#i really wish you could go into some sort of training zine

[kamimint]

I am cursed to forever only be obsessed with the fat characters in games Kodaka ends up involved in specifically

[tenspontaneite]

Across Shared Skin (Chapter 1/?)

When Callum was born, Sarai pored over every inch of his skin by candlelight until she found it: a tiny, diminutive patch of discoloured skin on the back of his tiny, diminutive left hand.

(Second of two pieces written for @falling-for-you-a-rayllum-zine) (Soulmate AU. For the ‘AU’ chapter. Only this instalment was written for the zine; future chapters are all new. Piece length: 7k. Ao3 link)

---

 It was an interesting skin tone. Pale and purplish, almost, plainly evident against the ruddy colour of his newborn body. She wondered if, across whatever distance separated them, her son’s soulmate had noticed the corresponding shift on their own hand. She wondered how much older they were. She wondered many things that, in the end, only the passage of years would be able to answer. But for now, there were observances to meet.

She fetched a pen, and in the tiniest script she could manage, drew lines of ink carefully across the back of her son’s hand. Callum, she wrote, and left it at that.

Others might include a birth-date, or kingdom of residence, or the names of the parents. But Sarai was wary, and wrote only what custom dictated. The name.

She wasn’t expecting a response right away. For all the prominence of the mark’s location, it was late, and whoever waited on the other end might well be asleep. She had expected more to be waiting until morning, at the very least. But, mere minutes later—

Clear and careful, a name unfolded on her son’s skin, directly beneath the one she’d written.

Rayla, it said, and nothing else.

Sarai mulled the name over. It was unusual. Foreign, certainly, though that didn’t guarantee anything about how far away the girl might live. In the end, she nodded, and committed the name to her memory. It might be years until Callum could communicate with his soulmate himself, but until then, he deserved to know her name.

She left both names on Callum’s hand, and set him gently down to sleep.

 ---

 “He might not be a human.” Lain attempted, yet again, looking down for what seemed like the hundredth time at the name on his daughter’s hand. “Elves use the common script, too. And the name—it’s not unusual. It would fit in well with any of the communities that use Draconic more than we do.”

Tiadrin sighed, and eased the glove once again onto Rayla’s squirming fingers. It wasn’t proper to have one’s mark visible in public, but children so often disliked restrictive coverings. “They didn’t write the primal.” She said, flatly, and that was a tired statement too. “What elf wouldn’t write the symbol of the primal their child was born to? It’s tradition.”

The name and the symbol were obligatory. All else—birthdate, location, family—was optional. But there should have been a symbol. Moon, or Sun, or Sky, or Earth—even Ocean—there should have been a symbol. But there wasn’t, and in its absence, they’d omitted Rayla’s moon. If her soulmate was a human, it would keep him safer. It didn’t seem prudent to declare arcanum to a human audience of unknown prejudices.

Lain was quiet, watching as she covered up the damning ink of the unaccompanied names. “He might not be a human.” He repeated, more softly. “Perhaps they omitted his primal for security reasons. Perhaps he’s the son of someone important.” His brow furrowed. “Perhaps he’s a Startouch elf.”

She snorted. “Fat chance of that. And even royalty declare their children’s primal.” She bent down to kiss her daughter’s forehead. “No, Lain. Our daughter has a human soulmate, and we’ll just have to live with that.”

He frowned, resignation and concern written more clearly on him than the names on Rayla’s hand. “…We can’t let anyone find out.” He said, eventually, defeat weighing on his every word. “She’d never be able to do anything without someone questioning her loyalties. She’d be shunned. We can’t let that happen to her.”

Tiadrin nodded. It went without saying, really. “We’ll tell Runaan and Ethari. Everyone else…” She mulled the name over. Callum. It could mean ‘hard-skinned’. It could also, if derived from Columba, mean ‘dove’. Either way, it was a plainly Draconic name, and Moonshadow elves didn’t tend to name their children for Draconic. Others, though… “We’ll say he’s a Skywing elf.” She decided, and her husband hummed approvingly.

“What about Rayla?” He asked, then. “What will we tell her?”

She went quiet. “…I can’t lie to my own daughter about her soulmate, Lain.” She admitted. “We’ll just…have to impress on her the importance of discretion. Children aren’t always the best at keeping secrets, but…”

He held silent for a moment, then smiled. “She’s a Moonshadow elf. She’ll be fine.” He said, and she wished she could share his confidence.

“We’ll see.” Tiadrin said, noncommittal, and left it to that.

 ---

 Once or twice in his early years, Callum experienced little hints of the shared skin between himself and his soulmate. Here and there, he felt phantom fingertips against the back of his hand, the weight of unfamiliar cloth, and—once—the sharp sting of a scratch from some sort of animal across the skin. It healed quickly, as all blemishes on soulmarks did, but he’d gone crying to his mother from the unexpected pain anyway.

People were circumspect about their soulmarks, and that was part of the background hum of culture that he was raised to. He wasn’t to show his soulmark in public. He wasn’t even to say where it was. He wore fingerless gloves, on both hands, to disguise it��and, at least until he was able to talk to her, he wasn’t even supposed to tell anyone her name.

He did, though.

He finger-spelled it out to Aunt Amaya, albeit clumsily. “Her name is Rayla,” he said, almost solemnly, with the motions of his hands. She smiled at him indulgently and raised a finger to her lips in a ‘hush’ motion.

She wasn’t the only person he told. He told the officer of the Standing Battalion who was watching his mother and Amaya’s latest sparring match. He told the baker that they went to buy sweets from. He told near everyone he met, when he was going through the typical three-year-old’s phase of desperate interest in the phenomenon of a soulmate, and his mother sighed at him for it every time.

Again and again, he asked her to write something to Rayla. To ask questions, to find out something more about her, anything. He had a soulmate, and he wanted to know more about her than her name and skin colour.

“It wouldn’t be right, Callum.” She told him, patiently. “Only soulmates should speak through their skin. You’ll just have to wait until you can write to her yourself.”

Callum scowled, and set back into learning his alphabet very vehemently indeed. Because that was the thing:

It wasn’t proper for someone else to write to your soulmate for you. It wasn’t even proper to be walked through spelling out an introduction. When you first wrote to your soulmate, you were supposed to do it yourself. And you were supposed to wait until you were good enough to manage basic conversation, too.

Callum didn’t want to wait until he had words to communicate with. So, one evening, in abject defiance of custom and propriety, he took off his glove and doodled a little flower on the back of his hand. He fell asleep feeling particularly pleased with himself, and somehow, didn’t consider that writing upon shared skin might garner a response.

He woke to a tiny, clumsy flower-doodle scrawled beside his own.

 ---

 Rayla was something of a lonely child. She didn’t have friends her age, having never meshed well with the other children. She didn’t play like the other children did, preferring instead to train with Runaan, or go off sneaking into the forest alone. She didn’t socialise and the closest thing she had to friends were the adoraburrs she brought home by the armful. So, really, it shouldn’t have been a surprise that she became so taken with her soulmate.

It started when, one day, Rayla ran up to them with her expression so bright it was impossible not to smile back at her. And then they saw what was on her hand, and Tiadrin had to restrain a surprised laugh at the neat little flower doodled on her daughter’s hand. “Oh, well,” She managed, and shared a glance with Lain. “That’s…” She remembered, for a moment, that this was a human, but… “That’s incredibly cute.” She sighed in the end, because it was, and Rayla was so charmingly pleased with the tiny drawing. “Congratulations, Rayla.”

“It’s only a flower,” said their rambunctious, headstrong little girl, but there was no hiding how delighted she was. “He didn’t even write anything.”

“Maybe he doesn’t know how, yet.” Tiadrin said, while she tried to remember how old Rayla’s soulmate was. “He’s not quite four, and that’s very young for writing.” She shook her head. “Well, I suppose we’d best get you your skin-inks, if you’re going to be talking now. Or drawing.” Suddenly, she levelled her daughter with a penetrating look. “Remind me what you know about talking to your soulmate, Rayla.”

She stilled for a second, and fell from her childish delight into the more bullheaded determination that accompanied her through her training. “Nothing ‘bout elves, or Xadia, or where we live, or anyone’s names, or magic, or assassins.”

Lain reached out and ruffled her hair. “Good girl.” He praised, and she beamed at him. When she was older, no doubt, she’d chafe against those restrictions. They’d make it very hard to talk to one’s soulmate about anything of substance, after all. But for now, she was content.

Rayla puffed up. “I’m gonna draw him an adoraburr!” She announced, and both of her parents made despairing noises.

“Rayla, honey, adoraburrs are magic.” Tiadrin explained, patiently, and her daughter’s face fell. Evidently, this might be more challenging than they’d thought.

(Rayla drew the adoraburr anyway. Adoraburrs were everywhere, after all. What could it hurt?)

 *

 Callum kept up a clandestine exchange of doodles with his soulmate for months before his mother found out. Rayla always used some sort of weird ink that washed off his skin really easily, while his ink lingered in faded outlines for days after he scrubbed it off. It was that which caught him, in the end.

“Callum,” his mother sighed, a little despairingly, at the evidence of many successive generations of doodles on the skin of his hand. “You’re supposed to wait until you can write.”

He made a face at her from the side of the bath, where he really should have expected he’d be caught. “It’s not hurting anyone.” He muttered, chagrined. “We’re just drawing.”

She pursed her lips, reluctantly curious. “She draws back? Or does she write?”

“She draws.” He admitted. “She got this weird ink that washes off easy.”

After a brief correction to his grammar, she shook her head. “Skin-ink. It’s made to wash off. I’ll have to get you some, I suppose.” She watched him almost tiredly for several long moments, then said “I’ll not stop you from drawing to each other, Callum. But this means we’ll need to have your security lessons earlier than normal. There are things you’re not supposed to talk to soulmates about—things that could hurt the kingdom. Do you understand?”

He didn’t. But he pretended he did, to make her happy.

In the end, she held the skin-inks hostage until he could dutifully rattle off the list of things he wasn’t supposed to talk about. This included: local governance, anything about how much food people had or where the food or water was kept, anything about the military (this being especially relevant, considering his mother and aunt), anything about the nobility, and a laundry list of other things.

When he was older, he’d understand the rationale behind it; that the careless words of children to their soulmates could reach the ears of adults who knew how to use them. A complaint about always being hungry might not mean much to the soulmate—but to an adult, it might indicate famine in a neighbouring kingdom. It might indicate weakness. And there were many such ways to damn one’s nation.

Of course, by the time he understood, he was himself a member of the nobility—a prince of Katolis. The damage an unwary prince might do with spilled secrets was potentially catastrophic, and so the lessons were drummed into his head until he almost felt wary to so much as touch the nib of his pen to the back of his hand. It would be so easy to give something away.

But, for now, he was only a child, and the ink on his skin held no secrets. He drew flowers, and birds, and cats, and dogs, and horses. His soulmate drew flowers, and weird circles with eyes, and animals that either had spikes on their heads or extra ears, and occasionally she attempted birds too. She wasn’t very good, but the drawings were from her, so he treasured them anyway.

He just wished he could write already, and talk to her properly.

 ---

 Callum tugged on his mother’s sleeve and requested a writing test every week. And, every time, she looked over whatever she’d told him to write, praised his progress, and said, “Not yet.”

Not yet, every time. It meant ‘you are not yet at the level appropriate for talking to a soulmate’, and Callum thought it was an exceptionally annoying standard to hold someone to. It wasn’t like he and Rayla weren’t already sort-of talking, with their pictures. What did it matter if his spelling was bad or his handwriting messy or his letters extremely slow to form? But his mother was adamant.

Time passed, and in the wake of the great upheavals in his life, Callum wished more than ever before that he could talk to his soulmate. His mother married royalty, and she was crowned Queen, and Callum named prince, and in the overwhelming confusion of trying to adapt to life in the castle he desperately wished he could talk to Rayla about it. He didn’t have anyone to talk to, really. The only kids at the castle were Lord Viren’s children, and he didn’t know them well enough to confide in. But Rayla was his soulmate. He should be able to talk to her, right?

…But then, he realised, when his mother started to hesitate a little before saying “not yet,” he wouldn’t be able to talk to Rayla about this, anyway. His mother marrying a King, and him moving into a castle…that was big, important stuff. The sort of stuff soulmates weren’t meant to talk about, if they didn’t know for sure which kingdom they were loyal to.

That realisation left him sour and solemn for days. Still, he wanted to be able to talk to her about some things, even if not the big stuff that he wasn’t allowed to mention. He thought he was getting close to being pronounced ready, but…

In the end, Rayla lost patience before he did.

When Callum felt the scrawl of pen on his skin, it was an automatic reflex to duck away to somewhere secluded to peel off his glove and watch. This time, though, the scrawl just…kept going, as he headed for a secluded spot among a few trees, and he thought she must be drawing something unusually large and elaborate.

He just about fell over when he removed the glove to find words there.

The handwriting was messy, and slow to form. He was slow to read it. But it was unmistakably words.

Are you ever gonna write? Rayla asked, through their shared skin, and he stared at the back of his hand with his heart beating so hard it made his head feel weird and dizzy and hot. She was talking to him! Really talking!

After a moment, she underlined ‘ever’.

He panicked for several long minutes about what he should do. Mom said he shouldn’t. She said ‘not yet’. But that was about him making contact. The younger soulmate was supposed to do it first, after all.

He hesitated, rummaged for his pen and inks, and finally wrote Sorry. Mom won’t let me yet. It took him a long time. The letters were huge and messy and barely fit on the shared skin. For the first time in his life, he felt embarrassed for his handwriting, and suddenly understood why his mother might be saying ‘not yet’.

There was a pause as she wiped off her skin-inks and both sets of words vacated his skin. In her impatience, she left a vague inky smear behind. But you just wrote now, she pointed out, and – and his face burned, he felt unbearably shy and unbearably excited and nervous all at once…was this how people normally felt when they talked to their soulmates for the first time?

He ducked his head, flushed, and scrawled You did it first. He accidentally wrote over some of her letters in the process.

She washed off the inks again. Yeah, cause you were taking forever!! She paused, then added a few more exclamation marks for emphasis. I was so bored waiting.

After a brief pause where he carefully sounded out the word ‘waiting’ to figure out what it said, he wrote Me too.

Waiting had been annoying, and senseless, and stupid. Maybe it was a bit embarrassing to put bad handwriting on someone else’s skin, but…shouldn’t that be up to them to decide? If she still wanted to talk even though his writing was bad…then wasn’t it okay?

She had contacted him. He couldn’t be blamed for that, right?

…And it wasn’t like he hadn’t already broken tradition by drawing, anyway.

As soon as she washed their ink off, he started writing again. But we’re writing now, so I guess it’s okay?

Finally! Rayla wrote, in a quick and victorious scrawl, and also drew a little smiley face next to it. It was fairly delightful.

I’m Callum, he offered, a little shyly, after a moment. This, at least, he had practiced a lot.

I know. She wrote, the letters blocky and cheerful. I’m Rayla.

I know, he scrawled back, and imagined that on the other side of their connection, she was smiling too.

 ---

 Callum learned a lot of things about his soulmate, in the weeks after she opened contact.

He learned that she liked to go exploring in the woods, which her town was inside. She wouldn’t say much about her town, but he got the idea it was pretty small.

He learned that she spent most of her time ‘training’, and while she wouldn’t say what she was training for, he gathered that it involved weapons and fighting and—apparently—being able to jump and flip around a lot.

He learned that she loved her parents and had two sort-of uncles who were married to each other, and one of those uncles was the one who trained her.

He learned that she absolutely detested water, and was terrified of it, and even the prospect of a bath was completely awful to her.

He learned that she was stubborn, and determined, and occasionally so blunt it was kind of rude. He learned that she didn’t really have friends, and while she put on a good show of not caring about that…

We’re friends, though, he pointed out to her, and felt the warmth of her fingertips lingering beneath the words for several minutes before she replied.

Yeah, she said, and that was all.

 ---

 Rayla learned many things about her soulmate, in turn.

He was kind of shy, and got nervous easily, and wasn’t very good at talking to the kids where he lived. He had moved towns not all that long ago, and really wasn’t used to it yet, and found the new place kind of big and scary. He loved his mother an insane amount, and…didn’t seem to have a father. His mother had remarried, though, and had a baby on the way. He was cautiously excited about that.

He wasn’t good at fighting, and though he’d started sword lessons, he hated it and wished he didn’t have to do it. He took a lot of lessons—with tutors, instead of at a school—and wasn’t terribly keen on those, either. What he did like was drawing, and even though they could write now, he kept drawing things for her. Because he wanted to.

I want to draw stuff for you, he wrote, very firmly, and Rayla’s heart fluttered too much for her to think of objecting.

In all, he was really nice, considering he was a human.

...Maybe he wouldn’t be so nice, though, if he knew that she was an elf.

 ---

 Callum was a shy and often tongue-tied boy out in the halls and grounds of the castle. In private, though, he never seemed to stop talking. And, unsurprisingly, one of his absolute favourite topics was his soulmate. As such, Sarai found out very rapidly when they’d started writing, and honestly wasn’t surprised by it at all. Only a little exasperated.

Time passed and Callum chattered, and Sarai grew to know a lot about her son’s soulmate. But there were things about her that she didn’t know. That she hadn’t even guessed about. Until…

“She spells things weirdly.” Callum confided, one day, while she was brushing his hair. “I tried telling her she was spelling stuff wrong but she just said that I’m spelling stuff wrong. Like ‘color’. She puts a ‘u’ in it. And she spells ‘mom’ with a ‘u’ too. It’s so weird.”

Sarai paused, brush stilling in his hair for a second, before she made herself complete the stroke. “Oh?” She said, lightly, allowing no trace of her unease into her voice. “That is odd. Does she spell any other words like that?”

Callum thought for a while. “She uses ‘s’ instead of ‘z’ a lot?” He ventured. “Like…she’ll spell ‘realize’ with an ‘s’. And sometimes she uses different words for things too. She calls pants ‘trousers’. I think maybe she’s from a kingdom where they say stuff different?”

“The common tongue does change a little, depending on where it’s spoken.” Sarai agreed, by all appearances unbothered. “So more likely than not, your Rayla speaks and writes with her regional dialect.” She paused, and carefully, she asked “Did she ever say where she was from?”

She could almost hear Callum’s face scrunching up. “No,” he admitted. “I guess she’s had security lessons too. I know she lives somewhere in a huge forest, though. She talks about it a lot.”

Sarai hummed, with the usual fond interest, and didn’t ask him to tell her more. He would, in time; he loved talking about his soulmate. If she asked, it would only make him suspicious. He was a bright boy. He’d notice. “Maybe one day she can give you tree-climbing lessons.” She suggested, and then that was all he could talk about for the next hour.

She listened more closely, after that. And, slowly, day by day, the clues started adding up.

“She says she lives inside a tree!” Callum declared one day, absolutely astonished and absolutely delighted and wanting her to know all about it. “A tree big enough that they could carve a house inside it! That must be so cool!”

Sarai agreed easily that it was very cool, and did not mention that there were no trees so large within the Pentarchy.

“I still draw her stuff, even though we can write now.” Her son said cheerfully, maybe a few weeks after the treehouse revelation. “She draws back sometimes, but she doesn’t like doing it because she doesn’t think she’s very good at it.”

“What does she draw?” Sarai inquired, and was presented with his hand, the skin-ink a little smudged around the shape of a fuzzy ball with a cute little face.

“Mostly these round fuzzy things.” He confided. “Sometimes she draws them stacked on each other.”

For a moment, she couldn’t answer. She stared, silent, at what was unmistakably an adoraburr, one of those creatures so common and omnipresent in Xadia that sometimes their charred fuzzy bodies were found fallen into the crevices of the Breach. Viren frequently received shipments of them. Apparently they were useful in some spells.

“Cute.” She commented, in the end, and knew by her son’s abrupt quietness that she hadn’t quite managed to hide her reaction.

She went to Harrow, almost as soon as she let Callum go out to play.

“I think Callum’s soulmate is an elf.” She said to him, without preamble, as soon as they were in private. He froze, and studied her, and watched her with wide eyes as he exhaled. He reached out and took her hand.

“Tell me everything.” He said, and she did. She explained the dialect, and the treehouse, and the adoraburrs, and every other clue her son had cheerfully rattled off at her over the months.

They brought Viren in. He agreed, from his acquaintance with stolen Xadian texts, that the dialect matched. He mentioned that there were enormous forests in Xadia not all that far from the border, and that they were home to a number of communities of Moonshadow elves. There might be other great forests elsewhere, of course. But that was the one he knew of.

From there on, she started noting down everything. The vague idea of ‘maybe she’s a Moonshadow elf’ went from ‘possible’ to ‘very likely’ when Sarai relayed the soulmate’s enthusiasm for a monthly community dance that—when she checked—turned out to fall on the full moon, every month. (Coincidentally, Callum had stopped complaining about his ballroom dancing lessons. She’d have found this much cuter if not for the circumstances.)

“The history texts I have say that Moonshadow elf tradition places a lot of emphasis on dancing.” Viren told her, almost apologetically, when she came back with this latest report.

“There’s no sense denying it any more, is there.” Sarai said, wearily, rubbing at her aching temples. Her son’s soulmate was an elf. Perhaps a Moonshadow elf, even, and those were some of the deadliest and most vicious elves there were. Combined with all of Callum’s mentions of his soulmate’s training…

Harrow laid his hand on her arm in warm, wordless reassurance. “What do you want to do?” he asked, quiet, and she sighed.

“I don’t know.” She admitted. In the end, it took a long talk with her sister before she made up her mind, and even then…it was hard to know what to do. How to react.

“He should know.” Was Amaya’s brusque opinion, expression laced with sympathy as she signed. “He’s a prince now, and he needs to know to watch his words around this soulmate of his. It’s a shame, but he’s hardly the first person to have an enemy for a soulmate.”

“There’s that.” Sarai agreed, glumly, and tried to stop worrying about what it meant for her son’s future, that his soulmate was an elf.

It was hard, telling him. Hard to sit him down and inform him, very seriously, that she was near certain that his soulmate was an elf. It was hard to watch the way his expression went…blank, almost. Closed-off, for a few seconds before it became confused and vulnerable instead.

“…What does this mean?” He asked, quiet, and she wasn’t sure what to tell him.

“It means that you need to be very, very careful what you tell her.” She said, in the end, because that was what she knew. “Her people are at war with ours, Callum. I won’t tell you to cut contact with her—she’s your soulmate. You couldn’t. But…” She exhaled, and shook her head. “I’ll get you some reading.”

She sent him off with a number of historical accounts about the tragedies of loyalty and heartbreak that could come from soulbonds divided by war, and wished that fate had been kinder.

 ---

 Callum was quiet for days, after he learned the truth. He read through the books his mother gave him, even though they were long with tiny script and big words that he didn’t know, and felt more and more upset at the possibilities they implied for his future.

His soulmate…was an enemy. An elf. One of the people Aunt Amaya called bloodthirsty monsters.

He was short and brusque in his replies to her, for a while. He looked at the almost purplish hue of the shared skin with new eyes, and wondered what she looked like. Did she have horns? Pointy ears? The wrong number of fingers and toes? He’d wondered what she looked like before, of course, but…never in terms of how inhuman she might look.

She caught on to his strange behaviour very quickly. Did something happen? She asked him, through their skin, her handwriting its familiar blocky scrawl. You’ve been all quiet.

He wasn’t sure what to say. Wasn’t sure how to reconcile his feelings towards Rayla, his closest friend and his soulmate, with the knowledge that she was an elf. Kind of, he wrote, in the end, heart heavy. He wished his mother hadn’t told him. He wished he didn’t know. I found some stuff out, and I don’t know what to think.

There was a pause while she washed the ink off. And then: Do you want to talk about it?

He didn’t. Not then. So he passed the following weeks, reading her usual reports of daily life, and wondering what exactly she was training for, day after day after day. Why such long hours, when she was so young? Who exactly was she planning on using those combat skills against?

They were heavy thoughts for a child as young as he was, but there was hardly any escaping them. He tried to focus on happier things, like his mother’s pregnancy, and the nigh arrival of his younger sibling. He tried to think of how Claudia was pretty and friendly and fun to talk to, and definitely wasn’t an elf. He tried to think of a lot of things that weren’t his soulmate, and failed fairly thoroughly.

In the end, after weeks of stilted conversation, he couldn’t take it anymore, and sat down with skin-ink and pen to write: You’re an elf, aren’t you.

She didn’t reply for a long time. But eventually, he felt the tickle of a pen-nib at the back of his hand, and retreated into private to peel off the glove. Yeah, she’d written, and nothing else. Not for a few minutes. Then: You’re a human.

It wasn’t a question. He hesitated, wiped off the ink, and wrote You knew?

Yeah, she said again, and then haltingly explained. Apparently, elves wrote their children’s names to their soulmates just like humans did, except they always included some sort of magic symbol, so her parents had known he was human the second his name came through without it.

He asked what hers was. He probably shouldn’t have, and she probably shouldn’t have answered, but she did. She drew a little symbol, and he took it carefully to his mother.

“Moonshadow elf,” she concluded, with honest sympathy, like someone offering condolences. “Like we thought. I’m sorry, Callum.”

‘I’m sorry’, like it was a death-sentence.

He sighed, and put his glove back on. “I’ll be careful.” He promised, quiet, and left to be alone.

 ---

 Both of them were quieter, after that. There was less idle chatter. Less writing about their days, their experiences, the things that annoyed them and the things they enjoyed. He still wrote—he didn’t think he could have stopped himself if he tried. But there was a wariness between them now that he hated.

Still. There were at least some advantages to having an elf on the other end of his soulbond. Investigating rumours, for one. My friend says elves drink blood, he wrote, one day, with a sort of morbid interest. Is that true?

What?? No!! She wrote, furiously, and then underlined it twice and circled it for good measure.

She reciprocated, sometimes.

Is it true humans have extra fingers? She asked, and he responded by drawing his hand onto the back of his hand. Weird, was her response to that, and despite everything, he couldn’t help but smile.

 ---

 I heard that in Xadia everything is magic, he wrote, one day. Is that true? What’s it like?

She hesitated a long while, then wrote I’m not supposed to talk about magic. Or Xadia.

It hurt, a little. But in the end, they both had their security lessons, and their people were still at war. There was nothing to be done.

Eventually, he wrote what had been on his mind for months, now. I wonder how we’ll meet, he said, with a twist of emotion that was half unease and half interest. It was on his mother’s mind, he knew, and it was certainly a thought he kept coming back to, for good reason.

Soulmates always met eventually, whether or not they contrived to. Even if they tried to avoid it…it would happen someday. His mother was worried about it. The circumstances under which a Prince of Katolis might meet an elf were almost exclusively unpleasant, after all. But he entertained childish thoughts of peace treaties and reconciliation, and clung to them, as unlikely as they might be.

I have no idea, Rayla answered him eventually, and he wondered if she was worried, too.

 ---

 The next year or so was eventful for both of them. Callum’s little brother was born, and he instantly became utterly enchanted with him. He wrote to Rayla at considerable length about how tiny his fingers and toes were, how fuzzy his hair was, how he didn’t have a soulmark yet at all. He never wrote his name, because names were forbidden, but Rayla seemed entertained enough by the stories anyway.

Some time later, Rayla went quiet for a while, and was plainly subdued by something. Eventually, she admitted that her parents had agreed to taking a job that meant they had to go away. She wouldn’t see them more than once a year now, if that. Whatever job it was, it was supposedly an honour; but that didn’t help how much she missed them. She was living with her uncles, now.

You can write letters to them, maybe? He suggested. It wasn’t as good as the real-time writing between soulmates, but it was better than nothing.

I guess, she said, but didn’t seem very enthusiastic about it. Her life changed, but Callum’s went on.

 ---

 And then Callum’s life shattered around him.

He shut himself in his room and cried for hours, burying his face in his hands, until tears were streaming between his fingers and his chest hurt and everything felt so awful he had no idea how to cope. How could he? She was gone.

Not much could carry across shared skin. But evidently, enough of the salt-water managed it for Rayla to be alarmed. By the time he checked what she’d written, the tears had smeared and diluted the inks, but the words were still recognisable. Is something wrong? She’d asked, hurried enough that it looked alarmed. Are you crying?

He nearly collapsed, when he went to get the inks. Could hardly see through tears when he wrote, lopsided and awful, My mom is dead. Writing it was terrible. An admission that it was real, it had happened, she was dead.

Rayla didn’t know what to say to that, and he could tell. She wrote I’m so sorry, Callum, and asked if there was anything she could do, if he wanted to talk about anything. But there wasn’t, and he didn’t. Mom was dead. What was there to talk about?

Eventually, perhaps for lack of anything else to try, Rayla drew him a little flower. She’d done it to try to make him feel better, and—and somehow, that made him start sobbing all over again.

A long way down the line, she asked him how it had happened. He couldn’t answer. Of course he couldn’t. That the Dragon King had killed her would reveal too much.

But saying ‘I can’t talk about that’ was revealing in its own way, too.

 ---

 Years passed them by. Callum slowly pieced his life back together around the hole his mother had left, and learned to cope with the loneliness of being without her. His brother grew, and started talking, and swiftly became the dearest person in Callum’s life…except, perhaps, for the elf on the other end of his soulbond.

In many ways, things stayed the same. Callum hated his training and Rayla loved hers. He loved drawing—and became very good at it—and Rayla continued to hate water. She remained as stubborn and headstrong as ever, and she remained his friend.

Sometimes, he had no idea what he’d do without her. Soren was kind of an unpleasant friend, most of the time, and Claudia was always too occupied with her books or lessons or brother to answer his attempts to socialise. He had Ezran, of course, but without Rayla…he could only imagine how lonely he’d have been.

Sometimes he remembered all over again that she was an elf, and felt weird about how much he depended on her.

He still wondered how they’d meet.

 ---

 King Harrow and Lord Viren, with very little warning, departed Katolis and rode into Xadia. There, they killed the Dragon King, and his son the Dragon Prince, and returned covered in a glory that Harrow’s bearing didn’t reflect. Callum wondered if the revenge had felt as hollow to enact as he felt to receive it. The one who killed mom is dead now, he thought, and didn’t feel vindicated. Didn’t feel happy. He just felt…empty. What was the use of it, so many years after her death? She was still dead.

He wished he could talk to Rayla about it. But if names were a forbidden topic, then revealing that his step-father had ridden into Xadia and killed their King…that was plainly out of the question. So he told her nothing.

He wondered if it was his imagination, that she’d grown quieter anyway. When she wrote, she seemed unhappy. Preoccupied, too.

Weeks passed, and she admitted that she was going to be travelling soon. She didn’t say why, or to where, or what for—all of that was proscribed. But she gave it as warning, anyway, that she’d be able to talk less while en route.

In the month that followed, the brevity of their contact left him lonelier than ever.

 ---

 “You must be careful, Rayla.” Runaan said to her, in private, where the other assassins couldn’t hear. “For the first time, you are venturing into the human kingdoms. You must take particular care to avoid meeting your soulmate.”

“Everyone meets their soulmate eventually.” She muttered back to him, fingers resting reflexively over the guard on her left hand.

He was unmoved. “Yes. But, with luck, you can avoid it taking place on this mission.”

It was, in fairness, a very important mission. She sighed. “I’ll do my best.” She promised, though it wasn’t exactly within her control.

When the Full Moon was nigh, and the bindings tight around her wrists, Rayla broke into Katolis Castle and went looking for her quarry.

The first non-soldier she found was a young human boy, maybe around her age. She didn’t know how old Prince Ezran was, but she knew he wasn’t an adult, and…according to what she’d been taught, this boy was wearing pretty high-quality clothes. If he wasn’t Ezran, he should at least know who was.

She chased him. She cornered him. He said, “I am Prince Ezran,” and looked up at her with a resolve and solemnity that didn’t quite manage to mask his fear.

It hit her, then, looking down the length of her blade towards the face of this human boy waiting to die. It hit her that—that he was afraid, that he didn’t want to die, that he was a person, as much as she was, as much as her soulmate was, he was a human just like Callum and she was here to kill him—

But…she had to do it. She had to. She’d bound herself, it was her mission, it was the justice that the Dragon Prince deserved. She had to.

It was in the midst of trying to talk herself into it, and him trying to talk her out of it, that a child’s voice emerged from behind a painting.

It said, “Callum”, and she only had a moment for her blood to freeze before, at her feet, the terrified human boy, the boy who had claimed to be Prince Ezran, the boy she’d been about to kill—

He answered. He responded. It was his name.

What were the chances that she’d meet someone named Callum—the correct age, the correct species, everything—and it wouldn’t be her soulmate?

The painting edged open, revealing a younger human boy with some sort of weird pet. A pet she’d heard descriptions of, held in the arms of a child she’d been hearing about since he was born, looking worriedly between her and the boy she had at swordpoint—

She realised she’d been frozen for too long. She realised that, one way or another, she had to be sure. She reached over, and hit herself hard on the back of her left hand.

The human, in an instant and involuntary motion, flinched and gripped the back of his own left hand. Her heart thudded, and— it only took him a second to realise—

His eyes went wide. He glanced wildly between her and his hand, undoubtedly registering that she was a Moonshadow elf, that she was the right age, that she was—

“Rayla?” He squeaked, and if she hadn’t already known for certain, that would have told her.

She lowered her sword, utterly struck by how much of a disaster this was.

“Shit.” She said, succinctly, and stared at the astounded face of her soulmate.

What in Xadia’s name was she supposed to do now?

 ---

 Notes:

I’ve adored this piece ever since I wrote it in Whenever, Early 2020. Really, really thrilled to be able to share it with everyone at last. As you can tell, it ends on a pretty rude cliffhanger. It’s always invited follow-up, and I think I knew from the moment I finished it that I’d be continuing it someday. And so I did! Eventually!!

According to my discord message history, I began writing chapter 2 in February this year, 2021. I probably wrote the following two chapters within a mad haze in the same week or two, knowing me. The chapters are uncharacteristically short, considering my usual habits, but it felt right for the story. I’ve completed up to the end of chapter 4, and have nothing written after that yet.

Minor edits have been made from the zine version, including some formatting, but nothing drastic. Writing this piece in general was a challenge. There was so much I wanted to include – about the differences in Callum’s life, about Ezran’s soulmate – that I had to cut out because of the word count restriction. Ultimately I opted not to edit that back in for the online version, and simply fill it in organically through the rest of the story. There’s some really interesting stuff, and the story as a whole is going to be wildly canon-divergent.

Some worldbuilding details: - platonic soulmates are considerably more common than romantic ones - there’s some cool weird soulmate metaphysics re: magic

I think I’ll keep it vague and let everyone discover how I’m doing soulmates for themselves, though. Hope everyone enjoyed! Would really love comments on this one; I’ve been waiting so long to share it and I’m so excited.

(also I’m fully aware that the fic’s acronym is ASS, and I’ve decided to embrace this)

[kumeko]

A/N: For the Tiny Lights, @hananene-zine! I wanted to do a little ‘spirited-away’ au (it works so well for the ship!) The amazing @blue-mooned made a beautiful piece to go with it, check it out!

Summary: Radish Legs didn’t like the butterflies she was getting from Hanako. Didn’t like how he teased her even as he helped her reclaim her name and her life. He was a spirit, a ghost, and she definitely wasn’t starting to like like him.

…

…

…

…

Over the past couple of weeks, Radish Legs had gotten used to many things, the least of which was her name change. She wasn’t sure what was more insulting about it: the fact that people thought her legs were fat or the notion that no one could come up with a better nickname. How could anyone look at her and not come up with a more beautiful name? She was gorgeous, damnit.

Maybe the guy who’d stolen her name was blind. Tsukasa Yugi was a spirit, after all, and there was no accounting for taste with them. Especially one as evil with him. Not only had he stolen her name, but he’d also turned her best friend into a pig. Well, actually, if she were honest, it was mostly her fault that Aoi had turned into a pig. It had been a little suspicious when they’d found those empty stalls filled with food, and Aoi had been right when she’d wanted to go back. If she hadn’t convinced her to eat, maybe they’d be home right now.

Instead, Aoi was in a pig pen and Radish Legs was sitting on a furry rabbit-like thing as she flew hundreds of miles over the earth. Clutching the fur tightly, she leaned over and peeked at the ground below. The houses looked like ants from this height, and she swallowed as she sat straight once more. If she fell, they’d have to call her Pancake Girl. “You sure this is safe?”

On her right, Hanako shrugged. He was the exact mirror image of Tsukasa, though while the short hair gave his twin an eviller look, Hanako looked more boyish. As usual, there was a mischievous twinkle in his eyes as he asked, “Is anything safe, really?”

“Hanako,” she warned, not in the mood for another one of his jokes. However cute he was (and boy was he cute, Radish Girl had to remind herself that even if he looked like he was her age, he was a spirit and was probably a zillion years older than her), his attitude was barely tolerable when they had the solid ground beneath them. Soaring high in the sky, she refused to play along. “I don’t want to die.”

“Would it really be that bad?” He reached out, placing a hand on hers and squeezing it lightly. For a spirit, his skin was warm, and she blushed. “We could hang out even longer.”

“Hanako,” she growled, glaring at him. She didn’t move her hand, however.

“Don’t worry so much.” Laughing, he leaned back and stared at the sky. She missed his touch immediately. “Mokka are a reliable transport. It’ll get us back on time.”

“Right, the test.” Radish Legs rubbed her arms, remembering now just why they were in such a rush to get back to the bathhouse. This was perhaps her only chance to escape all this madness and get home. “Your brother…what do you think the test’ll be?”

“Mmm, well, it’s going to be something really tricky, because he’s sneaky like that.” Hanako tapped his chin, considering the question seriously. She wondered if he realized he was just as sly as his brother. At least Hanako wasn’t as malicious. “You remember your name, right?”

Radish Legs nodded, patting her chest. Tucked inside an inner pocket was her birthday card from Aoi, her name carefully scrawled across the cover. Nene. The name felt foreign now, after weeks of Radish Legs, and she resisted the urge to say it aloud, to remind herself how it sounded, how it tasted. Until she defeated Tsukasa’s test, her name had to remain a secret.

“Good.” Hanako smiled, and his expression is genuine now. He took her hand again, this time tenderly. Intertwining their fingers, he continued. “Then all you have to do is save your friend and you’ll get home.” His thumb stroked her skin and he lowered his eyes. Wistfully, he asked, “You could stay, you know. Save your friend and then stay here.”

“I…” Radish Legs swallowed. He wasn’t her type, she reminded herself. She was into dashing princes, the ones so handsome you couldn’t believe they were real. Not the all too close boy-next-door, the kind of guy that grew on her until she couldn’t remember what it was like without him. His eyes were so big, she could see her reflection in them. Biting her lip, Radish Legs stared at their clasped hands. It was strange, she had a feeling they’d held hands like this before. Long ago, when spirits were still just silly stories.

Before she could sort herself out, Hanako laughed and let go. “I’m just teasing. You can’t stay here. After the mess you made cleaning, Tsukasa’s gonna kick you out himself.”

“Jeez, stop making fun of me,” Radish Legs pouted, ignoring the way her heart sank. No, scratch that, her heart didn’t sink at all. She didn’t care about him in the least. She was a stone, she was a rock, and she was going to grab Aoi and leave the second she could.

“It was a parting gift. I can’t do it anymore after you leave, after all.” Shielding his eyes, he squinted as he stared into the distance. It wasn’t long before he broke into a smile. “We’re almost there!”

“That was so quick!” Incredulous, Radish Legs leaned forward, eyes narrowing until she could barely make out the shape of Tsukasa’s bathhouse. It would never be home, but she felt a sense of relief as they got closer. The spirit world was vast, and this was the one small part she knew. “I should have just taken a Mokke when I left.”

Hanako snorted. Patting her back, he stated bluntly, “You would have crashed.”

“I…” She couldn’t entirely deny it. It wasn’t like her time in the spirit world had been smooth in the least. Even the simplest of jobs, cleaning a tub, had gone awry because of some pesky spirits. Actually, almost every task she’d been given had gone wrong one way or another. “I could have managed,” she mumbled lamely.

Chuckling, Hanako took her hand again. He was so touchy feely like that, constantly liking having some contact with her. Hand holding was easier for her heart than his hugging, at least, but that didn’t make her pulse race any slower. “Alright, ready?”

And again, this sensation was familiar. Someone had held her hand like this before, guiding her. She had been younger then, much younger, and wandering around a shrine at night. No, that wasn’t right. Nene frowned, her nose scrunching as she forced herself to remember. It had felt like a shrine, but it had happened at a school. A fourth step she shouldn’t have stepped on.

She turned to ask Hanako but froze as she stared at the seal on his cheek. Suddenly, he wasn’t wearing a white haori but instead black school clothes. Her own pink outfit faded away into her elementary uniform. His hand held hers tightly as they navigated through a shrine filled with dolls.

You shouldn’t have stepped on that fourth step, he muttered, giving her a wry smile. But I guess you couldn’t help it with those radish legs of yours.

“Radish Legs?”

“Radish Legs? Hello?”

“I don’t have fat legs!” Radish Legs roared, pulling herself out of her memory and into the present.

Hanako blinked, eyes wide as he let go of her hand. He was wearing his white haori again, just as she was her high school self again. Rubbing the back of his head, he muttered, “Damn, you’re scary.”

She should be angrier at that, but Radish Legs discarded her rage and instead grabbed his shoulders. “I know who you are!”

“It’d be a problem if you got amnesia now,” Hanako joked, his expression bemused.

“No, not that—your name is Amane Yugi!” Radish Legs announced triumphantly. All this time, she’d had a strange feeling that they’d met before and now she knew why. “You died at my school and now you’re Hanako, the toilet ghost. You saved me one time when I got trapped in a school mystery.”

“Huh? I…” Hanako’s eyes widened as he processed her words. “Amane?” Something must have clicked in him somewhere because he started to repeat the word, saying his name over and over again. “I’m Amane. Amane. I…” He smiled brightly. “I’m a school mystery!”

As soon as he announced it, the Mokke shrank and they were no longer flying but falling. It was so sudden that Radish Legs didn’t even have a chance to scream before gravity yanked her down. Her hands were still on Hanako’s—no Amane’s shoulders and he grabbed her waist, keeping her close. “Nene! You did it!”

“Nene?” It had been so long since she’d heard it, but that was her name. Not Radish Legs, but Nene. “That’s me!”

“And I’m Amane!” He laughed as they plummeted. “I have my name back! And you…you might be bigger now but you’re just as clumsy, huh?”

Indignant, she bit out, “Hey! Who saved you? ME!”

“That’s true. I guess you paid me back, huh?” He pulled her closer, until they touched foreheads. For a ghost, he felt all too real. “Thanks, Nene.”

Flustered, she could only nod. He was close, far too close, and smiling like that was unfair. If Amane asked for anything now, she could only say yes.

Luckily, he didn’t realize it. Instead, he slowed down their fall and hugged her tight. Before she could protest, he started flying them back to the bathhouse. And if she nestled his arms a little, buried her head into his chest, well, he didn’t say anything about it.

Suddenly, she wished they’d taken the train back to the bathhouse. It might have been long enough for her to figure out how to say goodbye.

[cruelangelstheses]

The First Rule of Fright Club

fandom: bang dream rating: G characters: hello happy world words: 2.1k additional tags: halloween, haunted houses, canon compliant, fluff, humor description: at a haunted house, the members of hello happy world encounter a familiar face. a/n: hi!! this was written for the @bandori-zine for autumn!! it’s the perfect time for me to post this, to commemorate the start of spooky season! i love harohapi so much <3

read it on ao3

—

It’s a Saturday evening in mid-October, and Misaki can feel the chill of fall firmly setting in. She buttons up her denim jacket most of the way and pulls her beanie over her ears. It’s cooler now that the sun has mostly set, and the breeze doesn’t help matters, either. Kokoro, of course, is taking all of this in stride.

“Wow! It’s so dark and spooky out! It’s perfect for a haunted mansion!”

Misaki doesn’t think Kokoro completely understands that the haunted mansion they’re going to isn’t actually haunted, that it’s just an attraction with actors and creepy decorations, but she’s long given up trying to explain these things to her. Besides, Kokoro doesn’t seem to be afraid of anything. She looks at everything and everyone as though they’re her best friends, or have the potential to be.

“Yeah!” Hagumi agrees. “I wonder what kind of creatures we’ll see there!” She wrings her hands, which are covered with light gloves that serve more as fashion than warmth. “You don’t think they’ll try to eat us, do you?”

“Of course not!” Kokoro replies confidently as they reach the entrance of Halls of Horror. It looks like an old, abandoned mansion, the kind that are always in horror movies, though Misaki is pretty sure that it was just designed to look that way to add to the atmosphere. Regardless, it’s certainly working; Misaki still isn’t sure if she really wants to go in, but she agreed to come along anyway, if only for Kanon’s sake.

“Mi...Misaki-chan?” Kanon whispers. “We’ll be okay, right?”

Misaki smiles and tries to put on a brave act. “Of course. It’s all fake anyway, and these actors are trained. They know what they’re doing.”

Kanon takes a deep breath, twiddling her fingers nervously. “Okay.”

It’s just the four of them tonight, though Kaoru was invited. If only I could accompany you on this thrilling adventure! she had said earlier, with her signature dramatic flair. Alas, I have a previous engagement that I must attend to this evening. Misaki half-suspects that Kaoru just made that up so she wouldn’t have to go through a haunted house. She tries to act brave, and it fools a lot of people, but Misaki has figured out by now that she’s actually afraid of spooky things like bats and monsters. It’s kind of endearing. Kind of.

“I wish Michelle had been able to come,” Hagumi says as they hop into the line to be admitted into the mansion.

“Maybe she and Kaoru-san are both doing the same thing,” Misaki suggests. Her excuse for why Michelle couldn’t come had been vague, because usually that’s all it takes to explain her absence.

Kokoro grins at that. “Oh! If they are, then I hope they’re having a great time!” she says. “Maybe we can trade stories tomorrow at practice!”

The line moves fairly quickly, so they’re at the front and paying the admission before they know it. Instinctively, Misaki takes a few steps closer to Kokoro and Hagumi, and Kanon follows suit, so that they’re all sort of huddled together, like penguins. It makes her feel safer somehow, even though she knows it’s stupid to be nervous in the first place.

Unfortunately, the haunted house is designed mostly for single-file lines, so they can’t group together for long. As they follow the people in front of them into the haunted house, Kokoro takes the lead, naturally, with Hagumi right behind her, Kanon next, and Misaki bringing up the rear. She can’t help the shiver that runs down her spine when they enter the darkness.

As her eyes adjust to the dim light, Misaki can see that they seem to be in some sort of foyer adorned with old furniture, strange paintings on the walls, and cobwebs in every corner. Most of it is inaccessible to them, forcing them to continue their one-way journey, and a pair of actors dressed in old, ripped-up tuxedos reach out to touch them as they pass. Their hands and faces look like rotting flesh, and most of their teeth seem to be either yellowed or gone. “Oh! Hello there!” Kokoro says when one of the men hisses and grabs her shoulder. “You don’t look so good. Are you feeling sick? I know some people who can get you fixed right up!”

“Uh,” Hagumi says worriedly, grabbing onto Kokoro’s other arm and pulling lightly, “I don’t think they want to talk, Kokoron! Let’s keep going!”

Misaki laughs sheepishly as they pass by the men and exit the foyer. Sometimes she wishes Kokoro would just get scared like a normal person; it’s embarrassing to have to drag her away from any enemy or monster because she doesn’t understand the concept of danger.

In the next room, a living area decorated in a fashion similar to the foyer, three “vampires” with razor-sharp fangs and blood running down the sides of their mouths discuss which one of the girls would be the best snack. “I’d take the little one,” one says, grinning and pointing at Hagumi as she follows Kokoro into the next hallway. “Short hair doesn’t get in the way as much.” The vampire makes a slurping sound, and Hagumi covers her neck with her hands protectively. Misaki still can’t figure out whether or not Hagumi realizes that the monsters aren’t real.

As Kanon and Misaki approach the doorway leading into the hall, a fourth vampire jumps out from a dark corner and startles them, hissing and laughing. They both yelp and grab onto each other for safety, then rush into the hallway behind Kokoro and Hagumi. “Th-that was scary!” Kanon whispers.

“Yeah,” Misaki says dismissively, trying not to show that it rattled her. “But it’s fine. None of it’s real.”

The rest of the haunted house proceeds in a similar fashion, with a few jump scares here and there, an assortment of elaborately decorated rooms, and realistic-looking actors dressed up as various spooky characters, from a man with a chainsaw to a mime. Kanon and Hagumi seem to be enjoying themselves despite the frightening atmosphere, which might be due in part to Kokoro’s antics. She still hasn’t quite grasped that the “monsters” are supposed to be malicious and scary and certainly not friendly.

“Ooh!” she says to the man with a chainsaw as he revs it up threateningly. “That’s a really big chainsaw! I bet you can cut a lot of wood with that!”

“Wood’s not the only thing I use it for,” the man replies ominously.

“Oh, I bet!” Kokoro says as they pass him and head into the next area. “You could probably cut anything with something like that!”

Despite herself, Misaki laughs and shakes her head. Part of her is thankful for Kokoro’s unwavering positivity—it keeps her spirits light, keeps her from getting too sucked into the mansion’s horrors. Not that she’d ever admit that.

One of the last rooms they enter is an old, ornate-looking bedroom covered in cobwebs. Hanging on the walls are old photographs of a young woman with three children. Misaki can hear the voice of a woman, moaning slowly and laboriously, as if in deep pain, but she can’t figure out where it’s coming from—there’s nothing in the room. Kanon huddles closer to her, glancing back and forth around the room. “What is that?” she whispers.

“I don’t know,” Misaki says. She can hear the voice getting louder and more intense, as if the woman’s pain is worsening.

The lights in the bedroom, already dim, start to flicker on and off. The woman’s voice feels closer, but Misaki can’t pinpoint where it’s coming from. Her heart feels like it’s jumped up into her throat. Then the doors of a closet hidden in the corner burst open, and a tall, ghostly figure jumps out, wailing and crying, a thin veil covering her face.

All four of the girls scream in various states of shock and terror, holding onto each other for protection. Then, after a half second of silence, Kokoro says, breathless, “Wow! You definitely startled us, Ghost! You’re really good at this!”

Misaki feels her heart start to return to its rightful place in her chest. She’s not sure whether to laugh or cry in disbelief.

The phantom woman sighs and puts a hand to her heart. “How flattering,” she says, “but I fear that frightening you has done naught to ease my sorrow.”

“Oh, no!” Kokoro says. “What are you sad about?”

“My children,” the woman replies, “my children were taken away from me. But I suffer a most miserable curse—I cannot leave this house, nay, even this room, to search for them. I wish and wait every night for them to return to me, but alas...they never have.” She puts the back of her hand against her forehead, a gesture Misaki has seen a certain someone perform many times, both in plays and musicals and in casual conversation, when saying something that she thinks is particularly tragic.

Wait a minute. That voice, that manner of speech…

“Well, that’s no fun at all!” Kokoro says with a frown. She glances over at the door to the exit. “I don’t think we can stay for much longer, but I want to help. I want to make you smile!”

The “ghost” sighs again. “I appreciate the sentiment, but I know that you must depart, and so I have a favor to ask of you. If you should stumble upon any of my dear children in your travels...I implore you, little kitten, bring them to me.”

Little kitten.

Kokoro nods furiously. “Oh! I definitely will! I swear I’ll help you smile again!”

With that, she leads the group out of the bedroom and through the doorway. To Misaki’s surprise, they find themselves not in another room, but outside, stepping into a chilly fall evening. “Whew!” Hagumi says, pulling her gloves out of her jacket pockets and slipping them back onto her hands. “That was scary...but it was really fun!”

“Y-yeah,” Kanon agrees with a tiny smile. “I liked it.”

“Great!” Kokoro says, turning around to face the group. “Hey, hey, Misaki, what did you think?”

Misaki smiles awkwardly. “Oh, uh, I had fun.” It’s true, actually—she did have fun, more than she’s willing to let on—but it still comes out sounding sort of like she’s faking it.

Kokoro, of course, remains oblivious, or seemingly so. “Good!” she says, turning back around and leading them out onto the main street. “It’s too bad that Kaoru and Michelle weren’t here. We’ll have to tell them all about it!”

Misaki bites her lip. Yeah. Uh. About that.

As they walk, Kanon falls back with Misaki, a few paces behind Kokoro and Hagumi, who are recounting their favorite parts of the evening. “Misaki-chan,” she says quietly. “Did you...notice anything about the...the ghost?”

Misaki raises an eyebrow. “You mean like how she talked and acted a lot like Kaoru-san?”

Kanon breathes a sigh of relief, as if she was afraid she was the only one who had noticed. “Yeah, that. I guess that was the…the ‘previous engagement’ she mentioned.”

Misaki laughs a little. “That girl couldn’t turn down an acting job to save her life.”

Kanon hesitates before nodding at Kokoro and Hagumi. “We’re not going to tell them, will we?”

Misaki shakes her head. “That’s Kaoru-san’s secret to keep. Or give away. We’ll let her decide when the time comes.”

—

The next day at Kokoro’s house, before the start of band practice, Kokoro and Hagumi catch Kaoru up to speed on their exciting night. Misaki hasn’t changed into her Michelle suit yet, so she doesn’t have to pretend like she doesn’t know what they’re talking about, though she’s sure they’ll retell the whole story for her once she’s inside the bear. Kaoru, on the other hand, listens intently to the girls’ descriptions, as if she isn’t intimately familiar with Halls of Horror and all its surprises.

“And then,” Kokoro says, “at the very end, there was this ghost woman who really scared us! But it turned out that she was just lonely and sad. So now I’m keeping an eye out for her children so that she can be happy again!” She puts her hands on her hips and puffs out her chest in determination. “She was really tall. And she called me ‘little kitten,’ just like you say, Kaoru!”

Kaoru chuckles nervously. “Oh, she did?”

“Yeah!” Kokoro says. “I guess I must resemble a kitten somehow, since multiple people have called me one.”

Misaki can practically feel Kaoru’s inward sigh of relief, and she has to suppress the urge to snort. Instead, she exchanges a knowing glance with Kanon, who simply smiles back at her. At least now she’s not the only one in the band with a secret identity, but she doubts Kaoru will ever figure that out.

[fucking-zawa-sensei]

Just a Push

Title: Just a Push

Pairing: erasermic

WC: 4,900+

Rating: G

Summary:

He throws punch after punch, but Hizashi ducks away from each one, blocking with his arms, redirecting each swing into open air.

Shouta could feel the gap opening up between them, feel the Earth falling apart, crumbling and disappearing down the crater. He could feel Hizashi getting further and further from him.

Notes:

This was originally written for a zine that didn’t come to fruition, but I am very happy it gave me the opportunity and inspiration to write this piece.

Read it on AO3 here

Just a Push

He’d started on his own.

Every Wednesday after they wrapped up their hero class, when his other classmates slinked back to the changing rooms much slower than they’d come hurrying out for the day’s lesson, Shouta lingered behind.

Already dressed in his sport uniform, it made sense.

He knew his quirk was good, but not good enough to make him valuable to the agencies the other students so desperately wanted to make notice them. He knew he wouldn’t end up with someone offering to finance him a fancy new costume, or give him enough for a halfway decent place to live past graduation.

Before he’d even decided to try and enter the hero course, before he’d even applied to U.A., he knew where heroes like he ended up.

His quirk was good, but not good enough to keep him alive.

Not on its own, anyway.

At some point, his teacher had stopped casting looks over their shoulder, stopped asking if he was going to go back to the locker room with his classmates. This was Shouta’s routine.

Just him, the training field, and as much sweat and fear he could leave behind as he worked his muscles until he could almost feel them tearing and rebuilding just beneath his skin.

He needed to push himself harder than anyone here.

He wasn’t going to be like them, in the spotlight, donning their shiny new suits, practicing the correct way to answer a reporter in their mirrors at home.

He was going to be underground.

As he leans down, stretching his arms over his head to touch his toes, feeling his back twitch at the sore, tight feeling he forces himself past, having overdone it a bit in the day’s lesson, he hears some distant shuffling. He keeps his head down, hair falling over the sides of his face and blocking out his peripheral vision, and the distinct sound of shoes crunching grass gets closer and closer, until it’s just a few feet away.

Then it stops.

Shouta lets go of the tips of his shoes, straightening out. He lets his hands fall to his sides. Turning his head, he sees an unmistakable head of blond hair and orange tinted glasses beside him.

“Yamada…”

The other boy grins and waves, then spreads his legs and begins doing the most basic of all stretches, touching first his right foot, swinging back up to a straight position, and then going back down to touch his left.

Shouta rolls his eyes.

“What are you doing?” Shouta asks, pushing himself off the ground.

“Loosening up!” Hizashi throws his arms up above his head and makes a show of leaning into the motion, groaning as it pulls his back muscles.

“For what?”

“Training.”

“You’re training? Here?” Shouta asks, placing his hand on his hip. Hizashi huffs and lets his arms fall down to his sides.

“Yeah! Well, I see you out here all the time doing more training, so I thought I could afford to put in some extra effort too, right?”

Shouta frowns.

Hizashi was at the top of their class. He most certainly did not need extra training. He was well on his way to having every agency in the city throwing themselves at him, begging for him to choose them as his internship.

“Not really…” Shouta mumbles. Hizashi’s eyebrows pull together and he tilts his head a bit, but when his mouth opens, Shouta turns away, walking several feet to put more distance between them.

“Just stay over there and don’t make too much noise,” Shouta calls over his shoulder.

To Shouta’s surprise, Hizashi does as he’s told, and the two spend an hour training in a comfortable silence, filled only with the sounds of their limbs moving through the air and the heavy breathing that comes with a good work out. He’d never tell the other boy, but there was something nice about the way Hizashi started running just a few feet behind him when Shouta finished his exercises with a few laps around the field. The blond kept a good distance, and when they finished, he did nothing more than offer Shouta a sip from his water bottle, which after only eying for a few seconds, he graciously accepted.

Hizashi and he had developed some sort of camaraderie since the sports festival. He ate lunch with the other boy and his two friends every day, and was always pulled into Hizashi’s group for projects. Shouta hadn’t really cared much about making friends at his previous school, so it was hard to judge just how close they were, for him at least, but if someone asked him...well...he supposed he’d have to say Hizashi was his best friend.

Still, while the loud boy was capable of making Shouta smile, and even on occasion laugh, there was a tender sort of rivalry bubbling beneath the surface of their friendship. Shouta was pretty sure that Hizashi didn’t feel it, couldn’t possibly be aware of the way the rest of the class fawned over him to his face, but looked on with jealousy the second Hizashi turned his back. Shouta saw.

Just like that, Hizashi inserted himself into Shouta’s after class training day after day, week after week, staying behind and pushing himself just as hard as the other boy. Shouta had originally thought it was just an excuse to hang out, Hizashi was rather nosey about Shouta’s life and hobbies in their breaks between classes, so he wouldn’t put it past the other boy to tag along during Shouta’s training just to dig further.

Yet, that didn’t seem to be the case.

As time went on, they started doing stretches together, even assisting one another, pushing on each other’s backs to help pull the muscles farther, rubbing their thumbs into each other’s shoulders to loosen out knots. They usually exchanged some small talk, about class or homework, something funny Hizashi had heard on the radio show he listened to on his way to school every morning, or the latest upper class gossip Nemuri had brought to the lunch table with her the day before.

It was nice.

It almost made Shouta want to take back the rule he’d set up on the first day, demanding Hizashi keep quiet, but working together without exchanging any words also brought a certain peacefulness.

Where the lack of noise might have bothered some, Shouta’s quiet nature had definitely seemed to make his other classmates uncomfortable in the past, here it did the opposite. It made him feel incredibly close to Hizashi.  

Slowly, Hizashi began running beside him, and somewhere along the lines, throwing punches at targets and bags had turned to sparring with each other, connecting fists with open palms and dodging kicks.

When their teacher had spent a class going over the need for mutual trust and respect when working in partnerships with other heroes, asking the students to pair up for an exercise at the end, Shouta had turned to Hizashi first, not waiting for the blond to pick him as a partner the way he normally did.

Without thinking, his body had decided, I trust you.

Hizashi had grinned and pushed his desk to touch Shouta’s, signaling to the rest of the students that they had selected their team.

In the past, when Shouta passed classmates in the halls and heard whispers of Hizashi’s name, people saying they wished they had been born with such a quirk, that Hizashi was so lucky, he felt a tightness in his chest. He’d sometimes, guiltily, shamefully thought me too. Even if he never wanted that ideal, media focused hero life, a quirk like Hizashi’s would have made getting into U.A. easier.

Now, though, he felt something different.

He felt a sharp pang, felt his teeth immediately going to bite at the inside of his cheek, felt his face shifting into a glare as he stared at the tiled floor and passed them by while willing himself not to turn around and confront them.

It took him too long to figure out that what he was feeling was protectiveness, that he wanted tell them, you’re wrong.

Hizashi wasn’t born lucky.

He worked his ass off just like the rest of them.

He just didn’t complain like the rest of them.

It took a while, but Shouta saw it too, jealousy, that dark, poisonous emotion. When Shouta’s punches hit harder, faster, he saw Hizashi’s eyes glaze over briefly with envy.

Hizashi wouldn’t need to rely as much on his body for taking down villains, not with a long distance quirk, but he still seemed to want to have the option, to be as tough as Shouta. When the blond’s arms weren’t doing what he asked of them, Shouta saw that frustration he was all too familiar with himself.

Hizashi plastered on smiles and loud laughs, but he had the same fears they all had.

Shouta respected that.

Which was why today, when Hizashi was doubled over, hands on his knees, head hanging low as he panted after losing another hand on hand combat match, Shouta decided to throw away that dumb rule.

“I can give you tips, if you want.”

Hizashi lifts his head, raising one brow.

“Huh?”

“Your form...I can help you out. I can teach you what I know. I can teach you to beat me.”

Hizashi snorts, straightening up, and wiping the back of his hand across his forehead.

“If we were using our quirks I cou-”

“I would erase yours and then...what? We’d be back here...you losing every match.”

Hizashi’s face falls. He looks away and Shouta is glad, not for the first time, that Hizashi takes off his glasses when they spar. There was a remarkable amount of emotion hidden in those green eyes of his. It seemed to Shouta that half the reason Hizashi probably wore tinted glasses was to hide that, keep his true self masked under all the layers of brightly colored glass.

“Yeah...I know...I’m useless without my quirk.”

The words were barely whispered, but they felt heavy and loud in the space between their bodies.

Shouta looks down to the grass, gaze shifting over the blades that had been flattened under their shoes during their fight.

“If that were true, I wouldn’t be out here every day trying so hard…” Shouta admits. He hears Hizashi shift, but stays looking at the ground. “I can take away someone’s quirk, but I can’t make them less strong. If they’re better than me at their base power, I’ll always lose.”

Shouta lifts his head, meeting Hizashi’s gaze.

“You aren’t nothing without your quirk, Yamada.”

Hizashi’s eyes widen and he looks away again, turning his whole body. For a second, Shouta thinks the other boy’s cheeks look a little pink, but then again, the sun was beginning to set and they had just been working out for an hour.

“T-thanks…thanks, Aizawa. That means a lot.”

“Sh-”

Shouta almost thinks to tell him, you can call me Shouta, but his mouth snaps shut instead. Hizashi looks at him, his face questioning, and Shouta panics.

“Sh-shouldn’t we head back?”

“Ah? Oh, yeah, I guess so! It’s late!” Hizashi says, smiling. “I’m hungry...do you want to stop and grab something to eat on the way home?”

“Sure,” Shouta agrees before he can even fully process what Hizashi has asked. He’s a little surprised by his own easy answer, normally avoiding any invitations to spend extra time with people after school hours, but he’d technically been doing that with Hizashi for weeks already as is.

He was hungry, too, after all.

It made sense.

It was the logical thing to do.

An hour later, laughing so hard his chest hurts as Hizashi frantically wipes up the table where he’d spilled a whole bottle of soy sauce, Shouta forgets all about logic.

---

A few months pass and something shifts in their after class workout routine. It starts just before their finals exams, when test grades have started rolling in and their teachers were dropping hints about the physical portion every chance they had, trying to throw the kids off, while simultaneously trying to make them cave to the paranoia.

After breaking their shared silence and offering to give Hizashi more direction, their training had become more lax, as well as stricter. They teased each other and joked around, but also bickered about form and points, saying things like, you didn’t hit me, or, that was a foul, you didn’t give enough warning.

Shouta spent increasingly more time with Hizashi inside and outside of class, listening to the blond chatter about whatever interesting thing he’d seen on his way to school in the morning, Shouta sharing his own stories about the stray cat that he was trying to lure into his house, and walking partway home with Hizashi at night. They’d occasionally stop for a snack, or walk around the local shopping district, Shouta watching as Hizashi pressed his face against the window of the music store, promising the crystal blue guitar that was always propped up in the display for the 100th time that he would, “be back to bring you home!”

On the field, though, things were different. That carefree, easy flow of conversation they’d developed had vanished. Something had shifted.

The little flutter that was growing in Shouta’s chest every time Hizashi pulled his sleeve to get his attention during class was still present, but overshadowed by the increasing need to prove himself to Hizashi, to show him that he was stronger.

He wanted to be number one just as much as any other kid in their class.

Hell, he probably wanted it more, had to prove himself more.

It was obvious when Hizashi started taking their exercises more seriously, when the exams started weighing down on him as well. Shouta hadn’t realized they were so evenly matched before, hadn’t quite noted the strides Hizashi had made since Shouta started instructing him.

As the blond’s fist comes hurtling toward him, as he nearly dodges too late, Hizashi’s knuckles brushing along his cheek, Shouta realizes they might not just be evenly matched.

There was a real chance that Hizashi was better than him.

Something about the thought was rippling under his skin this afternoon, their physical exam was next week and their paper test scores had been released. Hizashi was at the top of the class, as usual.

A brilliant mind, he’d overheard one teacher say, that one has a brilliant mind.

Shouta saw, though, the little twitch at the corner of Hizashi’s eye, when he’d seen that Tayama, the girl in second place, had scored just one point less than him.

At the time, Shouta had thought, who cares? All he could see was his own slightly above average score, settling him just higher than the majority of the class, but still far below where he’d needed to be.

Shouta lunges forward, swinging his leg out to catch underneath Hizashi’s, but the other boy jumps up and lands perfectly back down on the grass, avoiding the swipe.

It wasn’t fair.

It wasn’t fair for Hizashi to be smart and strong.

Shouta narrows his eyes, grunting, and dives at Hizashi.

He’d taught the other boy.

It wasn’t fair for him to surpass Shouta.

It wasn’t fair.

He throws punch after punch, but Hizashi ducks away from each one, blocking with his arms, redirecting each swing into open air.

Shouta could feel the gap opening up between them, feel the Earth falling apart, crumbling and disappearing down the crater. He could feel Hizashi getting further and further from him.

In his mind, he could see all the letters the other boy would get, see the internship requests flowing in.

Most of the best agencies were miles and miles away, multiple towns over. Hizashi would be living in a big city soon enough.

Shouta quickly crouches down when Hizashi goes in for a right hook, grabbing the blond around the waist and shoving him backwards, but Hizashi digs his heels in, doesn’t move.

It wasn’t fair.

Shouta bites his bottom lip.

If Hizashi was so much better than him already, why was he even out here? Why were they even doing this?

Shouta throws his whole weight into Hizashi, keeps pushing him backward, the slightly taller boy stumbles a bit before regaining his footing. His arms come down on Shouta’s shoulders, he groans as he tries to shove Shouta off, his fingernails gripping Shouta’s shirt and trying desperately to pull him back.

Shouta knew the truth.

He just didn’t want to admit it.

That the reason it hurt, the reason he couldn’t be proud of bringing Hizashi so far, the reason he was carelessly scratching at the blond’s back as he tried to shove him to the ground, was not because he wanted to be number one.

Shouta tucks his head into Hizashi’s chest, cries out as he gives another harsh push, and the other boy finally goes tumbling backwards, landing hard on his back. Shouta hears the air rush out of Hizashi’s lungs, feels the thud of the ground meeting muscle and skin vibrate through the blond’s ribcage and into Shouta’s own.

Shouta wasn’t jealous.

He just didn’t want Hizashi to not need him anymore.

It takes him a second to recognize the weak patting on his back is Hizashi’s hand quickly tapping out against his spine.

“O-oh!” Shouta says, still gasping a bit from the adrenaline rushing through his veins, rolling off of Hizashi and sitting up beside him. He kneels next to Hizashi’s head and watches helplessly as the other boy’s face scrunches up in pain, both of his hands pressed against his chest. It takes a few long seconds for Hizashi to suck in a deep breath, and then he’s turning over on his side and coughing, shifting his hands to wrap his arms around his aching body.

“Shit, shit, I’m sorry,” Shouta starts apologizing, one hand flying up to grab at his hair. He hadn’t meant to actually hurt Hizashi. He’d gone too hard. He’d let his emotions get the best of him and now Hizashi was curled up in a ball wheezing and it was his fault.

Shit.

Hizashi shakes his head against the ground, barely gets out, “S’okay…”

“It’s not okay...look at you…”

Hizashi cracks an eye open and shoots Shouta one of his signature smiles, except one side of his mouth is twitching, and it very quickly drops back down into a grimace. Hizashi takes another shaky breath and his whole body vibrates with it.

“Maybe we should go to Recovery Girl’s.”

“I’m f-fine.”

“You look like you can’t breathe,” Shouta says, brows pulled together in worry as Hizashi continues to cradle his chest. “You’re in the fetal position.”

“It’s...it’s a good...a good position,” Hizashi tries to joke, but between his raspy breaths it isn’t having the effect it normally does.

“We’re going to Recovery Girl’s,” Shouta insists.

Hizashi closes his eyes and frowns.

“I will carry you there if I have to, Yamada.”

“Hizashi.”

Shouta’s eyes widen.

What? Now?

Of all the times Hizashi could do this, could tell Shouta that he could call the other boy by his first name...now?

Shouta quickly stands up to try and hide the blush he feels quickly overtaking his cheeks.

“H-Hizashi, can you walk?” he asks the clouds, staring up at them rather than looking down at his suffering friend.

He might have broken one of the other boy’s ribs and here he was, unable to look at him.

“Yeah,” Hizashi whispers, placing a hand on the ground to push up. Shouta’s eyes snap back down to the other boy when he hears the little grunt Hizashi lets out, he immediately starts helping him up. He’d been expecting Hizashi to be mad, to shove away his hands, but he just smiles and mutters out a thank you.

“I’m so sorry,” Shouta says again.

“It’s fine, it’s fine!” Hizashi insists, breathing a little better now that he’s standing. “Someone was bound to get hurt at some point, right?”

No.

They’d been plenty careful before this point, had known when to stop. Shouta knew. He knew he should have backed out of the hold, that it wasn’t working, that he needed to find another way to get Hizashi to tap out safely, but he’d kept pushing and pushing until the blond broke.

Shouta glares at the ground as they walk in silence to Recovery Girl’s office, shoving his hands in his pockets.

If he wanted Hizashi to stay so bad, beating him up certainly wasn’t the way to do it.

It’s late, and when they arrive, Recovery Girl looks like she’s getting ready to pack up and head home. Any extracurricular activities were usually wrapped up by now. Shouta had his suspicions that she knew Hizashi and he were out there training together, that she never left her office before they stepped off the field, but he’d never said anything to her.

She turns around as the door opens, pouts at Hizashi’s pained face and glares at Shouta’s guilty one.

Shouta automatically finds the nearest wall to stand by, trying to melt into it, not call attention to him, but it’s an impossible feat with Recovery Girl. She knew how to make anyone feel bad for being reckless, especially when it was with someone else’s well being.

“I was wondering when the day would come that one of you would end up in here because of your little after hours fight club out there,” she says, waving her hand dismissively at the window.

“It’s not a fight club. We’re trying to improve our skills!” Hizashi insists, as she guides him to sit down on a bed.

“Then how did this happen?” she asks, tapping his hand where he was holding his side.

“We were sparring.”

“Didn’t look like sparring from up here,” she says, moving Hizashi’s fingers away from his chest.

Shouta bites down on his cheek as Hizashi’s eyes shift to him.

“You were watching?” Shouta asks quietly.

Recovery Girl hums into the silence.

“I noticed you two out there a few times now. It seemed like things were going well for you both, you are improving, but when I looked up from my work today I saw something a little different.”

Shouta looks away.

She saw him.

She saw him, not sparring, not training, but attacking Hizashi.

Hizashi tilts his head and Recovery Girl pokes and prods at his chest, making affirmative noises and nodding as he reacts with winces and flinches.

“Did a number on him, didn’t you, Aizawa?”

“It wasn’t his fault,” Hizashi says.

“It was,” Shouta insists, stepping away from the wall. Hizashi’s mouth pops open and Recovery Girl takes his hand and kisses it, using her quirk to heal his ribs.

She pats his chest when she’s done, says, “They’ll still sting a bit for a few days, but should be good as new before your exam. Take it easy until then. I’ll keep my mouth shut about this one, but next time you two decide to brawl in the field, you get to heal the natural way, the slow way.”

She backs away and Hizashi gives her a worried looking smile and hops off the bed.

“Thank you,” he says.

“Thanks…” Shouta mumbles. She shoots him another disapproving look and Shouta almost wants to tell her to back off, but he knows why she’s mad at him.

He knows he deserves it.

Hizashi slides open the door and steps into the hall, pausing to wait for Shouta, but before he can take a step towards the blond, Recovery Girl catches his elbow. He turns around and she leans closer.

“Usually, I find that words work a little better than fists when you want to tell someone how you feel,” she whispers. Shouta’s eyes widen and she pats him a little too hard on the back, pushing him toward Hizashi.

He steps out into the hall and Recovery Girl waves goodbye with a grin on her face before shutting the door behind them.

“What was that about?” Hizashi asks.

Shouta shrugs, starts walking down the hall. Hizashi is quick to catch up, slide into step by Shouta’s side the way he always does. After a few long, quiet minutes of walking toward the changing rooms, Shouta can’t take it anymore, abruptly stopping.

Hizashi stumbles a bit as he whips around after having walked passed Shouta.

“What is going on with you?” he asks.

It was a good question.

“Ya-Hi...Hizashi…” Shouta mumbles, rubbing at the back of his neck.

“Hmm?”

Shouta looks down at the tiled floor, shifting his sneaker. A little stone falls out from the sole and he kicks it across the tiles, watches as it skips along before trickling to a stop.

“I...it wasn’t your fault. Out there, that wasn’t your fault. It was my fault. It was just my fault.”

“Aizawa, come on. It’s fine. So we got a little rougher than usual, who cares? We’re both nervous about the exams...I know I’ve been pushing myself harder these past few weeks.”

Shouta’s lip twitches.

“I noticed.”

“Yeah!?”

Hizashi’s voice sounds happy, a little higher pitched, and Shouta looks up to see him smiling, eyes wide, as if he’s shocked Shouta was paying that much attention to his improvement. How could anyone miss it?

“Yeah...you’re way better than you were when you first came out to train with me months ago.”

“Thanks! I couldn't have done it without you.” Hizashi’s smile grows wider, but Shouta’s frown deepens in turn.

The other boy seems to finally notice his unhappiness, his eyebrows pulling together in concern.

“Why do you look so sad, then?”

Shouta shakes his head.

“I...I guess…” Shouta nibbles at his bottom lip briefly. He hated doing things like this. This was why it was easier to just not have friends, to just keep to his own business like he always had.

Yet, when he thinks about the way he’d felt before meeting Hizashi...when he’d spend his lunches eating alone, studying alone, training alone, walking home alone...he didn’t want to go back to that. He’d felt lighter, less stressed this year than he had in his entire life. The way Hizashi pulled laughter from deep inside his chest, and brought a flush to his cheeks, Shouta didn’t want to lose that.

He looks at Hizashi, standing just a few feet away, his smile now having vanished.

Shouta didn’t want to be the cause of that, couldn’t be the cause of that.

“I pushed you down because I was angry.”

“What?”

“I was angry,” Shouta repeats. “Not because you were matched with me, maybe even almost better than me, not because I was jealous of you...but...but because…” Shouta groans, rubbing his hands across his face to try and dispel some of the heat he felt rising to the surface below his cheeks.

“I was angry because you don’t need me anymore, and I...I don’t want...it was better...this way,” Shouta says. “I like having you there to train with me...I like it better than doing it alone.”

“You…” Hizashi starts, his voice small, quieter that Shouta had ever heard it. “You were afraid I’d leave you?”

Shouta scoffs.

“I mean…” he trails off, crossing his arms. It was so embarrassing when Hizashi said it like that. “I wouldn’t put it like that.”

Hizashi’s face breaks out into a grin again.

“But it’s true! You don’t want to lose me! You like me!”

“Of course I like you, why do you think I let you hang around?” Shouta asks, rolling his eyes, but it’s not use, he can feel the blush on his face.

“No, but you really like me!” Hizashi laughs, his smile getting impossibly bigger. He looks happier than Shouta has ever seen him, holding his hands to his cheeks, his eyes scrunched up in little crescents.

“Aizawa!” Hizashi says, stepping forward. He comes up to Shouta’s side, throwing an arm around his shoulders. “Don’t worry. I could train on my own if I wanted to, but I don’t, because I don’t want to. I’d rather be with you, too. I don’t care how good or bad I am. I’m not going anywhere.”

Shouta feels that familiar warmth spreading through his chest, a feeling he was beginning to associate with the boisterous blond. It was always comforting, always bright, and it only ever happened when Hizashi was there.

If what he said was true, this feeling would be here to stay.

Shouta lets his arms drop down, and brings one up behind Hizashi’s back, tentatively placing his palm flat against it. He feels the other boy’s steady breaths rising and falling beneath his hand.

“You can call me Shouta.”

Hizashi giggles happily, bringing his other arm up around Shouta’s shoulders and pulling him into a hug.

“Okay, Shouta!”

On any other day, Shouta might be telling Hizashi he was too close, making some sort of sarcastic remark, but right now...right now...this felt good.

He wraps his arms around Hizashi’s back and squeezes in return. That soft, gentle feeling pulses through his entire body now.  

Hizashi begins pulling back, but Shouta realizes he doesn’t want to let go. He’s not ready to go their separate ways just yet.

“Do you want to get something to eat on the walk home?” Shouta asks, letting his grip loosen and fall away.

Hizashi leans back, his hands coming to rest on Shouta’s shoulders.

“I’d love to.”

[redflannelgal-blog]

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Email Advertising LessonI moved into a new workplace lately and was unloading when I recognized I was fading quick and required a caffeine repair. Seems my Starbucks cappuccino device had gotten shed with the movers. I stressed."Currently what?" I thought. I had never gone a full mid-day without a latte. I understood something would certainly happen if I didn't obtain one, as well as it would possibly be the kind of thing that would certainly think of my specialist, so skipping my caffeine fix was not an option. I already had 2 web pages of issues we were covering. I presume the unloading would have to be placed on hold.I set my Starbucks radar on complete alert and also followed the path of informal service outfit. Indeed, 2 blocks later I located a Starbucks on the edge. As I drew open the door, a small gentleman blended in under my arm. Which is how I met Mr. Pibs.Mr. Pibs had been concerning that specific Starbucks considering that it opened up. Every mid-day about the very same time as my current 'mind fade,' he as well required a fix. We got our coffees and made our means to the comfy chairs.Mr. Pibs informed me he remained in wholesale pet products and owned his own production facility. He launched 25 years ago with a small shop in his garage and now rented a 200,000 square foot facility and employed over fifty employees. We drank our coffees as well as chatted regarding service. I asked him how he marketed his products to potential retail electrical outlets."We have a subscriber-based subscriber list," he said. "Concerning 2500 quality family pet stores across the US."I was satisfied! 2500 leads does not seem like much however these shops had actually asked to be spoken to. The shops were genuine, possible buyers searching for product. "So do you communicate monthly or do you find seasonal jobs better?" I delicately asked."Month-to-month!" Mr. garage door jobs brisbane said loudly in scary. "That would be $50,000 of shipping a year! No, we send our complete color brochure on an annual basis, costs us concerning $4000 in mailing fees. I draw a few girls off the setting up line and also get them licking stamps and also packing envelopes. We've been doing our marketing similar to this considering that the 2nd year we started. Sure is terrific that printing is a lot less expensive nowadays. Conserves us a bundle!"I gagged on the foam in my cup and really felt an acquainted sensation come by me. Before I understood it I was standing as well as swing my arms around my head in huge circles."Mr.Pibs, are you insane?" I shouted at the top of my lungs, as well as began to tirade, arms swing. "What advertising and marketing cave did you simply creep out of? Why not place your brochure online? Why not utilize a routine Email Advertising and marketing project to interact with the family pet stores on a routine basis? Are you anti-technology? Why get on earth are you sending out all that things by mail?." As well garage door repair reno nv realized I rarely recognized this guy and was primarily telling him he was a wag. I didn't have time to compose myself because at that really moment, when I was in mid-sentence of my Email Advertising and marketing rant, in walked my grandmother.Crap! I had actually neglected Grammy was going to meet me at my new office! She promptly spotted me and also made a beeline in my instructions. As she obtained more detailed I noticed she had an extremely weird looking hat on her head. It was all bumpy and also kind of resembled a bag. I observed a familiar looking label: Victoria's Secret.Since when did Victoria's Secret make hats?But I did not have time to ask, I needed to make Grandma believe we were intended to fulfill at the Starbucks and I likewise had to comprise fast with Mr. Pibs prior to my brand-new good friend assumed I was a lunatic.I resorted to Mr.Pibs, and discovered he was frozen, mouth hanging open in shock at my Email Advertising and marketing, arm swing, soapbox speech.Grandma ordered the uninhabited seat beside Mr. Pibs and also plopped herself down, scooching her behind, seriously trying to get it past the arm rests.Mr. Pibs thawed as well as murmured in horror, "That females has a pair of underwear-- on her head."And indeed my Grandma did certainly have a set of Victoria's Secret undergarments on her head, covering a mass of curlers.I wheezed."Child," my grandmother said, "I have actually been looking everywhere for you!" Observing Mr. Pibs, and unaware he as well as I had actually been having a discussion, Grandmother looked a little alarmed at my little frozen buddy. Not a surprise; the lack of color in his face was difficult to miss. "Tiny man," she stated, "You look ill, is the coffee too solid for your little stomach?""Grandma," I spoke slowly, transforming toward Mr. Pibs. "This is my brand-new close friend, Mr. Pibs." After that: "Mr. Pibs, I excuse my Email Advertising and marketing rant, this is my Grammy. We had a coffee day this mid-day."My grandmother extended her hand in a motion of welcome. Mr.Pibs sat still, staring at my granny's hair curler cover."Woman, why is there underclothing on your head?""Oh this?" she claimed, as she whipped off the over-stretched skivvies, discovering a selection of pink as well as white curlers. "These are old and all extended of shape from way too many years on the back. This set works great to keeps my curling irons in place. I upgraded to natural cotton undergarments years earlier."And with that said we, or instead Grandma and Mr. Pibs, chuckled and talked away the afternoon. Those two clicked so well I located myself a little bored. Simply as well, I could not get Mr. Pibs"advertising technique' out of my mind. Well, at the very least the US postal solution would not fail anytime soon with Mr. Pibs around. I rested there viewing those 2 laugh it up, and also shook my head in disbelief at my grandmother's Victoria's Secret curler coverer. Mr. Pibs' advertising approach was a whole lot like those underclothing. Old, unhealthy, and also all sagged out.I met Mr. Pibs once more for coffee (without the distraction of Grammy and her head gitch) and pointed out to him that any type of company that was not active online and making use of Email Advertising could intend to retire. He concurred that his whole technique needs to be placed in a rest residence. garage door metal trim was sort of challenging describing all that Email Advertising stuff to Mr.Pibs; he was a genuine Email Advertising and marketing newbie.I had a hard time awhile with analogies and also recognized the image of those droopy underclothing on my Granny's head was an excellent location to start. I kept going with the gonch style and also Mr. Pibs gradually started to understand the distinction in each kind of Email Advertising and marketing method. We talked Email Marketing strategy as well as exactly how a drawer packed with a selection of undergarments designs was truly the very best option for overall advertising support.If you are having a difficult time clarifying Email Advertising and marketing to your antique employer or your customers, do not hesitate to try out some of these.

They dealt with Mr. Pibs so I am sure they will benefit you.Broadcast Messages are like Thongs: These little numbers function fantastic at revealing, "Hey check out me, take a look at all the things I have to use ... now!" You do wish to exercise some restriction, however. Similar to you do not wish to be wearing a band everyday, neither would you send a broadcast message everyday.Auto-Responders resemble Full Figured Women's Petty Trousers: If you are not up on full-figured petty trousers, they look more like a pair of long tight shorts. Large figured ladies put on minor pants to stop the upper legs from massaging with each other. Auto-responders prevent the chafing away of your time and resources due to answering the very same inquiries over and over and over. Women's petty trousers make all numbers, regardless of size, look like a million dollars. Auto-Responders make you resemble a hero with timely practical reactions no issue if it is just you running the show or a whole office packed with client service reps.Regularly Delivered E-Newsletters are like 100% Cotton Briefs: For routine wear you can't beat a pair of 100% cotton briefs and for client retention you can't beat a consistently supplied e-newsletter. Everyone prefers a various cut of short relying on the quantity of wanted protection, as well as it's no various in the e-mail world. Every firm has a different idea of what their regular e-zine will certainly cover and what type of promo it will certainly provide their items as well as services.Mr. Pibs as well as I still satisfy at the Starbucks when a week approximately for our mid-day caffeine fix. His firm has really removed given that he hopped on board with Email Advertising. I assume he will most likely be moving right into a larger storehouse in the New Year just to stay on par with orders. He even introduced a new product (using e-mail, of training course)to celebrate - Pudgy Young puppy Petty Pants.And the notorious curling iron cover? We did not understand it up until later on that day but Granny's saggy underclothing got left on the table at Starbucks together with a calling card I had used throughout my Email Marketing rant. I question who uncovered the saggy gonch? Would I ever before figure out? Would the finder of those skivvies end up being a future customer? I'll keep you uploaded if anything materializes.And me? My Starbucks coffee maker emerged after three months of traveling around the western states but I still locate my means down the block most afternoons. I've additionally been remodeling my very own normal email advertising project taking into account my choice to try a reduced cut brief for normal wear. Disclosing even more product information is verifying to be extremely effective. My conversion price shows my clients are really appreciating the raised direct exposure I'm giving my items and services.Is your advertising strategy a little drooped, over stretched and worn? Attempt Email Advertising on for size. It comes in all type of cuts as well as styles guaranteed to boost your profits. I observed a familiar looking label: Victoria's Secret.Since when did Victoria's Secret make hats?But I did not have time to ask, I had to make Grandmother believe we were intended to meet at the Starbucks and also I likewise had to make up quick with Mr. Pibs prior to my brand-new close friend assumed I was a lunatic.I transformed to Mr.Pibs, and also observed he was iced up, mouth hanging open in shock at my Email Marketing, arm swing, soapbox speech.Grandma ordered the uninhabited seat next to Mr. Pibs as well as plunked herself down, scooching her behind, frantically attempting to obtain it past the arm rests.Mr. Old, out of shape, and all sagged out.I fulfilled Mr. Pibs once more for coffee (without the distraction of Grammy and also her head gitch) as well as mentioned to him that any business that was not energetic online as well as utilizing Email Advertising might want to retire. It was kind of tough clarifying all that Email Advertising things to Mr.Pibs; he was an actual Email Advertising newbie.I battled for a bit with examples and recognized the photo of those droopy undergarments on my Grandmother's head was an excellent location to start. I maintained going with the gonch motif and Mr. Pibs gradually began to comprehend the distinction in each kind of Email Marketing approach. We spoke Email Advertising and marketing approach and exactly how a drawer complete of a selection of underclothing designs was genuinely the finest alternative for complete marketing support.If you are having a difficult time discussing Email Advertising and marketing to your antique boss or your customers, really feel complimentary to try on some of these.

[chaoscrystals]

Every note in my phone 11

Watching weight makes me nervous watching my jawline get softer the hinges can sing softly now I feel alone i feel alone right in front and in my own. To be alone to be alone in front of the store and on my own My own Slowly trip and fall developing pictures of how we came to know it all line the halls and our greatest achievements, to remind us when we feel weak, the tiny difference you feel when you speak The infinite saga of expansion, contraction, development destruction. The infinite saga of my life. Everything is a joke. I have been walking this earth for so many thousands of years and I still don't feel right. Last I remember it was dark night and I saw a certain type of spider that had never caught my eye before, I followed it and it was almost as if I was going into one of those underground caves but it wasnt, and I know it because I could still see the moon. It was full. And I walked and walked in the dark, over thorns I walked over them and it hurt a lot of ways but I kept walking. I kept going and going and going until I don't remember when. I didn't even get a chance to get some water. I can't remember when I last had a drink. Next thing you know I wake up all tiny and new feeling,  I've been walking around only a few years and my body is different than before. The lines that are my border are more defined now. I feel as though I've stumbled upon something great. I have this thing in my hand. Its a train with wheels and a string. I think I know who made it for me. I see my dad and I have a happy feeling in my heart, because he always tells me nice things about myself I fucking love my new shoes. I got them for 12 dollars in the Bronx. I always feel connected to everyone inn the train. Well,  id like to think that it sounds really sweet to me. I can't get my snack out of my bag cause my bag smells like weed and there's a little kid next to me. I can't do that and still feel right. Also my back spine is being really painful lately and I don't know what to do about it I can't stop making the sounds and twisting up. Maybe its more of that I need to be doing, but in an artfully presented way. Like in my band. Not my actual spine...its hard enough being beautiful as an early 20s woman I don't need to be deformed as I grow older.  Oh god. This train will be over at Fulton street. Then I have to take another train only one stop into Brooklyn so i can meet my friend Rowan. You know what? I can't be so cheap. If I have the money I can spend it, unless there's something specific I want that I'm saving for. Oh god is this train over yet? There's some genius in the design of this thing but I really don't see why its mandatory that we suffer through this long ordeal. Fuck me, I need a bike, and I need one now. Once I have my bike, I can set my shit up. Once I set my shit up, I won't have any use for these thoughts. Then I can do my jewelry vending. I am always mad at myself when I want to do something because i haven't already done it. Maybe I slack on myself sometimes. Just feel thus terrible undeserving. I want to eat with my friends. Im really scared of this guy staring at me. What am I gonna do? He can't hurt me but the more I focus on it the worse I feel. Its hard to think straight and see straight. And I just want to eat a bit of fruit and some nuts and ill be feeling a lot better. I wonder if anyone will love my eating disorder as much as I do. After I finish this one thing...I think maybe I will be letting go of a lot of that after this. My zine. I have to release something. Soon I can do a writing excersize where I follow that thought and figure it out. The more I think about it the worse it gets is that guy still staring at me? Fml. Why do these things happen to women? Shit is fucked. I'm so so so not going to let that stop me. I ran into Jonathan yesterday. He is always a lot of thoughts for me. I still can't believe I actually made that happen. I wanted to Fuck him for so long. And its crazy cause he's actually a musician that's influenced me a lot. It meant a lot to me. Haha. Probably a good thing to distance myself? But I don't want to distance myself from things I like. Like him. Shit that's crazy. I wanted him when I heard his guitar playing before I ever seen his face. That crazy dizzy feeling is just hovering above me when I think about him. That's enough. Here's what happened yesterday: I had just the day before realized that I could busk in Columbus circle after my class at the art students league. I remembered that Jonathan said his therapy thing was by Columbus circle thursdays at 10 am. So of course I obsess and wonder if I shouldn't busk cause I know he might be there. But I decide Fuck that, he can see me. And besides, my class is over after 12 pm. I go at 12 30 and stay around till maybe 4 pm, and I had drank water and needed to pee so i went into the whole foods. You have to go down an escalator to go to this whole foods. I noticed a guy with a guitar going to the escalator at the same time as me. I got a feeling like we were in the same shit so I looked up to say hello and it was jonathan! It felt insane. I knew it could happen but I wasn't expecting it that day. I always say too much, maybe its cause I think too much. Cause I think too much. Afterthoughts I would really like to feel normal. Or some concept that I hold in normal. I would like a nice life and to be calm at least most of the time. Jonathan just makes me excited Non responding ass bit I am worth novels and librarians Its always this obsessiveness when I get into someone new. I'm so needy I get this rush of feelings Sipping coffee tranquil..if I could find the closest bathroom. Check the closets for racists and hoarders Everyone looks at me everywhere I go This seltzer is my lifeline. I'm about to have to carry a lot of music equipment on my own. I can't be held responsible for this bullshit I think your boundaries are arbitrary and I can't help but cross the line. Since I'm trying to be a nice person I will try to leave you alone. I get obsessed with wanting to have sex with someone when I want emotional closeness with them. This is why I wanted to fuck Jonathan and Ariel so badly. What I really wanted was emotional intimacy and to feel loved by my partner. But I thought it would come through sex, instead of actually sharing all my emotions. I seem to have an easier time sharing my negative emotions. This is because that's what I learned was safe. God forbid I display joy and be punished by my mother's jealousy. That's fucked up but I don't care cause its worth it to know the truth. I want to not feel afraid to show who I really am. I hate feeling restricted to be my whole self and display all my talents. And I feel myself getting tired of attacking in order to display power. I don't need to attAck maybe.. Maybe if I write something I can make this train ride go faster. How is popping xan a thing to people? Oh god. I wonder if Jonathan has guessed at my obsession with him. Every time I think about him I have a million other thoughts. I have already identified that my true desire was emotional intimacy, not sex. I kind of still want to have sex with him. It feels good. But now I want to feel like he feels the same thing I feel. Feelings never end. There is no end to feeling in this earth body. Earthly. Heavenly. Okay. Since I know what I really wanted, maybe now I can just go directly for that instead of fucking guys to try and lure them into being my partner. I want a partner. I will be up front with my emotions so that people know what I'm getting into and what they're getting into with me. Keeping in mind that I have a habit of expelling my negative emotions onto other people in a sort of attack/attempt to be rescued... And that doesn't feel the same as having someone just see me whole and entirely. I hold a lot of joy as well as sadness and anger. I think it's time I treat myself to the good feeling emotions, and forget about other people's jealousy and judgements. Self help queen!! I don't know what to do with myself she thought. All these shows are hurting my head. Just knowing about them not even going to them. That is madness. I wish someone wanted to talk to me Maybe if I write something I can conquer my biggest fears and maybe get somewhere in life. The constant clicking maybe is a sign of awakening, I don't know I could sure use this coffee to dig up my uncertainty and take it downtown in my backpack, or maybe even travel back in time and decide, never have that. You're getting clearer all the time don't feel bad for where you are. Making speaking in metaphors easy cause rtheyre symbols, I feel uneasy at knowing, like my knowing is dangerous, a coveted jewel sought by world class robbers. I would watch a movie with Jonathan. I can't help it. I am insatiable. Always going to hunger for him. Is my face fat? Are we in love yet? Billie holiday All of me Ill be seeing you Easy living Summertime God bless the child Crazy he calls me Gloomy Sunday Not yet Strange fruit What a little moonlight can doBillie holiday All of me Ill be seeing you Easy living Summertime God bless the child Crazy he calls me Gloomy Sunday Not yet Strange fruit What a little moonlight can do I forgot what Ariel looked like then I saw a picture of him and I got sad cause I want to cuddle :( As usual I'm in the middle of 10 to 11 existential crisises. You wouldn't believe the awful thoughts I'm having. I'm working door at a show. There is only white people I swear I've never seen anything like it. They all want to be part of something bigger than themselves. Everything I do is an incoming and outgoing echo. Does that make sense? I can feel the difference and I can was the difference in effect. Give them a mean look they know it came from me. They know it comes from you. I don't want to walk in that room alone. Not tonight. I need a friend. My heart is telling me what's right. Get some more excersize in. How about that? That doesn't sound too bad right? How about I find I different street corner to smoke my joint on. Alone. Always smoking alone. Maybe I won't. Maybe I will. Its not like I have anything better to do. Other than smoke, or write or check facebook. Wallow in anxiety feels like laying in thorns. I could get up but my punishment isn't over. There's a difference in the way I'm feeling when I'm really doing something that I want to be doing and speaking in the right language and everything. That album languid by sun ra gives me feelings when I think about it. Everything gives me feelings because I react to it in my opinion zone. Haahahaha. Just like to have to make everything sexual don't we? I could follow this thought but it doesn't feel good. Make it different. It has to be different and better than before. This believing is making me feel crusty I have to care about the number of followers I have because that is a way for me to start feeling good about myself also it is what I have always wanted before Instagram existed, even. Is it? Do I really believe that? I have a theory I think that I got sick because I had a very negative disposition. Not just the eating disorder stuff, but after...when I was trying so hard to go back to being normal, trying to heal and find my struggle. Hitting every mark. But I got such bad chronic pains every night no matter what I did...and I do believe it was in my habits..ugh I am going to be rejected because I still have issues with food. Nobody really knows about that part of me. I feel like lonely and I miss these people. Its always in your feelings you are always sharing feelings, especially since you haven't thought about energetic boundaries since before you could grasp the concept. It just slipped out of your hands and left them ashy I know you were feeling lonely too and missing me. The thoughts in my head have bodies help me before I go crazy. No I know what's perfect for me the shade of a tree is the refuse and me is taking refuge in rebellion causing all kinds of hell On earth boy its a hot hot day and I cannot stop what I'm doing On a drop of rain a plucking vein in your wrist I don't know how to make myself feel better because I don't want to feel better