#justminawrites

[justminawrites]

there are no synonyms for half

AO3

Summary: For as long as Luka Couffaine could remember, he was a half. It was only when he turned fifteen, watching the dying sun set over the Seine, did he realise that the other half of him had only ever been other people’s secrets.

For as long as Luka Couffaine could remember, he was a half of something. 

It came with the territory of being a twin, his mother would tell him as much, but Luka’s melody sounded empty in a way Juleka’s never was. Every birthday, every anniversary, every time a neighbour cooed and fussed over how much of Anarka’s face her children had inherited, however infrequent that was. A houseboat rarely had anything resembling a neighbourhood, after all. 

‘Ma.. why didn’t Dad want us? 

At five, Luka had somehow gotten it into his head that his incompletion lied in the absence of a parent. His missing notes were hidden in the ever elusive tune of who his father was, and once his mother told him, he’d finally be able to complete his song. Anarka Couffaine only huffed in disbelief and switched off the Jagged Stone TV Special he’d been watching. 

Yer father was a real scallywag! Luka looked down at the acoustic guitar he’d held closer than any stuffed animal, and wondered if he too was half scallywag.

I don’t want to go.

His mother stiffened, one leg out the door of the gilded school gates. Juleka turned around in confusion as he dropped her hand and then slid off his backpack. Unzipping the blue-and-green printed fabric, Luka pulled out the ukulele he’d hidden and held it up triumphantly like it was some sort of prize. 

I want to go to music school. He panicked when Anarka crossed her arms in disbelief, and tried to find the words to promise how he’d learn every instrument and do all of his and Juleka’s chores everyday if she let him. 

Luka was only ten at the time, so he didn’t know how to tell his mother that he believed he was half music, that it was the one thing that made him feel whole. The tunes would echo off of the walls of his heart and fill up the empty parts of him until he could imagine them colliding, overflowing, and finally spilling out of him again.

His mother only sighed, ruffled his hair and picked up the discarded backpack, before turning to leave.

Luka ran after her, leaving his twin behind, a lone ship in the sea of melody. 

Jules, what’s wrong?

Even before Juleka rushed into his arms, her face already crumpled and stained with tears, Luka was half rage. 

She refused to tell him what exactly happened but clutched his fingers tightly all the way back to the Liberty. He could feel the anger bubbling under his skin as he took in her skinned knees and the bluntly chopped ends of hair she’d braided so carefully that very morning. The feeling was so all encompassing that when Anarka took his face in her hands, she pulled away almost immediately, claiming he’d contracted a fever.

Ow..

Luka was half fire the night he pierced his own ears. Juleka looked at him with wide eyes as he ran his bloody fingers under the faucet, and gave her a reassuring smile. Doesn’t it hurt?, she asked him unable to do much more than look at the black studs that would forever adorn his ears. 

Luka didn’t know how to tell her that he could simply pour whatever pain was left into the empty parts of himself until it fell so far down that he didn’t hear it anymore. So he shook his head instead. 

When he insisted on walking Juleka to François Dupont Elementary the next morning, Anarka sharply took his face in her hands again, so quickly that Luka winced. Her eyes grazed the new, round black dots on his ears that definitely hadn’t been there yesterday and met her son’s defiant blue eyes. Yer not burnin’ up anymore, was all she had to say about the matter.

Is that Juleka’s brother? He looks really scary!

Luka was half pride as he pushed through the crowd of fifth graders that had gathered around him despite themselves, their faces shining with admiration and envy, gold and green. 

It was a mixture of pride and justice, he would realise much later, that made him exaggeratedly stomp his way over to Juleka’s bullies and wave a threatening finger at their ringleader, a blonde Bourgeois who was so startled, she fell backwards into a puddle of sludge. He didn’t say anything but he hardly needed to open his mouth amidst the cruel laughter of forty kids to know his job was done. Relief shone in the corners of his sister’s eyes when she rushed out of school that evening.

Nice to meet you ma-ma-marinette.

Luka was half shame when he saw the girl’s face fall, her dollish blue eyes crinkling with tears. He hadn’t expected to feel something stirring in the empty parts of him when one of Juleka’s friends stumbled into his room, every emotion under the sun flickering on her face, and he’d been just as startled by her presence, as she was by his.

Sorry.. I tend to make more sense with this. 

Luka clutched his guitar closer even though he was the one that asked her to sit beside him, and braced himself. Sure enough, the hollowness inside him steadily filled with the flutter of a thousand beating, insect wings as Marinette carefully acquiesced, the ends of her ballet flats hovering inches above the ground. Ladybug wings. 

For once, it was the outside world that held its breath as Luka’s insides roared with a harmony he didn’t know how to play. He forced himself to remain composed as she blinked her secretive blue eyes up at him, concealing a question and a challenge of her own. 

How do you do that?

He’d hardly strummed a tune, but her face betrayed wonder as his fingers echoed the chords that clanged around in her own empty spaces, whatever he could hear over the clamour of newness in his own heart, anyway. She slipped away in the midst of his explanation, taking the white noise with her, to admire the Jagged Stone poster he’d spent hours gluing down, and the collection of guitar picks right below it. 

The silence in him returned, somehow louder than before now that he knew it could be filled.

You can have it if you like. 

He was beside her before he knew it, eyes glued to the guitar pick between her slender, calloused fingers. Marinette gasped in delight and the flutter-buzz returned, rising a notch, arresting Luka’s heart, as though the ladybugs that had overflowed his empty half had now begun to crawl into his lungs. But there, under all the white noise, when they were standing this close, he could almost taste it– one unmistakable beat, and then another and another; the morse code of her heart song.

You’re a funny girl, Marinette.

He didn’t want to go but Luka was afraid he’d completely lose his wits if he listened to the full force of the ladybug wings any longer. 

It was only when he was halfway up the stairs did he realise there was a lone buzzing bouncing off the walls of the vacant half of his heart. She’d left something behind.

Personally, I think a girl like you deserves to feel more like.. this.

Luka slipped off the deck chair to sit beside Marinette, guitar in hand. 

It had only been a week since they’d met but he’d found himself unable to enjoy sleep in its entirety. The lone ladybug she’d forgotten haunted his nights, humming a tune too faint for him to hear, and he would stay up, straining his ears to grasp a single note, as the light of dawn flooded through the portholes of the ship.

Luka liked the way Marinette always closed her eyes while she listened to him play. He pretended not to notice the slump of her shoulders, as she relaxed into the chords he strummed specially to catch her. He’d long since stopped wondering if people experienced the world the same way he did. He simply brought her peace, in exchange for a bit of her chaos.

And whoever made you feel this way, is nothing but a–

He played a slightly funky tune and she giggled, filling his chest with so much fluttering (an applause of wings) that he hardly dared to open his mouth for fear a ladybug might escape. And then how would he explain himself?

Say, are you free tomorrow..

For her? Luka was free for the rest of his life.

You should probably go over and talk to him.

The cavernous silence returned in the subway. 

Luka was half regret as he shifted on the blue polyester seat, trying his best to stare out of the window, to concentrate on something, anything, besides the bittersweet silence in his lungs. The ladybugs in his chest must’ve frozen to death hours ago, in the skating rink, where he’d watched Marinette watch Adrien with the unwavering focus of a musician bent on mastering an instrument. 

He told himself he didn’t mind, not really. Adrien filled her with wings of her own (butterflies maybe?) and he’d be too busy piecing together his new melody to do the same. It would be best to let her go, now, when the feelings were fresh enough that they’d wilt under the slightest pressure. 

It would be best to forget about the kiss. 

The quick peck. The obligatory press of Marinette’s soft lips to his cheek before she was whisked away, by the wind, by the universe. He breathed out slowly, catching a glimpse of himself on the dark glass of the of the subway car. Oh no. 

It could’ve been from the from the sudden drop in temperature in the skating rink, but the nape of his neck, the tips of his ears, and quite damningly, his cheeks– were a bright, unmistakable scarlet.

The ladybugs had found a new home.

Are ye blushing?

Luka was half mortification when he finally made it home and buried himself under ice packs and blankets, determined to be rid of the crimson flush if it killed him. 

Anarka didn’t need to take his face in her hands this time to know something was bothering him. He watched her quietly slip into his room and rob it of anything with sharp points, before gently closing the door. 

Still no news about the contest?

Luka meant it to be encouraging but when Marinette’s face fell he wished he could take it back immediately. He wished he could take everything back and never say another word again. While the blue-eyed girl fretted about wether her costumes influenced the reception Kitty Section’s audition tape received, he put an arm on her shoulder to stop her train of thought and remind her about the wonders of real-life paperwork. 

She smiled up at him gratefully but before the ladybugs under skin (he still hadn’t managed to get rid of them) sensed this opportunity, Ivan’s outraged yell from across the room, scared them back into hiding.

You’ll never have a future in this business, you’ll never make another costume, because as far as everyone’s concerned– you’ll be the ripoff artists!

Luka was half fury, a cold fire this time, as he watched Bob Roth’s sleazy grin drip with venom as he held Marinette’s hand in his vice-like grip. She shook him off quickly but his words hung in the air like a promise, threatening to choke them both permanently if they didn’t leave immediately like the good little children they were.

Hello Silencer..

He would’ve appreciated the irony if it were any other situation. Hawk moth couldn’t begin to imagine just how much the power of silence was befitting of someone like him. Luka put on the akumatised mask obediently as the supervillain’s monologue came to an end. 

He stopped fighting the darkness and for a while, Luka was half nothing.

Did you really mean those things you said when you were akumatised?

Luka knit his eyebrows in frustration, wracking his memory for some kind of indication of what he could’ve said to fluster Marinette so much. Had he said something about the ice-rink? Had he said something about the kiss? 

He took a deep breath and decided it was time for the speech he’d rehearsed over and over again in front of the mirror, since he’d returned from their not-date weeks ago. Clear as a musical note, Sincere as a melody, Luka couldn’t tear his gaze away from the pools of blue in her eyes, even as he had the sinking sensation that he’d already passed the threshold of no return. 

Luckily, the lights were so erratic, he was sure she couldn’t see the ladybugs huddled beneath his mask, but the buzzing was deafening, pop rocks in the back of his throat, leaving him so light-headed he’d promptly run from Marinette before she could figure out how to respond.

He hoped he hadn’t ruined everything by telling her.

Luka Couffaine, this is the Miraculous of the Snake.

He was half fear when The Hero of Paris held out a palm sized miracle box in her red and black-spotted hand. 

The emptiness in him leaned into the idea of using the superhero persona to fill the void but the other part of him, the only part of him worth listening to, quaked under the pressure. But Paris wasn’t his priority, saving his mother and Juleka was. So he took it. 

When the Kwami of Intuition, Sass, appeared, bowing his head formally, Luka wondered if those snake-like eyes could see right through him. From his cheeks filled with ladybugs, all the way through to his bottomless pit of emptiness that now held the aftermath of an affection, a wreckage of insect wings, wrong chords, and crumpled speeches.

The Kwami only smiled knowingly, and he felt a shiver of anticipation run down his spine. Still he said the words, and then Luka was half Viperion. 

What do you think?

Luka looked up from strumming the tune trying to gauge Marinette’s reaction from behind a tower of macaron boxes. Her eyes softened, but stayed open, and he immediately knew it was nowhere close to being good enough.

She was quick to praise his skill though, and he offered her a ride to Le Grand Paris for the Bourgeois’ 20th wedding Anniversary, on the back of his delivery bike. 

The ladybugs from Luka’s face swarmed back into his chest with vengeance as Marinette hugged his torso, her fingers clutching his jacket for dear life as he pedalled through Parisian traffic as quickly as he dared. 

This time, when she thanked him with a kiss, Luka was able to pinpoint the exact moment the crimson menaces overran his flushed cheeks. 

He turned away quickly, (hiding his face in her spare helmet), so quickly that he couldn’t hear the last thing she said to him over the sound of a million ladybugs taking flight.

Are you sure you want to hear it?

She knew what he was really asking her, of course. Are you sure this is what you want– that I am what you want? 

Marinette nodded, leaning into him and Luka held his breath, plucking out the perfect rhythm as the watery sunshine glinted off the slick, cobblestoned pavement across from them.

He’d listened carefully for the chords in her heart every time they’d talked, and painstakingly pieced together its melody but even though he’d double checked, triple-checked even, Luka felt the inescapable presence of doubt slither from out his stomach, curling its wicked tail around his half-empty heart. 

Marinette’s tune sounded just as incomplete as his.

Under the moonlight, by the sea– KISS ME!

He rubbed the back of his neck (where the ladybugs were gathered), embarrassed. It was the easiest question he knew, so he hadn’t counted on Marinette’s ridiculously competitive spirit when she’d yelled out the answer with her whole heart.

I mean, if you want to.

She did want to, and so did he. But even as Luka leaned in to press his lips to hers, to pray his kiss would somehow wake the sleeping butterflies in her chest, strain to hear the final note in her shrouded melody– he felt the interruption before it came.

The ceiling shook and Marinette ran off to get them something to drink, forgetting the white linoleum cup that she’d left beside him, filled to the brim with orange juice and disappointment.

He watched her go, like he’d done so often. Taking her secrets and her chaos with her.

The truth, Luka, is the only thing I can’t tell you.

He had never been half pain before, not like this. Not poisonous, acidic agony  that filled the empty parts of him so throughly that it flooded his lungs, burning the ladybugs, drowning the music out completely. 

It hurt to think, it hurt to breathe. 

Luka wasn’t surprised that the akuma found him so quickly, but he curled into himself as Marinette’s voice scrabbled for purchase in his mind, begging him to fight the temptation, fight the evil that would undoubtedly lead to more suffering. 

He couldn’t blame her. She didn’t understand how her voice was the thing that hurt him the most.

Why did you abandon me?

Jagged Stone’s lips were painted white with Truth’s compulsion power but Luka knew that whatever came out of his former hero's mouth now wouldn’t matter at all. 

The damage had already been done. He’d seen the scars it’d left on his mother’s broken melody, his sister’s quiet song.

His own silent, silent heart.

It was hard to tell which part was him and which was the akuma, when he hurled his would-be father from the terrace of a several-story building and set off towards the Dupain-Cheng Bakery. 

You know, not seeing you is a hundred times worse than seeing you, Marinette.

The familiar rush of ladybugs filled his chest when she put her forgiving hand on his shoulder, as though they were flowing out of her and into him through the lightest of touches.

Luka swallowed the confession in his throat when she asked to be friends, much to the chagrin of a hundred scarlet wings beating in his ears, and pulled her in for a hug so she wouldn’t see it on his face, plain-as-day.

The milky white moonlight caressed his cheek fondly, like a mother would, as he breathed in Marinette’s rose perfume. He knew had to let her go, it was just a matter of time. 

Foolishly, he wished he’d kept the snake miraculous he’d borrowed weeks ago, just so he could have a second chance with her. A chance to do it again, do it right this time. A chance to sweep her off her feet; to put the butterflies under her skin before Adrien, before anyone.

But Luka understood with a sinking feeling that even that wouldn’t be enough. He’d watched the way his parents clawed at one another’s sanity mere hours ago, unable to see that their fighting was turning down Juleka’s quiet symphony even further into herself.

People like them, like him, didn’t get second chances. Not when it mattered, anyway.

Awesome! I always wanted to be the Knitting Fairy in real life!

Luka was half terror when he watched Paris’ bravest superhero transform into the love of his life. 

It transcended panic, surpassed horror. The worst thing in the world that could’ve happened just happened and he had no idea what to do about it.

Marinette? He said her name like a prayer, like a wish that hovered on his tongue ever so delicately, ready to disappear into the wind. But as the girl turned around and beamed at him, the happiest smile on her face, Luka finally felt the final piece of of her melody click into place.

Second chance!

He took the dread and stuffed it down, deep, deep down inside of him; somewhere under the graveyard of ladybugs, shredded posters and scales. The shock would have to wait, he could only be one thing at a time and right now he had to be Viperion.

When I was a kid, I always wanted to be what my parents wanted me to be!

Luka wished he hadn’t turned around. 

Where Chat Noir once stood, now Adrien Agreste took his place, looking vaguely cheery despite what he’d just said moments before. He didn’t even need to use his powers to know Chat Noir had gotten hit by the akuma on purpose. 

Marinette hadn’t noticed yet, too busy talking to a man whose childhood dream was to become a stuffed animal, and the anxiety rose up like bile in the back of his throat. He’d been half pain before but this was something new.

Luka was half pity, half hope. Half defeat. 

His heart seemed to be breaking over and over in his chest, the muscle spasming so violently that everything in him was instantly ground to dust. The walls, the silence, the ladybugs. All the pain he’d carried around with him since his very first akumatisation.  

Because nothing he was going through could ever compare to Marinette and Adrien being... to them being..

Second chance!

Viperion was wholly conviction when he reassured Ladybug that he’d make sure no one would discover their secret identities. If he were still Luka he’d wonder how he hadn’t seen it before– her strength, her determination, the way Marinette’s nose crinkled when she was focused on something, all of it matched the red and black-spotted superhero to a T. 

But he, much like the rest of Paris, had only ever seen what they wanted to see. And Luka hadn’t wanted to see her in pain.

Not even me- luckily Wishmaker never hit you or Chat Noir.

He expected the lie to sour his tongue, turn his skin blue with irony, but it came easily, almost too easily for his comfort. But Marinette (because she would only ever be Marinette to him) smiled like his word was more than enough for her to trust him forever and turned to leave, like she’d done so many times before.

Now he knew why. 

The ladybugs in chest (ha!) swarmed against his rib cage as she left, tiny wings beating furiously as though they were trying to break right through his skin and follow her back home. 

Before Luka could think to question why, he was already running after her, reading the fluttering inside him like a compass, leading him further and further away from the street, down the sidewalk, all the way to the only thing that ever made him whole. All the way to her– 

Luka! Thank you for hiding me in here!

He wanted it to be a dream, a really bad dream; a really awful, terrible dream he’d wake up from any second, but when she’d opened the door, a nanosecond before he’d knocked and smiled up at him, her shoulders slumped over with the weight of the world; all he could think was how lucky he was.

Lucky to have known her, lucky to have loved her. Lucky to be empty enough to carry her secret for now, for forever.

You guys are okay!

“We’re all okay,” Luka smiled, looking between his two friends, “Thanks to Ladybug and Chat Noir.”

He’d almost meant it this time, but as he watched the Ladybug and Chat Noir in front of him look into each other’s eyes, completely unaware of all the forces of the universe that had conspired to bring them both to this moment, Luka knew he would never be whole.

For as long as Luka Couffaine could remember, he was a half. It was only when he turned fifteen, watching the dying sun set over the Seine, did he realise that the other half of him had only ever been other people’s secrets. 

-fin-

[endless-shelter]

@justminawrites so the moment i was aware of your fic, @the-mandela-prophet and i IMMEDIATELY went into VC to live-read the fic.

it was. incredible. jaw dropping. we're genuinely invested IDSOAIDOASI please PLEASE continue writing this it's genuinely so good omg his character was kept so well too??? for the setting??? it's amazing

i had to doodle out my favourite bit. He's. he's just. so offended.

(i know he was technically shirtless at the fight before he poofed but i thought it'd be funny if somehow the hood of the hoodie somehow appeared again. it just. he looks so funny.)

[quickspinner]

Weekly Lukanette Link Roundup

What is the Weekly Roundup? | Previous Weekly Roundups

From @rierse: Rose Colored Lipstick | The Sea Witch's Gift Ch 2

From @starlight-emiko: Storm | Rainbow

From @justminawrites: there are no synonyms for half

From @smileytrinity: Rain and Sun

From @haphira: Miraculous Ladybug and the Valiant Annuler Ch 36

From @renigan: The Feel of Music

If I missed something that should be included, reblog, reply, DM, or drop the link in my asks and I’ll make sure it goes on next week’s roundup! If you prefer not to be included in these roundups for any reason please drop me a message, or if you post something that you would like to be sure I include, please drop a link in my asks and I’ll make sure it gets listed (Lukanette endgame only please - see what is the weekly roundupfor more details). If you want to be sure I’ve flagged your work for inclusion you can check the quickroundup tag on my blog to see what I’ve got in the queue for this week.

If you find something you like please like/reblog the original post to let the author know you enjoyed their work!

[ao3feed-janefoster]

where do we go now?

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/n8KgPRp

by justminawrites

an epilogue that takes place after the events of Thor: Love and Thunder.

Words: 7728, Chapters: 1/2, Language: English

Fandoms: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)

Rating: General Audiences

Warnings: Major Character Death

Categories: F/F, F/M

Characters: Brunnhilde | Valkyrie (Marvel), Sif (Marvel), Erik Selvig, Jane Foster (Marvel), Loki (mentioned)

Relationships: Love & Thor (Marvel), Darcy Lewis & Thor

Additional Tags: Two Shot, Darcy Lewis Feels, bc she deserved better, part filler, Part fix-it, Found Family, Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, sometimes family is 1 god of thunder 1 child of Eternity and their emotional support astrophysicist, Minor Brunnhilde | Valkyrie/Sif (Marvel), Domestic Fluff

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/n8KgPRp

[ao3feed-thor]

where do we go now?

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/6ZGVi84

by justminawrites

an epilogue that takes place after the events of Thor: Love and Thunder.

Words: 7728, Chapters: 1/2, Language: English

Fandoms: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)

Rating: General Audiences

Warnings: Major Character Death

Categories: F/F, F/M

Characters: Brunnhilde | Valkyrie (Marvel), Sif (Marvel), Erik Selvig, Jane Foster (Marvel), Loki (mentioned)

Relationships: Love & Thor (Marvel), Darcy Lewis & Thor

Additional Tags: Two Shot, Darcy Lewis Feels, bc she deserved better, part filler, Part fix-it, Found Family, Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, sometimes family is 1 god of thunder 1 child of Eternity and their emotional support astrophysicist, Minor Brunnhilde | Valkyrie/Sif (Marvel), Domestic Fluff

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/6ZGVi84

[cornus27florida]

I am really sorry for the pings to the Tumblr accounts that I feel on the CPC fandom and might be interested with the event! This event will ends around middle January, which also the time that CPC likely ends.. So I really hope, that everyone could join - or at least know to about the event!

@axeleous @im-doing-good @nightzap @kelsium-intake @babyspacebatclone @sunflowerandstrawberryspice @thefreakishmuffin@pufftheninja@the-backwards-eel@justminawrites@almond-tofu-chan @mu11berry@lychee02 @themythicalgeek @rachel8889@brashtea@weirdoiscrazy @captaindibbzy @weonbullshit @muianp @elrikadraskanitsi@friendrat @thornbriar@inebriated-celebrity-cow

Once you join the server, you'll be in the channel named #initation with the pinned message as the following:

which from them you need to go to the next channel which is #panda-code to get server role "CPC enjoyer" (by reacting to the crown emote at the end!) - so you could see any channels including #announcements about the details of the event

Don't cry because it's over. Smile because it happened.

Dr. Seuss

Btw this funny, perfectly balanced as it should be..

At the end no pressure, and I am again sorry for pinging.. Just hope you interested with the notion!

Official CPC New Years Gift Exchange Announcement

heyyy everyone! I'm hosting a secret santa style gift exchange event for cpc themed art, fics, and etc. on the cpc wiki server! anyone is free to sign up until november 25th, then assignments will come out soon after. you can join the server here:

get the cpc enjoyer role to unlock the rest of the server, and you can find more information in the announcements channel. the sign up form is here:

see ya there :D

[justminawrites]

it was only her (first) invitation

AO3

Summary: A little one-shot exploring the aftermath of Tonny's invitation to the bonfire Party.

The circus was a strange place for Julia Lazarett.

Painful in its unfamiliarity, every unexpected sound, every unwelcome color scraping at her already withering moral compass, paper cuts bleeding her of everything she’d once known. Everything she’d once been.

Julia mouthed the word into the mirror slowly so she wouldn’t have to say it out loud: alive. She’d once been alive. The girl in the reflection stared back at her in bemusement, brown hair hastily braided, loosely at the roots and far too tight at the ends as though the braider had tried to correct their mistake halfway through.

Light bounced off the glass, into her eyes and for a second a shadow loomed over her. The same heavy breathing, writhing, glowing mass that had found her in the attic; the smell of rotting fruit as it sighed into her mouth. The same eyes that chased her out of her dreams, silently reminding her how she’d signed her life away; reminding her the hourglass hadn’t yet stopped spilling, grains of borrowed time gradually trickling to the bottom.

Julia tugged the tresses free and tried to weave them into submission again. One year left; that’s why she’d agreed to attend the party. At least, that’s what she’d admit out loud anyway. It definitely didn’t have anything to do with the way she’d been serenaded into accepting the invitation.

“I’ve left you to deal with this madness by yourself.. I’m sorry..”

Tonny had sounded so sincere in his apology that Julia was sure she’d agreed only so he wouldn’t see how close she was to dissolving into tears. He’d been the only one to acknowledge her death, her loss, her mourning, while everyone else was quite content to sweep all this dying business under the rug when they’d welcomed her into the circus.

Julia’s hand slipped and the riotous curls tumbled around her shoulders. But it wasn’t just that, was it?

“I want to be there for all of you..”

How long had it been since someone had tried to take care of her? Shame overran her cheeks and washed down her neck, watercolor against her pallid nightgown; and she feebly bunched up her hair in an effort to hide it from the girl in the mirror.

Julia had always been good at taking care of herself, she didn’t see the need for any of that to change even after her mother disappeared. Her father had been content to accept her silent steadfastness, relied on it even during the months following the absence, as the warmth seeped out of the house just as steadily as the loneliness seeped in.

She hadn’t even noticed the switch until she’d met Kamille.

A quarter of a year had passed and her father had been away on one of his military trips, and nine-year-old Julia had convinced herself she could sew a loose button on one of her mother’s old dresses.

The house had remained eerily quiet all day, holding its breath as she bought the shiny new buttons, spare silk she threaded through the needle, and inevitably pricked her index finger with the sharp silver point.

A tiny red droplet blossomed onto the cuff of the ivory gown, blooming peony, and it was as though the room had momentarily become submerged under water. Isolation rushed through the open windows and Julia found she couldn’t hold her breath fast enough to keep the waves at bay.

Her heart spasmed with panic and she became aware of a sudden, painful tightness in her chest that seemed to have been there all along, waiting for her to notice. Her empty hands had begun to shake and the dress slipped onto the wooden floors; she couldn’t remember where she’d put the needle and half-heartedly wondered if she’d swallowed it.

The waves of seclusion threatened to overwhelm her, her father was gone and Julia was alone. Alone, alone, alone. She was all alone in this world, and she was drowning in an empty house and she was drowning and drowning, and nobody would find her because she was–

“Ow!”

The waves retreated momentarily as a voice drifted through the open windows. Her neighbour’s daughter had somehow wandered into the rosebushes, and was peering into her room with the doe-like confusion of someone who’d never lived in a flooding house.

Julia had managed to get Kamille untangled from the thorns and Kamille had offered to sew on her button. The two had been inseparable ever since; and the waves had stayed away.

But lately, Julia had begun to feel them steadily lapping at her feet, in sync with the rocking of the cart-ship-vehicular-monstrosity carrying the entire circus. Cold seeping through her socks as she crawled into bed, goose-pimples on flesh, she could feel them watching, lying in wait to take her to her mother. Even Dotty had remarked on the chill in her fingers before she’d quickly snatched them back.

Julia could always feel the water. Until she couldn’t.

“I can’t let you stay alone in this room every night... I’d like you to come to the bonfire party..”

It retreated under her bed when Tonny knocked, and sulked like a child as he fidgeted by the doorframe, unwilling to rob her of modesty. It stayed away the rest of the night too, long after he’d gone, and for once Julia’s bed had been blissfully warm.

Julia put on the fuzzy pink-and-yellow vest Plip had lent her and fastened the buttons, trying to ignore the rosy hue of the girl in the mirror. It must be the vest; pink had never been colour.

She couldn’t put a finger on what had tugged at her heartstrings (as Dotty would call it), the sincerity of the apology or how nervous Tonny was giving it.

Perhaps it was the way he sensed how Julia’s fate hadn’t been her choice, maybe even related to it a little, and was bent upon allowing her as much say as he could.

Perhaps it was even something as simple as shouldering her happiness, making it his responsibility. Offering a hand to help her up; and how she couldn’t remember the last time someone had done that for her unprompted.

“I want to be there for all of you..”

“–for all of you..”

for you.

Kamille had always needed taking care of; her naiveté had led her into more trouble than Julia had been able to get them out of, but Kamille was gentle in a way Julia had never been.

Gentle, trusting, kind.. too kind. Kind enough to be swindled by a Three– by someone like Sahed!

Julia shook her head in disbelief. That’s right, she’d never be Kamille. She’d always be Killjoy Lazarett (as her classmates kindly pointed out), but for a moment she imagined taking his words at face value.

She wondered how he’d react to the contract she signed, chicken scratch on golden paper; pondered how to bring up the conditions of her release. The girl in the mirror mouthed the words because she couldn’t. “–to kill you.”

Julia felt her chest stir as she recalled the softness in his dark, dark eyes; gentle with understanding. But would he truly understand, she wondered, if she’d said she had no choice? Would he understand what it felt like to be so wary, so afraid to take a breath for fear of it just being water? 

Would he understand if she told him the needle might still be in her throat?

I have to kill you.

Tonny hadn’t tried to scold her into submission; he hadn’t growled or grumbled or berated her for her purposefully shutting herself out from everyone else (even if some of her prejudices were warranted). He’d made her feel safe, feel wanted; even Kamille acted like she hadn't wanted Julia around lately.

Out of everyone in the circus, it had to be Anthonn Gremminger, the one person she was predestined to end. Though Julia occasionally wondered whether he had the capacity for unkindness, what with the way he let himself get pushed around by everyone- even children.

I have to kill you.

The girl in the mirror looked back at her sadly, hair undone and for the first time, Julia was struck by how much she felt like a puppet. Slick golden threads descending from above to wrap around her knees, her wrists, her neck; steadily guiding her knife to the ringmaster’s throat.

No– telling him was a stupid idea.

Julia pinched the blush out of her cheeks; who knew what these crazy circus people would do to her when they found out why she was actually here? They’d probably lock her up in the basement and perform some voodoo-magic nonsense on her until she lost all her memories and Kamille.

No, there was only one way out of this. Julia would just have to do something about it herself.

She gave herself a long, hard look in the mirror: This circus was the enemy; Tonny was the enemy; but she wasn’t about to kill him.

There must be some other way to get rid of the contract, some way to break the seal. She was sure Sahed was hiding something from her - she’d need a way to break into his room later.

Yes, there was only one way.

Julia half-heartedly smiled at her reflection and tried to ignore the ominous swooshing of water in the distance.

‘It's the wind,’ she told herself as she left to attend the bonfire party, ‘A storm must be brewing.’

Right, just the wind.

_______________________________________________________________________

A/N: So I was in a deep deep writing slump but then I happened to catch up with the most recent episodes of Marionetta on Webtoon and it just {DID SOMETHING} to me man. The way Míriam does the expressions?????? *chefs kiss*

[justminawrites]

Where The Stars Collide - Chapter 1: Loke

AO3

Summary: Loke has a dream. tw: mentions of abuse.

prologue | 1 | 2 | TBC

The first thing Loke the Celestial Spirit noticed was that his pants were missing.

Now, this on its own wasn’t too alarming. In fact, he’d go so far as to say that it was a common occurrence early in his playboy-days, where he habitually drowned his guilt in women and liquor– but rarely did he stir from such a night with a hospital gown in its place. 

He woke exactly like he’d collapsed; violently and without warning, his eyes flying open the same time as his lungs heaved for air. 

“AQUA– HAH–– HAH–– AQUARIUS–“ he gasped out, bolting upright in the infirmary bed much to his nurse’s horror; cat-like pupils dilating under the fluorescent lighting.

“Shh, it’s okay, Loke. Loke, look at me.”

The second thing he noticed was that his nurse looked a lot like the love of his life: renowned celestial mage and once-heir to a multimillion-jewel corporation, Lucy Heartfilia. 

“Lucy?” He wheezed.

“Mhm,” the nurse’s blurry face swam across his vision but he’d recognise that sunshine-blonde hair anywhere. 

“Don’t over-exert yourself okay? Master Makarov said it would take you a few minutes to adjust to Porlyusica’s healing elixir since you’re part celestial spirit and all.” 

As Lucy gently took his his face in her hands Loke felt his breathing regulate and panic recede, gasps giving way to steady respiration as she eased him back against the wooden bed-frame. 

By the time she’d replaced the cold towel on his forehead, Loke had recovered most of his eyesight and found himself clearly staring into two large, worried brown eyes.

He bit the inside of his cheek to not let something embarrassing (like I love you) slip out; Lucy didn’t really respond well to advances, his or others, and the last thing he wanted to do was make her uncomfortable. Especially on top of everything else he had to tell her.

“You look.. Wow..”

Real smooth.  

Lucy to her credit, looked more sheepish than anything at the mention of her appearance. She was still in her travelling gear, face and hair streaked with grime and dirt; it had only been a few hours since they’d returned from Edolas for her, after all. 

“Oh, I know. I’m a real mess,” She huffed, “Didn’t have time to change out of anything but at least Natsu’s cloak keeps me from catching anything serious– Loke!“

Loke had opened his mouth to disagree, she looked beautiful to him either way, but choked at the mention of the pink-haired dragon-slayer. The tiny hiccup of jealousy turned into a full blown cough and suddenly he was keeled over hacking into his gown as she rushed to pour him some water.

“Natsu’s.. cloak..?” He tried to croak out once he’d set down the glass, but Lucy waved it away.

“It doesn’t matter. Now, what’s wrong with Aquarius?”

“It’s a long story,” he sighed, “but the crux of it is that she’s missing.”

“Missing?” Lucy looked horrified, “You mean, I left her key behind in Edolas?”

“No,” Loke shook his head, “Even if that were the case she’d simply reappear back in the Spirit Realm– but she never did.

“My working theory is that the anima must have interfered with her travel between worlds somehow. I wanted to see if you could summon her from your side, but it seems like whatever blocked her return, destroyed her celestial contract as a result.”

“What are you saying?” Lucy’s voice became very small and her eyes began to well up. 

“You can’t mean.. you don’t think..”

Watching the colour rapidly drain from her face Loke grabbed her arm quickly to keep her from assuming the worst possible outcome.

His time as a spirit had not only desensitised him to the whiplash of emotions that came with being a human, but also how hasty they were in considering their own death. Celestial Spirits almost never died before their time (though they were by no means eternal), but she had no way of knowing that.

“Don’t worry, Lucy,” He shook his head again, “Celestial Spirits aren’t bound by the same rules humans are. If their key is broken it just means that the spirit has accidentally ended up in a closed-pocket realm and involuntarily broken their contract.”

This momentarily put a stop to the tears.  

“A closed what?”

“It’s like an Edolas, but for spirits,” Loke frowned aloud, absentmindedly still holding her arm, “Essentially a realm that nullifies their magic.”

“In the rare occasion that this happens, it’s usually the Celestial Spirit King’s responsibility to find them and bring them back, but since there are an endless number of pocket dimensions they could’ve fallen into, it takes a while to locate them.”

“But aren’t Celestial Spirits made of magic?” Lucy asked, squeezing his hand back in concern.

“Not anymore than you or anyone else from Fairy Tail. Our magic can be shut down under the right circumstances.”

“So Aquarius is––“

“Out of commission, yes. But only briefly,” Loke added reassuringly, “Once I return, I’ll make sure we find her and reinstate her contract right away.”

“I see,” Lucy nodded, brows furrowing. She then dropped his hand in favour of standing up to pace the length of the room.

Watching her walk back and forth and back forth, pondering the temporary absence of her oldest spirit companion, Loke tried not to wince in pain as a dull throbbing began at the base of his skull; the cause of which could’ve been his depletion of magic energy, or just plain guilt. 

He hadn’t lied to Lucy exactly– he’d just omitted to tell her certain crucial details that might alarm her; like, for example, that the search for Aquarius was already underway, or how he hadn’t slept in over a month (in celestial days) and used up the final dregs of his power to transport himself here in the hopes that she could summon her friend herself. 

The truth was that no matter how lost Aquarius might’ve gotten in the Spirit Realm, her key wasn’t supposed to go missing. The contract with her Celestial Wizard should’ve remained unaffected regardless of the location of the spirit, since the key was made with the sole intention of being an anchor, in both their worlds.

Loke wasn’t sure he could tell her the whole truth until he got some answers himself; as the Leader of the Twelve Zodiac Houses, Aquarius’ disappearance weighed hard on him more-so than normal. He’d only just been back in the Spirit Realm for a few months now but the backlog of centuries’ worth of responsibilities had nearly run him into the ground, so much so that he’d underperformed each time Lucy had needed him in the past month. 

As if the humiliation at the hands of the Oración Seis wasn’t enough (he hadn’t expected to see Aries on the battlefield so soon), Loke cringed to think how he’d been so overworked he’d blatantly flirted with and subsequently gotten rejected by Lucy’s Edolas counterpart, mere hours ago.

“Loke? Hello? Earth to Leo?” He snapped back to reality.

Lucy had stopped pacing and had returned to hover over him, hands on her waist, shrewdly giving him a once-over. Loke held his breath, wondering if she could tell that he was hiding something; Lucy was smarter than people gave her credit for.

“Sorry milady,” he faked an easy grin, leaning in closer to distract her, “I got lost in your beautiful eyes for a second there.” 

Lucy blinked once, twice then rolled those same eyes in disbelief, breaking the spell.

“Someone’s confident today,” she huffed, resuming her seat, “How’d your little date go, by the way? Virgo told me all about it.”

Loke made a mental note to never joke with Virgo about dating his workload ever again.

“Terribly,” he pretended to pout, wondering if Lucy would take the bait.

“And why’s that?” She did.

“Well, to start with, she wasn’t you,” He said, reaching over to tuck a strand of blonde hair behind her ear, sure the classic Loke move would leave her in pieces. It was a little cheesy but it worked in a pinch. 

Lucy only smacked his hand away, her exasperation bleeding into irritation.

“Loke, you can’t keep doing this,” She said, crossing her arms, “What’s going on with you?”

“You were exhausted even before the Edolas fight.. when was the last time you slept?”

Loke blinked in surprise. Much smarter than people gave her credit for.

“Not for a while,” He admitted, shoulders slumping and leaning back into the pillows, “Not since the run in with Aries.”

“Loke!” Lucy’s worried gasp had him ducking his head with something like shame, “That was weeks ago!”

Between the overwhelming amount of paperwork on his table, attending every Spirit World event he’d been absent for, and now Aquarius’ disappearance, Loke counted himself lucky that he didn’t have silly human needs to tend to anymore like eating or sleeping, but his body seemed to think otherwise. The Celestial Spirit King had warned him that readjusting would take some time, of course, but Loke hadn’t listened; he couldn’t just throw away the second (and last) chance he’d been given at the expense of Lucy’s dignity–  he’d break his own key before letting her suffer for him again.

“Celestial spirits don’t need all that y’know–“ He said, trying his best to sound nonchalant about it, but she quickly cut him off.

“But you haven’t been a spirit for that long!” Lucy scolded, “Remember what the Spirit King said about–“

“I know, Lucy,” He sighed, unable to meet her eyes, “I just.. didn’t want to let yo- uh everybody down.”

“Oh..”

“You know,” He added, only half joking, “-can’t have people saying I wasn’t worth all the trouble, after all you did for me.”

At this, Lucy reached out and grabbed his hand, forcing him to look up at her.

“Loke, you’re my friend,” She said sternly, “I would do it again in a heartbeat.”

Loke wondered how she could look at him like that, like she would defend him to the ends of the Earthland, and expect him not to fall in love with her.

“Ah,” He put his other hand on his heart in mock despair, lightening the mood instantly, “You shouldn’t get my hopes up like that, Lucy.”

“W-What?”

“Just friends?” He pulled her hand to his chest then, “I thought we had something special, milady.”

“Yeah right,” Lucy smiled, relaxing a little, “Me and every girl within a five-mile radius." 

“Don’t you think for a minute that I’ve forgotten what happened with my Edolas doppelgänger, you flirt!” 

“I see, does that mean you only want me to flirt with you, Lucy?” He teased, leaning in to see the sudden influx of colour that rushed to Lucy’s face.

“I- I never-“ He tried not to enjoy it too much as she floundered around for a comeback and settled for pulling her hands away in protest.

Although Loke did his best to keep his foot out of his mouth, he constantly found himself toeing the line between cheeky and tongue-in-cheek with his flirting, mostly because he had no idea how to talk to Lucy otherwise. 

Addressing her formally (like he’d been accustomed to with Karen), felt foreign and ill-fitting and it definitely didn’t help that Lucy herself often blurred the line between spirit and friend herself– insisting everyone call her by her first name, and being determined to fight on equal footing as though they were partners. But even he knew better than to delude himself into hoping that anything might come of it.

Before Lucy could reply, however, they were interrupted by a sharp, sarcastic rap on the door. 

“Break it up ya lovebirds, the Master wants to see ‘er.”

“Gajeel!”

Loke tensed up. 

Though it had been well over four months since the iron dragon-slayer had joined the guild, along with Juvia Lockser, his popularity (unlike Juvia’s) hadn’t skyrocketed in the least. While this had, in some part, to do with Gajeel’s prickly personality, the greater blame lay in his mistreatment of the Fairy Tail members during the guild war with Phantom Lord, and, among the casualties, a certain celestial mage with sunshine blonde hair.

Loke glowered at the red-eyed wizard, still bedridden but now imperceptibly shifting his torso to shield Lucy from whatever would come next.

Gajeel only snorted, no doubt considering the implications of starting a fight with a guy in a hospital gown, and pointed over Loke’s shoulder instead.

“Just ya, Blondie,” He crossed his arms, “Somethin’ about losin' his keys or whatever.”

“Oh,” Lucy got up to leave but Loke involuntarily grabbed her hand and shook his head. Gajeel threw them another withering look.

“Look, I don’t wanna be here either, alright? Got better things to do than run around playing errand boy to that old man. I’ve got an exceed to feed y’know.”

It was only then that they noticed the animal on his shoulder. Bearing a striking resemblance to Happy and Carla, this one was covered in black fur, with stark white wings and a scar running across one eye. 

Both Lucy and Loke jumped a little when the exceed opened it’s mouth to say “Hello, I’m Panther Lily,” with the voice of a fifty-year-old war veteran.

“It’s nice to meet you.”

“Hello,” Lucy replied bravely, not to be deterred, “I’m Lucy Heartf- uh just Lucy! Welcome to Fairy Tail!”

Loke tried not to look up at her then; he knew how self conscious Lucy had become after her run in with her father, especially about her name. The other guild members had teased her about her ‘princessy’ demeanour for months on end, and though she’d laughed it off in good faith, Loke had heard from Virgo that she’d marched down to the Magic Council to have Heartfilia removed from all her legal documents.

“Loke,” he grunted reluctantly when the exceed turned to him. He didn’t want to tell Gajeel’s pet anything but his rudeness wouldn’t reflect well on Lucy.

“You’re a Celestial spirit,” The Exceed noted, fixing him with a strange look. 

“Is that a problem?” Loke raised an eyebrow.

“But not a full one. Interesting..”

Loke’s hackles raised, and he opened his mouth to ask just what exactly the little bear-cat-like creature meant before he felt the squeeze on his arm and realised Lucy was looking at him.

“I’ll be right back,” She’d already dropped his hand before he could voice his objection, so instead he watched her leave, deliberately narrowing his eyes as Gajeel made to close the door.

“If you touch one hair on her head..” He gritted his teeth.

“Yeah, yeah,” Gajeel said carelessly, scratching at his jaw, “Word of advice? Get it together before ya go off makin’ threats loverboy.”

The door slammed shut with a THUD!

Loke released a breath into the air and pressed his hand to his temples. What was he doing? 

Gajeel was right, he wasn’t in any place to sit around and growl at people like Lucy’s lapdog. Karen had loved seeing him do it, almost as much as she’d loved to torment Aries to get a rise out of him.

“Aren’t I lucky,” The green-haired, green-eyed (in more ways than one) Karen Lilica had crowed, brandishing her chain-whip, “I have both the strongest and the weakest spirits of all the Zodiac.”

Before he could realise what was happening, Loke had already slipped into the dream. 

The familiar periwinkle and gold interior of the Blue Pegasus guild hall rose up to swallow him and suddenly Loke wasn’t Loke anymore. Now he was Leo, confident and glowing as he reached out to shake the hand of the sweet, green-haired girl who’d summoned him.

“Oh wow!” She gasped, shaking his hand with both of her own, “I’m so honoured to meet a member of the Zodiac! I’m Karen by the way!”

The ground fell away under him and suddenly Loke was crouched at the foot of a plush red sofa as an older Karen lovingly stroked his head; teary mascara streaking down her face. Gone was the youthful girlishness, now replaced by a garish lipsticked smile.

“You know I didn’t mean it right, Leo? I just got so angry– I don’t know what came over me.”

He looked on dumbly as Karen cooed and fussed over the large gash above his right eyelid.

If only he had known sooner. If only he had seen it coming. If only, if only, if only.

The roar of a waterfall cascaded from somewhere inside him and Loke looked around, confused, before the ceiling opened up and released a flood of water down on him, drowning, drowning, drowning and then.. not.

Now Loke was kneeling on a rocky outcropping overlooking a great waterfall, in front of Karen’s grave, but the grave was empty and Karen was standing next to him, all pretense of love leaving her eyes as she dug the sharp tip of her heel into his shoulder.

“Why won’t you just leave me alone? Go. Back. Go back, go back, go back!” She shrieked, shoving him backward. Loke caught his balance before he tumbled into the hole and finally found the words to defend himself.

“What.. happened to you?” He choked out as Karen proceeded to loop her chain-whip around his neck and pull.

She laughed as he fought for air, grasping at the rusted metal in vain.

“What’re you on about?” She taunted, leaning in to press a kiss right above his eye, “You turned me into this, Leo.”

Her kisses felt like acid.

“It’s all your fault,” She whispered as his face began to burn and his vision began to darken, “And now you’ve gone and dragged that poor girl into it too.”

Loke turned around in horror to see Lucy now lying inside Karen’s empty grave, eyes closed, clutching his key to her chest like a lifeline. 

“Gate.. of the lion.. close.. gate..”

“Lucy! LUCY!”

Loke reached out to grab her, but it was too late. The ground closed over the hole, as he started to disappear, grass and flowers sprouting beneath the gravestone and sealing Lucy away forever - his name the last words on her lips.

“Leo.”

Another fainter voice overlapped with hers, originating from somewhere at the back of his skull; a voice that sounded suspiciously like Aquarius’. 

“Leo,” Lucy-Aquarius repeated, quiet and urgent, like she didn’t have much time, “You need to be careful.”

“The Eclipse is coming.”

Loke woke for the second time that day to a pair of worried brown eyes.

This time, however, they belonged to his long-time friend and confidante, Aries. As though dreaming about their former master had summoned her to his side, the pink-haired, Ram Spirit hovered over him anxiously, mumbling something to herself.

“Leo!” She repeated, relieved as he sat up a little straighter.

“Aries..” He replied, not fully able to process what was happening, “Did Lucy summon you? What’re you doing here?”

“Mhm,” She shook her head, “I came on my own. I learned how to after.. well..”

Loke winced as he recalled the phantom abuse in his dream, involuntarily feeling his throat to check for burn marks.

“The Celestial Spirit King wanted to know if Lucy-san still had the Aquarius key?” Aries asked hopefully.

The disappearance had left everyone in the Spirit World on edge, their monarch included. Loke had a feeling it was because it had been millennia since they were forced to confront their potential demise. That and because Scorpio kept giving everyone hell for losing Aquarius; Loke had to physically restrain his friend to keep him from ambushing Lucy on his own. 

“No,” Aries’ face fell as he continued, “For some reason, the key’s gone too. We don’t have any hint for where we should begin searching, and the closed-pocket realms are endless.”

“We can only hope she hasn’t fallen into any of the Disgraced dimensions.”

Aries’ eyes got wide at the mention of the Red-Key Spirits, former inhabitants of the Celestial Spirit Realm, exiled for breaking the code of conduct that all spirits were required to abide under. No decent spirit would be caught whispering about The Disgraced Ones within the earshot of Loke– after all, if Karen had been any less of a villain, he would’ve shared their fate. 

It was another thing he’d carefully kept from Lucy. His banishment to the human world was an act of mercy, only granted to him for his eons of unwavering loyalty to the Celestial Spirit King, and when it came down to it, Loke would pick dying in the human world over the twisted solitude of the Disgraced dimensions. At least he would die as himself.

“Do you suppose it was taken?” Aries said finally, her usual jumpiness replaced by uncharacteristic conviction, “Maybe someone stole it off Lucy-san when she wasn’t looking?”

“Maybe,” Loke shrugged, unconvinced, “But it’s unlikely. From what Lucy told me, they just returned from Edolas a few hours ago.”

“If anyone wanted to steal the key, it’d have to be from within Fairy Tail.”

“But–“

“No, Aries,” She looked hurt when he cut her off, “The people here aren’t like that. You should just go home– I’ll handle it.”

Loke tried to feign indifference as her big doll eyes began to well up with tears. He hated doing it but drawing boundaries between himself and the rest of the Zodiac had become a necessity when he returned. Aries, who’d arguably been the happiest of them all, quickly came to the realisation that her friend had become a completely different person in all their time apart.

Time worked differently in the Celestial Spirit Realm; sometimes it would go faster, sometimes slower, and there were even periods where it simply wouldn’t move at all. For the three years Loke had been in Earthland, time had spun like a roulette table and separated him from his friends by a whopping three hundred years, suddenly making him the youngest of his former team-mates. 

He lost the respect and acclaim that came with being the Leader of the Zodiac, the title going to Aquarius in his absence; no longer the notorious lion spirit, now just a cub with claws too big and too sharp for his feet. 

“I wish you would let me help,” Aries’ lip wobbled, still she rubbed at her eyes defiantly, “We used to do everything together, Leo.”

Loke clutched his hospital gown tightly, his mouth set in a thin, hard line.

After a few seconds of strained silence, where he pretended he didn’t see her shoulders quietly shaking, Aries said,

“I know you blame me for Karen’s death.”

He glanced up, surprised.

“I thought about it for years,” She frowned, not meeting his eyes, “‘Leo must hate me’. After all, you were only trying to protect me.”

“If I had just been better at standing up for myself, you wouldn’t have been punished so severely!”

“I don’t blame you,” He said gently, her tears had gotten to him, “But this is my job Aries, I can’t drag you into it.”

“But Karen–“ 

“Karen was a monster,” Loke bared his teeth, not an ounce of regret in his voice, “–and she got what she deserved.”

“She was so kind when we first met her,” Aries insisted weakly, “I can’t help but wonder if we had helped her more maybe–“

“Maybe she would’ve turned on us faster,” He snapped, “Maybe she would’ve done worse! You didn’t see her those last few weeks, Aries, I did.”

“She was unhinged– the girl I made a contract with died a long time ago.”

Loke refrained himself from adding ‘And it was all my fault.’ to the end of that sentence, because he knew Aries would never understand. She would want to share the blame for their former master’s descent into madness, but the cruel truth was that despite what Aries said, she simply couldn’t handle the pain that came with that realisation. Karen knew it too, its why she saved all the especially harrowing punishments for him. It was much more fun for her to watch him slowly begin to resent the friend he’d tried so desperately to save. 

“I don’t blame you,” Loke repeated, almost as though he was trying to convince himself, “And besides, getting banished was the best thing that ever happened to me. I wouldn’t have met Lucy, otherwise.”

“Then let me help you,” Aries refuted stubbornly, “Aquarius is my friend too!”

“And my responsibility,” He countered, “–as the Leader of the Zodiac–“

“If what happens to Aquarius starts spreading, there won’t be a Zodiac left to lead, Leo!”

Loke started at her tone. He didn’t think he’d ever heard Aries’ voice rise higher than 40 decibels.

“You’re not the only one suffering here! Remember how bad it was when we lost Capricorn– you wouldn’t even let us help you then! You had to ‘do it yourself’, well a whole lot of good that did you!”

“So just stop being so– so– pig-headed!” Even Aries looked surprised by her sudden burst of rebelliousness, and clamped both her hands over her mouth in horror.

The sight was so odd and unexpected that, try as he might, Loke couldn’t hold back the snort that spilled out from somewhere deep inside him. 

He was in tears within seconds, clutching the sides of his stomach as he keeled over with laughter, and, after a few seconds, Aries joined him; the two of them snickering like middle-schoolers over a dumb joke.

“Pig-headed?” He wheezed.

Stars, it had been a while since they’d laughed together. Truth be told, Loke wasn’t sure they’d even be able to talk normally again without the ghost of Karen hovering between them, but here they were. Stranger things had happened.

“I’m glad,” Aries said finally, as she paused to catch their breath, “I haven’t seen you smile once since you came home.”

Loke opened his mouth to protest but she held up a finger to stop him, “No, talking about Lucy-san doesn’t count.”

“Killjoy.” He huffed. Aries giggled.

“How is she taking the news, by the way?”

“Better than I expected,” He admitted, “She’s tougher than she looks, m–“

Loke caught himself just in time. 

He didn’t know what would be worse, actually slipping up and saying the words “my Lucy”, or watching his friend’s face scrunch up with pity as she hears it. Even Aries (the most optimistic of all the spirits) would click her tongue in disbelief if she found out just how deep his loyalties lay. 

Celestial Spirits don’t fall in love with humans. Capricorn had drilled it into his head since he was a boy. Especially not their bright-eyed, lavender-shampooed, beautiful, beautiful masters. 

“That’s good,” Aries affirmed, blissfully oblivious to his mental gymnastics as she rose from her seat, “I’d better head off then.”

“Is there anything you wanted me to look into while you’re.. taking your mandatory rest?”

Loke was about to shake his head and send her on her way, but a tiny voice in the back of his head made him pause, the lightness in his chest temporarily soaking in an inexplicable sense of dread.

“Actually,” he began, “There is one thing.”

She blinked expectantly.

“What can you tell me about the Eclipse?”

Next Chapter ->

[justminawrites]

Of Ribbons and Other Lost Things - Chapter 2: Help Wanted

AO3

1 | 2 | 3 | TBC

Luka Couffaine hadn’t meant to end up at the Dupain-Cheng Bakery on purpose.

He’d bombed his first three interviews, for a bartender (too young), beekeeper (they seemed to be allergic to him) and bassist (he took one look at the bloodstained chipmunk costume and refused to get in), and found himself with a some time to kill before the final one at Le Grand Paris hotel. 

So he aimlessly cycled around the cobblestoned pathways of Paris instead, following musical notes scattered all around city like a giant melodic puzzle, before traitorous muscle memory kicked in, taking him to the one place he was sure he’d be turned away from. 

The bakery was right in the heart of the city; a beautiful, five-story building fortified with an eggshell-white composite of brick and wood, the delicious aroma of bread weaving in and around the neighbouring streets. 

Luka felt his insides curl, the twang! of a broken guitar string, as he stopped his bike outside its freshly-painted doors, and tried to pedal back the way he came.

But his legs stalled as he caught sight of a girl on the rooftop balcony of the building, pacing back and forth in her trademark pink jeans and grey blazer, exaggeratedly waving her arms as though she was in an argument with herself. 

Luka bit his lip to keep from smiling at the sight.

Now, it was no secret Marinette Dupain-Cheng was avoiding him. 

He’d deduced as much when she noticeably stopped coming to Kitty Section’s rehearsals, started pitching her new designs on the group chat instead of actually showing up to their meetings, and even having The Girl Squad deliver the first draft of the clothes she’d sewn. 

But what was a secret was that he’d been avoiding her just as much. 

No one knew besides Jule (because no one knew anything about him besides Juleka), but Luka had found himself taking every precaution to avoid the Dupain-Chengs, from cancelling inner-city deliveries to pulling admittedly dangerous 180s on a busy Parisian street, just because the light hit just right and the girl walking his way could’ve been Marinette with extensions (it was not).

He knew the strain of avoiding both his father and his ex-girlfriend was bound to put him in a tight spot eventually, and karma reared its head one fine day when Luka heard the inevitable click of a door opening and found himself face-to-chest with the broad-shouldered Tom Dupain. 

“Luka,” if Tom noticed how he’d turned three shades whiter, he didn’t say anything, “You must be here for Marinette. Marine–”

“NO!” He yelled hastily, before clamping his mouth shut, much to Tom’s bewilderment.

“Uhm, I mean–” Luka held up his hands in surrender, resisting the urge to glance up at the balcony, “This isn’t.. about Marinette.. at all.”

“Then, did you come to buy a croissant?” Tom asked, arms crossed, curiously casting a glance at the several HELP WANTED flyers filling up his bike’s wicker-basket.

“Uh,” He swallowed, uncomfortable with lying to this hulk of a man, “You wouldn’t happen to be hiring?”

It was a deliberate trap. Luka already knew that the Dupain-Cheng’s bakery was a family-owned business, and as a result they almost never outsourced any work, not even for national holidays like Galette’s Day. So it was a pretty safe bet that the next few moves would proceed like this: they’d kindly (they did everything kindly) offer him a rejection, he would graciously accept it, promise to return for a galette in a few weeks, and cycle away, never to show his face here again. 

“Oh no, we’re not–“ Tom looked ready to refuse, but a strange look came over his face, “–actually, hold on, Sabine’s going to be busy for a few weeks and Marinette’s always drowning in schoolwork these days..”

But it seemed like karma wasn’t done with him quite yet.

“Riiight,” Luka leaned back, not liking where this train of thought was going, “I’ll get out of your hair then, sir.”

Tom opened the door wider with one arm, placing the other on Luka’s shoulder before giving him a vaguely threatening smile.

“Why don’t you come in for a bit, son?”

He paled.

...

“That was way too close, Marinette!”

“I know, Tikki.”

“You know no one can find out about you being Ladybug!”

“I know, Tikki.”

“Were you actually going to tell Alya?”

“I don’t know, Tikki.”

“What do you know, Marinette?”

Marinette Dupain-Cheng stopped her pacing to raise an eyebrow at the red and black-spotted bug’s uncharacteristically hostile tone, which she quickly felt guilty for. 

Tikki was just being cautious; losing Master Fu had a visceral effect on all the kwamis; some more intense than others (Wayzz hadn’t come out of the box once), and she could hardly fault her closest companion for being stiff with her when she didn’t exactly tell her what she was planning on doing.

“I’m sorry,” Tikki said first, flying up from her perch on the balcony railing to nuzzle Marinette’s face, “If you think Alya can be trusted with this kind of secret, I won’t stop you.”

“I know it was hard for you to lose Master Fu,” Marinette sighed accepting the apology with a gentle poke between her antennae, “And I’m nowhere ready to being as good of a Guardian he was, but I need you to trust me, okay?”

“I can’t do this alone, and I can’t tell Chat Noir, in case one of us gets akumatised. I can’t be a full-time Guardian and Ladybug, Tikki. We need a new permanent hero, and Alya is my only choice.”

“But didn’t she reveal her secret identity to you a little too quickly?” 

Marinette pursed her lips at that; her kwami had a point. 

Alya had told her she was Rena Rouge not just with excitement and some air of false pride– like she was a veteran in a field that Marinette had only just been exposed to, but also with resignation. Like she’d given up on Ladybug visiting her at all.

“Well I guess.. if she can’t be Rena Rouge anymore, I’ll just have to give her another miraculous!”

“Won’t she be just as likely to rely on you as before, Marinette?”

“Hmm..” Marinette narrowed her eyes. When she and Chat Noir had first gotten their miraculouses, it was without the safety net of being a ‘temporary holder’. They were forced to make their own decisions, learn their own lessons, and keep their own secrets close to their hearts; from friends, even from family. Master Fu had only joined them when it was clear that they’d fallen into their own rhythm of doing things, and once he was sure they weren’t going to quit on him anytime soon.

“You know, Marinette,” Tikki began, catching onto the idea that was already forming in her holder’s mind, “Nobody knows that Ladybug is the new Guardian of the Miracle Box... or that there is a guardian in the first place.”

It was true; thanks to Queen Wasp’s city-wide akumatisation a month ago, no one had been spared to cover the highlights of Master Fu’s sacrifice in HD clarity. It was as close to a blackout as the city’d gotten to since.. its last mind-wiping akuma?

“You’re right Tikki.. but what if she just tries to return the miraculous to me when she’s done with it?”

“You can always fib a little.”

Marinette gasped exaggeratedly, and the kwami rolled her round, blue eyes. 

“I don’t mean lie, Marinette. You can just tell Alya that if and when the Guardian of the Miraculous decides to hand out a new one to a permanent hero, it’s not your business to interfere in the matter.. or to know their identity.”

“You’re a genius, Tikki!” She said with a smile, “That way, Alya can decide wether or not to accept the miraculous on her own terms, but if she chooses to quit, I’ll still be able to get it back from her!”

As Marinette reached into her sling bag to give her kwami a macaron as a reward, she heard a sudden shout come from below her. Before she could reach over to see who was making a fuss at the bakery so early in the day, Tikki flew into her line of sight to give her a strict look.

“But ShadowMoth knows Alya’s identity now. What if he’s tailing her to see if you give her the miraculous again?”

Marinette felt the grimace before it twisted her mouth. Of course. She’d been so focused on keeping the miraculous safe, that she’d forgotten to consider keeping their temporary holders safe too. And for all she knew, ShadowMoth might just be hiding more information he’d stolen from Master Fu and waiting it out to surprise her in some way. She couldn’t take any unnecessary risks.

“You’ll have to find some way to slip it into her bag in your civilian form,” Tikki continued, “But Marinette, are you really, really sure she can be–“

A buzz interrupted the kwami’s heartfelt warning, and she looked down to see her phone flash with a new message from her bff:

@alya.ladyblogger: guess who’s already waiting for u downstairs??

@alya.ladyblogger: (totally not trying to get u to come faster or anything)

@alya.ladyblogger: hint - he’s vv hot and vv into superheroes (like u!!!)

Marinette ignored the twist of dread in her stomach as she headed down to her room to grab the bee miraculous from a black, egg-shaped slot in the miracle box. 

She wasn’t making a mistake.. right?

...

“You couldn’t have picked a better place! This is the best bakery in Paris– my kids adore their croissants!”

Zoé Lee stepped out of the hired cab, letting the doe-eyed look she’d given the driver, slip off her face to reveal a sly smile. 

The best bakery in Paris, huh? Of course, anything less for the newest Bourgeois princess would be ridiculous.. utterly ridiculous, to quote the saying her mother and Chloé often butchered. 

She knelt down, adjusting the laces on her colourful sneakers so they’d conveniently trip her up when the time came, running a finger over the slightly smudged red-and-black letters she’d scribbled onto the left one last minute. 

I ♥ U. 

What a joke.

But self-deprecating enough to tug at the heartstrings of anyone who had a semblance of sympathy– and there were a few people in particular Zoé planned on tugging. Into her own orbit, or out of Chloé’s, she wasn’t really picky. But her plans began with these sneakers and one delightfully oblivious baker girl. 

Marinette Dupain-Cheng. 

Zoé Lee-Bourgeois pushed open the bakery door with a soft chime. Her half-of-a-sister couldn’t even begin to guess what was coming her way.

______________________________________________________________

END NOTES:

Luka: The risk i took was calculated, but man.. am i bad at math.

NEXT CHAPTER ->

[justminawrites]

The Portrait

AO3

Summary: Syrah holds an impromptu group therapy session to take everyone's minds off the curse-curing crystal. Somehow the topic drifts to First Loves i.e. first portraits, and Whitney is peer pressured into revealing the truth of the first colourful picture he'd ever laid eyes on.

CLANG! CLANG! CLANG!

“All right, that’s enough– get in the therapy bubble, all of you!”

Whitney languidly opened one eye to witness the debacle unfolding before him. 

It was a perfectly normal day for the Cursed Princess Club, the birds were twittering and the weather in the Haunted Forest behind the Pastel Kingdom was uncharacteristically pleasant, enough so that Syrah had scheduled an impromptu tea party (much to poor Curtis’ chagrin) complete with picnic blankets, freshly baked goods, and the most motherly attitude she could muster up in the wake of Prez’s absence. 

Whitney wasn’t sure where exactly Calpernia had gone but had taken one look at the withering glare Curtis’ shot Syrah behind a tray of slightly steaming muffins and realised he’d probably be safer not knowing. 

It must be something to do with the gala anyway, everything did these days. 

Syrah had intended on lightening the mood after the disaster that was Gwen’s Dinner Party, but the impending introduction of a curse-breaking crystal had soured everyone’s appetites for the usual fluffy gossip that doubled as a means of relieving tension in the club. Dragging a begrudging Saffron along, the Pinocchio-fied princess held a mandatory sit down to discuss the pros and cons of portraits being used to arrange marriages (a topic she’d found in one of Prez’s abandoned lecture portfolios). 

Whitney happened to be meditating nearby when the first sign of disagreement began. 

Thermidora knocked over a cup of tea onto Abbi’s new dress, but instead of getting angry, the 80-year-old teenager tutted, shook her head and said something along the lines of ‘-see, this is why you need the crystal more than I do.’ 

This simple, offhand comment set off a chain reaction across the entire tea party and within a matter of minutes everyone was at each other’s throats about why a curse-breaking crystal would be the worst thing that’s ever happened to them. 

Pillows were thrown, names were called and it looked like it was going to turn into a real brawl until Syrah picked up a metal tray and banged on it loudly with a pair of dessert tongs.

“That’s enough!” She repeated, setting down the tray, “Bubble. Now. You too, Whitney!”

Whitney started as she stabbed the dessert tongs in his direction accusatorially, but obliged. Everyone at the CPC was a force to be reckoned with, in their own way, and he had no intention of having more than one member be angry at him. 

Once they were all sitting in a circle, Whitney sandwiched between Saffron and Monika, Syrah (on the other side of Saffron) released a breath. 

“Now we all agreed that we’d wait till Prez got back to talk about the crystal didn’t we?”

“Yes Syrah,” a chorus of girls, and Saffron, echoed obediently. Whitney pretended to be deeply interested in the red-and-white fibres of the picnic blanket to avoid meeting her eyes. 

Nobody had asked him what he thought about the whole curse-breaking crystal situation, but of course, why would they? Whatever claim he had on the item was likely lower than even Frederick; not that he coveted it of course. As far as he was concerned his curse wasn’t a curse at all but the consequences of his behaviour. A punishment that had slowly begun to flare up more and more since he’d gotten here. 

“Great! Then let’s forget about all this woe-is-she business and get back to talking about what really matters!”

“But the history of portraiture is so bo-Oring,” Abbi whined, draping herself across a tired looking Renée, who sighed in agreement. A murmur of assent seemed to ripple through the Bubble as the princesses looked at one another and winced.

“You know Prez’s lectures never fail to put me to sleep, Syrah.”

“Yes, that’s why we won’t be doing history but your-story instead!” Syrah replied, eyes sparkling with mischief.

“Forget about the ‘Olden Days’– this group discussion is going to be all about your very first portrait-crush!”

A chorus of oohs and aahs filled the glade, as the prospect of a fun, shared experience, temporarily overshadowed the gloom of a cure. Whitney must have looked confused, because both Saffron and Monika simultaneously leaned over to whisper in his ear.

“Its like your first crush-“ Monika began.

“-but only from seeing their portrait.” Saffron finished.

“I had mine when I was only twelve,” Syrah grinned, eyes sparkling, “What can I say, I was a pretty popular child.”

“Yeah,” Saffron scoffed, “Or your parents just wanted to get rid of you as soon as possible.”

She smacked his uncursed arm and he yelped. 

“Wait, aren’t portrait crushes usually the result of a marriage proposal.. or an impending one?” Monika asked, anxiously twirling a lock of hair around her finger.

“Don’t tell me you got proposed to when you were–”

“Mm, yeah,” Syrah’s momentary preening turned tart, her lips curling into something like disgust, “–and he was well into his twenties too. Luckily my father saw right through his charade.”

“He hired a man to paint him ten years younger, but the artist did his job too well and my parents insisted on meeting him in person. Long story short, there’s a reason I don’t wear chevron.”

Saffron fell strangely silent and Monika turned a greenish purple colour, looking like she was either about to choke or vomit or both. Even Whitney felt a twinge of pity stirring in his chest for the once tween-aged girl; therapy bubble indeed.

“Anyway,” Syrah continued, completely oblivious to her friends discomfort, “Who’s next?”

“I haven’t had mine yet,” Abbi sighed, catching only the tail-end of the mildly horrifying conversation, “Though I don’t think it’ll ever happen.”

“Oh don’t say that, Abbi,” Syrah frowned, pulling the girl in for a hug, “It just means that when it finally happens, it’ll be all the more special won’t it?”

“I guess so,” Abbi huffed, turning to the lobster princess on her right, “What about you, Thermidora?”

“Lobsters are excellent portrait-connoisseurs,” Thermidora replied easily, waving her large, clawed  arms inches away from Monika’s face, “I had many a suitor in my day, but none ever caught my eye quite like Benedict did.”

“Was there something different about his portrait?” Syrah prompted as Monika burst into a puff of feathers and landed in Whitney’s claws. He steadied the quaking magpie on his other shoulder to keep her out of harms way.

“Oh yes,” Thermidora resumed, unbothered, “He had the most well-kept moustache I’d ever seen, on a man or a lobster. It was quite the fad at the time!”

“Hear that Saffron,” Syrah snickered, elbowing her friend, “Lobster or man..”

“Oh, lay off would ya.”

“I- I haven't had mine yet either-” Monika twittered once she’d recovered her breath. 

“But I can’t really sit still long enough to get one. Sitting still means I have to keep quiet, keeping quiet means all I can listen to are the thoughts in my head, and one thing leads to another and I get so anxious about it all that I just–“

The magpie squeaked as if to make her point and slumped unto herself.

“You could try listening to some relaxing music while they paint,” Jolie chimed in from across the circle.

“Or Read A Book.” Renée scribbled on her pad of paper.

“It shows that you have hobbies and interests!”

“Sorry.. um.. am I interrupting?” 

The CPC looked up to see a familiar golden head hover at the edge of the glade, his bright green getup easily marking him out from the trees and foliage. 

“Frederick!” Syrah exclaimed, waving over the young prince, “Not at all! Are you looking for Gwen?”

Whitney held up a hand in greeting which he mimicked, albeit hesitantly, once he caught his eye. Though the dinner was almost a catastrophe, Whitney remembered feeling relief burst in his chest when Frederick had called him his friend and saved their cover. 

“Uhm.. yes. Is she- is Gwen- uh- around?” 

“No, she’s probably busy getting ready for the gala,” Syrah huffed, “-but you’re welcome to join us.”

“Yes! Come, come!” Thermidora echoed.

Frederick looked like he’d rather pull a llama uphill in a makeshift cart again but swallowed his disappointment like a champ and reluctantly walked over to take Monika’s place.

“We’re talking about first portrait-crushes,” Syrah explained quickly and watched as the young boy brightened but then immediately turned pale.

“O- oh, I see.”

“So,” Abbi nudged after an uncomfortable pause, “Was Gwen your first?”

“My family doesn’t have the best reputation with portraits,” Frederick admitted, beads of sweat forming on both sides of his temple as the rest of the club members fell silent to hear his story.

“Our castle was haunted for years, and Father didn’t see the value in paying for an exorcism so all the pictures we commissioned were.. interesting, to say the least.”

“Oh! A friend of mine had the same problem!” Jolie interrupted, popping open her eye sockets to dig around for a picture. Whitney watched Frederick’s face turn two shades lighter; some curses would definitely take a while to get used to. 

“Here!” 

Everyone leaned in to see the palm-sized sketch the princess had dug out from her eyeless void; though barely qualifying as a portrait, the distinct silhouettes of a king, a queen and a young princess with green hair was overshadowed by a looming maw of darkness punctuated by two sharp jewels of red light, burning like coals.

“No matter where they went, the shadow seemed to follow them!” Jolie explained cheerily. Now it was Saffron’s turn to look perturbed.

“In the end, they gave in and had the exorcism. Good thing they did too, apparently the medium had foreseen that my friend only had three days left to live..”

“Did they... ahem.. ever find out what it was that was haunting them?” Saffron asked gruffly, trying to hide the shakiness in his voice by coughing. 

Jolie turned her sightless eyes on him then, a wicked grin spreading over her features as she leaned in to finish her tale.

“No,” She didn't budge an inch, “But the king and queen had it released into a haunted forest right behind their castle.. a forest just... like... this.. one..”

“BOO!”

Saffron screeched as two glowing red orbs lit up inside her eye sockets, and toppled backwards into Syrah taking the both of them down in panic. Frederick clung to Whitney in fear, temporarily displacing Monika from his shoulder, the latter squawking and spluttering as she launched herself onto Renée’s head and hid in her soft blonde hair.  

Jolie giggled amidst all the hysteria and knocked on her temples with the flat of her palm a few times until the small, unmistakable form of a mouse popped out into her palm, blinked in surprise, then took one look at Whitney and scurried away for its life.

“Everyone’s a critic.” She shrugged noncommittally. He almost snorted.

“Get. Off.” Syrah huffed, extricating herself from Saffron as she tried to maintain a semblance of dignity but it proved to be a struggle since he’d already passed out cold from all the excitement. Frederick sheepishly dusted off his friend’s shoulder and scooted away, embarrassed.

The sun had begun to inch towards the horizon, smearing the sky in yolky oranges and browns, studded with milky white stars.

“Alright,” Syrah began once everyone’s heart rates had returned to normal, “Where were we?”

“Maybe we should call it a day, Syrah,” Monika quipped, peeking out from under Renée’s hair. 

“Nonsense,” She frowned, gesturing for Curtis to pass her a butter-knife, “We haven’t heard Whitney’s story yet!”

Whitney blanched as all eyes now turned to him curiously. Even Curtis, who’d been appearing and disappearing from this conversation at whim paused to flick the cutlery right at Whitney’s face. 

“I’m sure you must’ve received tons!” Syrah said, snatching it out out of the air, a hair’s width away from his eyeball.

“I don’t-“ Whitney gulped, pretending to remain unaffected by the attempted assassination that no one else had noticed.

“Don’t be shy,” Renée held up her sketchpad comfortingly. 

“Yeahmmff, we’re all ears, cat-man,” Abbi mumbled sarcastically, mouth filled with macarons. It seemed that she wasn’t exactly enthusiastic about Whitney’s status as a club member, though she commended his effort to help out. 

He looked around helplessly but even Frederick had perked up now, intrigued by the idea of discovering more about his strange friend and his foreign mannerisms. 

“Portraiture was difficult for my family as well,” Whitney caved in and began when he realised there was no getting out of this one, “-but our reasons were not supernatural, at least, not as far as was told.”

“The Monochrome Kingdom has a very particular relationship with colour; it was both a treasure and a taboo. Nothing in the kingdom naturally produces colour on its own, from the grass to the cloud cover, everything came in shades of either grey, white or black - so any products that did require other hues had to be imported. Raw dyes and paints were especially reserved for the nobility and only brought out during the most important occasions, and even then what was left was quite muted and dull.”

A blanket of silence descended over the CPC as they watched the former prince recall his home with a mixture of guilt and pity. 

“I myself hadn’t seen a single bright colour till I turned 17,” Whitney continued in his usual flat manner, but Frederick thought he could hear something like wistfulness in his friend’s tone. 

“And much like everything else - it came from outside the kingdom.”

“But the Monochrome Kingdom is very well-renowned,” Thermidora mused, claw on chin, “Even under the sea, it was quite the popular subject of debate– surely you must have gotten far more alliance-based proposals.”

“One would assume as much,” Whitney agreed, “-but if there’s anything the King and Queen loved more than their wealth, it was their privacy. Before Blacquelyn was born, they didn’t even bother attending galas or parties.”

“I’m embarrassed to admit, I was ignorant to the outside world for much of my youth. Perhaps that was why I was so hasty to get married.”

“Oh right! I was wondering that too!” Monika chirped, fluttering back to his shoulder, “You got engaged to Prez awfully quick!”

“R-right.”

Frederick raised an eyebrow as Whitney’s demeanour shifted minutely; if he didn’t know better, his friend almost seemed.. flustered?

“As I was saying,” Whitney cleared his throat, “My parents valued their privacy and our obedience, so any portraits that were sent in were burned before either Greyden or I laid eyes on them.”

“It was the eve of my seventeenth birthday when everything changed.”

“Well don’t keep us on edge! Get on with it!” Abbi huffed; despite herself, she was starting to enjoy the story.

“Very well,” He acquiesced, “We had just finished one of our violent gladiator-style fights to win Father’s approval that week when a courtier came in to announce an invitation to a ball–“

“Woah woah woah– a WHAT?!” Syrah gasped.

He trailed away in bemusement as the CPC exchanged horrified looks between themselves.

“Wait, like actual fights, with real weapons?” Monika ruffled her feathers in alarm.

“Yes? But it was strictly torso and below the belt,” He added quickly, as though that made it any less appalling, “I nicked Greyden’s face once and my Father had me thrown in the Tiger Pit for three days.”

“Three.. days..”  Saffron, rising from his fainting spell, looked at Whitney as though he’d just confessed to murder.

“You must have a lot of scars!” Jolie gasped; he nodded.

“Are you.. okay?” Renée volunteered, making way for Saffron to return to the circle, and Whitney shrugged.

“It was a long time ago,” He said, “And I learned to make peace with my experiences, different though they may be.”

“We’re always here if you wanna talk, ‘bout it, bud’,” Saffron sighed, passing him a pillow, which Whitney took bewildered.

“I- uh- Thank you, Saffron.”

“The courtier came in..” Frederick prompted finally, as a mixed silence descended on the group.

“Right- my parents had been invited to a ball being held the next day,” Whitney began again, stumbling over the newfound support he was unused to receiving, “It was a debutante ball.”

“A princess from a neighbouring kingdom had reached a marriageable age and they were holding a party to introduce her into society. Since it was such short notice, my father declined, but it was too late. I had already caught sight of him by then, and hunted the courtier down after supper.”

“I’m ashamed to say my methods weren’t the friendliest,” He admitted, knuckles tightening as he recalled an undoubtably violent memory, “-but after a lot of.. persuading.. I managed to convince him to tell me the whereabouts of the portrait that came with the invitation.”

“The stars must have aligned for me that day, because they hadn’t defaced it yet. The courtier led me straight it, and that’s when I saw her.”

The CPC was once again at the edge of their seat, now because Whitney’s tone had taken on a kind of softness, his claw-like nails relaxing for the first time since he sat in the circle. 

“She had hair the colour of a sky I wasn’t born under, and eyes like a sun I’d never seen. It was the first time I’d ever seen someone so.. full of life. At that moment, I knew I had to have her.”

Whitney winced as he realised what he’d said.

“In hindsight, I realise that those were the whims of a spoiled, selfish prince who had never understood how to correctly treat another human being, but at the time, all I could think of was that if I met her, somehow my life would get better, even marginally.”

Frederick listened to all this, wide-eyed; why did Whitney’s story sound so familiar? Could it be that both of them shared a need for escape from their respective toxic family dramas– perhaps the former prince was a lot more like him than he’d assumed.

“So, what happened?” Syrah demanded, restless for the reveal, “Who was the princess?”

“I took the portrait to my father and insisted on getting married,” Whitney replied.

“AND?” Renée held up the pad of paper.

“He said no and had it burned.” He finished, “So I never found out who the princess was.”

The CPC groaned collectively, completely unsatisfied with the ending of the story but Frederick knew better than to give up hope. He’d noticed that his friend’s shoulders were tense– a tell. 

Whitney was lying.. but why?

“Well,” Frederick rose, dusting off his trousers, “This has been really fun but I’ve got to get back before my Father notices I’m missing. Coming Whit?”

Whitney looked up puzzled, but then noticed Frederick subtle attempt at winking and hurried to his feet as well.

“Oh- yes- I’ll make sure you get home safely.”

Syrah narrowed her eyes at the two newest members of the club and crossed her arms, but before she could point out how suspicious they were being, Curtis appeared once more, now looking a little more mellow than before.

“If you’ll excuse me princess, it’s well after twilight and I need these dishes to entertain the rest of the club members tomorrow. I trust you’re finished with your therapy group?”

“Oh, Curtis–”

Whitney didn’t end up hearing the rest of her sentence, since Frederick hastily bowed a goodbye and yanked him out of the glade, much to the disappointment of the other princesses, who were only starting to get used to the strange striped, tiger-man. 

Once they were far enough that he was sure they couldn’t be overheard, Frederick turned to his friend and gave him an awkward, one-armed hug.

“What–“ Whitney seemed to freeze at the touch until Frederick pulled back (it was like hugging a rock anyway), and shook his head knowingly.

“I don’t know why you lied about the portrait,” Frederick began, watching as Whitney’s claws involuntarily curled into fists, “-but you don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to.”

“I just want you to know, I consider you one of my closest friends.”

“Thank you,” Whitney’s shoulders slumped, and Frederick nodded, turning back to the path at hand. 

After a few moments of reflective silence, only punctuated by the occasional cicada chirping, the former prince released a long, drawn out breath. 

“I lied so they wouldn’t discover the truth,” Whitney said finally, “I didn’t want Calpernia to pity me– she was the princess in the story.”

Frederick had guessed as much. He offered him an encouraging look, prompting him to continue. 

“My father burned the portrait, yes, but only after I had found out who the princess was. The courtier informed me that it was a neighbouring princess, from the polygon kingdom. So I hid it in my room and approached my father with a marriage proposal the very next day.”

“He laughed in my face first,” Whitney said ruefully, “But I kept asking, the next day and the next and the next, until he couldn’t take it anymore. He had the guards search my room and found Calpernia’s portrait and burned it right in front of me.”

“That’s awful,” Frederick couldn’t help himself. He was usually good at keeping his emotions well hidden but the monochrome prince’s tales always had a way of eliciting a reaction from him.

“I still refused to give up,” Whitney nodded, “My obsession with marriage, and Calpernia, heightened tenfold. I became convinced that she was the only way out of the hell that had become my home.”

“I studied and fought relentlessly, and met every morsel of praise my father offered me with ‘let me marry her.’ This displeased him to no end. He had me take ten lashes for each time I mentioned her name. Still, I kept at it. Eventually my mother caved and began accepting portraits from influential families both within and outside the kingdom in an attempt to placate the monster I was becoming.”

“But even then I didn’t budge,” He shook his head, “My fixation with Calpernia’s burnt picture had grown so intense that the rest of the women looked paltry and lacklustre in comparison. It would be three years of constant quarrelling with my parents before an artist was brought in to paint my portrait, for the sake of a proposal.”

“They gave in?” Frederick asked, surprised.

“Not exactly,” Whitney frowned, “My parents didn’t care what I wanted, they’d sooner have me wed to a daughter of monochrome nobility, so they could still have control over their oldest son.”

“But every time they invited one over, I’d find a way to miss the event. Pleasing them no longer mattered, nothing mattered, except getting what I’d been denied for so long. I’d lock myself in and when my father had the doors removed, sneak myself out. I’d send Greyden in my place, cause a scene, sabotage the food, even hide out in the Tiger Pit to avoid these events.”

“I got punished, of course, but it all seemed worth it when my parents finally, finally yielded, realising they couldn’t stamp the insubordination out of me no matter how hard they tried. So they sent my portrait to the Polygon Kingdom, along with a proposal to marry their oldest daughter.”

“Nearly four years later, on my twenty-first birthday,” He stopped suddenly, forcing Frederick to turn around, “-I saw her again.”

“No longer a portrait in my mind, but a person of flesh and blood; Calpernia was beau- um.. she exceeded my expectations.”

Whitney was now completely flustered, and Frederick realised he’d never seen his friend blush before, even the edges of his tiger stripes seemed to glow with a reddish hue.

“I was drunk with power, dizzy with winning for the first time in my life,” Whitney said sheepishly, almost like he’d forgotten anyone else was there, “-that when Calpernia confessed to me that she might be in love with a male nurse.. I reacted rather poorly.”

“The rest is history.”

“Why didn’t you tell her any of this when you apologised?” Frederick asked, leaning against a nearby tree.

“Because it wouldn’t have made a difference,” He replied matter-of-factly, “None of it could erase all the hurt and suffering I’d caused Calpernia.”

“But don’t you think it’s unfair–“

“It was unfair to make her the object of my salvation, when she isn’t an object at all,” Whitney interrupted without malice, “She wasn't and will never be responsible for my unwarranted affection. It isn’t her obligation to care about me.”

“I- I see,” Frederick’s mind was so abuzz he wondered if he imagined his hair twitching with all the thoughts inside it.

“If I was worth forgiving-“ Whitney continued, “-it should be based purely on my actions alone. Not on any excuses regarding my upbringing.”

“Do you still love her?” Frederick blurted out, expecting his friend to revert to mortification but the former prince’s face remained indifferent, perhaps even a little sad.

“I don’t think what I felt was love as much as it was desperation,” Whitney admitted.

“I don’t think I could ever love Calpernia as much as she– oh. Spider.”

Frederick jolted back as Whitney reached over and easily plucked a small, black arachnid from what was indisputably his blonde hair, and tried to stay calm as his friend released it back onto the tree. 

He immediately put several steps between him and the bark of the old oak, watching it crawl onto the lowest branch before disappearing into its leafy folds– Frederick could’ve sworn the little insect winked at him as it vanished.

“D-Do you think it was there the whole time,” Frederick stuttered, forgetting their conversation as he now imagined the spider crawling around in his hair for hours without him knowing.

Whitney did snort then, and clapped the young prince’s shoulder reassuringly.

“Let’s get you back home.” He said, with a small smile.

As the two of them made their way back to the plaid kingdom, deep in the Haunted Forest, miles away, a tiny spider crawled onto the palm of a certain blue-haired, gold-eyed club president returning from her journey, to tell her something she would certainly be very interested in knowing. 

[justminawrites]

Of Ribbons and Other Lost Things - Chapter 3: Unlucky Girls

AO3

1 | 2 | 3 | TBC

Luka Couffaine had made a mistake.

He couldn’t decide when it had happened– maybe following his ex-girlfriend’s father into their family bakery was where it all started to fall apart, or even putting the idea of part-time employment into Tom Dupain’s mind. 

Maybe it went even further back than that. In hindsight, waking up today didn’t seem like such a good idea.

“No, no, you need to feel the dough admit defeat,” Tom attempted to demonstrate the delicate kneading technique, “See, like this.”

Luka stared at the evidently undefeated beige mush on the counter and tried not to cringe as he imagined it growing two eyes, a mouth, and begin laughing at him. He’d never been particularly good at any non-musical extracurriculars, though he wished he’d taken pottery or something, just so he wouldn’t dig himself into an even deeper grave in front of Marinette’s father. And her best friend.

“Wow, Luka, you’re really showing that bread who’s boss,” Alya Cesaire teased from across the room, watching him massacre the flour-to-water ratio as she tapped away on her phone.

“We don’t seem to be in harmony,” he admitted, embarrassed by how quickly he was ready to quit. Forget harmony, they didn’t even seem to be playing the same note. How anyone could do this was beyond him. Marinette really was amazing.

“Maybe it’s better if I give up fighting the dough, altogether.”

“Nonsense!” Tom interrupted, visibly trying not to wince as he leaned in to examine the creation, “We were all beginners once. You just need a.. uh.. you just need a little more–“

Luka braced himself for what he was going to say. Skill? Patience? Humility-to-admit-you’ll-never-be-good-enough-for-certain-things-and-let-them-go-because-you’re-not-Adrien-Agreste– 

“Flour, dear. You just need a little more flour.”

Both Tom and Luka looked up to see Sabine Cheng enter the bakery, her arms filled with stacks of colourful flyers. 

Alya quickly tucked away her phone in her back pocket to lighten her load, sending a few papers scattering across the tiled floors. As Sabine thanked her, Luka watched a bright blue one float across the room and gently settle on the marble counter, inches away from his pile of mushy dough.

QIXI JIE PLAY: Tickets only available till XX/XX/XX (2 weeks left!)

“Sabine!” Marinette’s father seemed to (for lack of a better phrase) light up, eyes twinkling, as his wife proceeded to dust off her apron and join them; carefully holding a cup of flour. 

“I made the same mistake when I first learned to bake,” she said reassuringly, dumping the white powder over Luka’s hands, “Tom’s father wouldn’t let me live it down for weeks.”

“Of course!” Tom grinned, putting on an affected accent to his voice, “Two cups of water in the mixture, Sabine? That’s not how it’s done!”

“There,” Sabine smiled back, “Now try, Luka.”

He reluctantly replicated the kneading movements he’d been watching Tom make for the past twenty minutes, and was relieved to see that his watery creation had now solidified into a a more play-dough like consistency. The tightness in chest eased a little, seeing the progress he’d made. 

“Are you putting on a play, Mme. Cheng?” Alya interrupted, not waiting for a response as she plucked the final flyer off the counter and added it to her pile,

“I could drop a link in The Ladyblog if you’re having trouble selling tickets.”

“That’s kind of you, dear,” Sabine gestured for her to pass the flyers back which she did, “But it’s not my play. I’m doing this as a favour to a friend who wanted me to teach his actors the traditional art of Dunhuang.“

“The Chinese ribbon dance,” she clarified, when three pairs of eyes blinked at her bemusedly. Sabine sighed, tucking away the sheath of papers in a cabinet below the counter, and looked up at her husband with worry. 

“Unfortunately, it’s all very last minute so I can’t run the bakery and teach full-time. Tom and I were thinking of getting Marinette to help out but we don’t want to overwhelm her–“ 

“Maman? What did you need help with?”

Luka could feel his heart cartoonishly leap into his throat as her voice drifted down the wrought-iron staircase, and mentally pushed it down into the depths of his stomach, as the tap tap tap of ballet flats slapping the ground hurried to join them. 

Sure, it’d only been a week since he’d seen her but a lot could happen in a week. He could be perfectly fine in a week. Perfectly fine and completely over the breakup, and not at all thinking about how Jule took close ups of his face all week that she’d probably shown to all her friends and oh he was so going to disown his sister when he got home–

Marinette Dupain-Cheng entered the room and let out a sound that was somewhere between squeak and wheeze when she saw his face.

“L-Luka?!”

Luka couldn’t recall what he’d said in reply, if he’d said anything at all or wether he was even breathing because Marinette.. because her hair..

Her hair was down; out of its trademark style and spilling down her shoulders, the ends thick and black.

The idea that Luka had never seen Marinette with her hair down was laughable as it was strangely poetic. They’d hung out together so often - they’d dated! - but seeing her like this seemed much more vulnerable somehow. Like he was getting a glimpse of all the things she couldn’t tell him when they were together. All the things he couldn’t bring himself to ask. 

Not that she wasn’t beautiful. She was always beautiful. 

It was only when Marinette blushed and pulled her hair into its usual twin ponytails, that he was able to tear his gaze away from her and back to the mound of dough in front of him. Don’t lose your cool, don’t lose your cool, don’t–

“Hey, Marinette,” he said easily, though his voice wavered in a way that no one but Jule would’ve noticed.

“I didn’t expect– I mean– You look– Your jacket–“ she floundered her reply, earning a laugh from her best friend. 

Luka looked around him in surprise; he’d taken off his jacket to keep it from getting in the way. He felt a little naked without it but hadn’t wondered if it made him look weird until now. Great, now she thinks I’m weird and a stalker.

“Real smooth, girl.” After a pointed glare in Alya’s direction, Marinette turned back to him, finally noticing the dough in his hands. 

Her lips broke into shy smile. 

“What are you making?” She asked curiously, skirting around the awkwardness of him being here, in her house, when both of them knew she’d been avoiding him.

“Just bread,” he said, almost apologetically covering it with the flat of his palms, “–but I think Baking might not be the right instrument for me.“

“Here, let me see.”

Luka moved back in surprise as she came to stand beside beside him, dusting her own hands in flour. He’d expected her to be nervous and uncomfortable around him now that they’d broken up (for reasons neither of them could articulate), but Marinette only furrowed her brow in concentration, pulling the baking sheet towards herself, and got to work. 

“There,” she beamed up at him, barely ten minutes later, “All done.”

Marinette had managed to pummel his sickly-beige, barely-dough concoction into the dusky brown colour of before-bread with only a few shakes of flour and the twist of her wrist. 

“O-oh, wait,” She mumbled when he’d stared at her in awe instead of replying, “I didn’t mean– I wasn’t trying to show off or anything–“

“You’re amazing, Marinette,” It escaped his mouth before he could fully realise what he’d said, and now she was looking at him with big eyes. Crap. That was probably a bit too strong. 

“I.. am?” 

“–at baking!” He added quickly, not meeting her gaze, “A real magician, Marinette!”

Why couldn’t he stop saying her name? The awkwardness and the lingering effect of his words seemed to envelop the two of them and Luka had to force himself not to react to the spark of electricity that shot through his nerves when their forearms accidentally brushed. 

“That’s right, my daughter’s a genius!” Tom swooped in between them to examine the dough, and Luka moved back, relieved. 

If this kept up, he would start pulling out the finger-guns before lunch; and absolutely, under no circumstances, could he have Marinette realising that the ex-boyfriend she thought was cool and mature, was actually a huge dorkasaurus. He’d done enough damage already.

Tom swept the dough into a tray and lovingly placed it into the oven as Sabine handed them both a wet towelette. He tried to look at Marinette out of the corner of his eye, and found her gaze already transfixed on her best friend’s phone.

“We gotta leave soon if we want to make it before André splits,” Alya said matter-of-factly, pointing at something on her screen, “It’ll take us at least 20 minutes to get there on foot.”

“And guess who’s going to be there because of the Bourgeois’ anniversary party?”

Luka didn’t need to turn around to see Alya shake her friend’s shoulders and quietly mouth ‘Adrien’ to know who it was. 

To know who it always would be, with Marinette.

“Marinette, could you be a dear and get the apples I left out by the door before you leave?”

“Sure, Maman!”

Luka smiled at her retreating back as she pushed open the bakery door, and stored the sorrow somewhere deep inside him instead. 

He’d meant it when he said he’d be happy for her when they got together. Not ‘if’ but ‘when.’ Because that was yet another curse he carried by remembering the events that he’d lived through, akumatised as Truth– Marinette’s secret was that all her roads ended up at Adrien Agreste, wether she wanted them to or not. 

All of Paris seemed to know that it was only a matter of when. 

He would be happy, He would be happy, he would be happy. Even if the stars fell from the sky and the moon broke into a thousand pieces. Even if every instrument he’d ever made went up in flames. Even if Shadowmoth won and all of Paris became a wasteland.

If Marinette loved Adrien, he’d be happy for her even if it killed him.

...

Marinette Dupain-Cheng was going to kill her best friend. 

Not only would she have appreciated knowing about her frickin’ ex-boyfriend baking bread with her father, Alya also had the gall to laugh in her face when she’d nearly fallen to pieces in front of him. 

She sighed as she curled her fingers around the crate of apples; Marinette could hardly blame her bff for the latter. Her heart had spontaneously combusted when she’d walked in to see Luka Couffaine of all people, behind the counter without his jacket, up to his elbows in flour, clearly out of his element and did she mention without his jacket??

In all the time that she’d known him, she hadn’t ever seen him jacket-less, and she hadn’t expected to feel so flustered by the strange intimacy of seeing Luka’s tanned forearms for the first time. Or those same arms baking bread.

Well..trying anyway.

Marinette stifled a smile at the thought. Luka was normally so calm and collected, there was something almost gratifying about knowing that he could be just as much as a fish out of water as her, even if it was just while kneading dough.

She felt the her cheeks flush as she recalled his awestruck expression ‘You’re amazing, Marinette.’ Alya had cackled knowingly and Marinette’s back pocket had buzzed with a text from the brunette. She didn’t even need to open it to know what it said.

@alya.ladyblogger: tryna impress someone r we

( ͡° ᴗ ͡°)

Marinette shook her head to clear away the blush. 

Alya had it all wrong; she wasn’t trying to impress Luka with her bread-making skills. If anything, she was trying to impress.. uh.. herself! That’s right, it’d been so long since she’d helped out her parents at the bakery that she started to wonder if her baking had become a little rusty. Yeah, that was definitely it.

Not seeing Luka in over a week had momentarily made her forget why she was avoiding him in the first place, and now Marinette wondered how he was handling the after-effects of the Truth akuma. 

She’d wanted to ask him about Jagged, about his mom; she’d wanted to ask him if he could ever forgive her for getting him akumatised, for any of it, but for once, she was afraid the answer might be exactly what she’d expected.

So she settled for Juleka’s mumbling and the close up pictures on her purple-haired-friend’s phone, telling herself it was for the best, it was for the best, it was for the best. Unlucky girls like her didn’t get to fall in love, and besides, Luka couldn’t get akumatised if she wasn’t around to let him down. Again. 

Marinette tried not to sigh, as the memory of the last time she talked to Luka rose up in the back of her mind: she’d broken up with him over the same bridge he’d taken her to that very evening, because it was easier than telling him the truth. 

No, not easier– safer. It was safer for the both of them if she stayed away. Or at least, she hoped it was. Oh, and Adrien too, of course. 

Though, she supposed, Adrien was hardly in danger with the way her words twisted themselves into pretzels around him. In fact, the only chance he’d ever become akumatised because of Marinette, is if he completely misunderstood everything she’d said– like Marianne.

And after everything that’d happened on French-American friendship week, even her feelings about Adrien had become pretzel-shaped; the inextricable threads of shame and disappointment weaving their way into the “love” she’d been so sure she held for him, less than a month ago.

Marinette took a breath and hoisted the crate up to her hip, trying not to recall that final night in New York, the cold shards of rain that peppered her face as she pedalled as hard as her burning calfs would let her. Hot tears rolling down her cheeks as she screamed and screamed after the car, only for Adrien to leave without even turning once. 

What a mess.

As Marinette was about to push open the bakery door a single apple fell from the crate and rolled backwards.

She tried to reach for the runaway fruit with one arm while balancing the crate in the other, and ended up losing her balance and toppling over instead, spilling the apples onto the sidewalk and earning sympathetic glances from the pedestrians on the street as she fell. 

“Are you okay, Marinette?” Tikki flitted out of her purse as if on cue, perching on top of an apple, as her big bug eyes widened with concern. Marinette could see herself reflected back in the glassy blue tint, from the shadows under her own eyes all the way to the the defeated slump of her shoulders.

She couldn’t even remember the last time she’d gotten a good night’s sleep– mess was an understatement. 

“I’m fine, Tikki,” she sighed rather than said, gathering the fruit back into the crate. 

“Just the same old, klutzy Marinette.”

The kwami frowned up at the mouse miraculous pendant hanging at her neck.

“Maybe you shouldn’t..” 

Whatever Tikki was going to say was immediately interrupted by the hum of a motor as a black taxi pulled up in front of the bakery, and a blonde girl, about her age, got out. 

The kwami quickly flew out of sight as the girl promised the driver she’d only be a few minutes, oblivious to the disarray Marinette herself was sitting in the middle of–  and the single red apple that had rolled to wait right under the girl’s colourful sneaker.

“Wait, WATCH OUT–“

But it was too late. 

A slip and a stumble later, the girl found herself right beside Marinette on the pavement, her fall jostling the blue beanie she was wearing off of her head, so Marinette could see a faded streak of pink hair peeking out of the blonde. 

“Oh my, is everyone alright?” The bakery door swung open to reveal a concerned Sabine, holding her purse tightly, with a bemused Tom in tow. 

The girl gave Marinette a weak smile as if to say ‘oh, clumsy me,’ and the idea that there was someone out there in the world who was just as uncoordinated and graceless as her was so silly that she grinned right back, and the two were soon in stitches on the floor outside the bakery. 

“Here, let me help you.. uh..”

“Zoé,” the girl smiled, taking Marinette’s outstretched arm, “I’m Zoé Lee.”

“Hello Zoé,” Marinette smiled, dusting herself off, “I’m Miss-Walking-Disaster, but everyone calls me Marinette. Please let me spot you some of our macarons to makeup for all this.”

“Oh, that’s not necessar–”

“I insist,” Marinette interrupted bending over to put away the last of the apples, “It’s the least I could do after introducing you to our lovely Parisian pavements.”

Before Zoé could reply however, Sabine sighed and took the crate off of the ground and handed it to her husband, who dutifully retreated back into the bakery.

“Maybe that’s enough excitement for the day, dear,” Sabine added, not unkindly, “Why don’t you let your father handle the macarons, hmm?”

“Yes Maman.”

“Wow!”

Zoé glanced down as Marinette got an eyeful of the bright sneakers and looked up at her with sparkling blue eyes.

“Your sneakers are awesome! Did you decorate them yourself?”

If there was anything Marinette loved more than designing, it was seeing other people’s designs. Particularly DIY ones. There was just something so inspiring about them.

“Yeah,” Zoe agreed tucking a lock of hair behind her ear sheepishly, “I’ve written down every nice thing that anyone’s ever said to me.”

“To keep them with me all the time.”

A single I ♥ U, was scribbled on to the toe cap of the left shoe.

Marinette frowned, “But there’s only one message.”

“I.. uh.. only had one friend.”

Both Sabine and Marinette let out an ‘oh’ sound, the sound wavering somewhere between pity and second-hand embarrassment. Zoe shifted on her feet, suddenly uncomfortable. 

“Why don’t you two come inside?” Sabine smoothly changed the topic, holding out an arm to help her daughter up, “And you can show your new friend around the bakery, Marinette.”

“That’s a great idea, Maman!”

“I mean..,” Marinette held up her hands apologetically, “Only if you’re free Zoé.. I don’t want to keep you from anything.”

Zoé shrugged, “I’m not in a rush.”

Sabine looked back and forth between the two girls fondly, smiled and turned to leave. Marinette quickly checked the left pocket of her pink jeans to make sure the bee miraculous was still where she’d left it and missed the strange glance Zoé gave her. 

“By the way,” Marinette added over her shoulder, as the two of them followed her mother back into the bakery, “–where’s your accent from? It’s really pretty.”

“New York,” the other girl replied, bending over slightly to tie her shoelace, “I’m from New York.”

“Wow! How exciting– I was just there on a class trip!”

“No way!”

“Yeah– so what brings you to Paris?”

“I’m here..“ the light in Zoé’s eyes darkened.

“...to see my family.”

______________________________________________________________

END NOTES:

This chapter was basically: Luka on the inside: asdfghjsjdjhbjhrwkjefehfhrgbkrhIstillloveyou Luka on the outside: oh hi marinette Mari on the inside: *Mari.exe stopped functioning after seeing jacket-less exboyfriend* Mari on the outside: *baking to not process feelings*

NEXT CHAPTER ->

[justminawrites]

Amaranthine

AO3

Summary: A Hades and Persephone retelling of season 1 of The Originals.

The kore arrived in the final dredges of autumn, her nut brown hair looped delicately into a crown of laurel leaves and wolf-teeth, her hands protectively clutching her belly; seeking a man, a god, a paper king that haunted the french quarter of New Orleans, the Underworld. 

Aptly named for its vivid connection to that which lay beyond the grave, and the supernatural entities that often frequented it, the Underworld was a lively place indeed and the maiden nearly fell prey to many of its dangerous charms the moment she uttered the name of the man she sought.

“ Klaus Mikaelson ?”

In this world, being an Original was synonymous with being a god. 

The long-suppressed fear would shine in their eyes first, interrupted by bemusement and then finally by malice. And then they would attempt to coax her into partaking of a poison or two. While the Underworld undoubtedly knew him to be the ruler, its residents however held many grudges. Gods that could not be appeased were a dime a dozen and useful as broken crowns; irrefutable and Sisyphean and twice as violent.

Luckily, this time she’d happened upon the brother of the false king, the white knight Elijah, the one to keep the monster in check and think him capable of goodness despite his never-ending list of gruesome crimes - and when the maiden whispered to him her reasons for soliciting his assistance, the righteous brother knew without a doubt that this was his final chance to save the depraved soul of Klaus Mikaelson. 

So he took her to the lair of the beast.

“ Hayley ?”

They were at each other’s throats almost immediately. Well, to be more accurate, his hands were at her throat pinning her against the wall, her skin turning amaranthine, his nails drawing beads of blood; she’s lying Elijah, she’s lying, Originals can’t have children. But his hands were shaking and it almost seemed that the king of the Underworld was close to tears.

Elijah had long since stopped wondering if it was a blessing or a curse. It was true, they couldn’t procreate, they couldn’t bring even more dangerous and immortal beasts into a world they’d already torn apart with their sorrow and their revenge, in a reproductive sense— but Klaus was not like them. Klaus was a hybrid in every sense of the word, part man, part god and part of him lost long into the wild before all their hearts had stopped beating.

The Originals couldn’t have children. But hybrids could.

Thus began a war so endless that it lasted his entire lifetime. 

...

It took the passing of Thesmophoria and the dawn of winter for her tribe to realise she was missing. 

Andrea Labonair, the adopted daughter of the Lykaios tribe had many names but Hayley was the one she’d offered Klaus when they first met and the one she’d decided to keep, along with the still unfamiliar moniker of mother. She’d rolled the word round and round in her tongue until it had lost all meaning and started as an almost bashful Elijah intruded upon her, holding a scroll with a message from her adoptive family in the Bayou.

Hayley didn’t need to open it to know what it would say.

She’d met Klaus six weeks ago, in the blissful epilogues of summer when she’d snuck away from Eve and her fiancé and the Bayou, to attend the celebrations in the Underworld, and caught the eye of a handsome stranger who she’d wined and dined with to forget her troubles. He’d said things that would’ve made the raunchiest of women blush and whisked her into his arms, his bed; leaving her the next morning with nothing save for the memories of his fingers on her skin and a handful of pomegranate seeds she’d swiped from the gold platter on the table beside his mattress. 

It was Hayley’s final taste of freedom before her loveless wedding and all the burdens that came with being the wife of the wolf tribe’s new chief. A month later, the pomegranate seeds begun to rot. Nine seeds in total, one inexplicably decayed and the other eight, perfect crimson jewels. It was a countdown. 

Hayley had panicked and fled before the morning sickness began, leaving a hastily scribbled note about needing some time to find herself and after much internal debate, reluctantly made her way back into the French Quarter, telling herself that she would find the father and then everything would be fine. Everything would just fall into place.

Instead, Winter grew colder and the second pomegranate seed rotted.

Klaus couldn’t be farther from the man she’d met that night, all he did was pout and break things and pace around the courtyard of the Mikaelson family home constantly, like a beast in a cage. His fury seemed to double any time Elijah so much as looked at her and the brothers seemed on the verge of an explosive argument before Rebekah arrived. 

The third Mikaelson sibling was luminous in a manner that very few could compete with, akin to a goddess, and her presence helped diffuse the growing tensions for a brief period. Warmth seemed to leach into the house and its inhabitants and she was finally able to fall asleep without being roused awake at half-past three by a screaming match echoing across the empty halls. 

Hayley wondered if she could finally respond to the scroll with little guilt, and redeem herself to her family.

But Rebekah had only come, by luck or by chance they couldn’t say, to warn them of an even larger beast that was approaching the Underworld, a beast that had mercilessly hunted his own children from the birth of their immortality and only lived to make sure they wouldn’t. She left as quickly as she arrived, wishing her brothers luck, as though it were merely a school play, and took the next ship out of the French Quarter.

Mikael, the God Hunter, was coming.

...

Elijah Mikaelson, the virtuous one, the Zeus to his brothers’ Hades, had a fondness for broken things.

Cracked, disfigured, defeated things. He had a habit of turning them into his projects, offering them kindness and salvation; fixing them, because he couldn’t fix his brother, because he couldn’t undo the years of suffering and hate that darkened the siblings’ blood with sorrow. It was why he had taken such an interest in Marcellus, Klaus’s once-young disciple, and now in Hayley, the mother of his child.

Hayley was the perfect candidate, overflowing with misplaced guilt, running from her allies and her enemies alike and desperately searching for redemption. He would fix her, make her whole again, because he was kind, and then she would stay, and the unborn baby that she carried in her womb would be his brother’s salvation. It was the final nail in his coffin of absolution.

Elijah however, failed to consider just how much Hayley was like his brother. He couldn’t control her either.

...

Hayley had decided to leave. 

She would pack her satchel, board a vessel and return to the Lykaios above-ground, where it wasn’t so dark and where, if she lied about being kidnapped and cried enough, they might take her back. In hindsight, it was not her proudest moment but she was desperate not to have her child entangled in this centuries-old web of conflict that wound the Mikaelsons tighter and tighter to their inevitable end. She was a coward, but cowards lived.

So she snuck away at the crack of dawn, her bare feet dipping into the pools of melted snow and made her way to the port, and was wandering amongst the myriad of boats when she had the unfortunate luck of being the first person to encounter the monster that terrorised the family she’d just abandoned.

“Excuse me, miss?”

The god hunter stopped her and politely asked her for directions to the heart of the city, to which she had to bite down on her tongue to keep from gasping at the resemblance. His face, his clothes, down to the way in which he moved his hands - Hayley had to wonder if Elijah was aware of exactly how much he was akin to his father.

She’d held up her hands in surrender and admitted that this was her first time visiting and that she really should be going because her friend had already settled onto the ship. He nodded absentmindedly and thanked her, and as Hayley turned away she felt a tiny silver of guilt pool into the pit of her stomach, but told herself that this was the only way. 

She’d been walking away for the quarter of a minute, or even less, before she found herself being spun and caught by her wrist, her terrified eyes directly meeting Mikael’s face, now twisted with rage, before he spat, “I knew I smelled a hybrid,” and raised his arm to strike her across the face.

A slap echoed, bouncing off the hulls of the ship and into the morning quiet and Hayley opened her eyes to find herself facing Klaus’ back, her hands free from Mikael’s grip and Klaus’s head turned to side, his pale cheek smarting, swollen with blood. He had somehow put himself between his father and her, and taken the slap in her stead. 

Shame and tears coloured Hayley’s own cheeks.

“Hello Father,” Klaus replied dully and turned to stare into the eyes of the man who’d despised him for longer than he’d been a god.

 “It’s been a while.”

Elijah seemed to suddenly appear into existence beside his brother, a pale, wooded stake in one hand. 

It was all Hayley could do not to turn and retch into the water as her morning sickness reared its head, just in time for the fighting to begin.

…

Once Elijah confirmed that the white oak stake had indeed pierced Mikael all the way through, he helped his brother up. Klaus gratefully accepted and stumbled towards the unconscious Hayley who was propped up against a wooden step, taking a breath before he checked her pulse.

Her hair was matted and her skin was damp with sweat, and though her feet were scratched and bleeding, her breath seemed to be stable. Klaus gently cupped her lower back and knees and hoisted her into his arms, holding her against his chest as he whispered, “I’ve got you love,” 

“I’ve got you.”

…

It was the middle of spring when they decided that they’d find a way to make this work. 

Seven pomegranate seeds had withered away and Hayley had sent messages to the Lykaios explaining the...  interesting situation she’d been thrust into and her decision to stay. 

Klaus had built the child, a baby girl they’d come to find, a cozy nursery, with a cradle of teak wood and a wind chime of sea glass, gently tinkling in the breeze.

Once they’d returned from the fight, the two budding parents had sat opposite to one another at the steps leading up to the nursery and talked. 

“I’m sorry for running away and not believing in you,” Hayley said first, looking down at the top of Klaus’ fluffy blonde head, unable to meet his eyes. She absentmindedly ran a finger along one of the wooden grooves of the step below her.

“I’m sorry for making you feel unsafe,” Klaus managed reluctantly, he wasn’t used to apologising but he did owe her one, “and almost killing you when you first came.”

“We’re terrible,” she almost laughed as she imagined it. A cowardly queen and power-hungry king. 

“The worst,” he said unable to reign in a grin, reaching out to to prod at the same groove, “Gods, this house is falling apart.”

Hayley’s breath caught in her chest when their fingers brushed, but she quickly pulled her hands away much to his disappointment.

“But we can change,” she said quietly, worrying the pale white fabric of her tunic now, “She deserves better than what we had.”

“We can change for her.”

“But you have to trust me.” Klaus looked up, Hayley was leaning intently now and he was struck by the thought that she might fall, “..you have to trust me, Klaus.”

“I do trust you,” it wasn’t a lie he realised with something akin to shock, how long had it been since he trusted anyone besides Elijah or Rebekah? Besides himself?

“More than you know.”

She seemed to relax at this and leaned back against the wall with a sigh.

“Okay.”

“No more running?” He nudged, a budding grin in his words, and much to his surprise Hayley couldn’t suppress her smile.

“No more running.” She promised.

Solis Occasum

She was born in the summer, a beautiful baby girl with eyes as big as the moon and a smile that could melt even the most iron-clad of hearts, or so the poets waxed. 

Klaus and Hayley welcomed Hope Andrea Mikaelson into the world, and watched proudly as she won the smiles of everyone around her, even the grumpy Marcellus was unable to resist a grin as the baby latched onto his finger and squeaked in triumph. 

Klaus and Hayley spent the first few weeks of their new lives as parents, curled up on a mattress in the nursery, taking turns to soothe the crying Hope who seemed to have lungs of steel herself, and getting very little rest. 

One such day, light snuck in through the panels of a window shade and nudged Hayley awake and she looked over to the cradle, strangely quiet for once and sighed back into her pillow. Klaus, her pillow, pretended not to be conscious as she sleepily whispered into his chest, her breath warm on his bare skin.

“..love you.. Klaus Mikaelson..”

He held her closer and they stayed like that all morning.

[justminawrites]

Where The Stars Collide - Chapter 2: Cana

AO3

Summary: Cana makes a bet. tw: Implied/referenced alcohol abuse; also general creepy drunk man behaviour (nothing that didn't happen in the anime)

prologue | 1 | 2 | TBC

Cana Alberona needed a drink. 

Something much much stronger than mead, and enough to really get her hammered. Cana had been drinking since noon– no she didn’t have a problem and it was just the lighter stuff really; that was until her dead friend returned and nearly sent her into the underworld with a bone-crushing embrace. 

“Cana!” Lisanna had squealed before jumping her, “It’s been so long!”

Cana had never been closer to quitting alcohol in her whole life. 

Visions were one thing but the friend she hadn’t seen in five years nearly choking her in a hug in front of the whole guild? Nope. She was never drinking mead, no— ale, rum, water– she was never drinking anything ever again. 

Cana sighed and absentmindedly twirled the empty goblet in her hand round and round. She should be happy. 

Natsu and the others rescued Lisanna from someplace called Edolas where magic was apparently non-existent, or something, Cana hadn’t been listening. She’d only managed to stomach about 3% of the reunion before putting aside her empty mead barrel, and hightailing it out of Fairy Tail. 

The rain accompanied her as she aimlessly wandered from bar-to-bar, only to have the door shut in her face each time; although Cana had garnered a fearsome reputation as a Fairy Tail member, nearly every bartender within a five mile radius had other reasons to be distrustful of the dark-haired wizard – namely her alcohol not-problem.

She’d finally sought refuge in a homely inn just on the outskirts of the city– the old innkeeper took pity when she’d seen the wizard slicked with rain, shivering in a cobblestone alleyway – and forked over whatever jewels she had on her for a bed and another unsatisfying drink, but Cana’s monstrous thirst was particularly unquenchable tonight.

Motioning for another refill, she stared into her sad reflection as the mead slowly rippled into the goblet; finally reaching the conclusion that her sour mood probably had more to do with what Gramps said that very morning. 

The old man had pulled her aside to hand her a notice with the guild’s sigil stamped in the far right corner, and the unmistakable scrawl of Fairy Tail’s strongest wizard detailing his intent to return. Cana had dropped the paper in surprise. 

Gildarts Clive was coming.

“I wanted you to be the first to know,” Makarov had said, giving the top of her head a kind pat as she’d scrambled to pick up the paper with one hand and hide her tears with the other. After seven long years, her father was coming home. 

Cana spent the rest of the day in a daze, unable to read even her cards properly (though not for lack of trying) until she reverted to alcohol to take the edge off. But then Lisanna showed up and all the alcohol in the world couldn’t keep Cana’s world from falling apart around her.

Cana always thought she was good under pressure. Sure, she had her vices but who didn’t, right? She’d kept her worry for her guild mates during the Oracieon Seis debacle at bay, and even strong-armed her way through everything that happened with Laxus and the Thunder Palace. The only time she lost her cool was when– 

“Wake up! Why don’t you admire your handiwork ya traitor! You’re patheti–“

Cana sucked her teeth guiltily, recalling Gray’s drooping shoulders, the hardness on his face as Daphne and her Dragonoid terrorised the city. 

She should’ve trusted him, the boy she’d grown up with would never have betrayed his guild for any reason, but Magnolia had only just recovered from a certain lightning dragonslayer’s reckless threats weeks prior and Cana had been looking for someone, anyone, to blame. They’d never expected– she’d never expected to fight Laxus; Laxus was as much her family as Natsu and Erza. As Gray.

It was though the universe had quite literally flipped on its head; her family were becoming enemies at the drop of a hat, while their enemies were being treated like family – and though she would forever be indebted to Juvia for her willingness to fight with Fairy tail, Cana wondered what Gramps was thinking when he let Gajeel in– after all he did to Lucy, to Levy. 

Suffice to say she’d been looking for an emotional punching bag to relieve her of all that betrayal, and Gray’s unwarranted alliance with Daphne was the icing on the whipped cream of crap that’d become her life. She’d tried to apologise, in her own way, but Gray just waved it off – somehow that hurt more than if he’d never forgiven her at all.

He had a right to be angry. After all, if anyone should’ve known better, if anyone should’ve trusted him irrationally, it should’ve been her. Especially after everything they’d been through.

Cana blinked to see her tumbler once again painfully empty, and the sour taste of mead coating the back of her throat. She sighed; dredging up the past wouldn’t do either of them any good now. And it certainly wouldn’t stop her father from returning. 

“Why hello there, pretty lady.”

Ugh. Cana’s lips curled distastefully as a man pulled up a barstool beside her and the sickly sweet croon of flirting trickled into her ear. Normally, she would jump at the opportunity to stuff down her emotions with drunk sex but she was hardly drunk and with the sloppy smile her neighbour was giving her, she doubted he was any good at the latter.

“No thanks,” she grunted, shifting away from him imperceptibly, the creak of her wooden chain echoing into the empty bar. 

“Now, hold on a minute,” He scooted closer, the sweaty musk of some undoubtedly cheap perfume-oil pinching at her nose, “Don’t tell me you intend to keep all that lovely mead to yourself.”

“Why not?” She retorted, clutching the barrel protectively, “I paid for it.”

“Haven’t you heard of the saying that a drink has never tasted sweeter than the one you share it with?”

Cana rolled her eyes and turned to face him. This was her first proper look at the intruding man, and if she were in any better mood she’d have to admit she’d have slept with him without a second thought. Broad-shouldered, well-muscled, dark-hair, significantly older than her; it was like checking off a list. 

“I’m Bacchus,” he gave her another saccharine smile when he noticed her sizing him up, “Often compared to the god of wine in my hometown.”

Cana snorted. 

“Is that right?” 

“I assure you,” he moved closer and motioned to her mead barrel, “–no one’s been able to beat me at a drinking contest yet.”

Cana found that hard to believe- despite his reservations, the man looked like a lightweight if she’d ever seen one. All brawn and no brains; they were usually the quickest to fall.

“I’m a member of Quatro Cerberus,” Bacchus continued, “I take it you’ve heard of us.”

“Nope,” She retorted, shifting away again in the hopes that he would get the hint and just leave her the hell alone.

“We seem to have got off on the wrong foot,” he refused to take the hint, “–why don’t we make a bet?”

Cana had a pretty good idea where this was going.

“You want to try and out-drink me?” 

The idea was so ludicrous she might’ve laughed in his face if she were any less wary. 

Now there weren’t many things Cana was proud of, but her wild teenage years had blessed her with an ironclad liver and a tolerance so high she’d have to toe the line between alcohol poisoning and death to really have a good night out. She was the reason there was a law in Magnolia stating bartenders were required to cut-off Fairy Tail wizards after their fifth barrel. 

“No,” Bacchus held out his hand for her to shake, “I want you to try to out-drink me.”

If it were any other night, she would’ve got up and left by now. Normally she had no patience for arrogant asses who seemed determined to make fools of themselves but the thought of going back to the guild hall and facing everyone, facing Lisanna – Lisanna who hadn’t been there for the last five years; who hadn’t seen just how much of her grief Cana had chosen to drink away; Lisanna who’d stayed the exact same, bright-eyed and beautiful while her own heart shrunk unto itself – seemed even more unbearable. 

“Fine,” she held out her hand hesitantly, seeing the dark glint in Bacchus’ eyes, “–what’re we betting on?”

“Just each other’s company,” He grinned, squeezing it, “But there’s a catch.”

She raised an eyebrow as Bacchus reached into the folds of his shiny purple, beetle-esque armour to pull out two metal flasks of liquid and held one out to her. Cana looked at him quizzically.

“Lotus-wine,” He explained, uncorking one with the flick of his finger, “A specialty where I’m from. I find mead to be too light for my stomach.”

Cana knew her alarm bells should be going off right now but the smell of the lotus-wine was strangely intoxicating in its newness, and the restlessness she’d been feeling all night was momentarily satiated by the unfamiliarity.

“I hope you’re ready to lose.” 

Bacchus only nodded, watching her hungrily. Fingers closing around the flask, Cana tipped her head back and swallowed. 

She was floating.

The wine had a vaguely sweet, berry-like flavour but everytime she tried to narrow down the offending fruit, it slipped off the tip of her tongue and sent her careening into a memory she’d desperately been trying to avoid. 

She scrabbled at her lucidity for purchase as her vision blurred and tilted, the amber glow of the bar lights and poignant purple of her partner’s armour bleeding into one another to create the reddish-brown hue of her father’s hair.

And suddenly, Cana was in a memory.

It was the winter of X778; she remembers it well because it was the day she’d decided to tell Gildarts the truth. 

She was his daughter. 

It was Cana’s most well-kept secret, something she hadn’t dared to say out loud even to herself (in case she might bring about a stray jinx), and not a soul at Fairy Tail suspected as much. The only two people who knew were the ones it was impossible to hide anything from, namely Gramps, and the one friend she’d chosen to tell in confidence, Gray Fullbuster. 

(Natsu found out by accident but Cana managed to convince him that the reason she and Gildarts smelled alike was because they’d both been cursed by a pixie and he could at no point bring it up with his mentor or the curse would become permanent.)

Cana wore her best dress, and rehearsed her lines over and over: “Cornelia Alberona was my mother. She fell sick and told me to find you before she died. I came to Fairy Tail to find you, Dad.”

She’d even consulted the cards, and they guaranteed that today would be the most auspicious day to receive news about long-lost family. Nothing could possibly go wrong. 

Cana woke up bright and early, and waited in the guild hall at a quarter-past-ten: that was when Gildarts and Natsu usually returned from their training. (In hindsight, she was far more jealous of Natsu than she’d let on, after all, Gildarts may have been a great mentor but he was her father first). 

Sure enough, the two burst in through a random wall, arm-in-arm, faces mirroring a devious grin, despite Natsu’s sporting a purple bruise that would disappear by lunchtime. 

“Hello, there!” Gildarts greeted her the way he always did, one arm on her head to ruffle her hair, and a gentle smile. No more, no less. She often wondered wether it was wrong for her to ask for more. 

“Uhm– I–“ Cana stumbled over her words, her mind suddenly blank as the most powerful wizard in  Fairy Tail paused and looked back expectantly, waiting for to continue. The words Cornelia.. sick.. find.. Dad.. all tangled up in her throat and what came out instead was,

“I’m Dad– don’t become sick, you might find Cornelia too!”

Gildarts looked at her bemusedly, but before could open his mouth to ask what the heck she’d meant by that, Natsu tugged at his cape so hard, he ripped a piece right off and went flying into a wooden bench. 

“Ow!” The pink-haired boy whined, rubbing his head before earning a sharp smack from Erza on the exact same spot and rushing to hide from the “Monster" behind his mentor. Gildarts picked him up, momentarily forgetting her blunder (forgetting her), and hoisted the little dragonslayer onto his shoulders, who for his part, spent the next ten minutes crowing about his newfound vantage point by taunting his redheaded adversary.

Cana sighed. Guess today wasn’t the right day after all. 

“What’re you moping about,” a dark-haired boy interrupted her wistful mumbling, “I can see your sappiness from all they way over there.”

Cana felt her mood lighten as she looked up into equally dark eyes, now flickering with concern.

“And I can see your underwear,” She snickered, having the pleasure of seeing is face go from stoic to horrified in a matter of seconds. Once Gray had located his pants, and Cana had set up her impromptu fortune-telling booth on one of the bar tables, he joined her in keeping watch over the rest of the guild’s shenanigans.

The two of them had drifted together, against all odds, by being excluded from the rest of their guild since they were still children. They wouldn’t be invited to missions or after-parties and hence ended up around the guild-hall with nothing much to do. Cana hadn’t wanted to be friends at first,  the clothes-stripping weirdo was the last person she’d seek out voluntarily, but over the years, found that she hadn’t minded his company. And it seemed to be mutual.

“So, did you tell him?” Gray asked, crossing his arms over his shiny, new guild-mark. Envy shone in Cana’s eyes but she tried her level best not to stare.

“How did you get Gramps to approve the guild-mark,” Cana said instead, “I thought you need to be at least 17 to be a licensed wizard in Magnolia.”

“Ah, this?” He puffed up his chest, pride shining out of every 12-year-old cell in his body, “He said I was ready to have mine.”

“You begged him didn’t you,” She suppressed a smile as Gray’s shoulders went taught.

“Did not,” He sniped, but watched quietly as she laid out the blue deck of oracle cards in front of her in neat lines. 

“Did you steal the guild-stamp then?” Cana was only joking but when she saw Gray absentmindedly rubbing the silver cross necklace around his neck (a tell), she gasped, sending a few cards scattering over the wooden floorboards.

“You did!”

“Not on purpose! Natsu dared me to do it!”

“That IS on purpose, you idiot!” Cana groaned and put her head in her hands; when Gramps heard about this they’d all be in trouble. Natsu, Erza, even Lisanna! When one of them was in trouble, all of them were: Fairy Tail motto through and through. And Laxus would give ‘em all hell for it.

“Yeah, yeah, they’ll never know,” Gray shrugged off her nagging and bent over to pick up the fallen cards.

"Sure,” She rolled her eyes, “I bet you can’t keep your clothes on for more than 10 minutes!”

“My clothes ARE on!”

“For NOW!”

“What’s all this about clothes now?” 

Cana only just kept herself from gasping out loud as Gildarts’ rumbling voice interrupted their tiff; the wizard then bent over to pick up the final card and lay it on top of the wooden bar table: The Emperor .

Even Gray fell quiet at the sight of the man, awestruck by the raw magical energy that seemed to fill the room with his presence even before he arrived. Gildarts knelt to be eye-level with the children and smiled.

“Now, I remember you trying to tell me something little-miss,” he said kindly, looking at Cana. 

“Are you sure you have to leave so soon?” Master Makarov interrupted scurrying at Gildarts’ heels, before she could open her mouth. 

“I’m afraid so, Master,” he replied, his face taking on a hardened edge Cana hadn’t seen before, “The beast is too cunning to be slain by normal means; only brute force will work.”

Master Makarov gave a deep sigh and squeezed his guild member’s shoulder.

“Remember what I said to you earlier,” Makarov’s voice took on an almost threatening tone, “–you will always have family here.”

Cana watched their back an forth in confusion, suddenly clapping her hands together as an idea came to her.

“I can read your fortune!” She said excitedly, reshuffling The Emperor card into the blue deck in front of her. 

Makarov and Gildarts exchanged a look. 

“I haven’t heard those words in a long time,” Gildarts said finally, turning back to her, “– tell me, little girl, was your mother a fortune-teller too?”

“Yes! Corn– uh– cornfields! She used to work in the cornfields in the countryside which is where she learned to read..”

Gray shook his head as if to say ‘smooth.’

“I- uh- I see,” Gildarts nodded awkwardly like what she’d said made perfect sense.

“Anyway,” Cana tried to move on from the hiccup, “Just give me a second.” 

She closed her eyes and focused on the small, paper panels of the cards, the runes inscribed onto them and breathe in, breathe out, breath in...

Cana held in a grin as she heard Gray catching his breath at the new party trick she’d learnt specially to impress her father. The cards had begun to glow a faint blue, and float around her in gentle circular patterns with three main ones flipping over to tell the fortune. 

She opened her eyes, pleased to find both Gildarts and Gramps clapping obediently, while Gray’s expression had already soured.

“What does it say?” Gildarts prompted.

“You’ll finish the mission very quickly and be back home in a jiffy!” Cana affirmed. The S-class wizard laughed then, gently ruffling her hair again, before taking his leave. A spark of what felt like panic seized her chest, all of a sudden.

“Let’s hope you’re right little–“

“Cana.”

“Hm?” He turned in confusion.

“My name’s Cana. Cana Alberona.” She said matter-of-factly, waiting to see a glimpse of recognition in Gildarts’s impenetrable gaze.

“Well, then,” He smiled knowingly, “Let’s hope you’re right Little Cana Alberona.”

And then her father was gone. 

Cana felt herself drift back into the present reluctantly; that hadn’t been the entire memory, there was still more that happened after Gildarts left, but she found herself dipping in and out of the current like a leaf, until it completely swept her back onto shore, back into the ochre glow of the inn on the outskirts of Magnolia.

Cana found that though she’d regained consciousness, the lotus-wine had quite literally swept her off her feet; she was lying on the wooden floorboard, at the foot of her barstool, objectively and inexcusably drunk. 

Her pride was more wounded than she was. This is what the great Cana Alberona had been reduced to? For shame.

The memory had left her feeling light-headed, so much so that she didn’t notice Bacchus leaning over her curled up frame in triumph, holding what looked like a turquoise-blue flag. 

“Looks like I win,” he crooned, waving the flag in front of her eyes, “Guess I’ll be taking this as a trophy, pretty lady.”

Cana didn’t think much of it, the aftermath of the wine and memories demanded she sleep it off, even here, on the inn’s wooden floorboards; until she turned to fold unto herself and made the shocking revelation that her bra was missing. 

Her.. Bra.. Was.. 

Oh that wasn’t a turquoise flag he was waving in her face, it was her– 

Cana’s eyes flashed open, arms protectively clutching at her naked chest; just in time to see the door swing open and Bacchus’s big, broad-shouldered frame fly backwards and hit the wall with a sickening crack of broken bone.

Gray Fullbuster stood at the entrance, his dark eyes flashing with unbridled rage. 

Next Chapter ->

[justminawrites]

The Stories We Cannot Tell

AO3 Summary: an alternative ending to Un Monstre À Paris.

There was once a monster in Paris.

People whispered its stories across well-lit kitchen tables and around warm fireplaces. The tales told of a beast as black as the night sky, with eyes made from glowing red embers. With sharp teeth and talons that could rip you to shreds with a single swipe. 

Some say the beast was brought here from a hellish otherworld- to teach us a lesson that we had long forgotten. Others say that it was a lonesome sort of creature that traveled between towns, in search of a home it would never find. But all stories were quite clear on one thing— the monster had fallen in love with an angel.

Paris was a city of romantics at heart, and no other option made itself viable for why the creature had not harmed her, and so it came to be told that she was the reason it was ultimately slew. They say that she had seen the hideous face of the beast and had not flinched; had tempered its fury with her cool, lilting voice; tamed it— saved it— with her grace. And then they would give in to sleep knowing that all was right with the world, and that even monsters could be pardoned in the end.

But the stories were only half-truths dressed in white lies, failing to mention many things— things that, of course, the public would otherwise choose not to dwell on. For example, they failed to mention the sudden surge of reporters and citizens alike, flooding the doors of the Rare Bird Cabaret, vying for the chance to see the blessed angel in person.

They failed to mention that only melancholic music poured from her lips now, and that despite the ivory creams and powders that dusted her skin, the angel’s eyes were always rimmed red.

They failed to mention that the Hero of Paris (its once-illustrious mayor) was carted away into an asylum; his maniacal laughter haunting the ears of all who dared a glance at him when he was taken. 

They failed to mention the torn red scarf lying on the cobbled pavement, victim to the downpour, and the wheels and hooves of carriages alike. Or the man that reached out and gently folded it away into his coat— his tears bleeding into the raindrops that trickled down his cheeks.

They failed to mention that the monster had a name.

“Francoeur”

It was a breath in the wind; too quiet for any of the townspeople to hear, but too loud an echo in the angel’s barren heart. Lucille pressed her forehead against the window glass with a sigh and felt the cold leech into her skin. 

It was days like these where she wanted nothing more than to stand under the teary grey sky and feel the rain caress her face, her soul. And not for the first time that day, she wondered wether that is what it felt like to die.

“Lucille?”

The rain had not let up since his death, and it was not long before the people of Paris had begun to wonder wether they would have another flood on their hands. 

Alarms were raised and the Government had been alerted, but there seemed to be little they could do to prevent a disaster that had not yet occurred. It was one of the few long-running conversations she’d picked up from the patrons of the Cabaret— when they weren’t discussing the “monster” or the mayor’s sudden disappearance from the office, of course.

Paris, she knew, loved to gossip. Everyday (for the past few months now) people had come to hear her sing— her Aunt couldn’t have been more thrilled— and to ask her about the rumors. 

Did it hurt you? How did the monster die? You saw its face didn’t you? Did it have fangs? Claws that could rip you in half?

He was gentle, she would say to anyone who stayed long enough to listen. He was gentle and he was kind. He would never hurt anyone.

They would smile at her, pat her arm or nod sympathetically and then they would go home with tales of the angel’s famed forgiveness and how she couldn’t help but see the good in everyone— even a monster. They would hear her, but they would never listen.

She wore her mourning like she had all her life— blatantly upon her sleeve for all to gaze upon. If they chose to, that is. After all, people would only ever see what they wanted to see; and no one had wanted to see that the angel had loved the monster too.

“Darling?”

Lucille peeled herself away from the soothing chill and turned to find her Aunt Carlotta beaming at her as though she had just won the loterie. In her hand was a crisply folded piece of paper to which she kept glancing.

“What’s wrong?” Lucille asked finally, turning towards the dressing table to grab the most cumbersome portion of her costume— the snow-white wings. Somehow they had never felt heavier. 

“What’s wrong? No my dear girl— what’s right! What is absolutely right!” Her aunt said excitedly as she tucked the piece of paper away and reached over to help her into her getup.

“Indeed?”

“There’s a man outsi-“

“Oh Aunt Carlotta, not this again—” the girl groaned. 

Since the disastrous proposal from the mayor, Carlotta had been actively seeking a husband for her niece; her search consisting of only the most influential men in France. Lucille had rejected every suitor that had come her way so far— even Raoul hadn’t dared yet approach her.

“Ma chérie, I know that you’re not willing to be married yet, but this man is a Duke! He would make sure you want for nothing!”

‘Or so he says’, Lucille thought peevishly.

They all had promised the same thing; fortune, security, a loyal heart that would not stray, but Lucille was no fool. She had seen the way their eyes had lingered a little too long on her waist or the curve of her chest— and had made sure they knew where she thought rats, like them, belonged. But dismissing the hope in her aunt’s eyes was too heavy a burden this time.

“Very well, Aunty,” she caved, “I shall give him a chance.”

Carlotta nearly shrieked, pressing a quick kiss on her niece’s forehead before she lead Lucille out by the hand; exchanging sly smiles with the waiters going in the opposite direction. 

The Rare Bird Cabaret was swathed in red silk and darkness— making it seem like perpetual nighttime— lit only by the warm glow of the candles that lined the stage and dotted each table. A heavy velvet curtain was draped across the stage, signaling that the show had not yet begun and Lucille repressed a bone-deep shudder at the sight of it.

Lately, she had been losing her desire to sing or even set foot on stage again. Its worth had begun to wear thin, or perhaps Lucille had not quite realized how vast the stage was; or how empty. She refrained from telling her aunt for fear of causing her any more worry, but waking up each morning to stand in front of the crowd had become a trial in itself.

Her next show began in five-and-ten minutes, so she wasn’t all surprised to see the numerous tables already filled with men and women from the farthest corners of the country, trading smiles and stories alike. Everyone, from shifty-looking reporters to even shiftier-looking politicians were there.

Carlotta led her backstage, pressing another kiss on her niece’s forehead with the promise of meeting the elusive “Duke” after the show. 

“He wants to hear you sing,” her aunt grinned. Lucille tried her best not to roll her eyes. Of course he did.

Then the rich, crimson curtains sprung open and the angel stepped forward and began to sing.

…

The audience hardly stirred as the song came to a close, their eyes limned with tears and Lucille took a small bow as the curtains swept back into place and hid her from view. 

Hastily drying her own stained cheeks with the sleeves of her ivory gown, Lucille shrugged off the wings and mentally prepared herself to meet her suitor. One of the waiters ushered her down the stage and up the stairs, into one of the more private balconies, informing her that her mother would meet her here— apparently with her choice for Lucille’s husband-to-be.

The guests had begun shifting, talking amongst themselves again, and Lucille peered over the balcony, hands firmly clutching the rail, trying to happen upon anyone she recognized. She thought she saw Emile’s trademark olive-green top hat and Maud’s luscious black curls, but before she could get a closer look, a voice startled her from behind.

“Careful,” it sounded distinctly masculine, “you don’t have your wings”

Lucille pursed her lips and turned, ready to scold him for sneaking up on her like that, but when she beheld the figure her heart very nearly stopped. A man ducked under the balustrade entryway; dressed in a white three-piece suit with a soft blue scarf around his neck, a broad white hat covering most of his face. He almost looked like—

“Francoeur?!”

The figure stopped for a second, bemused, before carefully removing his hat from his head and pressing it to his heart with a small bow; revealing a strong-jawed, dark-eyed, and entirely human face. Any ember of hope Lucille had been harboring, flickered out in her chest.

“You know my name,” he sounded surprised, raising from his bow to meet her defeated gaze. 

“I- uh.. of course!” Lucille fumbled, gripping the balcony railing in order to steady both her heart and her legs, the latter which showed signs of giving out from underneath her.

“Who wouldn’t recognize the Duke of.. umm—“

“Sauville” he cut in smoothly, the twitch of his lips betraying amusement.

“Right, of course,” she managed to choke out, quickly pulling out a chair to sink into. It felt as though her lungs were collapsing under the weight of her whole body at that moment.

“Please!” she gestured, a little too enthusiastically, “have a seat!”

He sat gracefully, his brown eyes studying her, like a cat, as she composed herself. 

He was not her Francoeur. Her Francoeur was dead. The thought alone drove the redness from her cheeks and the flutter from her heart. Cautiously, Lucille returned his gaze. 

Now that the initial shock had worn off, she was able to make out an olive-toned complexion and a head full of night-dark hair. The Duke was quite handsome. 

“Forgive me,” he said, once the silence wore thin, “It was rude of me to startle you so”

And, apparently, a gentleman.

Lucille waved away his apology as gracefully as she could; she was glad he couldn’t see her legs quaking under the table.

“A curious ensemble for a Duke,” she pointed out, finally getting a grip on her voice. The man— Francoeur— smiled, as though they were sharing a secret. 

“Well, I do have a soft spot for the theatrical” 

Was he teasing her?

“What brings you here, Monsieur?”

“The same as everyone else, I suppose.”

A glint of mischief in those dark eyes. Oh, he was most definitely teasing her.

Lucille frowned.

“And what might that be?”

“I came to see the Angel of Montmartre,” he tilted his head ever so slightly, as if daring her to ask. So she did.

“And?”

“She is beautiful” he said simply.

Lucille couldn’t stop the heat from rising into her cheeks now. Suddenly glad for the dark ambience of the Cabaret, she hid her embarrassment behind a cloth napkin, dabbing uselessly at her mouth in an attempt to get her bearings.

“I hope you do not intend to propose, Monsieur”

“Whatever gave you that idea, Mademoiselle?” He seemed to be trying very hard to suppress a smile.

“Just a hunch”

“How wonderful,” Carlotta barged in before he could reply, “You two have already met!”

“Madame!”

“Aunt Carlotta!” 

Both of them rose at the same time to greet her aunt, who gestured for them to sit down for heaven’s sake, and hurried away, insisting that the staff uncork their best bottle of champagne because Lucille hadn’t spent more than five minutes with any of the other suitors and he was the one, I’m sure!

The couple exchanged glances and Lucille was pleasantly surprised to find Francoeur noticeably pink, akin to a scolded child. 

“Aunty can be little too enthusiastic sometimes,” Lucille smiled, easing away the tension as they both resumed their seats. Francoeur ducked his head gratefully, relieved from the task of replying. For the first time since he arrived, Lucille looked past him and caught a glimpse of an instrument lounging against the rouge wallpaper.

“Forgive me for asking,” Lucille ventured, “but do you play?”

Francoeur caught her pointed glance at the guitar behind him and smiled.

“Not for everyone”

Lucille had to keep her lips from twitching at that and leaned a little closer to her white-clad companion. 

“Will you play for the Angel of Montmartre?”

He met her gaze with one of equal playfulness, and winked.

“For you, Mademoiselle? Anything.”

“But first—“ her grin faltered, “I think this belongs to you”

Lucille gaped as the man pulled out a bedraggled red scarf, worn thin by rain and Parisian streets, from inside his white coat. She hardly dared to breath, as he held it out to her under the buttery glow of the candle.

It was the scarf Francoeur— her Francoeur— was wearing when she first met him; and the same one he had on when he died. Tears lined Lucille’s eyes and for a brief, terrible moment, she thought she was going to cry.

“Where..” She couldn’t finish her sentence.

Francoeur’s eyes twinkled again.

“Mademoiselle,” he began, placing the red piece of cloth on the table between them.

“Is it too late to tell you a story?”

[justminawrites]

Where The Stars Collide

AO3

Summary: When Team Natsu return from Edolas with Lisanna, the consequences set off a series of chain reactions across the Kingdom of Fiore, disturbing the long held peace between the wizard guilds and the Magic Council. Lucy Heartfilia is heartbroken to find that the celestial gate key of one of her oldest spirits, Aquarius, is missing, and with the help of Loke, her more-than-a-friend turned spirit, she sets off on a quest to recover it. Natsu Dragneel has had enough of waiting and joins Gajeel Redfox, Wendy Marvell, and a very, very reluctant Juvia Lockser on a mission to finally find the Dragons that left them all those years ago. At the same time, a mysterious prophecy is circulating around the town of Magnolia, tying two of Fairy Tail's strongest members and childhood sweethearts Gray Fullbuster and Cana Alberona into a tale of bitter and bloody revenge; and an ominous presence lurks on Tenrou Island, infecting the once-holy grounds. What will become of Fiore's fiercest protectors? What will happen to Fairy Tail?

prologue | 1 | 2 | TBC

1.1 : Mira

Mirajane Strauss knew better than to believe in miracles.

Magnolia was a metropolitan city soaked in more than its fair share of culture, marinating in so many different types of magic that even the most dedicated of archives couldn’t keep track of them all— celestial wizards, elemental mages, rune magic and healing spells, mimicry, puppeteering, requipping— but miracles were not one of them.

Of course there was an array of wish fulfilment and illusion magicks, tricks and trades that even the sleaziest castors knew to manipulate, but nothing could bring back someone from the dead. Nothing good anyway. Mira had long stopped peering into that part of her soul. So when she left with her brother to visit her little sister’s grave located in the cathedral church, one gloomy day, she didn’t expect to find a miracle waiting for her.

The door to the guild hall swung shut behind her and the scent of rain hesitantly kissed her nose, the smile on her face giving way to nothing. It had been 5 years since the incident. She could hear the guild members on the other side of the door recall the story in hushed tones. Lisanna would’ve turned 19 this summer. Her breath hitched and she swiped at her dry cheeks. Save your tears for the graveyard, a gentle voice in her head whispered, spring will be over soon.

A soft creaking noise and a large, warm hand on her left shoulder nudged her out of her reverie.

“Mira, we’re here.”

She blinked. The Kardia Cathedral loomed before them: located right in the heart of the town, a near fifteen minute walk from the guild hall, its four cylindrical pillars holding up the enormous green-domed building. It was one of Fiore’s more pretentious tourist traps, with billions of jewels being spent on the flattering archways, the high vaulted ceiling and the pristine marble floors, and little to nothing on its inhabitants. Any priests that survived the meagre wages never showed their faces, preferring to give sermons behind silk or wood screens to largely empty pews.

It was also where Laxus challenged Natsu and the others when he held his coupe.

“We’re here” she replied dully.

The creaking was coming from a tiny gate on the east side of the church, the path to the graveyard. Unlike her brother, Elfman, Mira wasn’t alarmed by her brief lapse of memory; she’d been forgetting more and more things lately. It always happens around this time of year, she noted, latching the gate into place.

Lisanna’s gravestone was one in a long row of similar grey, rounded tablets, inscribed with the Fairy Tail’s sigil, vertically apart from an empty stone coffin. Elfman opened a red umbrella just as a drop of rain plopped onto Mira’s head and they both stood quietly as it pattered around the two siblings, soaking their shoes and nearly all of Elfman’s hair.

Empty, because her sister disappeared right in her own two hands, she mused as she took the bouquet of lilies from her brother and placed it on the  grave’s flat, shiny surface.

Empty, because there wasn’t even a body to bury or burn, there wasn’t a single pice of her sister she could hold on to, only the memories of her bruises and the blood. So much blood. There were days where she would wake up in cold sweat, fingers wrapped around torn sheets because she couldn’t remember her sister’s face, just blood and a high pitched wailing. How could you Mira. How could you.

She didn’t know why she kept coming back here; Lisanna never had any fondness for churches and although Mira knew about the second grave that Natsu had built for her sister in a hut in the East Forest, where they had spent their childhood, she could never bring herself to visit it. Two graves were not better than one.

Mirajane looked around at the rows of headstones that surrounded her and for the first time in five long years, wondered how many of them were as hollow as their visitors.

Then she crouched down and ran her thumb along the smooth edge of the stone and sighed, her cheeks wet only from the rain: every year she told herself that the tears would come this time, and every year they never did. Both the Strauss siblings shared this strange grief. It was almost as though they were afraid that if the tears returned, Lisanna wouldn’t. If they could hold on for a little longer then maybe—

Maybe what? She’d come back? The thought was red hot and stung, sharper than a slap. Mira absentmindedly touched her cheek to check for a mark.

The bell began to toll.

Grow up Mirajane, your sister is dead. This voice sounded like her own, bitter and resentful, warped with pain and something she couldn’t name, spinning round and round in her head in time with the tolling.

Your sister is dead and it’s your fault.

It’s your fault.

It’s your fault.

It’s your fault.

It’s-

“Mira!”

Mirajane shook her head and looked up at Elfman, who stared back at her bemusedly.

Did she imagine it?

“Big Brother Elf!" 

There was no way.

She turned around to see a girl running towards them, unbothered by the rain— with short white hair like the siblings, and blue eyes sparkling with tears. Mira thought she saw the distinct frames of Natsu and Erza behind the girl. What was going on?

“Mira.. I think I might be hallucinating” Elfman whispered quietly, the umbrella slipping out of his hand; it fell to the ground with little protest.

“It can’t be-” she murmured, wrapping her arms around herself. Something vicious inside of her quieted.

Five years. Five long years of waiting and waiting.

“It can’t be.” She repeated. Mira tried to clench her palms to keep them from shaking.

“Lisanna?”

The girl seemed to glow when her name was said, taking a step, two steps forward before throwing herself into the sister she hadn’t seen in so long. Mirajane didn’t realise she was crying until  she pressed her cheeks into the girl’s shoulder, dampening her warm skin- she was alive and she was warm and she was, she was-

home.

“Welcome home.”

In her twenty-two years on Earthland, that was the first miracle Mirajane Strauss had ever seen. Soon after, she would wish that it was the last.

1.2 : Lucy

Something was bothering Lucy Heartfilia.

It begun the moment they left Edolas, a persistent itch, like a stray eyelash, that prodded at her subconscious, demanding her attention. They were making their way back to the guild after Lisanna’s tearful reunion with her siblings and Lucy couldn’t shake the feeling that she was forgetting something important. Gray was the first one to notice.

“Everything okay, Lucy?” He asked as he watched her fiddle with the cloak Natsu had given her, looking mildly frustrated.

“Huh- yeah it’s probably nothing, I’m just a little shaky from the anima I guess” she shrugged, her hand immediately reaching for the pouch of keys safely tucked into her belt, and releasing a small breath of air as she confirmed their presence for the fifth time. No matter how quickly she seemed to lose her clothes each time she went on a mission, her keys seemed immune to this particular trait; a fact that Lucy was grateful for every time they fought a villain with any fondness for water. Her hair really couldn’t take more of this.

Gray nodded and ran a hand through his hair, a strange expression Lucy couldn’t pinpoint— sad? wistful? crossing his face.

“I know what you mean, Edolas was really something… different” Erza interrupted, placing an armoured hand on both of their shoulders as they neared the guild hall. She’d been quick to requip back into her usual attire when they’d landed, Lucy noted— the return back to their world seemed to have recharged most of their powers, but her emotional batteries were spent. And of course, there was that itching feeling.

Lucy was just about to unhook her pouch and start counting through all thirteen of her keys when Elfman flung open the doors and a collective gasp descended on Fairy Tail as Mirajane walked in, protectively clutching a girl they hadn’t seen in five years; a girl they all thought dead.

“There’s no way. . .”

An explosive welcome would be putting it lightly— the guild hall erupted with happiness, confusion, relief. Lisanna was alive? Lisanna was alive! How could Lisanna be alive?

Lucy was unfortunately thrust right into the flood of tears and hugs eclipsing the newly undead Edolas refugee right alongside Natsu, Erza, Gray and Wendy.

Gajeel hung back, seemingly content with whispering to his newly found Exceed instead. He caught her staring and glowered until she turned away, Lucy wondered if she’d ever figure that guy out.

Master Makarov’s face had gone pale and he muttered something under his breath; if Lucy didn’t know better she’d think it was a prayer. Lisanna extricated herself from the crowd and knelt in front of him, pulling the tiny, old man into a fierce hug. A hush fell on the room as the usually upbeat and cheerful guild master’s eyes flooded with tears, before the shouts of joy rang out louder and clearer this time.

“Lisanna’s home!”

“She’s home!”

“Natsu brought her back from the dead!”

“Not just Natsu— Erza too!”

“She’s alive!”

“My beloved Gray, you’ve finally returned! I was getting so worried!”

The last one was from Juvia Lockser. The tearful (was she crying this whole time?) water mage flung her arms around Gray much to his chagrin and the two nearly tumbled into Cana who was nursing her second barrel of mead that day.

“Watch it!” Cana snapped as she shifted the cask onto another table, sounding grumpier than usual, Lucy noticed. She’d have to make sure to ask Cana what was wrong later. But for now- Lucy managed to pull herself away from the crowd and dropped back long enough to catch her breath and watch curiously as Gray led Juvia right out the wooden doors from which they arrived.

Maybe his time in Edolas had changed the way he saw her, Lucy pondered, hands drifting to her pouch once more. It had certainly changed the way she’d seen Mystogan, the man with the face of the most wanted criminal in Earthland— and Edolas’ lost prince. Or maybe it hadn’t changed anything at all, she frowned, catching sight of a tired Wendy rubbing her red-rimmed eyes as her exceed, Carla, berated her for being un-ladylike. Maybe it had made things worse.

A flash of golden light interrupted Lucy before she could go over to comfort the girl, and she caught a glimpse of tawny gold hair before she was staring into the hazel eyes of her favourite (though she’d never admit it) Celestial Spirit. If it wasn’t for the out-of-the-blue appearance, Lucy would have realised that it was the first time she’d ever seen him without his blue-tinted sunglasses.

“Lucy!” She could instantly tell that something wasn’t right. Loke never showed up without some grand gesture accompanying him and he’d never showed up looking so distressed before.

“What’s wrong?”

“There’s no time to explain,” he shook his head and clasped her palm in his own, motioning for her to follow as he led them both behind the bar counter. Her guild mates were too caught up in the festivities to pay any attention to them.

“You have your keys, right?” She nodded and unhooked the pouch from the belt at her waist, pulling out the ring of keys that were her most prized possession. Loke quickly let go of her hand and handed her one of the many half-filled wooden goblets that lined the counter.

“I need you to summon Aquarius right away”

“With.. mead?” Lucy winced as she recalled The Water Bearer’s infamous temper when she summoned her once using water from a fish bowl— and just her temper in general.

“Don’t you think we should use normal-“

“Lucy, please.”

Lucy blinked and looked up. Loke looked the most disheveled she’d ever seen him, his trademark red tie missing, his shirt collar askew; his usual charm and charisma overshadowed by something that bordered on desperation.

“She might smell like mead for a while but otherwise she’ll be unscathed” he insisted, holding out the cup.

His voice was hoarse, as though he’d been screaming for hours and the shadows under his eyes were bruised purple; Lucy had a strong feeling he hadn’t even slept since the Edolas fight— but his panic was infecting her now, the bad feeling she’d been having all evening suddenly pooling into dread in the pit of her stomach.

“Alright” her fingers tightened on the key ring.

Lucy knew she was fortunate enough to possess contracts with 9 out of twelve of the zodiac spirits at this point, with Aries, Scorpio and Gemini being the latest additions to the team, but Aquarius had been with her the longest.

Their relationship often reminded her of Wendy and Carla’s, Aquarius was always correcting her, prodding at her, pointing out all her mistakes, but when it came down to it, Lucy knew Aquarius would protect her in a heartbeat. It’s why she rarely called on her strongest spirit; Aquarius would protect her a little too well.

That, and it was hard to find many water bodies that she’d consider appealing.

“Aries, Sagittarius, Virgo.. wait that’s not right-” Lucy frowned and held the ring up closer to her face.

“Lucy?”

“Hold on- Virgo, Leo, Taurus.. no, no this can’t be happening!” 

Loke’s face lost all colour. The goblet clattered to the floor, splashing both their feet with lukewarm amber liquid.

“The key.. it’s—“ her voice rose with panic.

gone.

“Loke!”

Lucy barely made it in time to catch him before his knees buckled, and he fainted in her arms.

1.3 : Juvia

Juvia Lockser was convinced that nothing in the world mattered more than love.

After all, it was love that had saved her from falling and shattering into a million little raindrops. It was love that helped her find a new home after her guild was destroyed. It was love that had showed her the sun for the first time.

And it was minor technicality really, that her love hadn’t admitted that he loved her back.. yet.

But Juvia had nothing if not faith. She’d read enough novels to know that enough crying and near-death situations (both of which were easy to find) could solve the romantic tension between any pair of lovebirds, no matter how unlikely they were: ‘the bad boy and the good girl’, ‘the socialite and the socially awkward’, ‘the billionaire and the.. wait didn’t she do this one already?’

Either way, the book would insist that the main couple always ended up together, even if it took a contrived turn of events to make it that way, and while Juvia lost all interest in it after they became an item, she too wanted that kind of heart-racing romance— and she’d cry the whole ocean if it meant she could have it.

That’s why she was caught completely off guard when her beloved Gray Fullbuster pulled her aside and told her that it’s over.

“W-What?” She must’ve been hearing things; there’s no way that he would-

“I don’t like you like that, and I feel like I’ve led you on by not making it clear enough,” Gray sighed running a hand through his already mussed black hair. It had barely been ten minutes into their arrival when he’d asked her to join him outside, a few steps away from the brightly lit guild hall, and Juvia should’ve known that something was off immediately.

Gray was missing a shirt (not new) and covered in budding bruises (also not new), but his shoulders were slouched and his eyes were glazed over, as though he was somewhere else entirely. From what Juvia could tell, they’d all just traveled back from some kind of magic-draining endeavour, she couldn’t remember much from that morning, had they taken a job?

“You’re not leading me on, darling I don’t—“

“See, that’s what I mean,” he said, irritation creeping into his voice, “can’t you just stop with all that darling crap? We’re not together.” 

Juvia flinched as a raindrop struck her bare shoulder and trickled down her upper back. She didn’t understand where it had come from, the sky was clear just a moment ago.

Gray pulled her towards a nearby kiosk to shelter from the incoming downpour, and they settled onto two unopened barrels. Juvia’s breath came out in white puffs, she hadn’t realised how cold it had gotten, and Gray’s entire torso was streaked with rain. Although he must’ve been freezing, his expression hadn’t shifted at all; serious and stern, only the shadows under his eyes betraying his exhaustion.

“If you just gave me a chance,” she began, reaching out to touch his cheek, to close the distance between them and pretend his words didn’t hurt; all fated couples had arguments before they got together officially -  this was probably just her moment to confess her undying love; she could still turn this around.. right?

“Juvia,” she blinked as he looked at her bemusedly, eyes unreadable as ever; holding her wrist an inch away from his face, “You don’t deserve this.”

“You deserve to be with someone who loves you back.”

Juvia felt as though she would faint with relief. Is that what this was all about?

Her beloved Gray didn’t hate her, he just felt unworthy of her love. She’d come across this trope so many times that she was almost disappointed in herself for not seeing it sooner. Of course he wasn’t rejecting her, he would never even think to do such a thing. Their love was too vast and too deep for him to simply cast aside with a few words. He was probably just embarrassed that he couldn’t be as forward about his affections as she was.

“Oh Gray,” she said, her voice softening as he quickly dropped her hand and crossed both his own over the black guild mark on his chest, “You don’t have to worry about me.”

Gray blinked.

“You know that I’ll wait for you. I’ll wait as long as it takes to make you love me back,” she gushed, “I can’t believe that all this time you were worried about me and my feelings, you wouldn’t do that if you didn’t care for me at least a little.”

“Uh-“ he opened his mouth to protest, but Juvia was on a roll.

“Oh I really did pick the perfect man didn’t I?” She squealed, completely oblivious to his growing discomfort, “You’re so sweet and attentive and tortured and cold—“

“I wouldn’t say tortured—“

“And you’re right we should definitely take it slow, I’ll hold off on the nicknames for now, after all we don’t want our future children to think we’re not cool enough to be their parents or some equally ridiculous notion.”

“Future children?!” Gray spluttered in disbelief.

“And you care so much about hurting my feelings because you think you can’t give me the love I deserve but it’s not true because no one else but you make me feel-“

“Juvia!” She winced as he took hold of her shoulders, his icy fingers digging into her pale skin, and met his frustrated look with one of total bewilderment. Had she done something wrong?

“Sorry,” he let go of her immediately, pulling away and putting his head in his hands instead. An uncomfortable silence saturated the conversation and Juvia thought she could hear the faint chirping of crickets in the distance. A few seconds passed and then—

“Have you ever thought about my feelings?” The words came out quiet and matter-of-fact, as though he had suppressed the urge to say it many times over.

The ground could have disappeared underneath her feet at that moment and Juvia wouldn’t have noticed. His feelings? He’d saved her, his sworn enemy, in their very first encounter hadn’t he? And he’d welcomed her into his guild— he wouldn’t have done the same for just anyone, would he?

“Gray, I’m sorry if I did something to make you dislike me,” Juvia said, her voice barely a whisper, almost lost in the plinkplinkplink of the rain spilling from the tiled roof onto the pavement.

“I can fix it. If you tell me what it is, I won’t do it again.”

The silence returned, thick enough that she could feel it bore into her skull and pound at her temples. Silence like soaked cotton filling her lungs; silence that clung to her skin, heavy enough to drown in.

“-if I love someone else..” he said finally.

Gray looked at her then and Juvia realised that she’d never heard such weariness in his voice before.

“What?”

“And if I love someone else? Will you fix that too?”

Juvia had only ever known what it was like to drown once. It happened when she was six years old and the orphanage had taken them on a trip to the community pool as a treat.

The children were warned to stay away from the deep end everyone duly obliged, until it begun to rain. She couldn’t remember if she’d slipped or if someone had pushed her but the water was suddenly everywhere. In her ears, in her nose, it was suffocating her, dragging her down down down into its icy depths, the pressure in her lungs building and building, until she woke up retching in a medical ward.

The doctors promised her that they were able to get to her in time, and there was no cause for worry but Juvia never quite stopped believing that every drop of water she swallowed would somehow drip drip drip its way into her chest and fill her up until there was no room for anything else. That she would die a true Rain Woman. That was, of course, up till now, up until Gray.

Until she realised that this wasn’t her love story after all.

“You know what, forget it.” he mumbled, dispelling both the echoes of her past and the damp stillness they’d been sitting in, with his defeated sigh.

“You’re.. in love with someone else?”

“It doesn’t matter anymore.”

Gray’s eyes were cloudy again, his gaze fixated on something behind her shoulder but when she turned around all she saw were a few displaced barrels and a deck of playing cards atop one of them. There was no one else here. It was just her and him and the rain falling down around them as witness.

“But- but I love you, Gray”

Juvia hated her voice then. She hated how it cracked and spilled onto the pavement, mixing with the rain and the remnants of her love. She hated how it made her sound petulant, like a spoiled child in a store and how it couldn’t stop the tears that streaked down her face - desperate, hot, shameful tears that wouldn’t cease.

“I’m sorry,” he said, absentmindedly running a thumb over the shiny silver cross at his neck.

“I didn’t want to hurt you.”

“I see,” she said dully, emotion draining from of her words, her eyes. A sharp ache began to gnaw at her ribcage.

For the first time since she’d met him, Juvia wondered if he was telling the truth. Gray didn’t meet her gaze as he stood up and walked back into the rainy streets of Magnolia City.

Away from the kiosk, away from the guild and away from her; leaving the rain woman alone with a heart she’d shattered all on her own.

Next Chapter ->

[justminawrites]

Eremophobia

AO3

Summary: The fear of being isolated, lonely, or alone. Five times Hayama Akira asked someone to stay, and the one time he didn’t need to.

“Don’t go.”

Hayama was 19 when Shiomi Jun looked up from the unzipped suitcase and gave him a half-hearted smile, even though he couldn’t see it. He knew it would happen eventually, he just hadn’t expected it to be so soon. He thought he’d have more time. I’ll only be gone two months, Akira-kun, she’d promised. Two months of sun and sand and Greece, and she’d be back before he even had time to miss her. He knew she was lying, he didn’t even need to open his eyes to notice her torn cuticles or the slightly white pallor of her skin; she didn’t intend on coming home for a long while. She wouldn’t tell him why.

Jun put down the shirt and walked over to hug him; he returned the embrace without getting up from his place on the bed. It’s okay, she whispered soothingly petting his hair as he let himself cry into her sweater until dawn. It’s going to be okay. 

By the time he’d woken, red-eyed and cotton-mouthed, tangled in her bedsheets, she was already gone.

“Don’t go.”

Hayama was 22 when Arato Hisako paused at the door to their shared apartment and sighed. 

They’d done this many times, this dance, their little back and forth and it had left scars on the both of them. The agreement was simple, they’d begun dating out of convenience; falling in love was never on the table. As long as you never ask me to put you above Erina-sama, she’d proposed, and I never assume I can take Shiomi Jun’s place– we should be alright. It had gone so well, until it hadn’t. He couldn’t remember who had started it, maybe it was her, maybe it was him, maybe it was someone else; but a wine-stained tablecloth and a smarting cheek later, when he’d seen genuine tears in her eyes, he knew he had gone too far. 

She’d always threatened to leave, packing a duffel bag as she sought refuge in the arms of a Nakiri princess, but he’d always chased after her, pulling and pulling, somehow losing a piece of her each time he did. After two years, he didn’t know how much of her he had left. 

They had always come at each other with claws and fangs bared, unguarded and itching for a fight, but they’d found out quickly that the line between honesty and cruelty was terribly, horribly thin. Hisako waited for him to run after her again, even turned back a few times, but all he had left were words. She shut the door with a final resounding click. 

They had never been good with words.

“Don’t go.”

Hayama was 26 when he breathed it into Sendawara Natsume’s ear, smirking as he watched her writhe beneath him, lips parted in pleasure. She loved it when he was rough with her, all sharp angles and jagged edges, voices husky, kisses that were more teeth than tongue– just enough honey to numb the poison.

The first time was at an award ceremony, even his greatest victories were reduced to paltry displays of arrogance when he didn’t have someone worth winning for; where she’d run a teasing finger across his chest and he’d reciprocated by pulling her into an empty broom closet and made her moan his name. 

It had happened many many times since then, he was quite partial to ambushing her before she had a stage appearance or anywhere with cameras; her feeble protests dying on her tongue the moment he pinned her wrist to the wall, but it was always so alarmingly empty. He grew more and more unfeeling as the time passed, his thirst unquenched, the hole in him getting wider every time she pouted her lips or batted her lashes. The awards on his shelf grew, the medals collected dust, the flowers withered away in their bouquets.

Still he drank, hoping her poison would put him to sleep so he wouldn’t have to wake up to the very very faint smell of cinnamon on his pillow. 

Natsume grazed his jaw with a long, manicured nail and he stiffened, waiting for the vacant promises to slip into his ears, but she only sighed I’m late, before pushing past him to get to the doorknob. 

He didn’t even bother to turn around. 

“Don’t go.”

Hayama was 30 when he said it in his head as he looked into Nakiri Alice’s doe-like eyes, under the harsh glare of the laboratory lights. 

She’d barged into his office as usual and demanded to use  his workspace at three a.m. to test out a new recipe that had come to her in her sleep. They’d spent all morning trying to turn the damn lobster blue, and he had never been more tired in his life, but still he watched her wrinkle her nose in frustration as she squinted at the cloudy liquid in the little test tube, and resisted the urge to lean in and kiss her till she forgot her own name. 

Ryō-kun would know what to do, she’d sighed finally and dumped it into the sink. He watched the purple liquid swirl around, once, twice and smiled sadly as it trickled down the drain. He should have known. She’d only ever had eyes for the brooding, dark-haired chef she’d met in a small port side town in Denmark, and from what he’d noticed during their school days, the feeling was almost certainly mutual. 

She huffed and puffed and lay her head on the cold counter top, and within seconds she was fast asleep. Hayama made sure to cover her slight frame with his coat, before reaching for the phone to dial a familiar number. 

Kurokiba Ryō arrived not even an hour later to take her back home and he stopped at the doorway to watch them leave, trying not to wonder what might have happened if Alice had met him first instead, all those years ago, before either of them had learnt the true taste of love. 

“Don’t go.”

Hayama was 32 when he saw her sitting on the rooftop of Polar Star Dormitory, drinking sake out of a shot glass as she gazed at the moon. The new dorm matron, Sakaki Ryōkō had blushed at his intrusion and quickly made to leave him alone, before the words had slipped through his lips and sunk into the night air like an open invitation. 

She’d raised an eyebrow discerningly, but obliged his whims, scooting over to give the newly admitted Tōtsuki professor space; he took it with as much grace as he had left. They’d sat in silence for a good part of the next hour, taking turns downing the alcohol as they quietly recalled their own days at this school; competing with their peers, sharpening themselves with their rivalries, the 92nd Generation’s diamonds in the rough now haunting the place where they’d been forged. 

Hayama swayed a little and she turned and grabbed him by the shoulder– he’d been leaning too far out the edge and would’ve fallen if she hadn’t steadied him. 

Unfortunately, he inclined towards her too quickly and his arm reached out and knocked the glass over. They watched mutely as it roll away, plink, plink, plinking down the roof tiles and shatter onto the balcony below them. Ryōkō did the strangest thing then, watching those same broken pieces glitter under the moonlight– she threw her back and she laughed. 

The sound was so infectious that Hayama couldn’t stop himself from snorting too and soon they found themselves in stitches, giggling like a pair of love-drunk high schoolers who’d stayed up too late. 

It could have been the alcohol, hell, it could have been the fact that he hadn’t laughed in so long, but the world seemed brighter all of a sudden. The tiles under his feet were rougher, the gravity more pronounced, like he was waking from a long, long nightmare. 

As Hayama felt a cool breeze nip his neck, he found himself noticing the new matron more, her distinctly sweet smell, like honey and ripe citrus, and how her dark eyes reflected the tiny stars in the sky. He hadn’t seen it before, gaze too clouded by memory, but she was quite beautiful with her magenta hair and easy smile. 

He would’ve liked to stay longer but his stomach churned and it was all he could do to turn away in time before he found himself bent over the roof, hurling the contents of his dinner across the edge.

_________

Hayama Akira woke to the sound of knocking in his skull. He didn’t realise it was the door until he’d downed the jug of water beside his bed and felt some semblance of normality return to his body.

“Hello? Professor?"

He croaked out a quick, Be right there, before shedding the stained lab coat he hadn’t bothered to take off when he’d stumbled back into his dorm room last night and passed out on the couch. Hayama never handled alcohol well but yesterday’s embarrassing display nearly took the top spot for worst moments of his life; if it hadn’t been for the new matron’s quick thinking he’d probably still be sitting on the roof of Polar Star Dormitory, covered in puke and dead to the world. He would find a way to apologise to her somehow, a half-hearted thanks didn’t seem nearly enough for what she’d done. 

Once he’d splashed his face with cold water and rinsed his tongue with mouthwash- the smell bothered him more than anyone- he propped open the door to find a familiar magenta-haired woman standing outside, a steel thermos in her hand. 

Sakaki Ryōkō smiled at him in greeting, skin dewy fresh, wearing a flowery bandanna, no visible sign of the copies amounts of sake she’d chugged last night anywhere as she held out the flask. 

Hayama took it in surprise.

“My special hangover cure,” she explained, watching his green eyes widen at its warmth, “I thought you might need some since your classes begin today.”

“A-Ah,” he replied, trying to muster up a reaction that wasn’t confusion, he must have said something to her about his lecture somewhere between retching over the side of the roof, and dragging his feet across the polished floors as she helped him get back to his room. 

“Thank you, Sakaki-san. I hope you didn’t trouble yourself.”

“Don’t mention it, Hayama-kun, I’ve been up for hours anyway.”

Ryōkō seemed more luminous in the daylight; she’d tied her hair up in a ponytail and was wearing a light pink apron over her sweats, a streak of dirt smudged across her cheek and the gloves peeking out of her pocket the only indications that she’d been working outside in the garden all morning.

Hayama had never seen someone so alive. Jun was a heavier sleeper than he was and Hisako had always looked like she would stab anything that moved within 10 metres of her radius until she’d had her morning coffee; this shine in the new matron’s eyes alarmed him a little.

“When do you have to leave?” She  asked cheerfully, cocking her head to one side.

He checked the clock behind him: 9:00 a.m. His lecture wouldn’t start for another two hours at least.

“Do you have time for breakfast? The kids left already but I’m sure I can scrounge up something with–“

“Thank you, Sakaki-san,” he repeated firmly, “But I don’t want to intrude.”

He said it normally enough, but his voice came out flat and ungrateful. Her face fell and he resisted the urge to immediately soften the statement. This was better for the both of them. 

Hayama had returned to Tōtsuki Culinary Academy solely to take over the Shiomi Seminar at the request of the new director; he couldn’t leave Jun’s life’s work in the hands of someone who couldn’t properly care for it. He’d come here knowing he’d be surrounded by her ghost at every waking moment, he’d resigned himself to it, looked forward to it even. It would be cruel to start something with someone new, that would no doubt end in tears. 

“I see,” she frowned, let out a breath and snatched the thermos back.

Hayama blinked– he hadn’t expected that. 

“I guess you don’t need this either.” She huffed and then made to leave.

He stared after her mutely. His head began to throb in warning, dull beats, steady as a drum, and he could almost feel the ache pulsing through him as he stood in front of the lecture hall, in a few hours. His stomach tightened unhelpfully, making him aware of its painful emptiness. Perhaps breakfast wouldn’t end in tears after all.

“That’s-“

“Hm?” Ryōkō looked back, one hand on her hip. His pride clamped his tongue shut.

Hayama had always kept his cool around people, women especially; he hadn’t been one of the most eligible bachelors on Top Chef for no reason, but there was something unpredictable about Sakaki Ryōkō that left him feeling strangely flustered. 

He thought he knew her type, the kindly mother-figure of the friend group, the go-to shoulder to cry on; a more self-assured version of his friend Tadokoro Megumi– but an undercurrent of pure defiance ran right through her homely persona. There was kindness, yes, but none of the naivety he’d associated with it so far; a savoury sweetness– caramel, but the sharp tang of salt was unmistakable.

“I can’t stand the smell of eggs,” he blurted out stupidly. 

The dorm matron nodded sagely, as though that was a perfectly normal thing to say in such a conversation.

“You’re in luck, Hayama-kun. We seem to be all out of eggs at the moment.”

He could’ve sworn she was trying not to smile.

“Then.. uh-“ he opened the door wider, taking a step out into the hallway, but his voice wouldn’t work all of a sudden. Don’t go, Wait, Stay, the words got lost in his throat, tangled in the memories of all the times they hadn’t worked. 

The ambience of the night had been his friend, hiding his loneliness with a blanket of polite indifference but saying it in the light of day was harder, more concrete. Irreversible.

She turned away, heading down the staircase now. 

Hayama stared after her; he’d missed his chance again.

A vision of Hisako’s back came to him suddenly; the way her hands had shook with barely concealed distress, the downward incline of her shoulders, her last words to him before she left; bitter and tired. I hope you’re happy. He should have let her go sooner. Sighing, he felt the weight of his mistakes chain him down and coerce him back into the room- back into his bed for the next hour, where they could run uninhibitedly in his dreams, and was about to take heed when–

“Hayama-kun?”

He looked up, bewildered; the dorm matron had paused on her way down the steps and gave him a little wave. 

Hayama lifted his hand almost involuntarily and waved back; What a strange woman. 

Ryōkō smiled brightly as she tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, and the feeling from last night burst in chest.

He felt his thoughts recede almost instantly as the world flushed with colour, the line between past and present slicing through his hesitation like a well polished knife, daring him to make a choice. But she was already ahead of him there too. 

“I’ll see you downstairs in ten minutes.”

She was gone before he could open his mouth.