#ngl writing this- Ambrosius talking to Ballister like this HURT LIKE A BINCH

[mythvoiced]

@ofgentleresolve

The hilt of Ambrosius' sword feels so heavy in his protected palm, he can't tell if it's the blade only, or all that clings to it. His promises, his oaths, his guilt, his ache, perhaps Ballister's arm still hangs attached to it, a phantom where it was supposed to be on Ballister himself, and a phantom clinging onto Ambrosius the way he might have once upon a time clung to Ballister.

But... had he ever clung?

Had he ever held on tight enough?

Standing there and having to watch Ballister talk, move, features contort and express words he'd never even dreamt to hear in his worst nightmares, all through the lens of his reflection on the tip of Ballister's sword, had he ever held on tight enough?

Ambrosius has centuries worth of expectations to live up to, an ancestor who demands perfection even in death, an ancestor to crawl up along his spine and wrap itself like a cloak made of stones over his frame, palms firmly planted into his shoulders, pushing him down, down, down.

Ballister didn't have that.

Because Ballister had nothing.

Ambrosius, he'd realized at one point, perhaps right now, even, or perhaps late at night when some part of him, perhaps the part that had made a heart like Ballister's, the one he used to know at least, find his suitable for love, that Ballister possessed strength like none other because he'd had to fight for it.

He'd always known that, in a way. A fact about the man before him, the man he used to love. A fact, his story, his strength, beating the odds of his poor upbringing, the details of their anxieties sometimes shared in the privacy of what they had, the lines of his determination carved so very differently into his flesh than Ambrosius' had been into his.

He'd admired him, for it. Idolized, sometimes. Romanticized, as often as he could. There he is, diamond, phoenix, incredible Ballister, who had come from nothing, and become...

Become what, exactly?

Everything everyone had ever assumed he'd turn into.

Ambrosius' stomach churns with acid, bile, guilt, promises, oaths, determination.

Determination.

Ambrosius' gaze flickers, briefly, a fraction of a second, chases the flurry of pink movements behind Ballister, how careless, reckless of him to forge a bond with... with that. How misguided.

How much it aches - selfishly - that Ambrosius stands before a man with the last remnants of - selfish - hope he might save him from himself, return the Ballister he'd believed would surpass even him, become greater than great, if only given a fair chance.

This Ballister had squandered that chance for the Ballister he dreams of. For the Ballister of his past and of the future they'll never have.

His features contort when he locks eyes with Ballister again, an expression of - selfish - pain.

"We can both make this easier than it is," Ambrosius' tone is gentle, he tries to make it so. A opening of his palm, small gesture to accompany, encompass their circumstances. His sword is still pointed to the ground, but he's good, he's fast, and his upper arm is tense, ready to fight at a moment's notice.

"Please, Bal," a hushed plea, a mean use of a prior affection.

Three years.

Three years to mourn Ballister.

Three years to figure out how to give up on him.

Three years only to see him now and have to fight the urge to run up to him, drop his weapon, grab him by his shoulders and shake him instead, beg him to return to his sense, come back to the system that had oh so believed in him.

Instead he stands there, ready to spring. Ready to banish the plea out of his voice if Ballister forces his hand.

"Come back. If you come back willingly, we might be able to... you can still change."

@mythvoiced sent in: " all of my wildest dreams, they just end up with you and me " - from Ambrosius >:3 (aLSO YOUR URL how!!!!! YOU'RE!!! SO GOOD AT URLS--!!!!!!!!!!!!) || lyric starters meme

Hasn’t that always been the case?

Ballister is no stranger to living life on the edge. Even before their death, all it took was one accident, one mistake to tank the savings his parents spent months building up. Their community was not much better either. Funds saved up to improve infrastructure, the community center, the mosque could disappear without any warning. 

And then one accident, one accident was all it took to take his parents and then his home.

And still, he dreamed, dreamed of standing at the side of the Kingdom as a hero of the realm.

Even when the queen inducted him as a squire, he could never find better footing. He knew; one mistake, that’s all he needed if he wanted to be put back in the streets. And yet that dream, his dream never strayed far. Stayed so close to him every time he reached for it, he could feel it, like silk, between his fingers before it to slipped away.

He thought being with Ambrosius would have been like that too. At first, it was a pipe dream- being friends with the descendent of Gloreth, herself? Impossible. Ambrosius falling in love with him? Gloreth’s descendent wouldn't do that. Dating and building a life with Ambrosius? A life that both Ambrosius and the Kingdom would approve of?

Only a fool would dream to do so.

And yet.

And yet, it had all been in Ballister’s hand, once upon a time. So close, sometimes Ballister’s phantom arm twitches at the thought of it. Silk, golden white like Ambrosius’ hair resting between his fingers. Sometimes Ballister doesn’t dare to move his arm in those moments because what if it still was all possible? Maybe if he’s careful enough, this time, it won’t slip away-

He’s only deluding himself. The world isn’t meant to be draped in sheets of white silk and Ballister doesn’t believe it’s all gray or varying shades of black either. It doesn’t have to be- Nimona taught him that- that splash of PINK on an otherwise pristine canvas.

Why should he have to keep chasing a future, a dream that keeps running away when he catches up?

He won’t do it anymore. He can’t, even if it’s Ambrosius who beckons him to come back. He won't trade a clad of black armor sprinkled with specks of pink for the pristine white and gold banner one he longed to wave once upon a time.

The day Ballister left the Kingdom, three years ago, he set aside that dream. Broke it in two alongside the life he once shared with Ambrosius. No more. No more.

( Even if he cried, staring at the remains of them. What they were. What they would have been. )

Now there’s only them, surrounded by the ruckus. And Nimona, in the back, picking off Ambrosius’ backup with generous strokes of her claws.

“Don’t say that, Ambrosius. You- you of all people don’t get to say that to me,” Ballister says, finally. The sword held by his mechanical arm feels heavy as he points it at his beloved enemy. “Don’t make this any harder than it has to be.”