satisfied with what Daiya gave freely, so he stole the most important thing in the end. 

 H-he’d just steal everything from Kiyotaka too. 

 It’s what he does... 

 “Ya can’t mean that, Kiyotaka... I’m a goddamn mess... and you... you are... shit. You’re goddamn perfect and I’m hot dog shit, ya can’t... y-you can’t...”

 And it’s true. Mondo has more to say, more to confess, but his throat is so thick, and he doesn’t know how to say it. To confess all his crimes to Kiyotaka, to let him know how unworthy he is. He- he hears Kiyotaka take a deep breath, and he doesn’t wanna hear what the kid has to say, doesn’t wanna hear him agree, but then he’s speaking, and his words... t-they... 

 “Mondo... I- I’m not perfect. I... I’m not. B-but that’s okay! I do my best, but so do you! I can see how hard you try and sometimes that’s all that matters! You’re not... dog feces! You... you’re so much more, Mondo...” 

 No... n-no, the kid, he... he doesn’t understand, he just- he doesn’t understand! Mondo, he has to... has to tell him. N-not all of it, he’s not strong enough to confess it all, he’s always been so goddamn weak, but he- he has to... a little. Enough so the kid knows. So he stops feeling pity for him and realizes that he... 

 He’s just not worth it... 

 “No. N-no, I ain’t shit, goddamnit, I...” Mondo has to stop, feeling so fucking conflicted. On one hand he wants to confess, on the other hand he wants to be selfish, and he just... h-he just... 

 But he can’t. Be selfish. Not... not about this. 

 Not with Kiyotaka. 

 With a soft sigh, he feels the tension inside him melt away, his body relaxing with the decision he’s made. All of his emotions— both good and bad— fade away until all he feels inside is... is...

 Cold resignation...

 “I hate myself. Always fuckin’ have. Heh. There, I... I fuckin’ said it. I love the gang, don’t get me wrong. I love bein’ with ‘em, bein’ a part a’ somethin’ bigger than myself. I love leadin’ ‘em, ridin’ my hog, wind in my hair... I fuckin’ love it. Even bein’ here, unable ta lead directly, I still like callin’ the shots from behind the scenes while my second in command implements it an’ shit. Means somethin’, ‘least. But... I dunno. Sometimes I’ll be in the middle ofa fight and I’ll just... wanna stop. Quit. Do somethin’... do somethin’ else fer a change. But I… heh. I can’t. I promised my bro... Daiya, I... I promised him I’d keep the gang together. He built it from scratch an’ I... I can’t leave that. I made a promise, a man’s promise, ta keep us together. So, I... I gotta keep doin’ that. Can’t stop. Ever. Not ‘til the gang is dead an’ shit, all the members movin’ on ta do better shit with their lives. An’ me… heh. Not much use fer me after that, is there?”

 Mondo pauses, and then looks down at his hands, a small, sad smile on his face. 

 “But you? Yer gonna go places, man. Shootin’ fer the moon. Prime fuckin’ Minister, shit, man. Never met anyone with such high goals, really. Never met anyone who wanted ta do that sorta shit, change things from the inside. Heard ya in class, talkin’ ‘bout yer plans an’ shit. Wantin’ ta make the world a better place, havin’ such hope for this garbage planet. Ya... ya’ve got drive. Determination. An’ I know yer gonna do it, ya know. Succeed. More than any a’ the other chucklefucks we go ta school with, ‘least. Yer just so... determined. Got such passion. I... I admire that ‘bout ya, always did.”

 Mondo pauses again, and he… he laughs. It’s sad, and pathetic, and it... he... h-heh...

 “But that… heh. That ain’t me, Kiyo. Ain’t me. I ain’t got plans, ain’t got any fuckin’ clue a’ what I’m gonna do after school ends. They got me takin’ fuckin’ leadership classes an’ shit, but the fuck am I gonna do with that bullshit? I can lead a gang, yeah, but that… heh. That’s ‘bout it, Christ. An’ ya… yer gonna see that one day. And yer gonna leave me. And I’ll be happy fer ya, ‘course I will, but... sh-shit. God... goddamnit...” 

 Mondo doesn’t know where he’s going with this. He doesn’t know what he’s saying or why he’s saying it. His head is so jumbled, so scrambled, and part of him wants to tell Kiyotaka everything. About his parents. About his brother. About what he did, what he stole. He wants to confess so, so badly, to see the hatred and anger and rage on that kid’s face when he realizes how big a piece of shit Mondo really is, horrified that he’d ever felt pity for such a pitiless creature. 

 But...

 He can’t. Can’t do that. He... he can’t burden Kiyotaka with his bullshit. And knowing the kid... he’d still try. To feel pity. To feel sorrow. He- he’s such a good person, so bright and shining. He’s the kind of person who would see a merciless and dangerous monster like him and think there’s something worthwhile in it. It wouldn’t be until his neck is snapped under Mondo’s uncaring hand that he’d realize he was wrong. And maybe... maybe not even then. He’d die, thinking Mondo was better than he was, even if it were Mondo who killed him. 

 God...

 So, he can’t tell the truth. Can’t burden the kid like that. But he... he can’t let him get close. Even if he... he really wants to... 

 “I’ll just hold ya back. Ya don’t want someone like me, Kiyo. Ya don’t want someone like me at all. So... I ‘ppreciate yer words. But it may be best ta leave this here. Ta... ta forget ‘bout this all and just... move on. I’ll leave ya alone and ya won’t hafta-”

 “No!” Mondo hears echo through the room, cutting off his words so thoroughly. It startles the fuck out of him, and he can’t help how he stares, wide-eyed, up at Kiyotaka. It’s weird, looking up to see the kid, but he’s sitting upright, almost standing but not quite, knees firmly planted on the floor. But seeing as how Mondo is crumbled pathetically on the floor, sitting back on his thighs, he has to look up to see Kiyotaka. And he looks... looks so...

 Scared...

 But...

 Not... not of- of... of Mondo...? 

 “Mondo, please! I just... look. I- I try to be perfect, but I... I’m not! And I know you aren’t either! But... but maybe that’s okay! Maybe... m-maybe... maybe we can learn to be not perfect... together? I, ah. I don’t know! A-all I know is... I want to be f-friends with you, Mondo Owada. I don’t care about your flaws; I don’t care that you’re in a gang! I just... I want... w-we can be brothers. If you want... we can be brothers. I want... I would want nothing more than to be your brother! Your kyoudai!” 

 Brothers. Brothers. Kiyotaka wants them to be... brothers...

 It’s too good to be true. Too fucking good to be true. Mondo doesn’t get nice things like this. He doesn’t get soft, kind, gentle things. He gets shit. He gets cruelty. He gets anger and hatred and rage. He gets angry fists and cruel words, and a suspicious look on his back at all fucking times. After all the shit he has done, the people he has hurt, the lives he has ruined, he... he doesn’t deserve... he just doesn’t... 

 But as he sits there, staring up at Kiyotaka with wide eyes and an open mouth, he... he remembers something. Something the kid had said, in the sauna. How he... he never had a friend before. How everyone always hated him. And it could have just been insecurity talking, the kid thinking people hated him when they really didn’t but judging by the scars, he... he would doubt that. 

 He’s never had a friend. He’s never had a brother. Someone to keep him safe. To protect him from all harm. Someone to hold onto, someone to tell him it is alright. That he is alright. He... he hasn’t had that. 

 And Mondo is the worst choice for a brother. He knows it, okay? He’s so fucking awful it’s not funny. But... but he... the kid doesn’t seem to get that. And Mondo is too weak to explain why he shouldn’t want it. And, as such, he... Kiyotaka wants to be friends. Brothers. With him. 

 Mondo is a mess. He messes everything up, ruining everything he touches. He... he doesn’t want to ruin Kiyotaka too. He doesn’t want to hurt him. He... he never...

 But maybe...

 Maybe...

 It’s stupid. God, so fucking stupid. But maybe... if he tries hard, so fucking hard... if he is careful, keeps his anger in check, does all he can, he... maybe he...

 He can be Kiyotaka’s brother...

 And keep him safe...

 It makes him smile. It’s small at first, tentative. Like a stiff wind will blow it away. But as Kiyotaka keeps looking at him steadily, earnestly, he... he feels the smiles strengthen. Feels as it grows wider and wider, until it fills his whole face, his eyes squinting with how wide it is. He’s never felt like this before, so scared and terrified, but also... also... 

 Hopeful.

 “Ya... ya really mean that, Kiyo?” 

 Kiyo. Mondo doesn’t really know why he’s calling the kid that, nicknames aren’t super common in their culture, but somehow, he... he kinda likes it. He doesn’t know if the kid does, he should ask, but before he has the chance to, the kid is nodding. Enthusiastic and bright, a shaky grin on his face. He still seems a little out of it, but god, is he trying... fuck that kid is so amazing...

 “Yes! Of course! I always mean everything I say! I would not lie to you, Mondo, I promise you that! We shall be the best kyoudai! You’ll see! Aha! This is fantastic!”

 Oh, god... this kid is so fucking cute! God... h-he really shouldn’t be thinking that, should push it away like he always pushes stupid ass thoughts like that away, but he... he’s allowed to see his brother as cute... right? Or, well... his little brother. Though... fuck. Is Kiyotaka younger than him? He seems like it, as naive and endlessly optimistic as he is, but fuck, he doesn’t actually know. Mondo is usually one of the youngest in his class, since his birthday is at the end of the year, but he’s always felt decades older than the chucklefucks he goes to school with. Maybe it’s ‘cuz he was forced to grow up so fucking fast in order to survive, shit. 

 But you know what? Whatever. It doesn’t matter if Mondo is older or not. He’s the older brother regardless. That shit is felt, not necessarily determined by birth order. Daiya was his older brother in more ways than just because he was physically older, after all.  

 At the end of the day, it doesn’t matter. What does matter is that... that Kiyotaka wants this. Wants... wants Mondo. And Mondo doesn’t deserve it, had never deserved it, but fuck, is he a selfish bastard. But he won’t take this shit for granted. Now that they are brothers, Mondo will go all fucking out. No fucking reservations. They are brothers, now, and Mondo is the big brother. The ani. It’s his duty and obligation to keep Kiyotaka safe from all harm, including (and especially) from Mondo himself. And he won’t. Hurt him. Not now, not ever. If he ever does, he will stab himself in the gut, commit fucking seppuku, he swears he will. He’d rather die than hurt this precious, amazing, incredible boy ever, ever again. 

 And so, Mondo grins, and he laughs, and he lets his arms reach forward and wrap around the kid, like he’s been wanting to do since he ripped himself away the last time. Part of him is afraid the kid won’t want it, or he’ll realize how stupid this whole thing is, but Kiyotaka doesn’t even tense at all as he goes willingly into Mondo’s arms, melting like warm putty against him. Like he... he belongs there...

 S-shit... 

 “Okay. O-okay. Kiyotaka, I... I’ll do my best. I can’t promise ya anythin’, know I’m a goddamn fuck-up who ruins everything, but... but for you? I’ll try. That... that’s all I can offer... heh…” 

 It’s not enough, not nearly enough, but he feels Kiyotaka wrap his arms around him, holding on so very, very tight, and it... it feels...

 Like coming home... 

 “That is all I could ever ask of you, my kyoudai! Y-you’re not a- a screw up! And- and your best is more than enough!”

 Shit. Shit. No one... no one has ever told him that before. That the best he offers is more than enough. It’s never been enough, he’s never been enough. He’s a screw up. The unwanted kid. The person who is good for violence and anger and rage, and that’s about it. 

 But here, being held by this remarkable fucking kid... hearing him say that it’s enough... that he’s enough…

 Maybe he’s inclined to believe him. 

 Wow... just...

 Wow...

 After a minute Mondo pulls back, knowing they need to talk about stuff, knowing he has to make promises, and it makes his heart sing when he feels the kid resist, arms refusing to let go at first. It makes him laugh softly, especially because he fully understands. But he doesn’t intend to go far. Just... he needs to look the kid in the eyes. He... he needs to see those beautiful as sin eyes...

 Pressing his forehead to Kiyotaka’s, soft and gentle and intimate, he can’t help how he smiles, eyes shining with the light he feels inside. And Kiyotaka... he...

 He looks at Mondo like he fucking matters... 

 “I’ll be good. Fer ya... I’ll be good. Promise, Kiyo. And ya can hold me ta that, got it? This is a promise between men. That means I gotta keep it.” 

 The kid looks stunned, eyes glazed but not in a bad way, breath hitched, and it... it makes Mondo feel...

 “Likewise! I- I will do everything I can to be the best brother I can be! I promise! We shall be the best kyoudai in the world! That’s a Kiyotaka Ishimaru guarantee!” 

 The enthusiastic words make Mondo laugh again, and he pulls away to wrap an arm around the kid’s shoulders, ruffling his hair gently like Daiya would always do to him. He notices that the hair is a bit longer than it once had been, and fuck, does he like it. The sweat from the sauna had made all the gel run out and his hair is now soft as it dries, curling lightly around the kid’s ears and it just...

 It’s so beautiful... 

 But ruffling the kid’s hair makes it fall in his eyes, which makes the kid let out an annoyed sound, adorable again, and Mondo can’t help the way he laughs. God, this kid makes him so goddamn happy... he’s never felt this happy before... never...

 “Yer the absolute, goddamn best, kyoudai. Kiyo. Hey, uh... is it okay if I call ya that? Kiyotaka’s just a bit of a mouthful, ‘sall. Ya got any other nicknames I could use?” 

 He looks at the kid at that, Kiyotaka’s (or should he say Kiyo? Does the kid like it? Shit...) mouth pulled down in a thoughtful frown. A moment passes, and then- 

 “A-ah! Kiyo is fine! If you’d like! B-but... well... m-my mother. She called me... Taka. Y-you could use that, as well! If you’d like...” 

 Taka, huh? Taka. Taka. Yeah... yeah, he- he likes it. He likes it a lot! It suits the kid, and while Mondo still does kinda like Kiyo, he might like Taka a bit better. And if the kid wants him to call him that, then shit... who is he to deny him...?

 Smiling, soft and gentle in a way he’s never been able to be before, he nods. 

 “Taka... heh, I like it! Alright, Taka. Mondo ain’t exactly got any good nicknames fer it, but ya can call me that, if ya’d like.”

 Mondo watches as Taka blushes lightly, lips still partially open as he breathes in and out slowly. His eyes are kinda glazed still, but he seems present enough. Just... like he’s thinking of something. Mondo wants to reach out, wants to pull the kid into a hug again, wants to always, always be touching him, but he keeps his distance. Just... just for now. But later... 

 The kid shoots up again, interrupting Mondo’s thoughts, looking so enthusiastic again, eyes bright and smile happy. Holy shit...

 “Oh! I can always call you kyoudai!! That way the whole world will know our manly bond!” 

 It makes Mondo laugh again, harder, and he can’t help how he reaches out to ruffle his hair again, needing to touch him at least a little. Kyoudai, huh? ... yeah. Yeah, he likes that, too. Daiya was always ani to him, the proper name for the big brother, and Daiya usually called him shit like ‘kid’ or whatever, so it’s not like Taka calling him that will bring up any bad memories or shit. It’s just... something for them. Their own, little thing, for them and no one else. 

 Him and Taka. Taka and him. Two... two kyoudai...

 Incredible... 

 “Alright, Taka. If ya’d like. Now, it’s fuckin’ late. I ain’t even gotta look at a clock ta know that. Come on, kyoudai. Let’s get ya ta bed.” 

 Mondo stands, then, realizing how fucking late it is. The kid always gets up stupidly early, he remembers Taka saying that once a little while ago, so he knows they should be heading to bed soon. He feels strangely reluctant to do that, never wanting to part from this beautiful boy, but- but he’s the big brother. He has to keep his little brother safe and healthy, and that includes ensuring he gets a good night’s sleep. Even if it means they have to part ways...

 As Mondo stretches, he sees Taka stand as well, his body flushing bright red as he looks down at himself and seems to notice his state of undress. Like he’d forgotten or something. Mondo hadn’t. Not... not for a single second. Shit... 

 He feels his eyes dart down to the kid’s chest, unbidden, and he feels the small smile die on his lips as he sees the long, jagged looking scar that goes from Taka’s collarbone to the bottom of his sternum, right over his heart. How... how the fuck did he get a scar like that...? It doesn’t look like one that would come from surgery or something, since it’s too jagged, and it also doesn’t look accidental. But... but how the fuck... 

 “How’d ya get that? The... the scar?” Mondo finds himself asking softly before he can stop himself, his hand rising absently to trace the length of it. Fuck, but it feels as jagged as it looks... angry and painful. H-he hopes it doesn’t hurt anymore... 

 “A-ah... that...” Taka mutters, his body flushing. It jolts Mondo out of the fucking fugue he entered, and he removes his hand quickly, feeling embarrassed. S-shit... he shouldn’t have asked that, it ain’t his fucking business. Yeah, they’re kyoudai, but that... that don’t mean he’s earned the right to hear the kid’s dark history. He still has to earn that shit. He knows that.

 “Aw, shit! Taka, ignore me. Y’ain’t gotta talk ‘bout that shit. Uh, shi-shoot, I mean... stuff? Sorry… heh, know ya hate swearin’ an’ sh- stuff. Heh…” 

 Taka blinks at Mondo’s rambling words, which makes him feel strangely nervous. He doesn’t let it take over him, though. Doesn’t let himself get angry. But strangely... the anger he usually feels when embarrassed or nervous just... never showed up in the first place. Huh... 

 He watches, then, heart clenching, as Taka smiles at him, soft and gentle as ever. F-fuck...

 “I... I don’t mind! It’s not exactly a pleasant story, but I trust you, kyoudai! And... I don’t mind you cursing! Much! It... it’s what makes you, you! Just as long as you don’t do it in class or in the halls!”

 He... doesn’t mind him... cursing...???? After all those warnings, all of those detention slips, he truly expects Mondo to believe he doesn’t mind it when Mondo fucking curses? 

 But... huh. He can’t detect a lie in the kid’s words. He looks as earnest as ever, and it just... god. Mondo can’t begin to describe how he feels right now, just that it feels... soft. 

 Taka... Taka makes him feel soft. And fuck, is it not bad... not bad at all... 

 Unsure of what to say, what to do, Mondo just laughs again, since that’s the only thing that even slightly manages to express the softness that he feels inside, and he smiles at the kid gently while nodding. He should feel stupid, ridiculous, but he just... doesn’t. 

 God... 

 He watches then as Taka walks over to the locker he’d used earlier, seeming to want to no longer be partially nude. Mondo doesn’t mind it, has never minded being around naked dudes, but he guesses not everyone can be like that. As the kid dresses, he starts to talk. And the story he tells... 

 “It was one of my middle school bullies. I, er... wasn’t well liked, as a child! They never liked how I would get them in trouble, not to mention... ah. M-my, well. My grandfather,” Taka mutters, voice turning nervous as he talks about his grandfather, glancing at him anxiously. 

 Mondo still isn’t entirely sure what the kid’s deal with his grandfather is, but he can tell it bothers the kid, shit, so he does his best to not look at all judgmental, even though the fact the kid was fucking bullied makes his blood fucking boil... shit. He’d expected it, honestly, but it still fucking angers the fuck out of him, Christ…

 Luckily, it seems his anger at that isn’t too obvious, since the kid continues then, voice less shaky and upset, even though the shit he says... 

 “One day, one of them was... particularly angry. I’d gotten him suspended, you see, for a week. It was his own fault, he was the one who had scratched profanities into the headmaster’s car, I’d just been the one to report it! Still, he was... angry. So, after school, he had his friends hold me down while he cut this into my chest. A reminder, he said, to mind my own business. I think he was going to do more but was interrupted by something. It was most unpleasant!” 

 Holy. Fucking. Shit.

 Holy shit, holy shit!

 What the goddamn shit?!

 Some goddamn motherfucker... carved that shit into Taka’s chest...?! And how the fuck can Taka sound so casual about it?! Mondo has never felt so much rage directed towards someone he’s never met, but holy fucking shit, that goddamn bastard had better hope Mondo never meets him, or else he is fucking dead. The thought that anyone could ever hurt this wonderful boy in such a way is just so... insane to Mondo. How people can see him and not want to keep him safe from all harm is just... he doesn’t get it. Even when he told himself he hated the kid, he couldn’t bear the thought of actually hurting him. Not really. 

 And Taka he... he looks so fucking sad, right now. But also, just... resigned. Like he expects that treatment and, while it sucks, it’s just... life. Which is so much fucking bullshit, holy fucking shit-

 Mondo unintentionally lets out a strangled noise, his anger and rage choking him inside. He sees the kid look up at him and sees panic rise in his face when he sees the anger Mondo so clearly feels. Oh, shit... shit, he’s not mad at Taka, he’s not at all, but he can’t make the anger go away, because... because... 

 “They fuckin’ what?! What the goddamn shit?! Please tell me ya got those fuckers expelled!” 

 He had to have... right? Taka is so gung-ho about rules and shit, he- he must have told on those fuckers and got all of them expelled... r-right? 

 Wrong...

 “A-ah! N-not exactly! I... I never reported them! I rarely ever did, to tell the truth... it wouldn’t have mattered, see! The teachers didn’t like me much either; they only ever believed me if I had proof, and even then, only half the time! And they never much cared when I got hurt... b-but it was okay! I persisted and never let them break me down! My struggles made me stronger! Aha!” 

 W... what? He... he... oh, oh god... n-no... 

 “Y-you... what?” Mondo whispers, his eyebrows furrowed, his hands shaking. He has never felt so horrified before, a terrifying realization overcoming him. Because he... he was right, wasn’t he? This kid... h-he was abused. Horribly so. 

 By literally fucking everyone, holy fucking shit-!

 “I mean... that’s just... how it was? I handled it, though! I never gave up! They... they did not break me!” 

 Oh. Oh. Oh, this... this poor fucking kid... his poor fucking kyoudai, having to go through that nightmare, actually believing that it was just... normal. Just... how it was. But he... he can’t actually... actually believe he deserved it... r-right...?

 “Goddamnit... that’s why ya keep tellin’ me ta... ta punish ya, ain’t it? Taka, please tell me ya don’t actu’ly think ya deserved that shit?” 

 He can’t. He can’t. Please, god, he... he can’t...

 Mondo watches, heart breaking so thoroughly inside his chest, as Taka looks down at his uniform jacket, the only piece of his get up he’s not yet wearing. He’s frowning gently, like he actually has to fucking think about it, oh god, no...

 “I- I... I suppose so... I mean-! I... I don’t know. They all hated me... s-so... they must have had a good reason... r-right? To... to hate me. I... I must have deserved it... right?” 

 No. No. No. Mondo... he can’t fucking handle this shit. So many things make so much sense now, and he has never hated himself more. For not seeing it sooner. For not allowing himself to care about this boy all along. For maybe even reenforcing this goddamn bullshit, making the kid think he is right, when he sure as shit ain’t. He...

 He can’t help how he moves. Swift and quick. He- he just needs to be near the kid, needs to hold him, reassure him that no, he didn’t. Didn’t at all. He needs to do what he should have done weeks ago, in the laundry room, and reassure that kid that no. He doesn’t deserve to be hurt. Not... not ever... 

 He stops, though, when he sees Taka look up at him, terror in his eyes, like he... he thinks Mondo is going to fucking hurt him. He wants to go forward, wants to hold the kid so fucking bad, but he doesn’t have that fucking right, so he stays where he is, all the sorrow he feels surely reflected in his eyes. And as the kid looks at him, he... he relaxes. He still looks upset, but he doesn’t look scared. That... that’s something...

 Right? 

 “No. Fuckin’ no. Y’ain’t deserved any a’ that shit, goddamn, man… and I promise ya, Taka, I’m gonna make sure ya see that one day, even if it takes the rest a’ my goddamn life. And that’s a man’s promise.” 

 And he means it, fuck does he mean it. He had never meant anything more. He will spend the rest of his goddamn life ensuring that this wonderful kid knows how special and amazing he is, and that he never, ever deserves to be hurt. It’s his life’s fucking goal now, the one thing that fucking matters. He will take care of Taka for the rest of his goddamn life, even after the kid finally wises up and leaves his ass. He will watch from the shadows, keeping a careful eye on him, there to keep him safe from all harm. This kid will never know pain again if it’s the last fucking thing Mondo does. He swears. 

 As the kid looks at him, he sees the softest and most beautiful smile he’s ever seen lighting up the boy’s face. His eyes sparkle with it, and he’s looking at Mondo like he’s important again. Like he... like he matters. And Mondo...

 He won’t ruin this shit. He just... he won’t. 

 This matters too goddamn much for him to let it slip away. 

 “T-thank you... thank you, kyoudai. I... thank you.” 

 Mondo smiles gently at the kid, moving forward to tentatively wrap an arm around his shoulder, squeezing gently, needing to touch him but not wanting to overwhelm him, god. 

 “Ain’t gotta thank me, bro. Now, we really should head ta bed. Got school tomorrow an’ I don’t want my bro ta be tired! Come on, kyoudai. Let’s get goin’.” 

 Taka nods quick and puts his jacket on, buttoning it with practiced fingers. The kid turns back to the locker, frowning gently at whatever he sees inside. Mondo watches as the kid reaches out and grabs it, his breath hitching when he sees the kid is holding the glasses case that started this whole fucking mess. He... he honestly had forgotten about that shit, to tell the truth, with all the drama that just occurred. But as he looks at the kid, who is looking so softly at the glasses case, like they’re precious to him, he... he knows he owes the kid for the shit he put him through earlier, for no fucking reason. He can’t quite find it in him to regret what happened, not when it ended up like this, but he... he has to make it up to the kid. All of it. 

 So, quick as a wink, Mondo darts his hand out and carefully takes the case from Taka, ignoring the startled sound the kid makes. He can feel the kid watching him with wide eyes, but he doesn’t let it stop him as he opens the case and— without a single moment’s pause— puts the glasses on his face, blinking at the foreign feel. It... it hasn’t changed his vision much, since this shit is only supposed to help with close up shit, but it... huh. He guesses it ain’t so bad... 

 “Huh... I guess they ain’t that bad... tell me, kyoudai. How do they look?”

 He hadn’t really meant to ask the question, but he just... couldn’t help but remember the shit he’d done the last time he’d worn the glasses and Taka had told him what he thought. He... maybe he wants to show that it’s different, now. That he won’t get angry, not this time. To prove that he will never hurt Taka, never again. Not... not ever again. 

 He watches as the kid flushes bright red, mouth open slightly again, and- and god, is it an attractive look on him... s-shit... and then the kid is smiling shakily, giving a shaky thumbs up, and that’s even... even worse... or better, heh... 

 “You look amazing, kyoudai! They suit you well!” 

 A-amazing, huh? Shit... no one’s ever said he looks amazing before... he’s had a couple of people call him hot, or even sexy once or twice, but never... never amazing...

 He adores it... adores... Taka... 

 It makes him smile again. Soft. Happy. So goddamn happy... he will never be able to repay Taka for the happiness he gives him... not even if he dedicates the rest of his life to trying. Which he will. He... he will...

 But it’s late. So fucking late. They... they need to get to bed...

 Even if Mondo never wants to part from this amazing kid...

 “Ah, cool. I guess. Now, c’mon! Bed! Ain’t gonna be the reason ya can’t focus in class tomorrow, ya nerd!”

 With that, Mondo turns to grab his duster off the bench he’d tossed it on earlier, shrugging it on carefully, before finally exiting the bathhouse, Taka on his heels. 

 Shit...

[mydearestreaderfanfics]

There’s Love in the Air (Lotor x Reader)

Warnings: enemies to lovers, arguement

Word Count: 1,687

Prompt/Request: Third day of the October Special: Harry Potter.

Summary: Reader and Lotor are both Slytherins meaning they always have potions class together. But when Lotor shows up late to class when they are studying Amortentia, what, or rather who, will he smell?

Author: Mod Alex

Potions class was shared with the Gryffindors. Not that you cared that much, you only wish you didn't share it with one of your fellow Slytherin classmates. Namely, the Snake Prince Lotor. He was every bad Slytherin quality personified. He was machiavellian and more self-absorbed than anybody you'd ever met.

“He's the reason everybody thinks Slytherins are evil.” “So you've said.” “I'm serious, Pidge! It's not fair that there's plenty of us that are actually decent people, but then people like him waltz into the house, act like total jerks, and boom- suddenly we’re the house full of evil people!” You threw your hands up, a sound of frustration leaving your lips. Pidge shrugged nonchalantly. “Why do you care what people think anyway?” “That's not the point, the point is that Lotor is a-” “I’m a what? Thinking about my magnificence as always, (Y/N)?” “Like hell I am!” “Dear, there's no need to be so cold.” You narrowed your eyes, shoving your finger into his chest. “You know what your problem is, you think you're so much better than everyone else, that your mere existence grants you the ability to tower over the rest of us. But in reality, you are just a pretentious jerk who no one can stand.” Lotor’s lips curled into a cruel smirk as he grabbed your hand. “If you really think that, then tell me this: why is it that whenever you see me you've got that cute little blush along your face.” Your features reddened more so but it wasn't because you had a thing for him, it was because you were just that cross. “Look here, you insufferable, self-righteous bastard. I do not, and absolutely will never feel anything short of absolute loathing for you.” “Ah, but haven't you heard love and hate are two sides of the same coin.” You yanked your hand back. “Oh, piss off!” You stormed off, Pidge by your side.

Much to your relief, Potions was the only class you shared with Lotor. Either that or he doesn't bother to show up, you didn't care either way. However, despite Lotor’s presence, Potions remained your favorite class. It was also your best class, you absolutely never missed it, even that one time when you had come from your Transfiguration class with a pinky finger that had been accidentally turned into an earthworm. You were thrilled when your professor told the class that you would be learning the incredibly dangerous Amortentia in the next class. You'd always been a bit more interested in the more dangerous potions than you should've been. Who can blame you, though? The next day and a half felt like an eternity waiting for your next Potions class. You were so excited that you weren't even annoyed for your usual run-in with Lotor. So excited, in fact, that you didn't realize the run-in never came. That Lotor was in fact not even in Potions class today. Well, rather, he had yet to show up.

The class was already halfway through when Lotor burst into the room, looking less put together than you'd ever seen him. Again, it’s not like you cared. He wasn’t even five steps into the classroom when he crinkled up his nose, looking utterly disgusted. Whatever, it wasn’t your problem. You sprinkled in the powdered moonstone, smiling at the iconic pearlescent sheen the potion took on. Lotor, on the other hand, had finally taken his seat after getting chewed out by the professor, costing your house several points. He sniffed at the air, scoffing and shooting you a glare. You glared back. What was his problem? You were minding your own business, he should mind his. You turned back to your potion, trying to ignore the blue eyes burning a hole into the side of your head. It got significantly easier to ignore him when your Amortentia began to emit a soft pink smoke. Curiosity got the better of you and you sniffed. J. Pippin’s Potions, the earth after the first rain of the year, and… a warm, amber tobacco cologne? It was a very distinct smell that seemed familiar, but you just couldn’t quite place it. Regardless, the combination of the scents made you feel warm and at peace. You looked around, Pidge seemed wrapped up in deciphering the scents put out by her potion, and Lotor. Well, he was still glaring at you. You’d had it. “What is your problem?” “My problem? You’re the one that must’ve doused yourself in that ridiculous, cheap fragrance.” “What are you going on about?” “You, you’re reeking up the place. You must’ve poured at least half a bottle of-” “I don’t even use any ‘fragrance’.” You held up air quotes as a jab at his haughty vocabulary. “Then why does the room smell like you?!” Pidge began to cackle. “Hey, Mr. High-and-mighty. You know what potion we’re brewing today?” Before he had a chance to speak up, Pidge kept speaking. “Amortentia. And you know what Amortentia smells like?” “(Y/N)’s bargain cologne apparently.” His response only made Pidge cackle louder. “No, you dunce, Amortentia smells like whatever a person holds most dear. You like (Y/N) more than you let on. Is that why you’re always picking fights with them, isn’t it?” You were stunned into silence, there was no way he liked you, especially not like that. “Absolutely not, I- I don’t owe you an explanation.” He turned away, and- oh my Merlin, was that a blush, was Lotor, Snake Prince, blushing? The rest of class he refused to meet your eye, much less even look in your direction. You wondered if he really liked you; he had to if you were what he smelled from the Amortentia. You felt so confused, he was supposed to be your enemy. And then there was that weird smell that was coming from your own love potion. It was only getting stronger.

You left potions feeling confused and overwhelmed. You felt like everything you knew was wrong and the world you thought you knew was suddenly flipped upside down. You weren’t looking where you were going, so it was no surprise when you tripped, landing into a firm, pleasant smelling wall. Wait, no, that's no wall. “(L/N).” “Lotor! Erm, sorry. I was just going.” Wait a minute, there was that smell again. Amber. Tobacco. Warmth. Cologne. No, no, no, no. There was no way. It had to be a coincidence or some sort of sick joke. “(L/N). (L/N). (Y/N)!” “Wh-what?” He glared down at you. What the hell? He held his hand up to his forehead in a sanctimonious, dramatic pose. “Were you not listening to a word I said?” “Um, no?” “Alright, come on.” He took you by your wrist leading you away. “Where are you taking me? Lotor, let go!” “No, not until you hear me out.” Once you were a safe distance away he finally let go of you. “Listen, what happened in potions. Let’s just pretend none of that ever happened.” He waved his hand around dismissively. The scent came back full force being this close to him and it made you slightly dizzy. “No.” He frowned. “What?” “I said no.” “Just because that ridiculous potion says you are what I hold dear means nothing.” “I beg to differ. I think it’s actually quite telling.” You smirk up at him and he glares before averting his eyes, a light blush over his ridiculously sculpted cheekbones. “Lotor, tell me one thing.” He was fully prepared for you to ask him something that would make fun of him or something that had to do with why he found you so dear to him. “Why are you so cruel to others?” He hadn’t been expecting that. “I knew the feelings weren’t reciprocated, you needn’t rub salt in the wound.” “I’m being serious! You are a great student, so why? Why must you be so cruel?” “It’s in my nature suppose.” You took a step back, realizing how close you had moved towards him. “I see. I guess I was wrong.” “Wrong?” “Didn’t you wonder what I smelled in the Amortentia?” “I didn’t think about it, truthfully.” “J. Pippin’s Potions and the rain.” He looked annoyed and uncertain about what the scents were supposed to mean. “And one more thing.” “Oh?” “Your pompous cologne.” Lotor remained silent, you could practically see the gears turning in his mind. “My cologne?” “So it would seem.” “I- You hold me dear?” “So it would seem.” “Is that all you’re going to say?” “So it would- nevermind.” He nodded, still trying to get a grasp on the new information. “Can I try something?” “Depends…” “Can I kiss you?” You blushed. This was not how you saw this day playing out. Hesitantly you nodded. He cupped your jaw, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. Your breath caught in your throat. He smiled warmly, it was the first time you’d ever seen him look so friendly. He was kind of stunning when he looked this soft and open. Your eyes fluttered shut as he leaned toward you, his warm breath ghosting over your lips. ANd then he was kissing you. His lips were soft and warm and tasted faintly of butterbeer much to your surprise. You could feel butterflies in your belly and sparks in your heart. He pulled away far too soon. When you opened your eyes Lotor was smiling that beautiful smile again. “Wow.” You giggled at his awestruck expression. “Do you want to accompany me to Hogsmeade?” You frowned causing him to do the same. “I do like you Lotor, but I don’t know... You’ve been a huge jerk to a lot of people, including my friends and I and-” “Then I can stop. Or at least I will try to.” You sighed, considering what he was saying for a moment. You tip-toed to press a peck to the edge of his mouth. “I’ll give it a try. But you have to prove that you’ll be kind.” “We have an agreement.” You smiled. Amortentia truly is a love potion.

[grapesodatozier]

I’m a Ruin

some nice, sad wheelzier angst lol. title from the song of the same title by marina and the diamonds. also there are some small references to past mileven, byeler, and reddie, all of which are implied to have ended badly bc apparently it’s angst hours for all of my favorite ships lol

warning: this is about drug addiction. it’s told from Richie's POV, and as we know Richie Tozier hates himself a lot sometimes, so he blames himself for a lot of stuff, but I would just like to make it clear that addiction is a disease that many people go through, and it's something that can be different for different people. It's nothing to be ashamed of, and it does not make you a bad person. Recovery is always possible and happens at different speeds for different people. <3

words: 2,306

read on ao3 or below

Richie came home already exhausted. Work had been hell, and his entire body felt simultaneously like it was a live wire and full of cement. He was planning on bypassing Mike and heading straight for the bedroom to take a long fucking nap. However, he couldn’t do that without walking through the living room, where Mike was standing with his arms crossed behind the coffee table, which had a bag of cocaine on it.

“You wanna explain this?” Richie rolled his eyes at the question. His head was already starting to pound from the sanctimonious tone his boyfriend had immediately broken into.

“It’s powdered sugar, borrowed a cup from the neighbors,” Richie grinned humorlessly as he headed for the bedroom.

“You’re really just gonna walk away from me right now?” Mike’s voice was strained, almost a screech, trying to sound indignant through the obvious pain he was feeling. Richie’s shoulders sagged, his chest suddenly heavy. He hated hearing that pain in Mike’s voice, he hated being a disappointment to him. Mike had only ever been good to him, and he kept fucking up, kept proving to him that he didn’t deserve Mike’s signature undying faith. Richie turned to face Mike and shrugged weakly.

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” he sighed.

“I want you to throw it out,” Mike said plainly. “Burn it, toss it in the Hudson, I don’t fucking care how you do it, just get this shit out of my house.”

“Your house?” Richie scoffed, a bitterly unamused grin on his face. “Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t realize your fan fiction and DnD campaigns were paying for this place.” Mike always did this, always acted all high and mighty and made Richie feel like shit for needing a way to unwind or have a laugh from time to time. Richie knew that it came from a well-meaning place, that Mike was just trying to convince Richie to quit his bad habits, but the way he went about it kind of pissed Richie off. There was also the disappointment again, the reminder that Mike deserved better than Richie. Richie really didn’t know why his boyfriend tried so hard; Richie clearly wore him down.  

“Don’t start that,” Mike shook his head. “We both live here. We both pay rent and bills. If we get caught with this shit I’m taking the fall too. Don’t you care about that? Don’t you care what happens to me?” Richie rolled his eyes despite the guilt dragging his stomach down to his feet. Of course he cared, how could Mike not see that? And how could Mike not see what Richie needed? “We agreed you wouldn’t bring this here anymore. I just don’t understand why you’d lie to me.”

“Because you never hear any fucking side other than your own!” Richie exploded. “We don’t discuss, you just tell me what to do and assume I’ll follow every order you give me!”

“Sorry, I didn’t realize that ‘Please don’t bring illegal drugs into the house and then hide them from me, honey’ was such a controversial request!” The hurt Richie was feeling must’ve shown, because Mike sighed, his anger fizzling out a bit. “I’m just worried, Rich. This clearly isn’t just about having a good time every now and then. This keeps happening, and I think it’s a serious problem.”

“Why does it have to be a problem?” Richie challenged. “I’m functional. I shower and go to work and make money and eat food and drink water. I’m fine.”

“If you’re lying about it you know it’s wrong.”

“No, I know you think it’s wrong. That doesn’t make it wrong.”

“Are you happy without it?” Mike asked. His voice was so sincere, his eyes wide and brown and heartbroken. Mike was awful at hiding what he was feeling, so the sadness and pain in his voice and his eyes and his posture tore Richie up pretty bad. He hated himself for hurting Mike like that. It was selfish. But there were certain things Richie needed, and if those things hurt the ones he loved… then maybe the only way to stop hurting them was to leave them. But Richie had to make sure that wouldn’t hurt Mike, he had to make it Mike’s choice. He had to show Mike he wasn’t worth the effort or the pain he was putting himself through to stay with Richie.

“I can go without it,” was all he said, forcing an edge into his voice.

“Then why don’t you?” Richie was pleased to see that Mike was becoming irritated again. Good. He wanted Mike to see that he was better off without Richie dragging him down.

“Because I like it. That’s who I am, Mike,” Richie said helplessly, deflated. “You can take it or leave it, but stop trying to change it.”

“I don’t see why you wouldn’t want to change it! You can get better, Richie. I can help you get better.” Mike put a hand on Richie’s shoulder, which Richie shrugged off with an exasperated groan.

“I’m not something for you to fucking fix, okay? I know you wanna fix everything that you don’t like, but you can’t fix me! You can’t fix people!”

“Oh, I’m so sorry for wanting you help you,” Mike replied snidely.

“You don’t wanna help me, all you’re worried about is having a perfect boyfriend, or working on me like I’m a project to be accomplished and finished so you can feel good about yoursel. When are you gonna realize that I’m not a project? I’m a fucking person, and I’m never gonna be the person you want me to be.”

“I don’t treat people like projects!” Mike said defensively, his arms crossed.

“Yes, you do! You always have! You did the same thing to El and Will!” Richie watched all of the momentum of Mike’s anger drain from his body at Richie’s accusation. It made his blood run cold, the way Mike clenched his jaw, but he knew he was doing the right thing. Even if it felt awful for both of them, it was for the best in the long run.

“This isn’t about El or Will,” Mike said, his voice low and strained, trying to be measured. Richie felt a pang in his chest; he wondered if Mike had ever loved him as much as he clearly still loved both of them. “This is about you-”

“Do you think that’s why they both left you?” Richie urged on, stepping closer into Mike’s space. “Do you think they got sick of being your little projects?” Richie’s stomach dropped as he saw Mike’s lower lip start to quiver. No, he thought, nonononono. He could deal with Mike angry, he wanted him angry, but he couldn’t deal with tears. There was no way Richie could just stand there and watch him cry, he couldn’t walk away from that.

Thankfully, Mike’s misty eyes steeled then, and the coldness in them strengthened the coldness in Richie’s own chest. “I know that this,” Mike said, looking Richie up and down, almost in disgust, “is why Eddie left you.” And yeah, that hurt, but it was exactly what Richie needed to hear. And he was so glad Mike said it. It was the final push he needed to really walk away, to really push Mike far enough way that he could stop hurting him. “Maybe he had the right idea. He seems pretty happy these days.”

“Then leave,” Richie replied, his voice deep, almost threatening. None of the pain that was aching in every bone in his body showed through. “Fucking leave if you think it’ll make you happy. I don’t need your goddamn pity.” He swallowed thickly before forcing himself to say, “I don’t need you.” And god, the lie tasted bitter on his tongue, but Richie knew he would do anything he had to in order to save Mike the pain and disappointment.

Mike looked at Richie like he had slapped him. He wrapped his arms around himself as his lips quivered, searching for the right words. “Do you want me?” he asked eventually, his voice trembling. Richie clenched his jaw; he focused on the tears welling in Mike’s eyes, on the way he curled in on himself, as if he was afraid to be so close to Richie. He reminded himself that he did that, that he would continue to do that if he tried to make things better, if he kept holding onto someone he would only drag down.

“Not if you’re gonna try to control me like this,” he forced himself to say, his stomach churning at how easy and true he was able to make the words sound.

“You don’t mean that,” Mike said, shaking his head, his voice as thin as air.

“I do.” Richie’s heart sunk to his feet; he couldn’t help imagining a reality where he was saying that at an altar, where Mike still had tears in his eyes but a smile on his face.

The dam broke then, and Mike’s tears flowed freely. His body wracked with sobs, but he stayed put, not moving in any direction but further into himself. Richie couldn’t take that.

“Baby,” he whispered, taking a step toward Mike and reaching to pull him in.

“Baby?” Mike exploded, smacking Richie’s arm away as his head whipped up in fury. “Are you fucking kidding me right now? You’re breaking up with me for, for fucking drugs, and you’re trying to comfort me? You just told me you don’t want me and now you’re calling me baby?” Richie’s mouth opened and closed silently, the only part of his body he could move as the pain and anger and heartbreak in Mike’s watery eyes struck him like daggers. He grabbed the bag from the table and nearly threw it at Richie as he shoved him in the chest. “Fuck you. You can have this, since it makes you so much happier than I do.” Richie flinched. Mike stormed away toward the bedroom, shouting over his shoulder as he went. “I hope you shove it up your ass!” Mike slammed the bedroom door then, not giving Richie room to reply even if he could’ve thought of something to say.

Richie left the bag on the floor and collapsed onto the couch. He leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees, one of which was bouncing incessantly. He eyed the bag, which sat on the floor where it had fallen at his feet. He hated how much he wanted to get his credit card out just then, how badly he wanted to feel that rush, to ignore all the bad feelings clawing at his heart. He just needed a distraction, needed to stop feeling the way he did. He heard muffled banging and talking coming from down the hall. He lay back on the couch, staring at the ceiling and picking at his hangnails. He resolved to not look at the bag while Mike was still home, but its very presence weighed down on his chest, had him itching for it. He’d been saving it for his day off, when Mike would be at work, but it sounded like he was gonna have the house to himself a lot sooner than that. Good, he thought, but he didn’t feel good at all.

Richie really didn’t know how much time had passed by the time Mike came storming out of the bedroom and began making a racket in the bathroom. A few minutes later he burst back into the living room, a nearly bursting backpack over one shoulder and a duffel bag over the other. Richie’s chest seized at the sight. He sat up, but didn’t move from the couch. “Going somewhere?” he asked, his voice rough. Mike turned to him, his face splotchy and eyes red.

“I’m gonna go stay with Nancy and Jonathan,” he said, his voice raw but steady. Richie blinked, trying to hold himself together.

“For how long?” His voice sounded much stronger than he felt, almost uncaring. He sounded like an asshole, which he supposed was appropriate.

“Until I find my own place, I guess,” Mike shrugged. Richie felt like he turned to stone just then. Mike looked at him then, and his eyes said it all. His wide, brown, red rimmed eyes. They were near pleading, and in that moment Richie knew Mike was giving him one last chance. Richie just had to get rid of the bag, he just had to swear it off. If he asked Mike to stay he would.

But he couldn’t do that to Mike. He loved him too much.

“Think there’s anything in your price range?” he smirked. “Or are you gonna have daddy pay for it?” He saw fire try to flash behind Mike’s eyes, but it died almost immediately. He shook his head, tired and disappointed in a way that made Richie want to melt into the floor.

“I really hope you get better, Richie.” He looked around the living room for a moment before finally meeting Richie’s eyes. “I really did love you.”

That nearly broke Richie. He screamed at himself internally in the breathless moment Mike took before turning toward the door. Don’t let him walk out that door, he told himself. Don’t let him go. You know you need him, you love him. Get on your fucking knees, beg, burn that shit, anything you have to do, just don’t let him leave you. Then, one silent plea to Mike before the door closed, Please don’t leave me.

Then he was gone.

Richie swallowed thickly. He thought he should feel tears, thought he should be crying, but he just felt a bone-deep, aching emptiness. He sighed and eyed the bag on the floor. He cleared the table and got his credit card out.

a/n:  I know this ending was very bleak and not promising, but that's just because it's a small snippet of this (fictional) universe. Like I said before, recovery is always possible! Help is out there, and it's okay if it takes some people longer than others to recover.<3

taglist: @clouded-eyes-and-salty-tears @reddie4thesinbin @deadlighturis @constantreaderfool @reddieloserz @jessicaheartsderry @vegetarian-avocado @tinyarmedtrex @sml1104 @chocolatemangoose

@reddie-for-anything

[such-fun]

Fic: Live to Tell [Negan x Reader] Part Five

Title: Live to Tell

Pairing: Negan x Reader          

Summary: You were tasked with scouting out the Sanctuary, but soon your mission starts to spiral out of control.

Tags: @thecynicalnerd, @allinhishands, @toxic-ink, @world-war-crap, @negans-network, @daveed-dikks, jaspers-gembooty, @favoritefanfiction, @stolenxkissess, @brushfirefairytails, @attentionseekingprincess, @deadlywinters, @comeseemycage, @miiraal, @piinkassassin, @ chaoticevilanddowntofuck, @ marvelandgameofthrones, @briannaatkins03, @petlaufeyson, @ravenclawkittyninja, @poseidon29, @thephenomenonalkingofthebrogues 

Previous Chapters: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4

Five: 

Negan’s posture was relaxed, but his expression was tight and his eyes were blazing with anger. You didn’t dare move from your seat as Sherry took wary steps toward the couches and took a seat nervously on the edge of the cushions next to Negan.

 You would have felt pity for her if you weren’t sure she had just stabbed you in the back.

 Then again, she showed you no loyalty, so you had none for her. If you were going down, you’d be damned if you weren’t going to take her with you.

 “Here I was trying to enjoy dinner before fucking my wife, and she tells me that you’ve been spending your free time sulking around the prisoner’s cells. Imagine my shock,” he put a hand to his chest dramatically, “finding out you’ve been hiding things from yours truly. I thought we were closer than that,” he taunted with a mocking grin. “You’re so goddamn sanctimonious, I never pegged you for a liar. But I’ve got to give you credit, sweetheart. You’re a fucking great liar.”

 “And did your wife tell you why she was also in the cells?” you countered, staring at Sherry as her lips thinned.

 “The lady brings up a good point,” Negan drawled, turning his gaze to Sherry as she sat stone-faced. “What the fuck were you doing there, dear wife?”

 “I—I saw her go inside and wanted to see what she was up to,” Sherry said as she raised her head and glared at you. “You can’t trust anyone nowadays.”

 “Ain’t that the truth,” he snickered as he studied her.

 “And you can’t trust your wife either,” you interrupted, your heart thudding perilously as Negan’s attention turned to you once more. “She was already inside by the time I got there. She probably spent more time talking to Daryl than I did.” Sherry’s hands clenched into fists in her lap.

 “What is it with you women and that fucking redneck?” he snorted.

 “I felt sorry for him,” Sherry admitted reluctantly.

 “Aren’t you a goddamn saint,” he sneered. Negan’s eyes fell on you again. “What’s your excuse?”

 “She said she knew him,” Sherry piped up. You could hardly blame her for her bluntness. You weren’t pulling any punches yourself.

 “Well isn’t that a fucking revelation,” Negan declared, leaning forward in his seat and resting his elbows on his knees, hands a steeple under his chin.

“Two ways this goes, darlin’,” his voice was deeper, darker now, “You tell me the truth and nothing but the truth and you might be able to walk away from this. But if you lie, you can join your little buddy Daryl in the cells, where you’ll wish you were dead. Got it?”

 You nodded sharply.

 “It’s time to come clean,” he ordered, “how do you know that piece of shit?”

 “We used to travel together,” you admitted. You weren’t going to lie to Negan, but you hoped you might be able to get away with a little creative storytelling. “We got separated awhile back. I saw him in the yard a few days ago and I just wanted to know if he was okay.”

 “Isn’t that sweet,” he smiled disingenuously. “Here’s the good news: I know you’re not lying to me. Want to hear the bad news?” You swallowed, anxious and stomach in knots. “You’re not telling me the truth. Just bits and pieces of your story aren’t going to cut it, honey. So why don’t we play a game of good ole fashioned Twenty Questions, hmm?”

 You straightened in your seat and felt your heart drop into your stomach. Evading the truth was simple, it didn’t require any real talent. That’s what you had relied on during your time in the Sanctuary. You didn’t really have to lie if you avoided the subject at all cost. And when you couldn’t avoid, you stuck to the barest detail.

 But Negan wanted to know everything, and you had no way of talking yourself out of this mess. Negan was smart, and too observant. He’d spot an outright lie in a second.

 It’s not the you were afraid of the cells. Well, you were. Anyone sensible person would be. Especially after seeing what they had done to Daryl already. But you were willing to suffer if that meant no one would get hurt. Then again landing yourself in a cell would get a lot of people hurt.  

 Rick and Michonne were relying on you to get a layout of the Sanctuary, to let them know what kind of threat they were truly facing and how to prepare to attack. You had the beginnings of a plan on how to get that information back to Alexandria, but hadn’t had time to enact it yet. You had to find someone trustworthy, someone Negan allowed to leave the compound, someone who could be swayed. But that was easier said than done and you had yet to find that perfect person.

 Not that you would get the chance anymore. No matter what he promised, you knew Negan wasn’t about to just let you walk away free and clear.

 “Question number one,” Negan sat back, clasping his hands across his stomach, “where did you meet Daryl?”

 “Georgia,” you admitted.

 Negan smiled grimly. “See? Now we’re making progress. Question two is a little harder. Where’d you two split up?”

 “Virginia,” you could see Negan was not amused by your vague answers.

 “Specifics, sweetheart,” he sneered. “Tell me…there’s a fucking quaint little town called Alexandria. Full of pretty fucking houses and white picket fences, and run by a guy named Rick the Prick. Heard of it?”

 You tried to remain passive as he described your true home and your friend, but the unearthly tension in your body was likely a dead giveaway.

 Negan leant forward, with a hand to his ear. “Can’t hear you, honey. You need to speak the fuck up.”

 “I—I don’t—,” before you could finish your sentence, Negan turned his glare to Sherry, who remained stiff as a board.

 “Get the fuck out,” he demanded, taking her by surprise. Sherry stood on shaky legs, glancing nervously at you and then back to Negan. He grunted and she took a step toward the door. “Don’t go far,” he warned her. “You and I have a lot to talk about, wife.”

 She didn’t waste time getting out of there, striding with newfound urgency to the door and shutting it firmly behind her. Negan’s weighted gaze turned back toward you.

 “Now I could let you finish your pathetic fucking sentence, but we both know you’d be lying out of your ass,” he dared you to argue. “You know Daryl, you know Rick, and I’d be willing to bet my left nut that you’re from Alexandria. So now you’re going to tell me what your fucking plan was before I lose my goddamn temper.”

 “What’s the point?” you mumbled softly. He raised an eyebrow in response, and you couldn’t tell if he was amused or furious. “I mean, you’re just going to throw me in a cell and torment me until I wish I was dead. That is what you said. And if that’s the case, just get on with it. I’m not telling you anything.”

 “Well look at the man sized balls on you, lady!” he chortled. “I’ve got to give you credit, talking to me like that—it takes guts. Maybe I’ve gone about this all wrong,” Negan mused.

 Standing to his full height, Negan stretched and eyed you in contemplation. With slow, methodical steps he moved behind your chair. You froze as he placed his rough hands on your shoulders.

 “Maybe you’re right,” he considered. “I mean, torturing women isn’t my idea of a good time. At least not outside of the bedroom.” You practically heard him smirk. “But I can’t let you get away with defying me. It can’t happen.”

 There was a long beat of silence and then you felt him give your shoulders a hard squeeze as he propped his elbows up on the back of your chair and brought his mouth teasingly to your ear. “Wait, I know!” he gasped in faux surprise. “I’m not going to torture you at all. But someone’s got to be punished. So I’ll make you a deal. I’m going to go to Alexandria and bash in someone’s head! Lucille is thirsty, honey.”

 Pulling back, Negan sauntered before you, looking far too pleased with himself. “And when one of your little friends is dead, I’ll consider us even. Hell, even if I’m wrong, and I am never wrong, and you aren’t from Alexandria, consider this a lesson in manners. You give me lip and somebody fucking pays.”

 You silently cursed yourself as you felt a tear make its way down your cheek. “Please—”

 “Please what?” he taunted. “Please don’t? Please stop? I appreciate the begging, darling but it ain’t going to change a thing.”

 You couldn’t let anyone die. Not for your pride, and not for your mistake. You had promised Rick and Michonne that you would take care of yourself, but not at the expense of innocent people.

 “Please,” you cleared your throat and hating the watery sound of your voice. “I’ll tell you what you want to know. No one has to die.”

 “That’s mighty big of you,” he scoffed. “But I’ll decide if anyone’s getting their ticket punched.”

 “What do you want?” you shouted in frustration, propelling yourself out of the chair and standing as tall as you could. Even then you were dwarfed by Negan's body. “I’ll tell you whatever you want! I’ll do what you want! Just leave them alone!”

 Negan’s expression was unreadable as he looked down on you. You knew he was probably pissed at your outburst and part of you wanted to shrink away from him. But Negan had told you once before, respect was all that mattered. And he respected when people stood up to him. Even if it did end bloody most of the time.

 “You’ll do what I want,” he repeated, his voice dark and low. His eyes pierced through you and you began to wonder if you had chosen your words too hastily.

 “I’ll make you a deal then, sweetheart,” Negan’s words taking on a dangerous tone. “And listen good, because this is the only fucking offer I’ll make. You want to save the life of one of those fucking pitiful friends of yours?”

 He took deliberate, measured steps toward you until you were craning your neck to maintain eye contact. “Then you sit your ass back down and you tell me everything. I mean your fucking life story if that’s what I want.”

 “I’ll do it,” you rushed to agree and he grinned menacingly in return.

 “Love the enthusiasm,” he chuckled, “but we’re not done. After you’re done spilling your guts, metaphorically speaking, I’ll even let you go to your room and get a nice night’s sleep. And you’ll need it. Because tomorrow’s a big day.”

 “What happens tomorrow?” you asked cautiously.

 “It’s your wedding day,” he smiled, and no matter how handsome he was the sight slightly sickened you.

 “That’s the deal, honey,” he purred. “You give me all of you…and I do mean all of you, and I’ll let your indiscretion slide.” You were still struggling to take in what he said that the feel of his hand brushing your cheek and his thumb resting at the corner of your mouth didn’t really register.

 “So what do you say?” he murmured, sweeping his thumb softly across your bottom lip. “Are you willing to hand yourself over to the big, bad wolf to save a friend?”

 You went to wet your lips nervously and instead your tongue met his thumb, giving the digit a little lick. From the pleased grumble you heard escape him, you knew Negan was enjoying your small misstep.

 Rick and Michonne would kill you. Daryl would kill you. You were never supposed to make the sacrifice play. But life didn’t follow a script, so you just had to improvise.

 “Yes,” you whispered, and you could see Negan’s grin widen.

 “Ain’t this a treat,” he laughed softly, pinching your cheek. His hand skimmed your arm before taking you by the elbow and leading you to the couch.

 “Take a seat, darling,” he gestured toward the sofa and you found yourself numbly falling into the cushions. Negan followed at a more leisurely pace, throwing an arm over your shoulder and bringing you close. He was pleased as punch, while you couldn’t seem to calm your racing heart.

 “Let’s get all this nasty talking business out of the way,” he sighed delightedly. “So we can get to the fun nasty business tomorrow.”

[mikhalsarah]

This is the most depressing “defense” of a liberal by a liberal in I don’t know how long.

Police unions lead the conservative pillory project against anyone standing for oversight on police and respect for suspects’ rights because it’s not in their interests that the police have oversight or that suspects have rights respected...does it magically become slightly more in their interests when a white man says it, than when a Black/South Asian woman does? I can’t fathom how...

The essential message here is that it’s so very hard to be a Black-identified female that it’s sorta ok for anyone who is, no matter how otherwise privileged, to be an ambitious political opportunist who cares more about getting re-elected than about the values they claim to stand for. For a politician to be so is certainly nothing new, but the idea that people should not criticize politicians much for it if they happen to be the wrong colour or gender because “it’s a problem with the system and its racism” is quite new and dangerous, not least because we are essentially caring more about how “unfair” life is to an educated wealthy person because they might not get re-elected, or might get their feelings hurt, than about the people down at the fucking bottom of the dog pile who might get executed or spend decades in prisons for crimes they didn’t commit. “She did what she had to” sounds an awful lot like, “I only did what I was ordered to do”. Except, of course, she didn’t have to do anything. Nobody had a gun to her head, she chose to do it to fulfil her own vaulting ambitions.

And I’m sorry but all that, “but then she wouldn’t be in a position to do so much good as VP in a few months!” is so much bizarre quasi-fascist garbage like Saruman trying to tempt Gandalf into joining with Mordor on the grounds that at some hypothetical point in the future they might “come to direct it’s courses”. Sorry, I’m not “Woke” or morally compromised, I’m Jewish. I may suck at it, but I’m still good enough at it to not hold with the idea of permitting evil now for the sake of some hypothetical good in the future. A good which is by no means certain. First Biden has to win, after all (which is possible)...then Kamala Harris (along with Biden) has to decide doing right is more important than getting a second term, and then there’s the prospect of becoming “the first African-American female president” which two terms as VP might set you up to be tempted by (so I am not holding my breath but who knows, maybe she’ll do a little of that hypothetical good in her final term as POTUS, 12-16 years from now.) 

If we’re going to be hypothetical about things, what if Kamala Harris had never made it so far as an election and instead some other candidate with actual moral backbone had been run and now THAT exemplary candidate was just chosen for VP? Would it be just awful if that exemplary candidate happened to be a man and a WASP? Or perhaps she herself, having stood her ground and earned some grudging respect, might have won later on? Or some other worthy minority candidate?

But, as C.S. Lewis put it, “nobody is ever told what might have been”. You ultimately can’t run life based on hypothetical things that might have been or on hypothetical goods that might appear. You make the best choice you can based on the existing evidence and the likely trajectory it shows. A lifetime of opportunism and ambition does not suggest much to me by way of upward moral mobility so I’m gruntled not to be facing this choice as a voter, which resembles the choice I gave to a preschooler who doesn’t like art smocks this morning...do you want the green smock, or the red smock? (Because you’re wearing a smock or you don’t get to paint.)

This is part of the longstanding trope that “the problem is really racism” and all the wars, profiteering and predatory capitalism would stop if only we had more diversity at the top, because self-evidently BIPOC and female people educated and wealthy enough to run for public office would vote totally differently on the issues than educated and wealthy whites and men.

Do they though? I’m still waiting for it to happen.

And wasn’t that the god-damn point of all the diversity we were trying to get into government, that it was going to smash the patriarchy and white-supremacy and the good old boys’ mutual back-scratching club? And here’s Beinart come along to tell us that it’s actually working the exact opposite way and that all our diverse candidates are way too shit-scared of not getting elected to have more morals than the old white men they’re replacing. This is like Wile E. Coyote sent away for the ACME Social Justice Kit and it’s now blowing up in his face. 

What was it, “They can’t afford to have Bernie Sanders’ moral purity”? Why, because it’s such a cake walk being a Jewish socialist starting your political career during the Evangelical “Moral Majority” and Reagan cold-war years? And then running as an Independent in what has long been considered an unbreakable two-party system? Not even Bernie Sanders can afford Bernie Sanders’ moral purity...which is why the Dems didn’t run him against Trump when they should have...yet he still has it, and seems to mysteriously prefer sleeping well at night to whoring himself out for a few shekels and an office where ordering new carpets requires calculations involving Pi.

And the loss of that election was basically guaranteed by the fact that the Dems were all pissing about with identity politics trying to get a *vagina into the presidency even if it lost them the election. Which it did, so thus pissed away all the hypothetical good having a female president might have done, which was only ever going to be symbolic anyway. Clearly they have learned absolutely bobkes from that. *And yes, when the only thing you really care about is the genitalia of the person you’re trying to get into office, you’re no longer running a woman (a person who happens to have a vagina) you’re running a vagina.

This all reminds me of my annoyingly sanctimonious sister. She natters on and on about how many tenured professors are BIPOC and then looks at me aghast when I say I don’t actually give a shit how many educated and wealthy BIPOC people get bit more wealthy and secure. I care more about how many people can’t eat and pay their rent, or can’t afford their utility bills and are getting their power and water shut off. I care about people worse off than I am, not better off.  The toejam in the toe-cleavage peeping out of Kamala Harris’ pumps is more privileged than I will ever be, (and I’m not so badly off at the moment) and more privileged than 99% of the U.S. populace, so the idea that she needs a horde of people rushing to her defense is patently absurd. If she didn’t get chosen for VP what...she’d be so oppressed she’ll be living out of a rusted hatchback by next week???

 This entire drama of the Biden running mate has basically been “which woman of colour should Biden choose to best capture the vote” as opposed to “which of the available candidates is the best possible choice to achieve our progressive goals” and that’s a bit horrifyingly Orwellian.I It’s like a sort of trophy-wife...which one will bring me the most prestige and help me “win” at life. And, echoing my earlier comments, there’s something distinctly disturbing about the degree of emphasis on choosing a racialized woman. I’m not sure how electing a vagina with more melanin to office is an improvement over electing vaginas in general. Women have been complaining for decades about the tendency of some men to view them as disembodied sexual parts. How did it become something progressive women now cheer about? Whereas if he’d said, “All other things being equal, I intend to chose a running mate that will best embody the Democrats’ commitment to diversity and better proportional representation.”, I would not be feeling like women and minorities were just being added to the ticket to make up numbers, like goods in a packing crate; we need 6 of this, and 4 of that...

 If the Dems win are people next going to be discussing which Latinx he needs to appoint to the Senate, and which Indigenous person to the Judiciary and which trans doctor will replace Fauci when he retires? You’re laughing now, but let this sit on the floor awhile and see if the cat licks it up. I was right about the moral trajectory of Israel 15 years ago, something Beinart only discovered this summer, and I feel good about my odds on this prediction. Left unsupervised, these “woke” ideologies will do what all ideologies do, and reach peak stupidity, which will, of course, result in a a wild and reactive attempt to correct for them by rejecting everything about them. The only thing stopping that is for people to look at them critically now and correct for extremism and ideological blind spots before an iconoclastic paraxysm. I’m not societies great hope here...I’m just a woman with a tumblr adding my two cents to the critical mass needed to do that. 

I happen to heartily endorse more types of people getting into government who currently are kept out, just not at the cost of *good government itself, and not based on the laughable premise that a room full of people all from the same tax brackets, who all went to the same schools, is “diverse”. Honest to God, America should just stop having elections at this point and start mailing out notices to randomly selected citizens. Then they might get actual diversity, as opposed to La Senza diversity, where there’s only one actual bra but hey, it comes in 37 different colours so, hooray for choice.

*whether anything in American (or any) politics resembles actual good government is debatable but we’ve spent the last 4+ years finding out just how much further the GOP can get from the ideal than we’d ever thought it could and Right and Left always mirror each other. To my mind electing and appointing people by identity rather than competence freed from unnecessary stumbling blocks is also a giant leap backward from it.