#sebastian's first breath underwater must have been terrifying

[trans-rights-coastalmangoes]

just came back from my first scuba lesson🧍‍♂️the most unrealistic part of pressure is that these barely-trained people who didnt even get a briefing on the major hazards of the site and who get a panic attack if left in a big storage locker for more than 10 seconds are somehow perfect divers. diving is really scary and disorienting and it's difficult to control your body actually!!!

[wonder-womans-ex]

The Boys of Yesterday

Sometimes, Saint wonders what his younger self would think of the person he is now.

There are days where he knows that even a hint of the present would make Saint of the past try a little harder; keep going with just a little more hope in his heart. There are days where he’s sure that he’s always wanted to end up where he is now, even if he didn’t always know it.

There are days that he knows the boy from years ago would hate him for. Those are the days where he’ll stop dead in the middle of whatever it is he’s doing as cold, palpable fear grips him, a reminder of the knowledge that he’s a disappointment to anyone and everyone in his life, even himself.

And then there are days where he has trouble reconciling the two people in his mind. He’ll think about who he was then, and he’ll think about who he is now, and it’s as if there’s a line between them. A chasm, wider than anything, bottomless and endless and always there, no matter how desperately he tries to fill it. Sometimes, though—usually, even—he can imagine a bridge. He can find peace with the fact that he was one person, and now he’s another.

But once in a while, it’s like he’s watching someone else make mistakes, powerless to stop it or make it right or even feel guilty about it. He starts thinking about the boy he was then in the second person—me and I and mine turn to Sebastian and knuckles bloodied from fights and a heart full of anger he didn’t know what to do with.

That’s the kind of day today is.

He can feel it as something shifts. He tries to shield himself, but, too soon, it’s like he’s watching from a distance as an eleven-year-old boy named Bash is standing with his feet in the ocean for the first time in his life. He sees a gust of wind blow a lock of deep golden hair into the boy’s face, and then the boy is laughing, smiling, in a way he’s never really known how to before.

If Saint were that boy, not just a bystander from another lifetime, he would feel the sand, soft between the boy’s toes as he wiggles them. He would feel the cold of the water on the tips of his fingers as he crouches down, dragging them through a wave just before it breaks.

This is the scene that plays in Saint’s mind as he stands, hands pinned next to his head, against the side of the Lupins’ boathouse.

He hears the water lapping at the sides of the dock, beating out a soft, steady rhythm. He feels a spray of seawater pass through the air, dousing the left side of his body in cool droplets.

He sees the deep brown, one shot through with sea-green, of Luke Deveaux’s eyes as they stare at each other, neither daring to breath.

For a few long moments, it’s like the world is waiting for something to happen. Luke and Saint may as well be the only two people in the universe, as far as either of them is concerned—no voices are audible from beyond the shoreline, where their friends are playing beach volleyball and listening to music and falling in love; and, for once, the bright white triangles of sails are absent from the horizon.

Finally, Saint whispers, “What are you doing?”

Luke shakes his head minutely. Were it not for the distance—or lack thereof—between them, Saint wouldn’t be able to see it at all. “I don’t know.”

Saint wants to say that he doesn’t know, either, but he can’t bring himself to say the words. Instead, he smiles—one corner of his mouth twitches up, lips parting just enough to reveal the slightest sliver of his teeth.

He feels as Luke’s fingers tighten around his wrists. A tiny part of him thinks he knows why, and the rest of him hopes beyond hope that he’s not wrong.

“Why are we here?” he asks, instead, but the only response he gets is Luke’s jaw clenching as something shifts in his eyes.

After yet another long moment, he tries, “Tweedle?”

“Please.” There’s a note in Luke’s voice that says stop talking, but Saint can’t. He doesn’t think he even knows how.

“Please what?”

Three boys, young and burdened, two of them freer than they thought and one of them out of prison but still in chains.

“Just… just let me have this. Even if…”

A promise of something more; a hint of a life more than just survival.

“Even if what?” Saint’s voice cracks at the end, pitching up into a half-fearful whisper.

Sitting alone in the dark and watching a life he hadn’t lived yet flash before his eyes.

He doesn’t hear the reply—he doesn’t even know if there is one—because he barely has time to think before Luke’s lips are on his, warm and insistent and slightly rough. He kisses back without thinking about it, too, reveling in the way Luke’s hand slides through his hair and pulls them closer together.

They’re standing chest-to-chest, now, hearts beating frantically against each other. There’s some sort of symbolism there, Saint reasons, as he feels Luke’s pulse quicken more the longer they kiss.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he wonders how long he’s wanted this—how long he’s spent looking at Luke and thinking there was something there worth loving. He suspects it’s a lot longer than he wants to admit.

Slowly, carefully, he lets one of his arms curl around Luke’s waist. His thumb slips under the hem of Luke’s t-shirt, sliding over warm skin and then coming to rest in the divot of Luke’s spine. There’s an intimacy to this—not necessarily to the kissing itself, but to the fact that neither of them has stopped the kissing, even though they both know they can’t be doing this. Not really. Not anymore—or maybe not yet.

Indeed, when Luke eventually pulls back, he doesn’t push Saint away. He doesn’t leave without explanation, the way he usually does when forced to deal with genuine human emotion. He just takes a deep breath, and then another, swiping angrily at his eyes with the back of one hand. Saint pretends not to notice the tears pooling there, one of which has already started to fall.

They stare at each other for a good ten seconds—maybe more; Saint can’t tell. It’s always as if time falls away when he meets Luke’s gaze, and now is no exception. Then Saint says, “You kissed me,” and immediately wishes he hadn’t.

“You kissed me back.”

Saint wants to make a snide remark about pointing out the obvious, but he catches himself just in time, realizing that would be vastly hypocritical of him.

“Why?”

They say it at the same time, then fall silent. To Saint’s surprise, it’s Luke who speaks up again first: “I think you know why.”

“No,” Saint says evenly, “I don’t think I do.”

“Well, I’m sure you can guess.”

A boy, black-haired and grey-eyed, who looked like love but tasted like loneliness.

This time, Saint lets his mouth curl up into a smirk. “Probably. But why don’t you say it?”

It has the opposite effect from what he intended. Luke’s eyes darken, brow furrowing into a scowl. “You’re mocking me.”

“I’m not.”

“Yes, you are.” As he says it, Luke tries to push Saint up against the boathouse again, but Saint easily steps out of reach.

“Why would I be mocking you?”

“You fucker!” Luke is shouting, now; his voice is raised so much that Saint thinks the whole world must be able to hear. “It’s hard enough being in love with a… with a Hollow like you; you don’t have to play with my fucking emotions, too!”

That’s when he puts his hands against Saint’s shoulder and shoves.

Saint tumbles, practically in slow motion, off the end of the dock. He sees the anger drop from Luke’s face, replaced by an expression that looks to be part worry and part helplessness.

Splash.

The water is frigid—more so than he’d expect for this late in the summer—and it seems to envelop him completely, up and down and left and right fading away into a suspension that could last forever.

Just as quickly, it’s gone, and Saint’s head breaks the surface as he gasps for air. “Screw you, God!” he shouts, and, with a few strokes, he’s hauling himself back onto the dock. His shirt is soaked through, practically transparent, and his jean shorts are going to take hours to dry out, so he has no regrets about doing what he does next: grabbing Luke by the wrist and tugging as hard as he can until they both topple back into the water.

Dreams that felt like reality until he couldn’t tell the difference between flying and falling.

They’re underwater, now, hair drifting around their faces, and Saint registers that they’re still holding hands. Luke hasn’t let go, yet, and Saint isn’t about to, either.

Saint knows he shouldn't; they’ve just been arguing—but, then again, when aren’t they arguing? Plus, how is he supposed to not consider it, when their hands are still entwined and it feels like a crime to let go.

Luke's auburn hair is swirling around his face, defying gravity in the way only being submerged under water provides. His eyes are squeezed shut, which, Saint assesses, is probably a good idea, judging by the sting in his own. His gaze flickers down to Luke's lips—lips that were on his only moments earlier.

Suddenly, faster than he can think, Saint's self control leaves him and he leans in, connecting his lips to Luke's once again.

It’s even better than the first time. Fuck, it’s better than any kiss Saint has ever had. It’s passion and danger and something that feels a little bit like love.

At first, when Luke pulls away, severing the kiss entirely, Saint is terrified he’s done something wrong. But Luke only swims toward the ocean’s surface, pulling Saint along with him.

Saint, in his oxygen-deprived state, doesn’t understand—he wants to go back underwater, where Luke is his only tie to reality and everything feels like magic. Then he takes a breath, and the world comes back to him in painful clarity.

“Tweedle,” he says.

And, somehow, impossibly, Luke whispers, “I know.”

“But you don’t.”

Saint’s heart stutters at the way Luke smiles. “Why don’t you tell me, then?” asks Luke, and Saint can’t think of a good enough reason to disagree. He can’t think of anything except the way they’re as good as repeating their earlier conversation (and also the way Luke’s hair looks when it’s wet).

Two perfect eyes, full of a nameless emotion, staring at him from the other side of a bonfire and a bottle of beer.

Instead of saying anything, Saint leans in, closer and closer, until their foreheads are touching and he can feel Luke’s breath on his mouth and cheeks and nose. He hesitates for an instant, and then leans in, finally, finally, closing the gap between them.

This time, there really is something different. Somewhere, somehow, something makes a little more sense.

'I love you,' Saint will confide for the first time, later that night. He’s never said it before, because, before now, it’s never been true.

Sometimes, things are truer in the dark.

Sometimes, it takes too much courage to say what you really want to.

Sometimes, it’s easier to live in yesterday.

But sometimes, you don’t need to say anything at all.

amazing characters by @lumosinlove

thanks to @im-oknutzy-trash for letting me brainstorm at them and also writing one of my favourite parts of this when I was stuck <3

[nibimatatabi]

@hogwarts-junkie oops my hand slipped; we’re suffering together

For all other followers: when you’re hurtling at a really sad conclusion to a story line that you can’t fix but GOSH DARN IT wouldn’t it be nice to have a happy ending? This is my ‘let’s pretend.’

Spoiler: It’s supposed to end with her startling awake ten minutes after falling asleep and not sleeping the rest of the night, since Regulus is, y’know, dead. But AGAIN this is the NOT SAD ending. This is the HAPPY ending.

Cassandra hears a faint ‘pop’ in her dream, and she integrates that, but Sebastian suddenly wailing like he’s been hit, springing off of the bed and running headfirst into the closed closet door is much harder to pretend isn’t real. Cassandra listens to him bounce off and scramble under her bed, eyes opening and searching her dark room. Blinds and curtains shut, she’s been awake far too long fretting, unable to sleep for some reason. The Easter Break should have been more relaxing, even with Mass, but it hasn’t been. Cassandra feels weight at the foot of the bed, and thinks she might have still be dreaming. Her hand reaches out, brushing past her legs to stroke Sebastian’s spike.

“That’s not my cat,” she says it clearly, calmly. It’s skin, old, wrinkly skin, and she can hear something hissing at her - sounds like ‘sud-hud’ and rhymes with ‘bestud.’ Her hand comes back and she rolls to her lamp, flailing to turn it on. The room is bathed in the soft light, and her head swings back to see what the hell has just insulted her in her own bed.

The first thing her eyes land on is the house elf, blinking slowly and owlishly at her. The creature is old, and looks a little stunned, even though he had just called her such a word. Cassandra stares, blinks, and as her brain processes what’s in front of her something moans.

Cassandra is out of bed by the time she’s realized it’s Kreacher standing on her bed, looking at her in confusion and muttering insults. She’s confused herself, because how in Merlin’s name did Kreacher apparate to her house, what in the world is going on here, and then whatever moaned does it again and she’s skirting her bed, thinking that death itself has been visited upon her. She finds it’s not exactly death, but death is nearby. There’s blood, and water, and Cassandra’s heart almost stops. Kreacher watches her as she darts forward to the pile of wet robes, bloody around the arms. Mudblood or not, this is the Delacroix girl. “Help him,” Kreacher croaks after a moment, and Cassandra opens her mouth, confused, frightened. No words come out though. Help him!? She’s not a Healer, first of all, and she has no clue what’s even happened. Was it the horcrux retrieval? Was it him being late? She can’t form coherent thoughts though.

“Okay,” her voice sounds foreign to her ears. Regulus is hanging onto her arm now, and she can hardly breath. Her parents are asleep, and while she’s sure her father won’t wake up, there’s no guarantee about her mother. Cassandra is afraid to even move Regulus - he’s shaking, bleeding, the carpet is going to be ruined (”are you a witch or not?”) and she has to pull away to find her wand - the damn thing is under her bed with her cat, knocked down when she went for the lamp. As soon as it’s in her hand, she’s speaking, because she can’t focus to do anything nonverbal “Accio gauze, accio towels,” the bathroom door is always open, thankfully, but the closet in the bathroom isn’t. She can hear the soft thumps against the door. She’s thinking ‘open, please, please open’ and then it does because she remembers the spell and flicks her wand and the soft yellow light flashes, and then she’s getting hit in the face with the towels, of course.

Cassandra is shaking because she’s scared - of course she’s scared. Regulus is hardly conscious, though he’s got a rather fierce grip on her forearm again, and behind her Kreacher is sitting on the bed, not sure what if anything he can do. “Kreacher, can,” she stutters, terrified, “can you go, go downstairs and make, make a pot of tea? Hot?” She’s expecting him to call her a mudblood and leave, expecting it because even though she’s trying her best to help Regulus, Kreacher knows what she is. But he gets off the bed, nodding.

“For Master Regulus, anything,” there’s hate in his eyes, but she’s not sure if it’s directed at her or at Voldemort, who must be the reason for this. Most certainly is, in fact. Cassandra peels off Regulus’s robe first, and then his shirt, cringing at the blood. Thin claw marks line his arms, his chest, parts of his face, as if something has tried to drag him somewhere.

‘Underwater,’ a voice tells her, the same voice that tells her not to ask, don’t ask, not now, just help. So she dries him off, staying as close as she can and keeping his left arm hidden. The hall light flicks on when the tea kettle starts to whistle, and Cassandra looks up in alarm. “Mum, Mum go back to bed, please. Please, Mum,” she begs - she’s seventeen, sitting on her bedroom floor, begging and pleading with her mother who’s coming down the hall.

“What is going on, Cassandra?” They’re speaking French - it’s habit, but Cassandra is switching back and forth, trying to decide which words what words if any will send her mother back to bed.

“Mum, please, please just go back to bed,” she’s scrambling for a spell to close the worst of Regulus’s wounds, his fingers have loosened on her arm and it makes panic rise in her. “Regulus, Regulus please, please you can’t leave me,” she’s choking on the words and for a moment she can’t even see past her own tears.

“Cas-what in the name of God,” her mother crosses herself, coming into the bedroom and kneeling down. Cassandra keeps a towel over Regulus’s left arm, pleading silently with herself, with God, and finally she finds her little squeaky voice again.

“Mum,” a few minutes later her mother is moving; she’s not a witch, she’s not even sensitive to magic at all but she’s on her feet and being a mother. She goes downstairs first, flips on a light, and doesn’t scream when she sees Kreacher. For her part, she’s focused on keeping someone else’s son from dying in her daughter’s bedroom.

Regulus is starting to come back to himself, now that Kreacher has come up with hot tea and a glass of water. Cassandra isn’t entirely useless - she’s panicked but that fear stills her hands, even as her brain is going a million ways at once. She focuses on one thing at a time, fear showing in her eyes but nowhere else. ‘July,’ she reminds herself with every frantic beat of her heart. ‘July; we just have to make it to July. It’s so close. Two more months just two more months, please God,’ she thinks, she begs. At some point Regulus has started trying to speak.

“-fine, I’m fine. I’m fine, Cassandra,” he wasn’t, she knew it, he knew it, but he was lying. Black’s were incredibly good liars, as Cassandra had finally figured out. She didn’t always know exactly when Regulus lied to her, but she was learning. Right now her heart says he is, and she believes that.

“You aren’t. Kreacher apparated you into my bedroom neither of you have ever been here before and you’re barely conscious I thought you were dead,” her voice breaks. The steady mantra in her mind can’t keep up. Her chest feels like someone is trying to snap every rib at once, squeezing her so tightly she can’t draw breath. The tears flow before she can stop them.